BOOKS
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actively survived in the midst of the civilized world, in a country that
may be the most civilized of all.
Perhaps these pictures of serene complex old age communicate little
to
Americans, for in our country
we
have no very great interest
in
the
old; we have, instead, geriatrics, which suggests old age as a disease
to
be
healed, and maturity is still a great American
problem.
We have
made much of Fitzgerald's remark that American lives have no second
acts, because it seems to express iomething very noticeable about our–
selves. In no other civilized country are children so important and the
new generation so insistent; early and quick success characterizes our
life, and the values of youth displace the values of maturity. Even that
useful corrective, traditionalism, made much of its impression through
novelty. The commonplaces of our competitive life show up in cultural
matters as well, although the famous spirit of the times can obscure
rapid changes
in
preference. Thus, we have always taken the Fitzgerald
remark to mean that the force of American lives fades too quickly, but,
for a greater truth, we should notice how often the audience leaves at
the end of the first act. Perhaps the French, with their declining pop–
ulation, can afford to remain in their seats.
It is hard not to think of these things when we contemplate Colette
in
the fullness of her eighty years, her life and career so different from
our American performances. For fifty-three years- ever since her first
husband, "Willy," published her
Claudine
a
l'Ecole
under his own
name-Colette has figured in the French literary scene. She has no
American counterpart; literature has a different place in France, and
Colette is different from the writers our country produces and provokes.
Our serious writers are not usually so prolific; but the space she takes
up on a bookshelf is not the only thing that interests us, for she may
be
rivaled in that. In other respects, too, Colette can be surpassed, and
it
is
true that she has written no long, large novels, and nothing with
an explicit cultural intention. In spite of her professed seriousness,
which we have no reason to doubt, there is about her relation to litera–
ture
something cavalier, almost careless, or frivolous-we may not be
able to define it more precisely. Faulkner and Hemingway among our
own
writers come to mind as having something of the same attitude,
yet
Colette is still different from them, for they show a desperate kind
of withdrawal that she does not.
The difference may be seen in Colette's choice of characters and
lituations, and these two collections offer good examples of her choice–
theatrical people
(The Other One, Duo),
or journalists
(The Indulgent
Husband),
music-hall dancers or businessmen
(Chance Acquaintances),
