THACKERAY. 0 ONE feeling which Mr. Whibley's masterly little volume excites
in us is regret that he has not given us a biography in a fuller sense. As a monograph, or biographical and critical essay, it could not well be better ; the pity is that Mr. Whibley, knowing the subject and the times as he does, and being for the most part sympathetic, should not have been empowered to enter fully into the many matters at which the scheme of this series permits him only to glance, and, thus doing, to give us a Life of Thackeray, leisurely and complete.
That no official Life is to be published we have too often heard,—too often, because the present writer believes that upon those words of Thackeray that constitute the mandate which his descendants will not break, a wrong construction has been placed. It has, however, fortunately been sufficiently dis- regarded by Mrs. Richmond Ritchie to put us in possession of her biographical introductions, so informed by intimate personal charm, to the last great edition of her father, which may be said, in their broken and disordered way, to constitute a Life, and which the publishers, we think, might issue in a volume
• weligra Thaokeray. By Charles Whibley. "Modem English ,Writere London; W. Blackwood and Sona. (2a. 6d..]
apart ; while one other writer at least has not scrupled to put forth an orthodox two-volume biography that to the uninitiated must seem the real thing. Mr. Lewis Melville, the author in question, proved himself a diligent compiler, but it is not to him we should look for the fitting biographer of Thackeray.
There are some men of whom a monograph such as this is the only right memorial. Thackeray's friend FitzGerald, for example, is eminently a man for monographic treatment; that and no more. So also, we think, to take another example, is Matthew Arnold. But Thackeray, a large, bountiful, creative mind, touching life at many points, knowing many people, belonging absolutely to his own period, cannot have too copious a memoir. We would give every license to Thackeray's biographer. He should follow every by-path that attracted him, enter every drawing-room and every cider-cellar into which his hero passed, listen to every conversation, note every gesture.
To return to the present book, only those who have attempted work of the same character as Mr. Whibley's little monograph can fully appreciate the amount of pains and labour that is concealed, and perfectly concealed, beneath its smooth and smiling surface. From first page to last the narrative flows like a limpid stream. One of the best of many good passages in the book is the inquiry into the portraits of Lord Hertford and John Wilson Croker as given by Thackeray in Vanity Fair (as Steyne and Wenham) and Disraeli in amingsby (as Monmouth and Rigby). There are out-and-out Thackerayans who may dislike to find him
detecting spots upon their sun. They will perhaps object to some of the hard words which Thackeray's intolerance in Paris
in his young days brings upon him,—from a critic, by the way, who, having had a similar experience, is peculiarly fitted to pronounce judgment on such matters ; and they may par- ticularly resent the condemnation of much of The Book of Snobs. Thus :— " With much of Thackeray's satire it is easy to sympathise.
But Thackeray does not stay his band at legitimate denunciation. He worries his point, until he himself becomes the mouthpiece of mean thoughts. He seems to be haunted by a species of self-consciousness; he is surprised that he is where ho is ; he knows that somebody is above or below him ; but he can- not take his place in the world (or anybody else's place) for granted But there is another reason why Thackeray was prone to detect his favourite vices in everybody,—he was strangely interested in the trivialities of life. The philosopher who could not endure the bounce ' of Dumas nor the brutality of M. de Balzac, liked to reflect that Major Ponto's hollands was gin, that Sackville Maine was ruined at the Sarcophagus,' that Timmins' dinner was not yet paid for. True, these lesser evils are part of the tragedy of life, but they are not all its tragedy ; and it is Thackeray's weakness sometimes to have mistaken the part for the whole."
This seems to us right criticism. The Book of Snobs we have always considered Thackeray's least admirable work.
Again, in his balancing of the good and bad in Thackeray's work Mr. Whibley is always admirably lucid. We do not always agree with his estimate, and must not for a moment be held to endorse his judgment and make it our own ; but as to the interest of his point of view, and the poignancy with which it is expressed, there can only be one opinion. Mr. Whibley knows exactly what he wants to say and knows how to say it :
"The truth is, there were always two men in Thackeray, the sentimental moralist, whose obvious 'lessons' were long since forgotten, and the keen-eyed ironist, for whom life was an amusing game, whose rules were independent of virtue, and in which the scoundrel was often victorious. It is this twofold character which explains why the most of Thackeray's work was marred by a kind of uncertainty, and justifies Carlyle's admirable comment= a beautiful vein of genius lay struggling about in him.' The genius never overcame the struggle. When the ironist was disposed to take a large view, the moralist interrupted his vision, and the moralist was so tight bound to the superstitions of his age, that he will probably never appear as great as he did to some of his contemporaries. And as the writer was perplexed by a twofold character, so also was the man. It would be easily possible, without suppressing or twisting a single fact, to draw two distinct and opposing Thackerays. The blackest portrait we have of him is Disraeli's St. Barbe, which is painted in the darkest colours, and without relief. Now St. Barbe, in Endymion's phrase, is the vainest, most envious, and the most amusing of men.' He snarls over the prosperity of every one in this world except the snarler.' He is a misanthrope, because he finds every one getting on in life except himself.' When Seymour Hicks goes to a party, 'that fellow gets about in a most extraordinary manner,' complains St. Barbe. Is it not disgusting ? No lord ever asked me to dinner. But the aristocracy of this country is doomed.' When, however, he dines at the Neuchatel's, he takes a frank delight in his host's magnificence, and only regret@ that he did not know the great man a year ago, when he might have dedicated his novel to him. That is one portrait—of the malicious, satirical dog—and it is superfluous to say that it is overcharged. The other portrait, painted in lighter colours, represents a man of infinite sensibility, eager only to do good to his leas fortunate neighbours,—a cynic, whose cynicism is but a cloak for kindliness, a modest gentleman, equally alive to his own defects and to the merits of others. Of course neither portrait is true, because both are inhuman, and the truth will be found, as always, between the two."
But after all, we are a little doubtful now and then whether or no so critical a monograph is needful in the case of a novelist like Thackeray. The contrast between the voluminous story- teller, pouring out his good things in such a torrent for so many years, and the brilliant scientific examination of the result is a little too sharp. Mr. Whibley has done it superbly; but was it the best thing to do? We cannot help feeling that in Thackeray's case there is room for nothing between the full biography of which we have spoken (wherein Thackeray's progress would be recorded and the reader left to form his own conclusions) and a brief critical essay not a tenth as long as the present book. The man's works in many volumes (as many as pos- sible) ; the man's life faithfully and minutely told ; and a
bird's-eye critical estimate of his genius in small compass,—
that seems to us in the case of Thaakeray all that is really necessary. For the Life we still wait.
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