"FRANCE AND THE FRENCH."
[To THE EDITOR OF THE "SPECTATOR:9
San,—" One comes to wonder" (the English is not mine) " whether Paris or Lhasa is the more remote from English understanding." I am afraid that your critic's remarks on my book (Spectator, November 11th) show that he knows as much about the one as the other. Nor can his critical style be commended. He begins by puny pin-pricks. He takes ex- ception to the phrase " epater la bourgeoisie," which is as war- ranted and as frequently used as " epater le bourgeois " ; the one implies the other. Again, he declares that "hasn't a centime " is a " conversational impossibility," though it is employed every minute of the day. It was because I wished to convey " the subtler cadence" of the language that I used the phrase.
So much for his French. Let me pass over the " mere- tricious clinquant " of his style in English—a phrase which admirably expresses it—to examine his competence in French literature. One may marvel at the boldness of a critic in the twentieth century who refers to the author of " Cyrano de Bergerac " as a " pinchbeck genius," a " consummate theatrical bluffeur." Has he never read the " Hymn to the Sun " in " Chantecler " P But, even if he is incapable of appreciating the beauties and magnificence of the greatest living poet- dramatist, which I can readily believe, he should at least respect a reputation. " Tinsel masterpieces," as applied to the works of Rostand, is a lamentable confession of inability to understand.
Again, there is no resemblance between the bluff and hearty philosophy of Capus and the delicate irony and intuition of Mr. Barrie, whereas a parallel, satisfying to the competent, can certainly be established between Hervien and the Scots- man. There is much the same subtle psychology, for instance, in the " Course du Flambeau " and " What Every Woman Knows "—the same dramatic sense of the inevitable.
But your critic surpasses himself when he declares that English acting is "fifty years ahead of the French in faith- fulness of rendering." After so stupefying a statement " one comes to wonder " (in the critic's own elegant phrase) whether be has ever heard of the Conservatoire, of Sarah Bernhardt, of Rejane, De Max, Guitry, and Le Bargy. Evidently " the section " for which I have written my book does not include your contributor, whose competence to deliver judgment is well expressed by his remarks on French literature and the stage.
Relying on your sense of fairness to publish this letter in extenso.—I am, Sir, &c., CHARLES DAWBARN. Place du Palais Bourbon, Paris.
[We do not like to refuse our correspondent's vehement request to print his letter, though the absurdity of publishing such reviews of reviews will, we feel sure, strike most of our readers. Authors should keep bull-terriers. It is the glory of this noble breed never to make the slightest howl of protest when corrected, no matter how greatly undeserved, in the dog's opinion, is the correction. This trait in the bull-terrier's character is as impressive as it is attractive, and forces the question, " Have I been fair and reasonable?" as could no other form of " motion in arrest of judgment."—En. Spectator.]
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