scenes, and one or two essays. The Editor evidently attaches much
greater importance to creative than to critical literature, in which
he is unquestionably right, provided only that the work which claims
to be creative is inspired by a true genius for invention. The
admission of poetry in more than usual quantity does not surprise us,
when we reflect that THE YELLOW BOOK is issued by a publishing house
which has done more than any other for the encouragement of modern
verse. It is the custom to profess contempt for minor poets, and all
versifiers of our time except Tennyson and Swinburne are classed as
minor poets by critics who shrink from the effort of reading metrical
compositions. The truth is that poetry and painting are much more
nearly on a level in this respect than people are willing to admit.
Many a painter and many a poet has delicate perceptions and a
cultivated taste without the gigantic creative force that is necessary
to greatness in his art.
Mr. Le Gallienne's "Tree-Worship" is full of the sylvan sense, the
delight in that forest life which we can scarcely help believing to be
conscious. It contains some perfect stanzas and some magnificent
verses. As a stanza nothing can be more perfect than the fourth on
page 58, and the fourth on the preceding page begins with a rarely
powerful line. The only weak points in the poem are a few places in
which even poetic truth has not been perfectly observed. For example,
in the first line on page 58, the heart of the tree is spoken of as
being remarkable for its softness, a new and unexpected characteristic
in heart of oak. On the following page the tree is described as a
green and welcome "coast" to the sea of air. No single tree has extent
enough to be a coast of the air-ocean; at most it is but a tiny green
islet therein. In the last stanza but one Mr. Le Gallienne speaks of
"the roar of sap." This conveys the idea of a noisy torrent, whereas
the marvel of sap is that it is steadily forced upwards through a mass
of wood by a quietly powerful pressure. I dislike the fallacious
theology of the last stanza as being neither scientific nor poetical.
Mr. Benson's little poem, [Greek: Daimonizomenos], is lightly and
cleverly versified, and tells the story of a change of temper, almost
of nature, in very few words. The note of Mr. Watson's two sonnets is
profoundly serious, even solemn, and the workmanship firm and strong;
the reader may observe, in the second sonnet, the careful preparation
for the last line and the force with which it strikes upon the ear.
Surely there is nothing frivolous or fugitive in such poetry as this!
I regret the publication of "Stella Maris" by Mr. Arthur Symons; the
choice of the title is in itself offensive. It is taken from one of
the most beautiful hymns to the Holy Virgin (Ave, maris stella!), and
applied to a London street-walker, as a star in the dark sea of urban
life. We know that the younger poets make art independent of morals,
and certainly the two have no necessary connection; but why should
poetic art be employed to celebrate common fornication? Rossetti's
"Jenny" set the example, diffusely enough.
The two poems by Mr. Edmund Gosse, "Alere Flammam" and "A Dream of
November," have each the great quality of perfect unity. The first is
simpler and less fanciful than the second. Both in thought and
execution it reminds me strongly of Matthew Arnold. Whether there has
been any conscious imitation or not, "Alere Flammam" is pervaded by
what is best in the classical spirit. Mr. John Davidson's two songs
are sketches in town and country, impressionist sketches well done in
a laconic and suggestive fashion. Mr. Davidson has a good right to
maledict "Elkin Mathews & John Lane" for having revived the detestable
old custom of printing catchwords at the lower corner of the page. The
reader has just received the full impression of the London scene, when
he is disturbed by the isolated word Foxes, which destroys the
impression and puzzles him. London streets are not, surely, very
favourable to foxes! He then turns the page and finds that the word is
the first in the rural poem which follows. How Tennyson would have
growled if the printer had put the name of some intrusive beast at the
foot of one of his poems! Even in prose the custom is still
intolerable; it makes one read the word twice over as thus (pp. 159,
60), "Why doesn't the wretched publisher publisher bring it out!"
We find some further poetry in Mr. Richard Garnett's translations from
Luigi Tansillo. Not having access just now to the original Italian, I
cannot answer for their fidelity, but they are worth reading, even in
English, and soundly versified.
It is high time to speak of the prose. The essays are "A Defence of
Cosmetics," by Mr. Max Beerbohm, and "Reticence in Literature," by Mr.
Arthur Waugh. I notice that a critic in the New York _Nation_ says
that the Whistlerian affectations of Mr. Beerbohm are particularly
intolerable. I understood his essay to be merely a _jeu d'esprit_, and
found that it amused me, though the tastes and opinions ingeniously
expressed in it are precisely the opposite of my own. Mr. Beerbohm is
(or pretends to be) entirely on the side of artifice against nature.
The difficulty is to determine what _is_ nature. The easiest and most
"natural" manners of a perfect English lady are the result of art, and
of a more advanced art than that indicated by more ceremonious
manners. Mr. Beerbohm says that women in the time of Dickens appear to
have been utterly natural in their conduct, "flighty, gushing,
blushing, fainting, giggling, and shaking their curls." Much of that
conduct may have been as artificial as the curls themselves, and
assumed only to attract attention. Ladies used to faint on the
slightest pretext, not because it was natural but because it was the
fashion; when it ceased to be the fashion they abandoned the practice.
Mr. Waugh's essay on "Reticence in Literature" is written more
seriously, and is not intended to amuse. He defends the principle of
reticence, but the only sanction that he finds for it is a temporary
authority imposed by the changing taste of the age. We are
consequently never sure of any permanent law that will enforce any
reticence whatever. A good proof of the extreme laxity of the present
taste is that Mr. Waugh himself has been able to print at length three
of the most grossly sensual stanzas in Mr. Swinburne's "Dolores."
Reticence, however, is not concerned only with sexual matters. There
is, for instance, a flagrant want of reticence in the lower political
press of France and America, and the same violent kind of writing,
often going as far beyond truth as beyond decency, is beginning to be
imitated in England. One rule holds good universally; all high art is
reticent, _e.g._, in Dante's admirable way of telling the story of
Francesca through her own lips.
Mr. Henry James, in "The Death of the Lion," shows his usual elegance
of style, and a kind of humour which, though light enough on the
surface, has its profound pathos. It is absolutely essential, in a
short story, to be able to characterise people and things in a very
few words. Mr. James has this talent, as for example in his
description of the ducal seat at Bigwood: "very grand and frigid, all
marble and precedence." We know Bigwood, after that, as if we had been
there and have no desire to go. So of the Princess: "She has been told
everything in the world and has never perceived anything, and the
_echoes of her education_," etc., p. 42. The moral of the story is the
vanity and shallowness of the world's professed admiration for men of
letters, and the evil, to them, or going out of their way to suck the
sugar-plums of praise. The next story, "Irremediable," shows the
consequences of marrying a vulgar and ignorant girl in the hope of
improving her, the difficulty being that she declines to be improved.
The situation is powerfully described, especially the last scene in
the repulsive, disorderly little home. The most effective touch
reveals Willoughby's constant vexation because his vulgar wife "never
did any one mortal thing efficiently or well," just the opposite of
the constant pleasure that clever active women give us by their neat
and rapid skill. "The Dedication," by Mr. Fred Simpson, is a dramatic
representation of the conflict between ambition and love--not that the
love on the man's side is very earnest, or the conflict in his mind
very painful, as ambition wins the day only too easily when Lucy is
thrown over. "The Fool's Hour," by Mr. Hobbes and Mr. George Moore, is
a slight little drama founded on the idea that youth must amuse itself
in its own way, and cannot be always tied to its mamma's
apron-strings. It is rather French than English in the assumption that
youth must of necessity resort to theatres and actresses. Of the two
sketches by Mr. Harland, that on white mice is clever as a supposed
reminiscence of early boyhood, but rather long for its subject, the
other, "A Broken Looking-Glass," is a powerful little picture of the
dismal end of an old bachelor who confesses to himself that his life
has been a failure, equally on the sides of ambition and enjoyment.
One of my friends tells me that it is impossible for a bachelor to be
happy, yet he may invest money in the Funds! In Mr. Crackanthorpe's
"Modern Melodrama," he describes for us the first sensations of a girl
when she sees death in the near future. It is pathetic, tragical,
life-like in language, with the defects of character and style that
belong to a close representation of nature. "A Lost Masterpiece," by
George Egerton, is not so interesting as the author's "Keynotes,"
though it shows the same qualities of style. The subject is too
unfruitful, merely a literary disappointment, because a bright idea
has been chased away. "A Sentimental Cellar," by Mr. George
Saintsbury, written in imitation of the essayists of the eighteenth
century, associates the wines in a cellar with the loves and
friendships of their owner. To others the vinous treasures would be
"good wine and nothing more"; to their present owner they are "a
casket of magic liquors," a museum in which he lives over again "the
vanished life of the past." The true French bookless _bourgeois_ often
calls his cellar his _bibliothèque_, meaning that he values its lore
as preferable to that of scholarship; but Mr. Saintsbury's Falernianus
associates his wines with sentiment rather than with knowledge.
On the whole, the literature in the first number of THE YELLOW BOOK is
adequately representative of the modern English literary mind, both in
the observation of reality and in style. It is, as I say, really
literature and not letterpress. I rather regret, for my own part, the
general brevity of the pieces which restricts them to the limits of
the sketch, especially as the stories cannot be continued after the
too long interval of three months. As to this, the publishers know
their own business best, and are probably aware that the attention of
the general public, though easily attracted, is even more easily
fatigued.
II--The Illustrations
On being asked to undertake the second part of this critical article,
I accepted because one has so rarely an opportunity of saying anything
about works of art to which the reader can quite easily refer. To
review an exhibition of pictures in London or Paris is satisfactory
only when the writer imagines himself to be addressing readers who
have visited it, and are likely to visit it again. When an
illustration appears in one of the art periodicals, it may be
accompanied by a note that adds something to its interest, but no one
expects such a note to be really critical. In the present instance, on
the contrary, we are asked to say what we think, without reserve, and
as we have had nothing to do with the choice of the contributors, and
have not any interest in the sale of the periodical, there is no
reason why we should not.
To begin with the cover. The publishers decided not to have any
ornament beyond the decorative element in the figure design which is
to be changed for every new number. What is permanent in the design
remains, therefore, of an extreme simplicity and does not attract
attention. The yellow colour adopted is glaring, and from the æsthetic
point of view not so good as a quiet mixed tint might have been;
however, it gives a title to the publication and associates itself so
perfectly with the title that it has a sufficient _raison d'être_,
whilst it contrasts most effectively with black. Though white is
lighter than any yellow, it has not the same active and stimulating
quality. The drawing of the masquers is merely one of Mr. Aubrey
Beardsley's fancies and has no particular signification. We see a
plump and merry lady laughing boisterously whilst she seems to be
followed by a man who gazes intently upon the beauties of her
shoulder. It is not to be classed amongst the finest of Mr.
Beardsley's designs, but it shows some of his qualities, especially
his extreme economy of means. So does the smaller drawing on the back
or the volume, which is a fair example of his ready and various
invention. See how the candle-flame is blown a little to one side, how
the candle gutters on that side, and how the smoke is affected by the
gust of air. Observe, too, the contrasts between the faces, not that
they are attractive faces. There seems to be a peculiar tendency in
Mr. Beardsley's mind to the representation of types without intellect
and without morals. Some of the most dreadful faces in all art are to
be found in the illustrations (full of exquisite ornamental invention)
to Mr. Oscar Wilde's "Salome." We have two unpleasant ones here in
"l'Éducation Sentimentale." There is distinctly a sort of corruption
in Mr. Beardsley's art so far as its human element is concerned, but
not at all in its artistic qualities, which show the perfection of
discipline, of self-control, and of thoughtful deliberation at the
very moment of invention. Certainly he is a man of genius, and
perhaps, as he is still very young, we may hope that when he has
expressed his present mood completely, he may turn his thoughts into
another channel and see a better side of human life. There is, of
course, nothing to be said against the lady who is touching the piano
on the title-page of THE YELLOW BOOK, nor against the portrait of Mrs.
Patrick Campbell opposite page 126, except that she reminds one of a
giraffe. It is curious how the idea of extraordinary height is
conveyed in this drawing without a single object for comparison. I
notice in Mr. Beardsley's work a persistent tendency to elongation;
for instance, in the keys of the piano on the title-page which in
their perspective look fifteen inches long. He has a habit, too, of
making faces small and head-dresses enormous. The rarity of beauty in
his faces seems in contradiction with his exquisite sense of beauty in
curving lines, and the singular grace as well as rich invention of his
ornaments. He can, however, refuse himself the pleasure of such
invention when he wants to produce a discouraging effect upon the
mind. See, for instance, the oppressive plainness of the architecture
in the background to the dismal "Night Piece."
It is well known that the President of the Royal Academy, unlike most
English painters, is in the habit of making studies. In his case these
studies are uniformly in black and white chalk on brown paper. Two of
them are reproduced in THE YELLOW BOOK, one being for drapery, and the
other for the nude form moving in a joyous dance with a light
indication of drapery that conceals nothing. The latter is a rapid
sketch of an intention and is full of life both in attitude and
execution, the other is still and statuesque. Sir Frederic is a model
to all artists in one very rare virtue, that of submitting himself
patiently, in his age, to the same discipline which strengthened him
in youth.
I find a curious and remarkable drawing by Mr. Pennell of that
strangely romantic place Le Puy en Velay, whose rocks are crowned with
towers or colossal statues, whilst houses cluster at their feet. The
subject is dealt with rather in the spirit of Dürer, but with a more
supple and more modern kind of skill. It is topography, though
probably with considerable artistic liberty. I notice one of Dürer's
licences in tonic relations. The sky, though the sun is setting (or
rising) is made darker than the hills against it, and darker even than
the two remoter masses of rock which come between us and the distance.
The trees, too, are shaded capriciously, some poplars in the middle
distance being quite dark whilst nearer trees are left without shade
or local colour. In a word, the tonality is simply arbitrary, and in
this kind of drawing it matters very little. Mr. Pennell has given us
a delightful bit of artistic topography showing the strange beauty of
a place that he always loves and remembers.
Mr. Sickert contributed two drawings. "The Old Oxford Music Hall" has
some very good qualities, especially the most important quality of
all, that of making us feel as if we were there. The singer on the
stage (whose attitude has been very closely observed) is strongly
lighted by convergent rays. According to my recollection the rays
themselves are much more visible in reality than they are here, but it
is possible that the artist may have intentionally subdued their
brightness in order to enhance that of the figure itself. The
musicians and others are good, except that they are too small, if the
singing girl (considering her distance) is to be taken as the standard
of comparison. The pen-sketch of "A Lady Reading" is not so
satisfactory. I know, of course, that it is offered only as a very
slight and rapid sketch, and that it is impossible, even for a
Rembrandt, to draw accurately in a hurry, but there is a formlessness
in some important parts of this sketch (the hands, for instance) which
makes it almost without interest for me. It is essentially painter's
pen work, and does not show any special mastery of pen and ink.
The very definite pen-drawing by Mr. Housman called "The Reflected
Faun" is open to the objection that the reflections in the water are
drawn with the same hardness as the birds and faun in the air. The
plain truth is that the style adopted, which in its own way is as
legitimate as any other, does not permit the artist to represent the
natural appearance of water. This kind of pen-drawing is founded on
early wood-engraving which filled the whole space with decorative
work, even to the four corners.
Mr. Rothenstein is a modern of the moderns. His two slight
portrait-sketches are natural and easy, and there is much life in the
"Portrait of a Gentleman." The "Portrait of a Lady," by Mr. Furse, is
of a much higher order. It has a noble gravity, and it shows a
severity of taste not common in the portraiture of our time; it is
essentially a distinguished work. Mr. Nettleship gives us an ideal
portrait of Minos, not in his earthly life, as king of Crete, but in
his infernal capacity as supreme judge of the dead. The face is
certainly awful enough and implacable:
Stavvi Minòs orribilmente, e ringhia:
Esamina le colpe nell'entrata;
Giudica e manda, secondo ch'avvinghia.
The book-plate designed by Mr. Beardsley for Dr. Propert has the usual
qualities of the inventor. It seems to tell a tale of hopeless love.
The other book-plate, by Mr. Anning Bell, is remarkable for its pretty
and ingenious employment of heraldry which so easily becomes
mechanical when the draughtsman is not an artist.
On the whole, these illustrations decidedly pre-suppose real artistic
culture in the public. They do not condescend in any way to what might
be guessed at as the popular taste. I notice that the Editor and
Publishers have a tendency to look to young men of ability for
assistance in their enterprise, though they accept the criticism of
those who now belong to a preceding generation.
Portrait of Henry James
By John S. Sargent, A.R.A.
[Illustration: Portrait of Henry James]
Dreams
By Ronald Campbell Macfie
"In the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart"
Unworthy! yea,
So high thou art above me
I hardly dare to love thee,
But kneel and lay
All homage and all worship at thy feet,
O lady sweet!
Yet dreams are strong:
Their wordless wish suffices
To win them Paradises
Of sun and song.
Delight our waking life can never know
The dreams bestow.
And in a dream,
Dupe of its bold beguiling,
I watch thy blue eyes smiling;
I see them gleam
With love the waking moments have forbidden,
And veiled and hidden.
O brave deceit!
In dreams thy glad eyes glisten,
In dreams I lie and listen
Thy bosom beat,
Hiving hot lips among thy temple-hair,
O lady fair!
And tho' I live,
Dreaming in such fair fashion,
I think, in thy compassion,
Thou wilt forgive,
Since I but _dream_, and since my heart will ache
When I awake.
Madame Réjane
By Dauphin Meunier
A fabulous being, in an everyday human form; a face, not beautiful,
scarcely even pretty, which looks upon the world with an air at once
ironical and sympathetic; a brow that grows broader or narrower
according to the capricious invasions of her aureole of hair; an odd
little nose, perked heavenward; two roguish eyes, now blue, now black;
the rude accents of a street-girl, suddenly changing to the well-bred
murmuring of a great lady; abrupt, abundant gestures, eloquently
finishing half-spoken sentences; a supple neck--a slender, opulent
figure--a dainty foot, that scarcely touches the earth and yet can fly
amazingly near the ceiling; lips, nervous, sensuous, trembling,
curling; a frock, simple or sumptuous, bought at a bargain or created
by a Court-dressmaker, which expresses, moulds, completes, and
sometimes almost unveils the marvellous creature it envelops; a gay, a
grave demeanour; grace, wit, sweetness, tartness; frivolity and
earnestness, tenderness and indifference; beauty without beauty,
immorality without evil: a nothing capable of everything: such is
Woman at Paris: such is the Parisienne: and Madame Réjane is the
Parisienne, is all Parisiennes, incarnated.
What though our Parisienne be the daughter of a hall-porter, what
though she be a maid-servant, a courtesan, or an arch-duchess, she
goes everywhere, she is the equal of every one, she knows or divines
everything. No need for her to learn good manners, nor bad ones: she's
born with both. According to the time or place, she will talk to you
of politics, of art, of literature--of dress, trade, cookery--of
finance, of socialism, of luxury, of starvation--with the patness, the
sure touch, the absolute sincerity, of one who has seen all,
experienced all, understood all. She's as sentimental as a song, wily
as a diplomate, gay as folly, or serious as a novel by Zola. What has
she read? Where was she educated? Who cares? Her book of life is
Paris; she knows her Paris by heart; and whoso knows Paris can
dispense with further knowledge. She adores originality and novelty,
but she can herself transmute the commonplace into the original, the
old into the new. Whatever she touches forthwith reflects her own
animation, her mobility, her elusive charm. Flowers have no loveliness
until she has grouped them; colours are colourless unless they suit
her complexion. Delicately fingering this or that silken fabric, she
decrees which shall remain in the darkness of the shops, which shall
become the fashion of the hour. She crowns the poet, sits to the
painter, inspires the sculptor, lends her voice to the musician; and
not one of these artists can pretend to talent, if it be her whim to
deny it him. She awards fame and wealth, success and failure,
according to her pleasure.