Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (853 page)

I do not know into what brand of ink Mr. Henry James dips his pen; indeed, I heard that of late he had been dictating; but I know that his mind is steeped in the waters flowing from the fountain of intellectual youth.  The thing — a privilege — a miracle — what you will — is not quite hidden from the meanest of us who run as we read.  To those who have the grace to stay their feet it is manifest.  After some twenty years of attentive acquaintance with Mr. Henry James’s work, it grows into absolute conviction which, all personal feeling apart, brings a sense of happiness into one’s artistic existence.  If gratitude, as someone defined it, is a lively sense of favours to come, it becomes very easy to be grateful to the author of The Ambassadors — to name the latest of his works.  The favours are sure to come; the spring of that benevolence will never run dry.  The stream of inspiration flows brimful in a predetermined direction, unaffected by the periods of drought, untroubled in its clearness by the storms of the land of letters, without languor or violence in its force, never running back upon itself, opening new visions at every turn of its course through that richly inhabited country its fertility has created for our delectation, for our judgment, for our exploring.  It is, in fact, a magic spring.

With this phrase the metaphor of the perennial spring, of the inextinguishable youth, of running waters, as applied to Mr. Henry James’s inspiration, may be dropped.  In its volume and force the body of his work may be compared rather to a majestic river.  All creative art is magic, is evocation of the unseen in forms persuasive, enlightening, familiar and surprising, for the edification of mankind, pinned down by the conditions of its existence to the earnest consideration of the most insignificant tides of reality.

Action in its essence, the creative art of a writer of fiction may be compared to rescue work carried out in darkness against cross gusts of wind swaying the action of a great multitude.  It is rescue work, this snatching of vanishing phases of turbulence, disguised in fair words, out of the native obscurity into a light where the struggling forms may be seen, seized upon, endowed with the only possible form of permanence in this world of relative values — the permanence of memory.  And the multitude feels it obscurely too; since the demand of the individual to the artist is, in effect, the cry, “Take me out of myself!” meaning really, out of my perishable activity into the light of imperishable consciousness.  But everything is relative, and the light of consciousness is only enduring, merely the most enduring of the things of this earth, imperishable only as against the short-lived work of our industrious hands.

When the last aqueduct shall have crumbled to pieces, the last airship fallen to the ground, the last blade of grass have died upon a dying earth, man, indomitable by his training in resistance to misery and pain, shall set this undiminished light of his eyes against the feeble glow of the sun.  The artistic faculty, of which each of us has a minute grain, may find its voice in some individual of that last group, gifted with a power of expression and courageous enough to interpret the ultimate experience of mankind in terms of his temperament, in terms of art.  I do not mean to say that he would attempt to beguile the last moments of humanity by an ingenious tale.  It would be too much to expect — from humanity.  I doubt the heroism of the hearers.  As to the heroism of the artist, no doubt is necessary.  There would be on his part no heroism.  The artist in his calling of interpreter creates (the clearest form of demonstration) because he must.  He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death; and the postulate was, that there is a group alive, clustered on his threshold to watch the last flicker of light on a black sky, to hear the last word uttered in the stilled workshop of the earth.  It is safe to affirm that, if anybody, it will be the imaginative man who would be moved to speak on the eve of that day without to-morrow — whether in austere exhortation or in a phrase of sardonic comment, who can guess?

For my own part, from a short and cursory acquaintance with my kind, I am inclined to think that the last utterance will formulate, strange as it may appear, some hope now to us utterly inconceivable.  For mankind is delightful in its pride, its assurance, and its indomitable tenacity.  It will sleep on the battlefield among its own dead, in the manner of an army having won a barren victory.  It will not know when it is beaten.  And perhaps it is right in that quality.  The victories are not, perhaps, so barren as it may appear from a purely strategical, utilitarian point of view.  Mr. Henry James seems to hold that belief.  Nobody has rendered better, perhaps, the tenacity of temper, or known how to drape the robe of spiritual honour about the drooping form of a victor in a barren strife.  And the honour is always well won; for the struggles Mr. Henry James chronicles with such subtle and direct insight are, though only personal contests, desperate in their silence, none the less heroic (in the modern sense) for the absence of shouted watchwords, clash of arms and sound of trumpets.  Those are adventures in which only choice souls are ever involved.  And Mr. Henry James records them with a fearless and insistent fidelity to the
péripéties
of the contest, and the feelings of the combatants.

The fiercest excitements of a romance
de cape et d’épée
, the romance of yard-arm and boarding pike so dear to youth, whose knowledge of action (as of other things) is imperfect and limited, are matched, for the quickening of our maturer years, by the tasks set, by the difficulties presented, to the sense of truth, of necessity — before all, of conduct — of Mr. Henry James’s men and women.  His mankind is delightful.  It is delightful in its tenacity; it refuses to own itself beaten; it will sleep on the battlefield.  These warlike images come by themselves under the pen; since from the duality of man’s nature and the competition of individuals, the life-history of the earth must in the last instance be a history of a really very relentless warfare.  Neither his fellows, nor his gods, nor his passions will leave a man alone.  In virtue of these allies and enemies, he holds his precarious dominion, he possesses his fleeting significance; and it is this relation in all its manifestations, great and little, superficial or profound, and this relation alone, that is commented upon, interpreted, demonstrated by the art of the novelist in the only possible way in which the task can be performed: by the independent creation of circumstance and character, achieved against all the difficulties of expression, in an imaginative effort finding its inspiration from the reality of forms and sensations.  That a sacrifice must be made, that something has to be given up, is the truth engraved in the innermost recesses of the fair temple built for our edification by the masters of fiction.  There is no other secret behind the curtain.  All adventure, all love, every success is resumed in the supreme energy of an act of renunciation.  It is the uttermost limit of our power; it is the most potent and effective force at our disposal on which rest the labours of a solitary man in his study, the rock on which have been built commonwealths whose might casts a dwarfing shadow upon two oceans.  Like a natural force which is obscured as much as illuminated by the multiplicity of phenomena, the power of renunciation is obscured by the mass of weaknesses, vacillations, secondary motives and false steps and compromises which make up the sum of our activity.  But no man or woman worthy of the name can pretend to anything more, to anything greater.  And Mr. Henry James’s men and women are worthy of the name, within the limits his art, so clear, so sure of itself, has drawn round their activities.  He would be the last to claim for them Titanic proportions.  The earth itself has grown smaller in the course of ages.  But in every sphere of human perplexities and emotions, there are more greatnesses than one — not counting here the greatness of the artist himself.  Wherever he stands, at the beginning or the end of things, a man has to sacrifice his gods to his passions, or his passions to his gods.  That is the problem, great enough, in all truth, if approached in the spirit of sincerity and knowledge.

In one of his critical studies, published some fifteen years ago, Mr. Henry James claims for the novelist the standing of the historian as the only adequate one, as for himself and before his audience.  I think that the claim cannot be contested, and that the position is unassailable.  Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing.  But it is also more than that; it stands on firmer ground, being based on the reality of forms and the observation of social phenomena, whereas history is based on documents, and the reading of print and handwriting — on second-hand impression.  Thus fiction is nearer truth.  But let that pass.  A historian may be an artist too, and a novelist is a historian, the preserver, the keeper, the expounder, of human experience.  As is meet for a man of his descent and tradition, Mr. Henry James is the historian of fine consciences.

Of course, this is a general statement; but I don’t think its truth will be, or can be questioned.  Its fault is that it leaves so much out; and, besides, Mr. Henry James is much too considerable to be put into the nutshell of a phrase.  The fact remains that he has made his choice, and that his choice is justified up to the hilt by the success of his art.  He has taken for himself the greater part.  The range of a fine conscience covers more good and evil than the range of conscience which may be called, roughly, not fine; a conscience, less troubled by the nice discrimination of shades of conduct.  A fine conscience is more concerned with essentials; its triumphs are more perfect, if less profitable, in a worldly sense.  There is, in short, more truth in its working for a historian to detect and to show.  It is a thing of infinite complication and suggestion.  None of these escapes the art of Mr. Henry James.  He has mastered the country, his domain, not wild indeed, but full of romantic glimpses, of deep shadows and sunny places.  There are no secrets left within his range.  He has disclosed them as they should be disclosed — that is, beautifully.  And, indeed, ugliness has but little place in this world of his creation.  Yet, it is always felt in the truthfulness of his art; it is there, it surrounds the scene, it presses close upon it.  It is made visible, tangible, in the struggles, in the contacts of the fine consciences, in their perplexities, in the sophism of their mistakes.  For a fine conscience is naturally a virtuous one.  What is natural about it is just its fineness, an abiding sense of the intangible, ever-present, right.  It is most visible in their ultimate triumph, in their emergence from miracle, through an energetic act of renunciation.  Energetic, not violent: the distinction is wide, enormous, like that between substance and shadow.

Through it all Mr. Henry James keeps a firm hold of the substance, of what is worth having, of what is worth holding.  The contrary opinion has been, if not absolutely affirmed, then at least implied, with some frequency.  To most of us, living willingly in a sort of intellectual moonlight, in the faintly reflected light of truth, the shadows so firmly renounced by Mr. Henry James’s men and women, stand out endowed with extraordinary value, with a value so extraordinary that their rejection offends, by its uncalled-for scrupulousness, those business-like instincts which a careful Providence has implanted in our breasts.  And, apart from that just cause of discontent, it is obvious that a solution by rejection must always present a certain lack of finality, especially startling when contrasted with the usual methods of solution by rewards and punishments, by crowned love, by fortune, by a broken leg or a sudden death.  Why the reading public which, as a body, has never laid upon a story-teller the command to be an artist, should demand from him this sham of Divine Omnipotence, is utterly incomprehensible.  But so it is; and these solutions are legitimate inasmuch as they satisfy the desire for finality, for which our hearts yearn with a longing greater than the longing for the loaves and fishes of this earth.  Perhaps the only true desire of mankind, coming thus to light in its hours of leisure, is to be set at rest.  One is never set at rest by Mr. Henry James’s novels.  His books end as an episode in life ends.  You remain with the sense of the life still going on; and even the subtle presence of the dead is felt in that silence that comes upon the artist-creation when the last word has been read.  It is eminently satisfying, but it is not final.  Mr. Henry James, great artist and faithful historian, never attempts the impossible.

ALPHONSE DAUDET — 1898

It is sweet to talk decorously of the dead who are part of our past, our indisputable possession.  One must admit regretfully that to-day is but a scramble, that to-morrow may never come; it is only the precious yesterday that cannot be taken away from us.  A gift from the dead, great and little, it makes life supportable, it almost makes one believe in a benevolent scheme of creation.  And some kind of belief is very necessary.  But the real knowledge of matters infinitely more profound than any conceivable scheme of creation is with the dead alone.  That is why our talk about them should be as decorous as their silence.  Their generosity and their discretion deserve nothing less at our hands; and they, who belong already to the unchangeable, would probably disdain to claim more than this from a mankind that changes its loves and its hates about every twenty-five years — at the coming of every new and wiser generation.

One of the most generous of the dead is Daudet, who, with a prodigality approaching magnificence, gave himself up to us without reserve in his work, with all his qualities and all his faults.  Neither his qualities nor his faults were great, though they were by no means imperceptible.  It is only his generosity that is out of the common.  What strikes one most in his work is the disinterestedness of the toiler.  With more talent than many bigger men, he did not preach about himself, he did not attempt to persuade mankind into a belief of his own greatness.  He never posed as a scientist or as a seer, not even as a prophet; and he neglected his interests to the point of never propounding a theory for the purpose of giving a tremendous significance to his art, alone of all things, in a world that, by some strange oversight, has not been supplied with an obvious meaning.  Neither did he affect a passive attitude before the spectacle of life, an attitude which in gods — and in a rare mortal here and there — may appear godlike, but assumed by some men, causes one, very unwillingly, to think of the melancholy quietude of an ape.  He was not the wearisome expounder of this or that theory, here to-day and spurned to-morrow.  He was not a great artist, he was not an artist at all, if you like — but he was Alphonse Daudet, a man as naively clear, honest, and vibrating as the sunshine of his native land; that regrettably undiscriminating sunshine which matures grapes and pumpkins alike, and cannot, of course, obtain the commendation of the very select who look at life from under a parasol.