On Names

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

IT is interesting to remember the fascination that names had for Balzac; to him the name not only preceded the story, but even evoked it. Resounding imaginary titles, each with its family history and characteristics, marched musically through the corridors of his mind, so that, ere he put pen to paper, the people who were to bear those names possessed a full identity. The sign of one Z. Marcas upon a streetcorner became at once the kernel of a tale. The names of his characters were not so much created as discovered, and that is the ideal method.

Floating in the limbo of the creative imagination, there is a vague coagulation of habits, ideas, idiosyncrasies; it is given a name — and thereupon at once it takes form, has existence, history, destiny. Such is the effect upon us poor mortals of our immortal faith in identity.

After all, was Balzac wrong? When the creature is named is not his fate foreshadowed? There must be a key to his cypher, and many of us make use of it without realizing just what we are about. Mr. Lang calls attention to a character of Meredith’s, ‘whose name sounded like the close of a rich hexameter — Clare Doria Forey.’ But for my part I never could believe in Miss Forey, nor summon any interest in her fate; her name is too unreal; it is created, not discovered, by the novelist who evoked her. Every time I go to the play and stare at the curtain, I protest inwardly against any one’s bearing the name Lee Lash, and wonder why parents as well as novelists try to create instead of to discover the names of their progeny.

There are cases in which the name seems to have been the really evil gift of the mischievous fairy. Either it inspires confidence where confidence were misplaced, or else it tends to arouse distrust without the slightest warrant. A certain eminent cardinal must be constantly struggling against the refractory influence exerted upon his career by such a name as Merry Del Val. There is a perverse jocosity in the sound. And think of the weapon placed by inscrutable Providence in the hand of a person bearing a name so frank and trustworthy as Thérèse Humbert! No wonder there was but a collar-button in the safe. Contrariwise, if you have the wrong name, how useless even to attempt to defraud the public. Who, I ask in all sincerity, would ever trust any one called Ann Aurelia Diss Debar?

I heard of a colored butler once named Geoffrey Conquest. I know nothing about him; he must have been an admirable person. I would myself have handed him the key of the platechest without a reference, — his name was enough.

If, after reading the above passages of incontrovertible logic, anybody needs to be further convinced that his destiny is not recorded on the lines of his palm, nor on the bumps of his head, I will recall to his mind a supreme instance in real life of the psychological significance of names. He to whom the key was given, must from the very beginning have seen clearly through all the tortuosities of L’Affaire. The good and evil power of names strove for supremacy in that contest. For instance, had Dreyfus borne the name of Lévy, the first accusation would have been impossible. But his name, with its ugly German twang, was bound to exert its malign influence upon its unfortunate possessor. This being so, doubtless the Gods of Nomenclature began to take sides in the struggle, like the gods in Homer. What name destined to die the death but Henry? What one to pique the public but Picquart? What more clouded with suspicion than Esterhazy? And what more plainly marked with villainy than that of De Paty du Clam? Could a virtuous man live, think you, called De Paty du Clam? Nor did the obscure contention end here. What trumpetcall of a name halted this infamy? — Zolà! Who was to labor in that tangle but Labor!; or to listen with dignity and clemency but—Clémenceau! The riddle was almost too plain.

Your great novelist invariably discovers rather than invents the names of his people. We have often marveled at the accuracy of Dickens’s Quilp and Pickwick; where he goes astray into artificialities it is because he is in too great a hurry to discover, so must invent. Thackeray is often quoted and praised for his felicity in this regard, and his mere caricatures of naming, like the Southdowns and Bareacres, — or the receptions in Vanity Fair attended by chickens and cheeses, — seem even less remarkable than the serious genius of names like Clive Newcome and Becky Sharp. Could Richardson’s first heroine have been named other than Pamela? The gods christened her. And in the name Clarissa Harlowe, tragedy vies with distinction. Had she been called Argemone Lavington, or Emma Woodhouse, surely the same stars would not have shone upon her fate.

It is a pity that this gift of the novelist should be so conspicuously lacking to the scholar. Our antiquaries love to create, they have not the patience or the insight to discover the names buried in the sand or scrawled upon the potsherd. Men were humbler in the past: such names as Rameses and Nebuchadnezzar held shape and color, and sound and idea. But to-day these are being taken from us, the crystal shattered into meaningless syllables, the plant torn up and dried in an herbal. To the mind of Thackeray, the name of an Egyptian queen suggested a pleasant phrase. When he says, ‘as dead as Queen Tiah,’we understand just the mummified condition he implies. But to-day the lady has become — the Gods of cacophony alone know wherefore — Queen Thi-iy! A strong protest should be registered against such an absurdity. No one cares how her majesty was pronounced in her antediluvian existence; the rendering of hieratics into English letters must needs be approximate at best. For heaven’s sake, then, let us retain those names to which we have attached both associations and ideas!

There is a Dutch savant, — I never read his works, — but that they are erudite I know, and that they are distinguished I am convinced. For once I heard his name, spoken as it should be spoken, ‘trippingly on the tongue,’ and knew all that he must be, — all to which his name destined him. Fortunate, thrice fortunate, M. Chantepie de la Saussaye!