Lions and Lambs

Susan Lenox — By David Graham Philips

It would seem to have been the desire of Mr. Graham Philips to do for his subject, ‘Susan Lenox,’ the same service that Tchehov declared to have been his intention to perform for the subject of ‘Ivanov.’ With his ‘Ivanov’ he wanted to put an end, once and for all, to a typical character—that of the suppressed, melancholy page 77 man, the failure, the half-cynical unfortunate, rejected by life, but acclaimed by modern Russian literature as the child of the age. The method he chose was to write a play whose hero was the embodiment not only of all these known characteristics, but of all possible developments of which they might be the fruitful soil. Feeling as he did that ‘Ivanov’ was the vague, easy temptation for Russian writers to yield to, he wished to leave nothing undiscovered, nothing unremarked, so that this subject at least, after his treatment of it, should be ‘out of court.’

Now the chief concern of modern American fiction, as far as our knowledge of it goes, is sex. It is not treated humorously, as in France, or intensely, as in England; it is treated seriously. There are many moments when our American cousin makes us feel we are only foolish, inexperienced children as far as this great subject is concerned. We are David and Dora, giving each other bouquets, and laughing and loving, and kissing the little dog and kissing each other, and America is the grim Julia with her ‘Play on, ye may-flies.’ But, after all, the cause of Julia's disillusionment was never quite plain, and the reason for America's is right there, to be picked up in the next magazine you open: it is the ferocity of man. Make no mistake about it, man, whatever disguise he may affect, however young, husky and brilliant he may be, however old, senile and ugly, from the millionaire downwards, is nothing but a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. It is not his fault; he may resist it; he may put up the most devastating fight while the lights of little old New York burn as brightly as ever; he may read poetry, weep, or, grim-faced, in his revolving chair with telephone attached, before his immense roll-top bureau, he may make a vow, before the photograph of a sweet-faced little woman with white hair, to see this thing through. A lion or a lion manqué he remains. On the other hand, he may not resist it; and then his wildness and capacity for devouring are more terrific than anything Europe has encountered.

As is usual in such cases, to get the full fine flavour of the page 78 hunting you must sing the innocence and tenderness of the prey. The American young girl—the Bud—the Millionaire's daughter who has never grown up—how well we know her! How exquisite she is! how fresh! how new to the light! What a sight, growing and blowing in Momma and Poppa's garden, for the wicked lion as he peeps through a hole in the garden wall!

All this the magazine and the novel are founded on. But, after all, they have never done more than treat of one particular example at a time of villainy and innocence. Each American writer has been content with his corner of the hunting field, and disinclined to wander, though all have been united into one great company over the choice of subject, the lamb fleeing the lion. We imagine that Mr. Graham Philips, after a grand survey, has sickened of modern America's typical characters as Tchehov wearied. And so he has given us, in two packed volumes, Susan Lenox. He has taken his time; he has not faltered. There is not a corner of the vast ground, not a pit, not a slimy ditch, not a stinking heap, not a glittering restaurant, that he has left unprobed. Man, the lion, roars, and Susan, sweet, pure, with her white swelling bosom, her alluring ankles and eyes that are now grey, now deepest violet, flees….

There may be perhaps a question whether Tchehov has succeeded in doing what he set out to do. But in the case of the American author there can be no doubt, no shadow of doubt whatever.