a psychological counter-current in recent fiction-第3章

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though　she　loves　Bigelow；　does　not　marry　him　because　she　loves

him；　but　because　she　wishes　with　the　money　he　gives　her　to　help

her　brother　through　college　in　America。　　When　this　brother　comes

back　to　Japanhe　is　the　touch　of　melodrama　in　the　pretty

idylhe　is　maddened　by　an　acquired　Occidental　sense　of　his

sister's　disgrace　in　her　marriage；　and　falls　into　a　fever　and

dies　out　of　the　story；　which　closes　with　the　lasting　happiness　of

the　young　wife　and　husband。　　There　is　enough　incident；　but　of　the

kind　that　is　characterized　and　does　not　characterize。　　The　charm；

the　delight；　the　supreme　interest　is　in　the　personality　of　Yuki。　

Her　father　was　an　Englishman　who　had　married　her　mother　in　the

same　sort　of　marriage　she　makes　herself；　but　he　is　true　to　his

wife　till　he　dies；　and　possibly　something　of　the　English

constancy　which　is　not　always　so　evident　as　in　his　case　qualifies

the　daughter's　nature。　　Her　mother　was；　of　course；　constant；　and

Yuki；　though　an　outcast　from　her　own　peoplethe　conventions　seen

to　be　as　imperative　in　Tokyo　as　in　Philadelphiabecause　of　her

half…caste　origin；　is　justly　Japanese　in　what　makes　her

loveliest。　　There　is　a　quite　indescribable　freshness　in　the　art

of　this　pretty　noveletteit　is　hardly　of　the　dimensions　of　a

novelwhich　is　like　no　other　art　except　in　the　simplicity　which

is　native　to　the　best　art　everywhere。　　Yuki　herself　is　of　a

surpassing　lovableness。　　Nothing　but　the　irresistible　charm　of

the　American　girl　could；　I　should　think　keep　the　young　men　who

read　Mrs。　Watana's　book　from　going　out　and　marrying　Japanese

girls。　　They　are　safe　from　this；　however；　for　the　reason

suggested；　and　therefore　it　can　be　safely　commended　at　least　to

young　men　intending　fiction；　as　such　a　lesson　in　the　art　of

imitating　nature　as　has　not　come　under　my　hand　for　a　long　while。　

It　has　its　little　defects；　but　its　directness；　and　sincerity；　and

its　felicity　through　the　sparing　touch　make　me　unwilling　to　note

them。　　In　fact；　I　have　forgotten　them。



　

VI。　



I　wish　that　I　could　at　all　times　praise　as　much　the　literature　of

an　author　who　speaks　for　another　colored　race；　not　so　far　from　us

as　the　Japanese；　but　of　as　much　claim　upon　our　conscience；　if　not

our　interest。　　Mr。　Chesnutt；　it　seems　to　me；　has　lost　literary

quality　in　acquiring　literary　quantity；　and　though　his　book；　〃The

Marrow　of　Tradition；〃　is　of　the　same　strong　material　as　his

earlier　books；　it　is　less　simple　throughout；　and　therefore　less

excellent　in　manner。　　At　his　worst；　he　is　no　worse　than　the

higher　average　of　the　ordinary　novelist；　but　he　ought　always　to

be　very　much　better；　for　he　began　better；　and　he　is　of　that　race

which　has；　first　of　all；　to　get　rid　of　the　cakewalk；　if　it　will

not　suffer　from　a　smile　far　more　blighting　than　any　frown。　　He　is

fighting　a　battle；　and　it　is　not　for　him　to　pick　up　the　cheap

graces　and　poses　of　the　jouster。　　He　does；　indeed；　cast　them　all

from　him　when　he　gets　down　to　his　work；　and　in　the　dramatic

climaxes　and　closes　of　his　story　he　shortens　his　weapons　and

deals　his　blows　so　absolutely　without　flourish　that　I　have

nothing　but　admiration　for　him。　　〃The　Marrow　of　Tradition；〃　like

everything　else　he　has　written；　has　to　do　with　the　relations　of

the　blacks　and　whites；　and　in　that　republic　of　letters　where　all

men　are　free　and　equal　he　stands　up　for　his　own　people　with　a

courage　which　has　more　justice　than　mercy　in　it。　　The　book　is；　in

fact；　bitter；　bitter。　　There　is　no　reason　in　history　why　it

should　not　be　so；　if　wrong　is　to　be　repaid　with　hate；　and　yet　it

would　be　better　if　it　was　not　so　bitter。　　I　am　not　saying　that　he

is　so　inartistic　as　to　play　the　advocate；　whatever　his　minor

foibles　may　be；　he　is　an　artist　whom　his　stepbrother　Americans

may　well　be　proud　of；　but　while　he　recognizes　pretty　well　all　the

facts　in　the　case；　he　is　too　clearly　of　a　judgment　that　is　made

up。　　One　cannot　blame　him　for　that；　what　would　one　be　one's　self？　

If　the　tables　could　once　be　turned；　and　it　could　be　that　it　was

the　black　race　which　violently　and　lastingly　triumphed　in　the

bloody　revolution　at　Wilmington；　North　Carolina；　a　few　years　ago；

what　would　not　we　excuse　to　the　white　man　who　made　the　atrocity

the　argument　of　his　fiction？



Mr。　Chesnutt　goes　far　back　of　the　historic　event　in　his　novel；

and　shows　us　the　sources　of　the　cataclysm　which　swept　away　a

legal　government　and　perpetuated　an　insurrection；　but　he　does　not

paint　the　blacks　all　good；　or　the　whites　all　bad。　　He　paints　them

as　slavery　made　them　on　both　sides；　and　if　in　the　very　end　he

gives　the　moral　victory　to　the　blacksif　he　suffers　the　daughter

of　the　black　wife　to　have　pity　on　her　father's　daughter　by　his

white　wife；　and　while　her　own　child　lies　dead　from　a　shot　fired

in　the　revolt；　gives　her　husband's　skill　to　save　the　life　of　her

sister's　childit　cannot　be　said　that　either　his　aesthetics　or

ethics　are　false。　　Those　who　would　question　either　must　allow；　at

least；　that　the　negroes　have　had　the　greater　practice　in

forgiveness；　and　that　there　are　many　probabilities　to　favor　his

interpretation　of　the　fact。　　No　one　who　reads　the　book　can　deny

that　the　case　is　presented　with　great　power；　or　fail　to　recognize

in　the　writer　a　portent　of　the　sort　of　negro　equality　against

which　no　series　of　hangings　and　burnings　will　finally　avail。



　

VII。　



In　Mr。　Chesnutt's　novel　the　psychologism　is　of　that　universal

implication　which　will　distinguish　itself　to　the　observer　from

the　psychologism　of　that　more　personal　sortthe　words　are　not　as

apt　as　I　should　likeevident　in　some　of　the　interesting　books

under　notice　here。　　I　have　tried　to　say　that　it　is　none　the　less

a　work　of　art　for　that　reason；　and　I　can　praise　the　art　of

another　novel；　in　which　the　same　sort　of　psychologism　prevails；

though　I　must　confess　it　a　fiction　of　the　rankest

tendenciousness。　　〃Lay　Down　Your　Arms〃　is　the　name　of　the　English

version　of　the　Baroness　von　Suttner's　story；　〃Die　Waffen　Nieder；〃

which　has　become　a　watchword　with　the　peacemakers　on　the

continent　of　Europe。　　Its　success　there　has　been　very　great；　and

I　wish　its　success　on　the　continent　of　America　could　be　so　great

that　it　might　replace　in　the　hands　of　our　millions　the　baleful

books　which　have　lately　been　glorifying　bloodshed　in　the　private

and　public　wars　of　the　past；　if　not　present。　　The　wars　which　〃Lay

Down　Your　Arms〃　deals　with　are　not　quite　immediate；　and　yet　they

are　not　so　far　off　historically；　either。　　They　are　the

Franco…Austrian　war　of　1859；　the　Austro…Prussian　war　of　1866；　and

the　Franco…German　war　of　1870；　and　the　heroine　whose　personal

relation　makes　them　live　so　cruelly　again　is　a　young　Austrian

lady　of　high　birth。　　She　is　the　daughter　and　the　sister　of

soldiers；　and　when　the　handsome　young　officer；　of　equal　rank　with

her　own；　whom　she　first　marries；　makes　love　to　her　just　before

the　outbreak　of　the　war　first　named；　she　is　as　much　in　love　with

his　soldiership　as　with　himself。　　But　when　the　call　to　arms

comes；　it　strikes　to　her　heart　such　a　sense　of　war　as　she　has

never　known　before。　　He　is　killed　in　one　of　the　battles　of　Italy；

and　after　a　time　she　marries　another　soldier；　not　such　a　beau

sabreur　as　the　first；　but　a　mature　and　thoughtful　man；　who　fights

through　that　second　war　from　a　sense　of　duty　rather　than　from

love　of　fighting；　and　comes　out　of　it　with　such　abhorrence　that

he　quits　the　army　and　goes　with　his　family　to　live　in　Paris。　

There　the　third　war　overtakes　him；　and　in　the　siege；　this

Austrian；　who　has　fought　the　Prussians　to　the　death；　is　arrested

by　the　communards　as　a　Prussian　spy　and　shot。



The　bare　outline　of　the　story　gives；　of　course；　no　just　notion　of

the　intense　passion　of　grief　which　fills　it。　　Neither　does　it

convey　a　due　impression　of　the　character　in　the　different　persons

which；　amidst　the　heartbreak；　is　ascertained　with　some　such　truth

and　impartiality　as　pervade　the　effects　of　〃War　and　Peace。〃　　I　do

not　rank　it　with　that　work；　but　in　its　sincerity　and　veracity　it

easily　ranks　above　any　other　novel　treating　of　war　which　I　know；

and　it　ought　to　do　for　the　German　peoples　what　the　novels　of

Erckmann…Chatrian　did　for　the　French；　in　at　least　one　generation。　

Will　it　do　anything　for　the　Anglo…Saxon　peoples？　　Probably　not

till　we　have　pacified　the　Philippines　and　South　Africa。　　We

Americans　are　still　apparently　in　love　with　fighting；　though　the

English　are　apparently　not　so　much　so；　and　as　it　is　always　well

to　face　the　facts；　I　will　transfer　to　my　page　some　facts　of

fighting　from　this　graphic　book；　which　the　read　may　apply　to　the

actualities　in　the　Philippines；　with　a　little　imagination。　　They

are　taken　from　a　letter　written　to　the　heroine　by　her　second

husband　after　one　of　the　Austrian　defeats。　　〃The　people　poured

boiling　water　and　oil　on　the　Prussians　from　the　windows　of　the

houses　at　。。。。　　The　village　is　oursno；　it　is　the　enemy's；

now　ours　againand　yet　once　more　the　enemy's；　but　it　is　no

longer　a　village；　but　a　smoking　mass　of　ruins　of　houses。。。。One

family　has　remained　behind。。。an　old　married　couple　and　their

daughter；　the　latter　in　childbed。　　The　husband　is　serving　in　our

regiment。。。。　　Poor　devil！　he　got　there　just　in　time　to　see　the

mother　and　child　die；　a　shell　had　exploded　under　their　bed。。。。　　I

saw　a　breastwork　there　which　was　formed　of　corpses。　　The

defenders　had　heaped　all　the　slain　who　were　lying　near；　in　order；

from　that　rampart；　to　fire　over　at　their　assailants。　　I　shall

surely　never　forget　that　wall　in　my　life。　　A　man　who　formed　one

of　its　bricks　was　still　alive；　and　was　waving　his　arm。。。。　　What

is　happening　there？　　The　execution　party　is　drawn　out。　　Has　a　spy

been　caught？　　Seventeen　this　time。　　There　they　come；　in　four

ranks；　each　one　of　four　men；　surrounded　by　a　square　of　soldiers。　

The　condemned　men　step　out；　with　their　heads　down。　　Behind　comes

a　cart　with　a　corpse　in　it；　and　bound　to　the　corpse　the　dead

man's　son；　a　boy　of　twelve；　also　condemned。。。。　　Steep；　rocky

heights；　Jaegers；　nimble　as　cats；　climbing　up　them。。。。　　Some　of

them；　who　are　hit　by　the　enemy's　shot；　suddenly　stretch　out　both

their　arms；　let　their　muskets　fall；　and；　with　their　heads　falling

backwards；　drop　off　the　height；　step　by　step；　from　one　rocky

point　to　another；　smashing　their　limbs　to　pieces。　　I　saw　a

horseman　at　some　distance；　obliquely　behind　me；　at　whose　side　a

shell　burst。　　His　horse　swerved　aside　and　came　against　the　tail

of　mind；　then　shot　past　me。　　The　man　sat　still　in　the　saddle；　but

a　fragment　of　the　shell　had　ripped　his　belly　open　and　torn　out

all　the　intestines。　　The　upper　part　of　his　body　was　held　to　the

lower　only　by　the　spine。　　From　the　ribs　to　the　thighs　nothing　but

one　great；　bleeding　cavity。　　A　short　distance　farther　he　fell　to

the　ground；　one　foot　still　clinging　in　the　stirrup；　and　the

galloping　horse　dragging　him　on　over　the　stony　soil。。。。　　Another

street　fight　in　the　little　town　of　Saar。。。。　　In　the　middle　of　the

square　st