stories,
and I am pleased to see that it is candidly advertised as such.) I have
never been an enthusiast for Henry James, and probably I have not read
more than 25 per cent. of his entire output. The latest novel of his which
I read was "The Ambassadors," and upon that I took oath I would never try
another. I remember that I enjoyed "The Other House"; and that "In the
Cage," a short novel about a post-office girl, delighted me. A few short
stories have much pleased me. Beyond this, my memories of his work are
vague. My estimate of Henry James might have been summed up thus: On the
credit side:--He is a truly marvellous craftsman. By which I mean that he
constructs with exquisite, never-failing skill, and that he writes like an
angel. Even at his most mannered and his most exasperating, he conveys his
meaning with more precision and clarity than perhaps any other living
writer. He is never, never clumsy, nor dubious, even in the minutest
details. Also he is a fine critic, of impeccable taste. Also he savours
life with eagerness, sniffing the breeze of it like a hound.... But on the
debit side:--He is tremendously lacking in emotional power. Also his sense
of beauty is oversophisticated and wants originality. Also his attitude
towards the spectacle of life is at bottom conventional, timid, and
undecided. Also he seldom chooses themes of first-class importance, and
when he does choose such a theme he never fairly bites it and makes it
bleed. Also his curiosity is limited. He seems to me to have been
specially created to be admired by super-dilettanti. (I do not say that to
admire him is a proof of dilettantism.) What it all comes to is merely
that his subject-matter does not as a rule interest me. I simply state my
personal view, and I expressly assert my admiration for the craftsman in
him and for the magnificent and consistent rectitude of his long artistic
career. Further I will not go, though I know that bombs will now be laid
at my front door by the furious faithful. As for "The Finer Grain," it
leaves me as I was--cold. It is an uneven collection, and the stories
probably belong to different periods. The first, "The Velvet Glove,"
strikes me as conventional and without conviction. I should not call it
subtle, but rather obvious. I should call it finicking. In the
sentence-structure mannerism is pushed to excess. All the other stories
are better. "Crafty Cornelia," for instance, is an exceedingly brilliant
exercise in