A Writers Recollections, vol 2 | Page 5

safety in 1888, when my knowledge, such as it was, had
grown very rusty, that Mr. York Powell overlooked the papers, seeing
that to set Scholarship questions for postgraduate candidates is not easy
for one who has never been through any proper "mill"! But they passed
his scrutiny satisfactorily, and in 1888 we appointed as Taylorian
Scholar a man to whom for years I confidently looked for the history of
Spain--combining both the Spanish and Arabic sources--so admirable
had his work been in the examination. But, alack! that great book has
still to be written. For Mr. Butler Clarke died prematurely in 1904, and
the hope died with him.
For the Times I wrote a good many long, separate articles before 1884,
on "Spanish Novels," "American Novels," and so forth; the "leader" on
the death of Anthony Trollope; and various elaborate reviews of books
on Christian origins, a subject on which I was perpetually reading,
always with the same vision before me, growing in clearness as the
years passed.
But my first steps toward its realization were to begin with the short

story of _Miss Bretherton_, published in 1884, and then the translation
of Amiel's _Journal Intime_, which appeared in 1885. Miss Bretherton
was suggested to me by the brilliant success in 1883 of Mary Anderson,
and by the controversy with regard to her acting--as distinct from her
delightful beauty and her attractive personality--which arose between
the fastidious few and the enchanted many. I maintained then, and am
quite sure now, that Isabel Bretherton was in no sense a portrait of Miss
Anderson. She was to me a being so distinct from the living actress that
I offered her to the world with an entire good faith, which seems to
myself now, perhaps thirty years later, hardly less surprising than it did
to the readers of the time. For undoubtedly the situation in the novel
was developed out of the current dramatic debate. But it became to me
just a situation--a problem. It was really not far removed from Diderot's
problem in the _Paradoxe sur le Comédien_. What is the relation of the
actor to the part represented? One actress is plain--Rachel; another
actress is beautiful, and more than beautiful, delightful--Miss Anderson.
But all the time, is there or is there not a region in which all these
considerations count for nothing in comparison with certain others? Is
there a dramatic _art_--exacting, difficult, supreme--or is there not?
The choice of the subject, at that time, was, it may be confessed, a
piece of naïveté, and the book itself was young and naïve throughout.
But something in it has kept it in circulation all this while; and for me it
marks with a white stone the year in which it appeared. For it brought
me my first critical letter from Henry James; it was the first landmark
in our long friendship.
Beloved Henry James! It seems to me that my original meeting with
him was at the Andrew Langs' in 1882. He was then forty-two, in the
prime of his working life, and young enough to be still "Henry James,
Junior," to many. I cannot remember anything else of the Langs'
dinner-party except that we were also invited to meet the author of
_Vice Versa_, "which Mr. Lang thinks"--as I wrote to my mother--"the
best thing of its kind since Dickens." But shortly after that, Mr. James
came to see us in Russell Square and a little incident happened which
stamped itself for good on a still plastic memory. It was a very hot day;
the western sun was beating on the drawing-room windows, though the
room within was comparatively dark and cool. The children were

languid with the heat, and the youngest, Janet, then five, stole into the
drawing-room and stood looking at Mr. James. He put out a
half-conscious hand to her; she came nearer, while we talked on.
Presently she climbed on his knee. I suppose I made a maternal protest.
He took no notice, and folded his arm round her. We talked on; and
presently the abnormal stillness of Janet recalled her to me and made
me look closely through the dark of the room. She was fast asleep, her
pale little face on the young man's shoulder, her long hair streaming
over his arm. Now Janet was a most independent and critical mortal, no
indiscriminate "climber up of knees"; far from it. Nor was Mr. James
an indiscriminate lover of children; he was not normally much at home
with them, though always good to them. But the childish instinct had in
fact divined the profound tenderness and chivalry which were the very
root of his nature; and he was touched and pleased, as one is pleased
when a robin perches on one's hand.
From that time, as the