Literary critic John Middleton Murry, noting a curious addition to the recently published 16-volume Collected Works of Herman Melville, lavishly praised the novella “Billy Budd, Foretopman,” in the influential U.K. Times Literary Supplement, generating interest in this late-career return to form by the great but troubled 19th-century American novelist.
The rise, fall, and revival of literary reputations
has long fascinated me. But the case of Herman Melville (pictured) strikes me as
especially compelling.
From bestselling author semi-autobiographical fiction set
in the South Seas in the 1840s to more symbolic, ambitious fare that led his
readers to abandon him in the 1850s, Melville had fallen into almost complete
literary obscurity by the time of his death in 1891.
Yet roughly 30 years later, he would be propelled into
the circle of American authors that college English majors are expected to
read. Even the author with the closest similar critical and commercial trajectory
that I can think of, F. Scott Fitzgerald, only had to wait less than four years
after his death for a revival, when the Council on Books in Wartime handed out
free copies of The Great Gatsby to American service personnel serving overseas.
At the behest of Carl Van Doren, a faculty member of
Columbia University and literary editor of The Nation, Raymond Weaver—a
colleague at the school—had written for the magazine an August 1919 essay
coinciding with the centennial of the birth of Melville. The piece made
Melville the subject of critical and biographical interest.
The boom gained further momentum stateside in 1921,
as Weaver produced the first full-length biography of Melville, Herman Melville:
Mariner and Mystic, and Van Doren made the case for the novelist with a full
chapter devoted to him in the critic’s influential study The American Novel.
While performing his research on Melville, Weaver had received
from the novelist’s granddaughter pages from “Billy Budd” that had been stored
in a family breadbox after Melville’s widow, faced with deciphering his
scratch-outs, insertions, and shaky handy, had left it to others to edit.
Weaver set to work on the abandoned project. Even he
sometimes lost patience with the material, making some questionable editorial
decisions (believing the manuscript was essentially finished, when modern scholars
have determined that Melville was still working on it) and some outright errors
(e.g., rendering “innocence and infamy, spiritual depravity and fair repute” as
the nearly incomprehensible “innocence and infirmary, spiritual depravity and
fair respite”).
When it was done, Weaver regarded it as more of a
curiosity than a late-life masterpiece by one of America’s greatest authors.
Yet, flawed as Weaver’s work was, it still was enough
to lead Murry to make the case for Melville as an essential American novelist.
In his TLS article, “Herman Melville’s Silence,” the English
critic took note of the abrupt turn away from fiction—the “silence”—that the
writer took after The Confidence-Man in 1857.
He found something infinitely poignant in the former
bestselling novelist of the sea returning to maritime matter in Billy Budd.
The novella constituted, he asserted, Melville’s “last will and spiritual
testament.”
Murry—who was already deeply into the other critical
work for which he is best remembered, securing the place of his late wife
Katherine Mansfield in the critical canon—had a considerably higher estimate of
“Billy Budd” than Weaver. After pondering the matter further, the American’s
respect for this short work considerably improved.
With British admirers such as Murry, D. H. Lawrence in
Studies in Classic American Literature, and John Freeman’s 1926
biography of Melville (which compares “Billy Budd” to John Milton’s Paradise
Regained), the renewed American appreciation for the novelist was being
reinforced across the Atlantic. It has remained a classroom staple since
then.
In an essay published a few months ago in IM—1776,
critic Lafayette Lee predicted: “As Billy Budd is further
dissected and its subtleties slowly erased, it is likely to fall out of favor
with the general public and return to the shadows from whence it came.”
I am not so sure about this. Readers have found so
much to ponder and muse over here (e.g., including the 1951 Benjamin Britten-E.M.
Forster novel and the 1963 film starring Terrence Stamp) that they will be sounding
its depths about the innocent and doomed sailor for years.
I was really glqd to read this post, Mike -- having always been intrigued by the origins of the Melville revival. The question I still have is, how did Mark Van Doren get on to him? By that time, Melville was almost erased. Did he stumble upon something in a dusty archive? Have a family member who urged him to read some Melville? What happened??
ReplyDeleteGlad you liked the post, Eric. It was actually Mark Van Doren's older brother Carl who gave Weaver the "Nation" assignment to write about Melville, in 1919. (Carl was already on the Columbia faculty; Mark wouldn't join until a year later.) Carl Van Doren felt that Weaver, a Shakespeare expert, would be able to draw out some of the Bard-inspired imagery of "Moby-Dick," and at a faculty dinner he persuaded Weaver to write about Melville for "The Nation". The one equivalent of a "dusty archive" was the breadbox containing pages from "Billy Budd" that his granddaughter presented to Weaver. (BTW, Melville's brother Allan took over the novelist's Berkshire home, Arrowhead, in 1863; the property belonged to the Melville family until 1927.)
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