According to recent statistics, Paris has replaced Chicago as literary centre of the United States, perhaps the first important result, to letters, of the World War. Richard Connell humorously records an instance of the days when “Ichabod” appeared on the lintel of waxworks palaces. Where is now the Eden Musée? Who goes to Madame Tussaud’s? They had their day, those creations of horror; melodramatically, they held their puppet moments on the stage. But those moments are fled, and what is out of date serves the humourist. Papa Chibou’s affection for the cauliflower-eared dummy and his ignorance of the real Napoleon combine incongruously enough, and with the love theme, to a high hilarity. Yet the story is beyond farce. More than one will feel his eyes moist at the end, and nobody drops a tear over farce unless from extravagance of laughter. Mr. Connell’s ability in creating characters over whom and with whom one laughs happily associates itself with acumen in searching out ridiculous situations. His humour recommends itself further as of that highly human order bordering pathos. Read, for example, “The Unfamiliar,” listed above, and receive proof of this statement.
The author of “Célestine,” born in France, has balanced Mr. Connell’s study of Papa Chibou by his interpretation of the peasant girl. Like Bertha, of Fannie Hurst’s “Lummox,” Célestine feels beauty but remains inexpressive; she is dull and speechless. Like Bertha, she is vaguely aware of harmonies; the majesty of war shakes her soul. Inarticulate love merges into dumb renunciation; the mute expression of her adoration lies in cleaning boots; of her sorrow, in unspoken prayer by the semblance of a tomb.
Around Paris of the Boul’ Miche’ many stories have centred. In a bubble of mirth James Mahoney adds another to the list: “The Hat of Eight Reflections.” The reflections are no less the highlights of the story than of the hat. Max Beerbohm once concluded, after ample proof by illustration, that the public finds humour either in delight over suffering or in contempt of the unfamiliar.[G] Such a public would hardly find humour in “The Hat,” which the Committee recommend for laughter prompted by the high-handed proceedings of Ventrillon, his wit, his ability to paint like the Devil, his catastrophic destruction of Hat Number Two. If he seems funny in walking hungry from his lunch, yet we well know he has been stuffing himself on Belletaille’s little cakes. And if Belletaille is subject for laughter, well, her personality stands the strain and exonerates the reader from the charge of cruelty in enjoyment at her expense. That enjoyment is modified by admiration.
Typical of the American scene and of American life are “Nice Neighbours,” “The One Hundred Dollar Bill,” “Towers of Fame,” “Not Wanted.” To these should be added Mrs. Wharton’s “False Dawn,” of the first list. Though in length outside the short story limit, nevertheless, it should receive mention as a notable piece of brief fiction. Failure to record appreciation of its exquisite charm would argue the Committee dull to beauty of theme and workmanship.
“Nice Neighbours,” a vigorous story dramatically presented, conveys a pleasantly satiric theme which every reader may state for himself. Mary S. Watts has accomplished her satire the more admirably in that she does so without the aid of caricature. Her characters, from the imps of Satan who killed their pets for the gruesome pleasure of it, to the nice old maid who rented her house—all walk out of life, distorted by not even so much as the temperament of the author which, justifiably, might have exaggerated lines and heightened colour.
Mr. Tarkington’s “The One Hundred Dollar Bill” so skilfully conceals its idea as to betray the unwary into seeing merely a light story, whereas it epitomizes the American character. Behold the American: Caution and thrift refuse the purchase of a toy yet retreat before the gambler’s spirit. Loss at the gaming table retrieves itself through that adaptability which leads on alike to failure or fortune. In the opinion of many readers who have enjoyed all this author’s stories, from “In the Arena” to the present, nothing he has written is stronger and at once more subtle than “The One Hundred Dollar Bill.” If there is such a thing as a composite American, he is represented by Collinson.
Eric Hall, of Mrs. Folsom’s “Towers of Fame,” is the counterpart of Emanuel in “The Distant Street.” Eric meets the one woman, who might have remained lost. So great is this possibility as to form the basis for surprise. We finish the story: Eric left the girl. Add a final hundred words or so and demolish the first dénouement. The new ending is as just as the old. The adherent of the negative and the incomplete says, “Eric went away, of course. And he never came back.” Quite right, if Eric was that sort of man. But the partisan of the positive may reply, “Why didn’t he go back? It was just that return which reveals his character.” He is the older American; Emanuel is the newcomer.
“Not Wanted” exemplifies the age-old struggle of the generations to understand each other. Of all the fathers who have enjoyed it, either in the Post or in the little volume published by Charles Scribner’s Sons, not one but has admired Mr. Williams’s skill in erecting barriers between father and son, then with equal skill removing them. Over this story perhaps more enthusiasm has been expressed to the Committee than over any other selected. If critics who see in it only another instance of the machine-made story will take a hint from general approval they will conclude that emotion, though intolerant of formula, yet makes universal appeal through perfection of form. “Not Wanted” will live in younger companionship with this author’s famous “The Stolen Story.”
At once a criticism and a half dozen stories rolled up in one parcel, “Home Brew” doubly succeeds and gives double measure. Grandmother’s selfishness, Father and Walter’s extraordinary friendship, Mother’s home-making gift, Aunt Jude’s quiet struggle—quiet as volcanic fires beneath the crust—Eddie’s love for the sea, and Mildred’s fluttering toward the flame: in all these lies potential drama. Three themes actually achieve the outline of drama and reach climax on the evening Alyse spends with her mother. Alyse, blind to all these potentialities, becomes the target for Miss Mason’s arrow-thrusts which, in piercing her, pierce the average would-be writer. The dilettante sees neither the humour nor the tragedy of real life, whose repressions mean to her only absence of thought and emotion. No other country owns to so many thousands of those who, mistaking desire for ability, and possessing the minimum requirements of the fictionist, waste themselves in “trying to write.” Miss Mason’s Alyse should be set before these thousands, and the Committee are grateful for the opportunity of passing her along.
If “Home Brew” is a criticism, no less is “Phantom Adventure” a revelation. Like Kipling’s “The Brushwood Boy” and “They,” it evokes from the realm of fancy a beautiful dream. Floyd Dell has educed an ectopolasm which, emerging from the material banker, magically forms an exquisite spirit picture. Plangently sombre the rhythmic cadences of this verbal harmony fall on the ear, drowning alien sounds, luring into unexplored recesses of the mystic and the subconscious. Restraint and reserve potently influence the reader to guess at tracts of the spirit still to be explored. The art of suggestion is here at its height; for though the expressed story is clear and whole, that which is unexpressed permits individual interpretation and so intensifies the clarity and unity for different minds in different ways.