CHRISTMAS BOOK SUPPLEMENT

Through French Eyes

The author of " The Secret of the English." which was awarded the Prix Me of the French Academy in 1947, surveys contemporary English literature.

WaiTING as a Frenchman, I think I can best use my limited space if, restricting myself mostly to the novel (which is the ideal means of international literary communication, a comprehensive medium ranging between poetry and the facts of history and biography), I try to show what English works do or should exercise the strongest appeal on my compatriots, either because they tune in with the prevailing French taste of today, or, inversely, because they have merits and an attraction entirely their own. What do the French now seem to expect of their own writers ? The chief requirement is certainly that they should seek to give a sense and a justification to our existence, rise above chaos on the wings of some principle of spiritual unity or " integration." This is a common feature of such outstanding and widely differing authors as Mauriac, Malraux, Camus, Aragon, Bosco, Sartre. The last named is often grossly misrepresented, but one should bear in mind that his main work is entitled Les Chemins de la Liberte.

It follows that my countrymen do not object to ideas, and do not oppose them to " real life." Are not our ideas part of our life, and more important than its other parts, sensations and nervous reac- tions ? And French readers do not mind stylised characters and formalised conversations, as they are meant to reduce inessentials to their just dimensions and make way for the more fruitful elements of our spiritual life. Nor is a French author, when his hero is made to fight for an ideal, fearful of being thought " romantic," an accusa- tion with which British critics are always so ruthlessly ready. And, finally, most of our writers are moralists, though they are most often at variance with conventional morality. Such requirements and tendencies are a sufficient explanation of why Charles Morgan should be so highly rated in France, quite apart from the love that he professes for our country. His is such a clear and well-known case that I need not dwell on it any further. Whereas Mr. Morgan's fervour is purely pagan, based on love and clear thought, the other leading English novelists have given their spiritual aspirations a religious direction. Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory is a, book which every cultured Frenchman has read. Its hero, though a sinner, wins through to spiritual sanctity like so many of the characters in Mauriac's novels. And that

is why French readers prefer The Power and the Glory to The Heart of the Matter, in which the struggling, sinful soul is finally defeated

—and, of course, to what Mr. Greene calls his entertainments. For we have grown terribly serious, at least from a literary standpoint. Somerset Maugham is good at picturing a successful author whose worldly wisdom, tinctured with mild cynicism, is quite ready for

the enjoyment of the smooth, easy life of a privileged class of people. But The Razor's Edge introduces a young fellow who is serious about Oriental mysucism. The trouble is that he happens to be the only unconvincing character in the novel. Yet I believe that many of my compatriots have let themselves be taken in. The same, in my opinion, applies to Brideshead Revisited. In this book the religious characters are heavily handicapped and even ridiculed. But many French critics claimed that it was Evelyn Waugh's most weighty and " interior " novel. Of course Huxley's Ape and Essence is almost universally con- demned. This horrible picture of man's future degradation is not only wholly unconvincing to any sane mind ; it is frankly revolting in its cowardly admission of spiritual defeat. The gleams of hope that shone in Perennial Philosophy and dimly flickered through the pages of Time Must Have a Stop, lifting the author above his morbid hatred of the flesh, seem now to be extinguished, and, as Mr. Huxley appears to wallow quite contentedly in the dirt of his slough of despond, we cannot really believe in the final feeble fiction of a flight and a victory of love. It is a grave error to imagine that Aldous Huxley can appeal to French taste, at least in its present mood, which is not only serious but drawn towards any form of spiritual challenge and repelled by what is purely negative, passive and destructive.

Ninety-four, by George Orwell, is of the latter kind. Is it meant to be satiric ? But there is no good satire without some sort of unexpected twist, and that is lacking. Everything is painfully obvious in this " anticipation," for we all know that totalitarianism as such is a most uncomfortable proposition. Animal Farm did at least clothe men as pigs and other animals. Though is that fair to animals ? And knowing what they really were, we also knew all along how they were going to fare. Priestley's milder picture of the future in A Midsummer Day's Dream is. not very credible either, and that is probably why this play has not been particularly successful. But I think that Evelyn Waugh's The Loved One is magnificent satire because it shocks and challenges and manfully reacts against evil and absurdity, ludicrously painted corpses being symbolical of a world sadly reverting to totemism, a world which true faith has deserted—to say nothing of sanity.

Fear of the future, condemnation of a material civilisation, unequal reactions of the spirit are thus important characteristics of English literature today. There is another and more distinctive aspect which makes it, to me personally, still more fascinating. Most con- temporary British fiction writers (and some poets), far from being afraid of life, arc in love with it, reacting to it as artists, not philosophers. They delight in it (which reminds us of the title of J. B. Priestley's new book) ; and their humour is an expression of this delight. They are in communion with Nature taken in its wider sense. With wonderful skill they know how to weave into the narra- tive all the familiar demons, hidden thoughts, nervous reactions that influence our destinies. euch narratives and the often perfectly naturalistic dialogues that fit into them are life itself, seemingly caught by the author as it flows along and not laboriously recon- structed. The result is that we are " spellbound," that we have the illusion of living the story we read, whereas, when we are reading any French book, we can hardly ever forget that it is ... just a book. Contemporary British fiction is achieving a more and more perfect objectivity, in some cases a complete elimination of the writer's personality. Joyce Cary and Henry Green are remarkable examples of this. And how fit is Nigel Balchin's dialogue I Rosamond Lehmann's The Ballad and she Source and Forrest Reid's books arc compelling studies of childhood. In Youth is Pleasure, by Denton

Welch, is more personal but pulsating with life quite unadulterated, by which, of course, I mean free from any adult interposition. I wish I could have devoted a little space to Elizabeth Bowen's subtle art, to her knack of recreating atmosphere. She has very feelingly described the psychological effects of the Blitz in London. And so, in my opinion, has Geoffrey Cotterell in Then a Soldier. There have been enthusiastic articles in. the French press on Beowulf, by Bryher, a book about two gallant old ladies who kept a tea-room in London during the war. And, finally, to quote just two memoirs of a very different style which I have enjoyed, George Millar's Maquis and Osbert Sitwell's autobiography introduce us each into its own strange Aid fascinating world.

One word on the drama. Priestley's plays and the new poetic drama are of a nature to appeal to a French audience. This Way to the Tomb, by Ronald Duncan, his been given in Paris, where An Inspector Calls is now being played. T. S. Eliot, of course, is the British poet to be appreciated in France, in his quality as a spiritual writer. All the others do not—or do not any longer—seem to ask themselves what to make of life ; they just react to it in accordance with their several temperaments, intellectually or sensitively, with delight or with fear. The general impression is of sincerity of

feeling but also of disintegration. JEAN BAILHACHE.

Man and Providene

Christianity and History. By Herbert Butterfield. (Bell. 7s. 6d.)

" HISTORIC.AL events," says Professor Butterfield in this remarkable book, "come out of personalities and run into personalities "; and his most devastating comments are directed against those who treat history as a " hard story in a rigid framework," to be studied and memorised without sympathy, imagination or any over-riding philosophy of life. Those who accept the fundamental value of the individual soul cannot be satisfied with any interpretation of history which exalts nation or class or system, or which rests upon any facile theory of progress, any more than they can approve a political creed which demands the sacrifice of any generation for the sake of the eventual (and problematical) earthly good of their successors. In Rankc's telling phrase, "every soul is equidistant from eternity."

This valuation of the human soul is one of the legacies of a Christian heritage ; but equally important is the Christian doctrine that all men are sinners. Moral progress is an illusion ; man has not become better, but merely more skilful in organising his cupidities and setting up safeguards against his vices. On the whole we did this so well in the nineteenth century that we came to imagine our- selves secure and to put too much trust in the essential goodness of ourselves and our fellow-men. But "it is essential not to have faith in human nature. Such faith is a recent heresy and a very disastrous one." There is, in fact, what the author calls a " gravita- tional pull " in human nature which has throughout history sooner or later destroyed man's systems and defeated his ideals. Most dangerous and insidious of all is the sin of self-righteousness, which has (for instance) so tragically disfigured the political history of the Christian Church, a sin which persuaded otherwise virtuous men that they were justified in coercing, torturing and oppressing those

who disagreed with them—though all the time, as we are rightly reminded, thousands .1 ministers of that Church were constantly at work transforming the world by the preaching and practice of Christian virtue.

It was especially in the striking doom which has throughout history visited the self-righteous man that the ancients, and in particular the Hebrew prophets, saw the operation of Divine judgement. The prophets, in an age very like out own, spoke with astonishing courage and insight out of the depths of national disaster, never abandoning their belief in the moral character of human history, even when the hand of God seemed to fall upon the righteous man rather than upon his enemies. They sought refuge in their idea of the Remnant of Israel, in the Messianic ideal, and finally in the inspired conception of the Suffering Servant, which makes the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah the bridge between the Old Testament and the New, where that vision finds its perfect fulfilment in the Divine irruption into human history.

So it was that the ancient Jews advanced from the conception of a chosen nation to a heightened sense of the importance of the individual, "only to go further and establish the solidarity of the human race at a higher level of thought altogether." In much the same way Professor Butterfield, after his insistence on the value of persons and the personal approach, takes us with him on to a higher level still of imagination and interpretation in his consideration of the providential guidance of human affairs. What he calls " history- making going on almost above our heads." Man, if he is wise, will do faithfully the work that lies before him. The ambitious schemers and system-makers only too often defeat, in their own generation, the workings of Providence • it is only when men look back on the work of their fathers that they see emerging a pattern which Wai hidden from those who were weaving it. The past seems rigid and inevitable, yet the tiniest thing might have made it altogether different ; Providence is all the time at work, shaping "our ends, rough-hew them how we will." The Christian, above all others, should believe this, and in virtue of that belief confront the coital's: of schemes and systems with an elasticity of mind which will not dictate to God how he should accomplish his purposes. Professor Butterfield says that the student of history 'heeds an " acquired simplicity "; it is a quality he himself abundantly reveals in a book which is as crystal clear as it is wise and compelling. No review can begin to do it justice ; there are sentences on almost every page which cry out to be quoted, and again and again forgotten truths are illuminated by telling phrase or apt illustration. Every student of history should read this book ; and the makers of history

should read it afresh every year. HUGH LYON.

Swinburne Revalued

Swinburne: A Biographical Approach. By Humphrey Hare. (Witherby. 15s.)

Autosr the last of the Victorians to fall into Georgian disfavour, Swinburne has been slow to emerge. One by one we have recon. firmed our fathers' and grandfathers' enthusiasms, rating Arnold's poetry perhaps a little high according to their scale and Tennyson's a little low, overvaluing Trollope and underestimating Thackeray. But for Swinburne, I feel, there can be no re-acceptance at anything like his former sterling value, for his reputation seems to have been founded on a double obtuseness in our forebears, a blindness to the real content of his poetry, and a deafness to the plangent monotony of his famous word music. " After years of neglect," the publisher's blurb assures us, " Swinburne is once again being read and valued as a great poet." dr. Hare himself is too wise to claim any such thing ; by destroying the Victorian conception of Swinburne as tE " poet of revolt "—and Victorian society was sufficiently stable to tolerate pot 3 of revolt—and making us face the perversity which lay at the root of his inspiration, he renders his subject's complete rehabilitation even less probable. If it it impossible now to re-read the Poems 01,1 Ballads without understanding them, it is increasingly unlikely that they will be re-read at all. Mr. Hare has, in one way, done Swin- burne a disservice by writing so good a book about him. Born Into the aristocracy, the poet had the advantage both of civilised tolerance in his home and of some financial support throu4h- out his life ; the middle classes were less patient with their eccentric progeny. From Eton, which he left for reasons still uncertain, and from Oxford where he failed to sit for his degree, Swinburne derived a prodigious love of literature. In Oxford he fell in with the Pre- Raphaelite circle, and when he went down ,following complaints of his "irregularities " and " alcoholic excesses," Jowett took cart not

to risk a repetition of the Shelley episode ; his departure to be coached in a country rectory saved a scandal. Jowett admired the disorderly, violent young man, even though he preferred not to keep him at Balliol. He proved, in fact, a life-long friend, and Mr Hare records an offer " even of pecuniary help, if needed " at a moment some ten years later when Swinburne's liaison with the circus-rider Adah Menken was failing to produce the reform which his friends had hoped for. Ruskin, too, refused to join in the clamour against the poet. " I should as soon think of finding fault with you," he wrote, " as with a thunder cloud or a night-shade blossom." The poet's father, however, could not afford to be so dispassionate, and was forced to make periodic trips to London to rescue his son from the bouts of drink and debauchery that were ruining his health.

Mr. Hare is indignant with a young lady who refused his offer of marriage, and he cannot speak badly enough of Theodore Watts Dunton, who bore the poet off to spend the last thirty years of his life in the safety of suburban Putney. Here the fervent republican, the worshipper of Hugo and Mazzini, the erotic dipsomaniac, the poet of " Atalanta," harnessed his too fecund muse to the praise of imperialism and of the babies that passed in their prams over Putney Heath ; here bottled beer and fireside readings of Dickens took the place of gin and the minor writings of the Marquis de Sade. Yet without Watts Dunton's care, for whatever reasons of self-interest it was given, Swinburne would hardly have survived a year ; despite the strength of his erotic inspiration, he had not the constitution of a debauchce. So neither" Boo," who laughed at his protestations of love and ended, Mr. Hare tells us, a dipsomaniac herself, nor the retired and literary solicitor of No. 2 The Pines, deserves, I feel, the ill-treatment here meted out to them.

Mr. Hare's analysis of the poetry is masterly, and his understanding of " Atalanta " particularly sensitive. Here was a theme in which Swinburne could express his predominant sadic pessimism without violating the formal structure of the drama. The storms of revolt, the rantings against prophets, priests and tyrants of his own imagining, grow wearisome. The restrictions of the Greek convention, how- ever, in so far as he observed them in " Atalanta," give the work a shape hard to seek in most of his poems, from which the omission of a stanza or two would almost always go unnoticed. "Hertha," too, expresses something more than his habitual puerile violence. On these two poems Swinburne's reputation must rest, and if this under- standing biography reveals him in, on the whole, a most displeasing trt, it does enable us to revalue his works—though at a lower, yet haps more stable, rate than the inflated one they once commanded ong those who appraised him as a poet of revolt without investi- gating too closely the true nature of his monotonous inspiration.

J. M. COHEN.