ained 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_

At the beginning of this particularly active book season, reviewing the
publishers' announcements, I wrote: "There are one or two promising items,
including a novel by Henry James. And yet, honestly, am I likely at this
time of day to be excited by a novel by Henry James? Shall I even read it?
I know that I shall not. Still, I shall put it on my shelves, and tell my
juniors what a miracle it is." Well, I have been surprised by the amount
of resentment and anger which this honesty of mine has called forth. One
of the politest of my correspondents, dating his letter from a city on the
Rhine, says: "For myself, it's really a rotten shame; every week since
'Books and Persons' started have I hoped you would make some elucidating
remarks on this wonderful writer's work, and now you don't even state why
you propose not reading him!" And so on, with the result that when "The
Finer Grain" (Methuen, 6s.) came along, I put my pride in my pocket, and
read it. (By the way, it is not a novel but a collection of short