M. de Noussanne’s work to be unworthy, and he declined to permit the performance of the play.  Then followed a grand and complicated shindy—­one of those charming Parisian literary rows which excite the newspapers for days!  In the end it was settled that neither M. de Noussanne’s version nor any other version of “Les Polichinelles” should ever be produced, but that the journal L’Illustration, which gives away the text of a new play as a supplement about twice a month, should give, one week, Becque’s original incomplete version exactly as it stands, and M. de Noussanne’s completed version the next week, to the end that “the public might judge.”  Then Stock, the publisher, came along and sought to prevent the publication on the strength of a contract by which Becque had bound himself to give Stock his next play. (Times change, but not publishers!) However, L’Illustration, being wealthy and powerful, rode over M. Stock.  And the amateurs of Becque have duly had the pleasure of reading “Les Polichinelles.”  Just as “Les Corbeaux” was the result of experiences gained in a domestic smash-up, and “La Parisienne” the result of experiences gained in a feverish liaison, so “Les Polichinelles” is the result experiences gained on the Bourse.  It is in five acts.  The first two are practically complete, and they are exceedingly fine—­quite equal to the very best Becque.  The other acts are fragmentary, but some of the fragments are admirable.  I can think of no living author who would be equal to the task of completing the play without making himself ridiculous.

* * * * *

Becque was unfortunate in death as in life.  At his graveside, on the day of his funeral, his admirers said with one accord:  “Every year on this day we will gather here.  His name shall be a flag for us.”  But for several years they forgot all about Becque.  And when at length they did come back, with a wreath, they could not find the grave.  It was necessary to question keepers and to consult the official register of the cemetery.  In the end the grave was rediscovered and every one recognized it, and speeches were made, and the wreath piously deposited.  The next year the admirers came again, with another wreath and more speeches.  But some one had been before them.  A wreath already lay on the grave; it bore this inscription:  “To my dear husband defunct.”  Now Becque, though worried by liaisons, had lived and died a bachelor.  The admirers had discoursed, the year before, at the grave of a humble clerk.  After this Paris put up a statue to Becque.  But it is only a bust.  You can see it in the Avenue de Villiers.

HENRY JAMES

27 Oct. ’10