I doubt, I wrote, 12.7.20, whether the years 1890 to 1900 have produced more permanent literature of the first order than any other decade of the 19th century—or the twentieth. Paris was discovered anew in those days and seemed a tremendous discovery, though its influence was meretricious, and the imitations from the French were usually of the worst French models. The discovery of art for art’s sake was, I always feel, the most meaningless and pretentious of all other shams. Even Wilde never made clear what he meant by the phrase, though he and his school interpreted it practically by a wholly decadent over-elaboration of decoration. The interest of the period lies in the astounding success achieved by this noisy and self-sufficient coterie in imposing itself on the easily startled, and easily shocked and still more easily impressed middle and upper classes of London society. But that is a thing that so many people can do and a thing that is so seldom worth doing.
In a later letter, I added, 15.6.20:
I believe that the great bubble of the nineties has been pricked for the present generation. All the work of Max, most of Beardsley and a little of Wilde have a permanent place; and, if some one would do for the poets and essayists of the nineties what Eddie Marsh has done for the Georgian poets, we might have one volume of moderate size containing the poetry of interest and good craftsmanship though of little power or originality....
Whether [the artistic movement of the nineties] effected any great liberation of spirit or manner from the fetters of mid-Victorian literature I cannot say, though I am inclined to doubt it. That liberation was being achieved by individual writers such as Meredith and Kipling, who never had anything to do with the domino-room of the Cheshire Cheese. Never, I am sure, was any artistic group so void of humour as the men of the nineties.
Having damned them, their period and work so far, I may surprise you by conceding that they do still arouse great interest.... I have been thinking that it is almost your duty to put on permanent record your own knowledge and opinions about this school. Max Beerbohm is unlikely to do it, and you must now be one of the very few men living who were on terms of intimacy with the leaders of the movement.... Men under thirty have never heard of John Gray, Grackanthorpe or your over advertised American friend Peters. Your annotations to Muddiman’s book go some very little distance towards filling this gap, but I think you should undertake something more substantial. For heaven’s sake do not call it The History of the Nineties, but is there any reason why you should not—from your memory and without consulting a single work of reference—compile a little book of Notes on the ’Nineties? Make it an informal dictionary of biography, put down all the names of the men associated with that movement at leisure, record about each everything that has not yet appeared in print and correct the occasionally incorrect accounts of other writers. Such a book would be a valuable addition to literary history, it would be amusing and not difficult for you to write, it could be turned to the profit of your reputation and pocket....
For this criticism Teixeira took me to task in his letter of 14.7.20.
And now, Stephen, tremble. How often have I not called you “the wise youth!” How constantly have I not believed you to be filled with knowledge, either acquired or instinctive and intuitive, of most things! And now your letter ... has disappointed me almost to tears.
Your only excuse would be that you took Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw to be and practically alone to be the men of the nineties. That is not so. And, if you agree with me that Oscar was a man of the eighties and that Shaw is a man of the twentieth century, you have no excuse whatever and 98% of the first paragraph in your letter is dead wrong.
I presume that you keep copies of your letters to me: you should; they will be useful for your Memoirs of a Celibate (John Murray: 1950; 105/- net). Anyhow, here goes: