George Soule.
Another View of “The Dark Flower”
It is with no desire to be carping that I offer this criticism of The Dark Flower, for I, too, am a devoted disciple who hangs on the master’s lips; but being a skeptical modern woman withal, I am not abject. Perhaps we should be satisfied with what Galsworthy has given us—this searching vision into the soul of a rarely sensitive man. The writing of it—what we term style—is beyond doubt Galsworthy’s most distinguished performance, far more poetical than any of his verse. Its material is invaluable for its sheer honesty as well as its sheer beauty. Its reality and intimacy are grippingly poignant. And yet how account for the pain of futility which sweeps over you as you close the book, drowning for the time the ecstasy of high joy in all its beauty? It is as if the heavy aroma of autumn’s decay had invaded a garden in early spring.
Yes, there is something essentially futile about The Dark Flower. It lies so hidden in the warp and woof of the whole fabric that the casual reader passes it over unseen. I can best explain by referring to the novel itself. Each of the three episodes deals with Mark Lennan’s passion for a woman: in his youth for an older woman, in his maturity for a woman his own age, in his approaching autumn for a young girl. And in all three passion—the great primal force—is made an illicit emotion. In the first two episodes the women are married; in the last, Lennan is. It is scarcely by chance that Lennan’s loves were unlawful; on the contrary, a symbolic significance seems to be intended, that passion is natural, free, coming and going by tides unbound by man’s will or law. But if that was Galsworthy’s aim, he has run an unnecessary stretch beyond his goal. By his over-emphasis, passion becomes purposefully illicit, voluntarily seeking out the forbidden object and the secret passage. And instead of being the priceless inheritance from a free God, passion becomes an ailment laid upon us by some designing fate.
And now glance at the dénouement of each episode. In the first it is the woman who closes the little drama; Mark merely watches her go. In the second the woman’s husband kills her, and Mark is left dazed. In the last his wife steps in and turns the current of events. Always an extraneous force makes the decision for him. He is never permitted to grapple with the situation created. Galsworthy forever extricates him. Not once is his passion allowed to run its course. Each experience is abortive. If I had been Mark Lennan I should have been tempted to curse the meddling fate that insisted upon rescuing me just before I jumped.
No, a woman would not have had her perfect moment with Mark Lennan, but only the promise of it.
Mark is a futile person; his love life a procession of futile experiences. But in spite of its futility it is an exquisite record for which I whole-heartedly give thanks.
Marguerite Swawite.
Dr. Foster’s Articles on Nietzsche
M. H. P.’s remarks in “The Critics’ Critic” of the April number of The Little Review on Dr. George Burman Foster’s paper entitled “The Prophet of a New Culture” in the March issue induced me to give that notable article a third reading. M. H. P. says “... there’s ... too much enthusiasm to be borne out by what he actually says,” and then asks the author, “Won’t you forget a little of this sound and fury and tell us as simply as you can just what it is that you want us to do?” This obviously tired and disturbed “critic” continues: “... I have a feeling that pure enthusiasm, wasting itself in little geysers, is intrinsically ridiculous. Enthusiasm should grow trees and put magic in violets—and that can’t be done with undue quickness, or in any but the most simple way. Nobody cares about the sap except for what it does.”