HENRI BECQUE

20 Oct. ’10

Henri Becque, one of the greatest dramatists of the nineteenth century, and certainly the greatest realistic French dramatist, died at the close of the century in all the odour of obliquity.  His work is now the chief literary topic in Paris; it has indeed rivalled the Portuguese revolution and the French railway strike as a subject of conversation among people who talk like sheep run.  This dizzy popularity has been due to an accident, but it is, nevertheless, a triumph for Becque, who until recently had won the esteem only of the handful of people who think for themselves.  I should say that no first-class modern French author is more perfectly unknown and uncared-for in England than Henri Becque.  I once met a musical young woman who had never heard of Ibsen (she afterwards married a man with twelve thousand a year—­such is life!), but I have met dozens and scores of enormously up-to-date persons who had never heard of Henri Becque.  The most fantastic and the most exotic foreign plays have been performed in England, but I doubt if the London curtain has ever yet risen on a play of Becque’s.  Once in Soho, a historic and highly ceremonious repast took place.  I entertained a personage to afternoon tea in a restaurant where afternoon tea had never been served before.  This personage was the President of the Incorporated Stage Society.  He asked me if I knew anything about a French play called “La Parisienne.”  I replied that I had seen it oftener than any other modern play, and that it was the greatest modern play of my acquaintance.  He then inquired whether I would translate it for the Stage Society.  I said I should be delighted to translate it for the Stage Society.  He expressed joy and said the Committee would sit on the project.  I never heard any more.

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Becque wrote two absolutely first-class modern realistic plays.  One is “La Parisienne.”  The other is “Les Corbeaux.”  Once, when I was in Paris, I saw exposed among a million other books in front of the window of Stock’s shop near the Theatre Francais, a copy of “Les Corbeaux.”  Opening it, I perceived that it was an example of the first edition (1882).  I asked the price, and to my horror the attendant hesitated and said that he would “see.”  I feared the price was going to be fancy.  He came back and named four francs, adding, “It’s our last copy.”  I paid the four francs willingly.  On examining my trophy I saw that it was published by Tresse.  Now Stock became Tresse’s partner before he had that business to himself.  I had simply bought the play at the original house of its publication.  And it had fallen to me, after some twenty-five years, to put the first edition of “Les Corbeaux” out of print!  I went home and read the play and was somewhat disappointed with it.  I thought it very fine in its direct sincerity, but not on the same plane as “La Parisienne.”