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Updated: May 7, 2025
The fundamental conception in the minds of the majority of our younger writers is that comedy is, 'par excellence, a fragile thing. It is conceived to be a conventional world of the most absolutely delicate and gimcrack description. Such stories as Mr Max Beerbohm's 'Happy Hypocrite' are conceptions which would vanish or fall into utter nonsense if viewed by one single degree too seriously.
Whistler used to term it "Max Beerbohm's Limburger French." The carefully cultivated and insistently displayed white lock played a part in many amusing incidents. Sir Coutts Lindsay's butler whispered to him excitedly one evening: "There's a gent downstairs says he's come to dinner, wot's forgot his necktie and stuck a feather in his 'air."
He strolled in, and was for the moment quite taken by surprise at the evident gaiety of the crowd. Then he remembered that it was an exhibition of Max Beerbohm's caricatures, and that people's spirits were naturally raised at the sight of the cruel distortions, ridiculous situations, and fantastic misrepresentations of their friends and acquaintances on the walls.
Max Beerbohm's caricatures, one of which depicts the unfortunate poet in question. To say it represents an utterly incredible hobgoblin is to express in faint and inadequate language the license of its sprawling lines. The authorities thought it strictly safe and scientific to circulate the poet's photograph.
Lady Franks sat at a large black Bechstein piano at one end of this vacant yellow state-room. She sat, a little plump elderly lady in black lace, for all the world like Queen Victoria in Max Beerbohm's drawing of Alfred Tennyson reading to her Victorian Majesty, with space before her. Arthur's wife was bending over some music in a remote corner of the big room.
The fundamental conception in the minds of the majority of our younger writers is that comedy is, par excellence, a fragile thing. It is conceived to be a conventional world of the most absolutely delicate and gimcrack description. Such stories as Mr. Max Beerbohm's "Happy Hypocrite" are conceptions which would vanish or fall into utter nonsense if viewed by one single degree too seriously.
"Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame Mr. Beerbohm's, too very known to me. Your point is, who am I?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but I laughed with increasing volume.
Max Beerbohm's drawing; and perhaps no girl ever went through life without harbouring a thought of self, but it is very good for us all to know that such a girl was thought of by Dickens, that he loved his thought, and that she is ultimately to be traced, through Dickens, to God. But exaggeration establishes no good understanding between the reader and the author.
The other proof of the same pressure is the change in George Eliot. She was not a genius in the elemental sense of Dickens; she could never have been either so strong or so soft. Mr. I have a great regard for Mr. Beerbohm's literary judgments; and it may be so.
'Though not an Englishman, he explained, 'I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame Mr. Beerbohm's too very known to me. Your point is: who am I? He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said 'I am the Devil. I couldn't help it: I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me, but I laughed with increasing volume.
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