We do not think that Mr. James Branch Cabell of Dumbarton Grange, Dumbarton, Virginia, needs any introduction to the country at large, despite the belated and crotchety presentation of a Mr. Gunther in the November Bookman, but we do think that our friends hereabout are as yet unaware of his topping presence in the field of American letters.
Mr. Cabell's art is so individual and various that we, for our part, should be diffident about either appreciating or criticising it at once. The afore-mentioned Mr. Gunther has limitations, his style being frequently annoying, often verbose, his vocabulary manifestly impossible, Benjamin — however, after saying that Cabell "has limitations," concludes by stating that "Cabell is a stylist of distinction, a painter of beautiful images, a suave, a subtle ironist. We have a juggler of ideas, a nimble wit, a skeptical and tolerant philosopher. We have a queer, tricksy, and deft craftsman who tells his story well." And he winds up by calling him "the most interesting figure in American letters."
Mr. Walpole in the Yale Review, Messrs. Rascoe, Hergesheimer, De Casseres and H. L. Mencken, have with more or less excellent discrimination appraised Mr. Cabell's craftsmanship. Nevertheless, we believe that no present appraisal can be adequate of a man who is not writing either for the present. His material is from all time and his art is for all time. Fifty years hence some long-headed, spectacled gentleman may be positioned for a fitting estimate of the Cabell phenomenon — in the meanwhile let us make ourselves merry with the enjoyment of his books.
As this is the purpose of suggesting that you first read "The Cream of the Jest" partly because it contains the author's finest writing, verve, feeling, and the seed of his latter style; and partly because it is more easily obtained, having been reissued (Harper's 1907). Mr. Cabell, we understand, is revising the book. The romance "Gallantry" is exquisite. Then, perhaps, "The Certain Hour," a series of divers striking episodes in the lives of poets. Either "The Rivet in Grandfather's Neck" or "The Soul of Melicent" (revised under the title "Domnei") might follow. And then "Jurgen!!"
If you can wade through the sands of the early books, such as "The Eagle's Shadow" and "The Line of Love" out into the white-capped ocean of "Beyond Life" and "Jurgen" and manage, somehow, to swim, float, or fly with the author, your efforts will not be entirely unrewarded.
The ocean of "Beyond Life" — life-romance, legend, illusion, irony — the medley of disgust and love and laughter and tears, tall facing with a fine courage back of it the last — a sad yet buoyant hopefulness whistling a droll tune to the obligato of the Gods! And, then, to follow inevitably:
"Beyond Life:" "We quote from 'Beyond Life': 'Indeed, when I am of this race to which I have the honor to belong, flows the material inconceivable — gas gyrates and fills unceasingly with endless rotatory blazing frozen spheres and detonating comets, wherethrough spins Earth like a frail midge. And to this blown molecule adhere what millions and millions and millions of parasites just such as I am, begetting and dreaming and slaying and abnegating and toiling and making mirth, just as did aforetime those countless generations of our forebears, every one of whom was likewise a creature just such as I am!'"
"'Nor is this, in the whole outcome of everything, more than thought can estimate the relative proportion of the material universe of which I, a negligible and ineffectual individual parasite, can express with what quintillionths of fractional part of Earth's ephemerae.'"
"'And still — behold the miracle! — I believe that what I do is of some importance; and I believe that I am on a journey toward some public triumph not unlike that of the third prince in the fairytale.'"
Here are but two passages, perhaps ill-chosen ones, from a book abounding in wit and well-turned phrasing and apt quotable matter. It is a difficult task to select in a paragraph. Space is limited, and one must take the pains and the accompanying pleasure to read an author of the Cabell stamp; however, in concluding we glean you a bit from this remarkable book. Here is Jurgen confronted by the brown man with the queer feet, the symbol of All, who states that he may choose to annihilate him. Says Jurgen:
"None the less, I think there is something in me which will endure. I am fettered by cowardice, I am enfeebled by disastrous memories; and still, I do seem to detect in myself something which is permanent and rather fine. Underneath everything, and in spite of everything, I do seem to detect that something. What role that something is to enact after the death of my body, and upon what stage, I cannot guess. When fortune knocks I shall open the door. Meanwhile, if nothing else, a fellow; and I think I shall endure somehow. Yes, cap in hand and with my eyes shut tight, but even so, with my mind quite made up about what is right; and certainly I cannot go as far as to say you are wrong; but still at the same time — "
"Now but before a fool's opinion of himself, the brown man cried — the Gods are powerless. Oh, yes, and envious — "
'Tis gallant sparkling Greek wine, but now for God's sake, sweetheart, do teach me how the devil you make it.