Meredith was an uncompromising Radical, and--what is singular--he
remained so in his old age. He called Mr. Joseph Chamberlain's nose
"adventurous" at a time when Mr. Joseph Chamberlain's nose had the
ineffable majesty of the Queen of Spain's leg. And the _Pall Mall_
haughtily rebuked him. A spectacle for history! He said aloud in a
ballroom that Guy de Maupassant was the greatest novelist that ever lived.
To think so was not strange; but to say it aloud! No wonder this
temperament had to wait for recognition. Well, Meredith has never had
proper recognition; and won't have yet. To be appreciated by a handful of
writers, gushed over by a little crowd of thoughtful young women, and kept
on a shelf uncut by ten thousand persons determined to be in the
movement--that is not appreciation. He has not even been appreciated as
much as Thomas Hardy, though he is a less fine novelist. I do not assert
that he is a less fine writer. For his poems are as superior to the verses
of Thomas Hardy as "The Mayor of Casterbridge" is superior to "The
Egoist." (Never in English prose literature was such a seer of beauty as
Thomas Hardy.) The volume of Meredith's verse is small, but there are
things in it that one would like to have written. And it is all so fine,
so acute, so alert, courageous, and immoderate.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126