philosopher, why should he have spent years on the “Joan of Arc” at a period when Jaures urgently needed intellectual aid against the doctrinarianism of the International Congress?  Jaures was beaten, and he yielded, with the result that Clemenceau, a man far too intelligent not to be a practical Socialist at heart, has become semi-reactionary for want of support.  This has not much to do with literature.  Neither has the history of Joan of Arc.  To return to literature, it is indubitable that Anatole France is slightly acquiring the reputation of a dilettante.

* * * * *

In “L’Ile des Pingouins” he returns, in a parable, to his epoch.  For this book is the history of France “from the earliest time to the present day,” seen in the mirror of the writer’s ironical temperament.  It is very good.  It is inimitable.  It is sheer genius.  One cannot reasonably find fault with its amazing finesse.  But then one is so damnably unreasonable!  One had expected—­one does not know what one had expected—­but anyhow something with a more soaring flight, something more passionate, something a little less gently “tired” in its attitude towards the criminal frailties of mankind!  When an A.B.  Walkley yawns in print before the spectacle of the modern English theatre, it really doesn’t matter.  But when an Anatole France grows wearily indulgent before the spectacle of life, one is inclined to wake him by throwing “Leaves of Grass” or “Ecce Homo” (Nietzsche’s) at his head.  For my part, I am ready to hazard that what is wrong with Anatole France is just spiritual anaemia.  Yet only a little while, and he was as great a force for pushing forward as H.G.  Wells himself!

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

[3 Dec. ’08]

The judgments of men who have the right to judge are not as other judgments.  According to Mr. Yeats “the finest comedian of his kind on the English-speaking stage” is not Mr. George Alexander, but Mr. William Fay!  And who, outside Dublin, has ever heard of Mr. J.M.  Synge, author of “The Playboy of the Western World?” For myself, I have heard of him, and that is all.  Mr. Yeats calls him “a unique man,” and puts him above all other Irish creative artists in prose.  And very probably Mr. Yeats is correct.  For the difference between what informed people truly think about reputations, and what is printed about reputations by mandarins in popular papers, is apt to be startling.  The other day I had a terrific pow-wow with one of the most accomplished writers now living; it occurred in the middle of a wood.  We presently arrived at this point:  He asked impatiently:  “Well, who is there who can write tip-top poetry to-day?” I tried to dig out my genuine opinions.  Really, it is not so easy to put one’s finger on a high-class poet.  I gave the names of Robert Bridges and W.B.  Yeats.  He wouldn’t admit Mr. Yeats’s tip-topness.  “What about T.W.H.  Crosland?”