W.W.  JACOBS AND ARISTOPHANES

[24 Oct. ’08]

I have been reading a new novel by Mr. W.W.  Jacobs—­“Salthaven” (Methuen, 6s.).  It is a long time since I read a book of his.  Ministries have fallen since then, and probably Mr. Jacobs’ prices have risen—­indeed, much has happened—­but the talent of the author of “Many Cargoes” remains steadfast where it did.  “Salthaven” is a funny book.  Captain Trimblett, to excuse the lateness of a friend for tea, says to the landlady:  “He saw a man nearly run over!” and the landlady replies:  “Yes, but how long would that take him?” If you ask me whether I consider this humorous, I reply that I do.  I also consider humorous this conversational description of an exemplary boy who took to “Sandford and Merton” “as a duck takes to water”:  “By modelling his life on its teaching” (says young Vyner) “he won a silver medal for never missing an attendance at school.  Even the measles failed to stop him.  Day by day, a little more flushed than usual, perhaps, he sat in his place until the whole school was down with it, and had to be closed in consequence.  Then and not till then did he feel that he had saved the situation.”  I care nothing for the outrageous improbability of any youthful son of a shipowner being able to talk in the brilliant fashion in which Mr. Jacobs makes Vyner talk.  Success excuses it.  “Salthaven” is bathed in humour.

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At the same time I am dissatisfied with “Salthaven.”  And I do not find it easy to explain why.  I suppose the real reason is that it discloses no signs of any development whatever on the part of the author.  Worse, it discloses no signs of intellectual curiosity on the part of the author.  Mr. Jacobs seems to live apart from the movement of his age.  Nothing, except the particular type of humanity and environment in which he specializes, seems to interest him.  There is no hint of a general idea in his work.  By some of his fellow-artists he is immensely admired.  I have heard him called, seriously, the greatest humorist since Aristophanes.  I admire him myself, and I will not swear that he is not the greatest humorist since Aristophanes.  But I will swear that no genuine humorist ever resembled Aristophanes less than Mr. Jacobs does.  Aristophanes was passionately interested in everything.  He would leave nothing alone.  Whereas Mr. Jacobs will leave nearly everything alone.  Kipling’s general ideas are excessively crude, but one does feel in reading him that his curiosity is boundless, even though his taste in literature must infallibly be bad.  “Q” is not to be compared in creative power with either of these two men, but one does feel in reading him that he is interested in other manifestations of his own art, that he cares for literature.  Impossible to gather from Mr. Jacobs’ work that he cares for anything serious at all; impossible to differentiate his intellectual outlook from that of an average reader of the Strand Magazine!  I do not bring this as a reproach against Mr. Jacobs, whose personality it would be difficult not to esteem and to like.  He cannot alter himself.  I merely record the phenomenon as worthy of notice.