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diff --git a/78426-h/78426-h.htm b/78426-h/78426-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eeb6a09 --- /dev/null +++ b/78426-h/78426-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4609 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + The English novel | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h2::first-line {font-style: italic} + +a {text-decoration: none;} +a:hover {text-decoration: underline;} + +p { + text-indent: 1.5em; + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + + +hr { + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + clear: both; + border: 0; + background: #bbb; + height: 1px; +} + +hr.chap {width: 50%; margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;} +@media print {hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} +hr.front {width: 12%; margin: 3em 44% 3em 44%;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; + color: #999; +} + +blockquote { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +/* Poetry */ + +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +.transnote {background-color: #eeeeee; + margin:3em; + padding: 1.5em 2.5em 1.5em 2.5em; + font-size:smaller; +} + +.smaller {font-size:smaller;} +.larger {font-size:larger;} +.xlarge {font-size:x-large;} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78426 ***</div> + +<h1> +THE<br> +ENGLISH NOVEL +</h1> + +<p class="center larger" style="margin-bottom:3em"> +From the Earliest Days<br> +to the Death of<br> +Joseph Conrad</p> +<p class="center"> +by<br> +<span class="xlarge">FORD MADOX FORD</span><br> +<br> +<br> +LONDON<br> +CONSTABLE & CO.<br> +1930 +</p> + +<hr class="front"> +<p class="center smaller"> +PUBLISHED BY<br> +<i>Constable & Company Limited</i><br> +<i>London W. C. 2</i><br> +<br> +BOMBAY<br> +CALCUTTA MADRAS<br> +LEIPZIG<br> +<br> +<i>Oxford University Press</i><br> +<br> +<br> +Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London +</p> + + +<hr class="front"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_v">v</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak p2" id="AUTHORS_APOLOGY"> + AUTHOR’S APOLOGY + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>To Hugh Walpole.</p> + +<p><span class="allsmcap">MY DEAR WALPOLE</span>,—</p> + +<p>This little book was intended at the +time it was written solely for the consumption +of students in the United States at a time when +I had arrived at a decision to publish nothing +more in the country of my birth. A curious +set of circumstances all happening on the +same day have made me change my decision, +at least as to this book. In the first place I +received in the morning the present publisher’s +offer to publish the book; in the afternoon +some kindly person gave me a copy of the +<i>New York Herald’s</i> Literary Supplement containing +your far too eulogistic references to +myself; and in the evening a Rhodes Scholar +from one of the Oxford Colleges told me that +in that place of education typewritten and then +mimeographed copies of this work were—the book +being unobtainable in England—being +used by certain students as a textbook +<span class="pagenum" id="p_vi">vi</span>in their English classes. They were all, I +understand, Rhodes Scholars.</p> + +<p>I had by that time turned down the publisher’s +offer. Indeed, I had thought that the +publisher must be mad, for he must be as +aware as I that a good average of English +readers of my works has for many years been +about four hundred. I do not mean to say +that that is all that English editions of my +books have sold, for there is a fashion in the +United States of ordering the first editions +(which are generally the London ones) of +certain authors, those including my fortunate +self. And the first edition of this book has +appeared so long ago in the United States +that that sale must be lost. But the thought +of all those Rhodes Scholars having to take +that trouble made me wish to make the matter +easier for their devoted selves, and the reading +of your words coming on top of so many +generosities of yours towards me as writer +made me determine to manifest some sense +of my real gratitude towards yourself. And +how could I do it better than by addressing +to you a work, however small, on the subject +of an art that you have for so long, so +steadfastly, and so unswervingly pursued?</p> + +<p>I have never felt so mortified with myself +<span class="pagenum" id="p_vii">vii</span>as when on the occasion of a public dinner +given to us, in conjunction I think, in New +York, you, speaking first, talked of my work +with such enthusiasm and such enviable generosity—for +to know how to be so generous +is a thing for which one may well be envied!—that +I was covered with confusion and quite +literally had the tears in my eyes. I was +indeed so affected as to be totally unable to +make any adequate reply and must have +seemed curmudgeonly in the extreme to our +audience.</p> + +<p>And then, subsequently during a tour of +lectures at the English Classes of certain +American Universities, I found that you had +spoken of me already to them with the same +magnificent generosity, so that I understood +that it was your praise of my work that had +actually secured me the invitation to deliver +those lectures—why, then I conceived towards +yourself a warmth of feeling of which +you can be only too little aware and I far, +far too little able to express. Why should +you go out of your way to do these things? +I have never done you any service; I have +never in that city which for long now has +been my spiritual home heard of any other +English novelist going out of his way to +<span class="pagenum" id="p_viii">viii</span>speak a kind word for any other one, and, +that city being the immense whispering +gallery that it is, I have heard of many unkind +sayings as to my works and much unkinder +ones as to my person uttered there in public +and private by visiting English novelists. +But you just came there and ran about and +said in innumerable places the dearest things—dearest +to me; just, as the saying is, for +the love of God. Because how can you +retain enthusiasms for books who must have +read so many?</p> + +<p>I do not think that these things are too +private between us to be spoken of. For in +the weary business that is the writing of +books the sudden discovery of generosities +towards oneself by persons hardly personally +known to one—it must be twenty-three +years or so since, in the old <i>English Review</i> +days and a little after we infrequently met +until we thus again in Gotham came together—such +sudden discoveries of generosities +are so refreshing against the dust and the +haze of the road that is always uphill that +their publication seems almost a duty. For +how different might not have been the history +of that which I am here tracing had such a +sense of the co-operative thing that our art +<span class="pagenum" id="p_ix">ix</span>is, distinguished the long line of its practitioners +from Cædmon to ... oh, to whom +you will! Such a sense as must be yours....</p> + +<p>The reason why I did not wish to publish +this work in England was simply that, in +that country, I have never found anyone to +take the remotest interest in the subject and +such occasional opuscules as I have there +devoted to it have invariably been received +with very bitter disfavour. Because it is +obviously an impertinence in a novelist to +insist that his art is an art or of service to the +republic, and as not more than four hundred +English read my novels, the craftsman’s +notes of a person so ignored can have little +or no interest. In the United States it is +different. Even if I had no following there, +the interest taken in the technical sides of +any arts or processes is, in that country of +intellectual curiosities, so keen, that I should +without scruple have ventured on publishing +for the benefit of students the notes that +have occurred to me during the thirty-seven +years in which I have been publishing +novels. For I must be pretty nearly the +doyen of English writers of the imaginative +type—I mean of course in dates of publication, +not in terms of age and of course not +<span class="pagenum" id="p_x">x</span>in terms of merit. And if, faint yet pursuing, +I have been able to keep on finding +American publishers during such a long space +of time, there must be there some sort of a +public that will take a little interest in the +professional matters that so passionately have +interested me. And I do not adopt an +apologetic tone towards this work. I may +be perfectly wrong in almost everything that +I say. If I am, that is the end of me. But +the great use of technical discussion is that +it arouses interest in the subject discussed. +I have had in my day a great number of disciples—mostly +of course on the Western side +of the Atlantic—and several of them have +risen to positions of considerable prominence +and are doing work of great beauty. +But there is not one of them who to-day acts +in any way according to the maxims that I +enjoined on him or her. And that is how +it should be, the new generation attaining its +eminences by using the maxims of the generation +preceding as its jumping-off posts. +And if the older generation can get its +craftsman’s maxims clearly expressed, the +process of demolition is all the easier and +more thorough.</p> + +<p>So, my dear Walpole, I at least see it. +<span class="pagenum" id="p_xi">xi</span>And since the book is written and as if by +<i>force majeure</i> makes its appearance in our +country, I do desire that its theories should +secure as wide an attention as may be. So I +have adopted the stratagem of attaching your +name to it. Nevertheless, my gratitude is +very profound, and it is in all sincerity that +I inscribe myself</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 4.5em;">Your humble, obedient and</span><br> + <span style="margin-right: 2.5em;">very thankful servant,</span><br> +F. M. F. +</p> + +<hr class="front"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p_xii"></a><a id="p_xiii"></a>xiii</span></p> + + +<blockquote class="chapter" style="max-width:20em; margin:auto"> +<p>This book was written in New York, on +board the S.S. <i>Patria</i>, and in the port and +neighbourhood of Marseilles during July +and August, 1927. For the purpose of rendering +it more easily understood by the +English reader I have made certain alterations +in phrases, in Paris during the last four days +of 1929 and the first two of 1930.</p> +</blockquote> + + +<hr class="front"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p_xiv"></a><a id="p_xv"></a>xv</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table> + <tr class="smaller"><td class="tdr"></td><td class="tdl">CHAP.</td><td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">I</td><td class="tdl">THE FUNCTION OF THE NOVEL IN THE MODERN WORLD</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p_1">1</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">II</td><td class="tdl">TOWARDS DEFOE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p_29">29</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">III</td><td class="tdl">TOWARDS FLAUBERT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p_65">65</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IV</td><td class="tdl">TO JOSEPH CONRAD</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p_105">105</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr"></td><td class="tdl"><i>L’ENVOI</i>: IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A CENTURY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p_135">135</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="front"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_1">1</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_ONE"> + CHAPTER ONE + <br> + THE FUNCTION OF THE NOVEL IN THE MODERN WORLD + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p>One finds—or at any rate I have always +found—English History relatively easy +to grasp because in it it is not difficult to see +a pattern of what some one has called Freedom +slowly broadening down from precedent +to precedent. One may or may not agree +with the statement, one may or may not +like the fact, if it is a fact, that it sets forth; +but at least it gives us that pattern, some +sort of jumping-off place, something by +which one may measure and co-relate various +phases of the story. The histories of most +other races are more difficult to grasp or +follow because they are less systematized +and more an affair of individuals. One +may be aware that the pre-Revolution history +of France is an affair of power gradually +centralizing itself on the throne, and that +<span class="pagenum" id="p_2">2</span>the Fronde was an episode in that progression. +Nevertheless, the Fronde with its violent +personalities, its purely individual intrigues, +its Cardinals, Queens, Condés, Chevreuses +and the rest, was a baffling affair to +follow, and obscures the issue which doubtless +was that, all power being concentrated under +one hat, the neck which supported the head +which supported that hat was easy to strike off.</p> + +<p>But when it comes to the History of Literature—and +to that of the Novel in particular, +almost the exact inverse is the case. +Whereas almost every country other than +England—or indeed every race other than +Anglo-Saxondom—has a tradition of literature +in which some sort of precedent broadens +down into some other, it would appear +that however docile the Anglo-Saxon may +be in the hands of politicians or leaders—usually +of a Leftwards complexion—the moment +any æsthetic discipline proposes itself +for his direction he becomes at least as refractory +as any Condé and almost more intriguing +than any Chevreuse.</p> + +<p>Any sort of English writer takes any sort +of pen and on any sort of paper with in his +hair whatever sort of vine-leaves you will and +at his elbow any nectar from metheglin to +<span class="pagenum" id="p_3">3</span>Chateau Yquem or pale ale, writes any sort +of story in any sort of method—or in any +sort of mixture of any half-dozen methods. +So, if he have any of the temperament of an +artist, you have a Fielding or a Trollope, a +Samuel Butler or a George Meredith, each +rising as a separate peak but each absolutely +without interrelation with any other.</p> + +<p>That was never better exemplified than +quite lately when you had—all living simultaneously +but all, alas, now dead—Thomas +Hardy, George Meredith, Henry James, Joseph +Conrad, and Mark Twain. Each was +a considerable figure but each sat, as it were, +alone on his little peak surrounded by his +lay satellites, and each was entirely uninfluenced +by the work of all the others—two +solitary Englishmen, two Americans and +one alien. Whether or no there was any +resultant literary movement I am about to +try to trace for you, looking at the matter +with the eyes of a craftsman surveying his +own particular job.</p> + +<p>In the case of any other country or race +such a proceeding would be comparatively +easy. In France, for instance, living at the +same time as, but all predeceasing, the distinguished +Anglo-Saxons and the alien of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_4">4</span>genius that I have named above, you had +Flaubert, Maupassant, Turgenev, the Goncourt +brothers, Gautier, Daudet—six Frenchmen +and an alien of beautiful genius. They +all met frequently, dining together almost +weekly at Brébant’s—where Henry James +in the wake of Turgenev dined from time +to time too. With amiability, with acidity, +with passion or frenzies of hatred they discussed +words, cadences, forms, progressions +of effect—or the cannon-strokes with which +one concludes short short-stories. They were +during those meetings indifferent to fame, +wealth, the course of public affairs, ruin, +death. For them there was only one enduring +Kingdom—that of the Arts—and +only one Republic that shall be everlasting: +the Republic of Letters.</p> + +<p>The resultant literary movement—for with +their deaths it crossed the Channel—I shall +endeavour to trace, and the enterprise will +concern itself with the modern English novel. +For the Art of Writing is an affair as international +as are all the other Arts—as International, +as Co-operative and as mutually +uniting. Shakespeare could not have written +as he did had not Boccaccio, Petrarch, and +Plutarch preceded him, nor could Flaubert +<span class="pagenum" id="p_5">5</span>have written <i>Madame Bovary</i> as he wrote +it had there not been before then the <i>Clarissa +Harlowe</i> of Richardson. Nor yet could Conrad +have written <i>Heart of Darkness</i> or <i>Lord +Jim</i> had Flaubert not written <i>Bouvard et +Pécuchet</i> or Alphonse Daudet, <i>Jack</i>.</p> + +<p>It is, at any rate, in this spirit that, in this +small monograph, I shall present to you +my reflections on the English Novel—which +is the same thing as the Novel—and the +pattern that, for me, it seems to make down +the short ages during which it has existed. +It will differ very widely from the conclusions +arrived at—and above all from the +estimates formed by—my predecessors in +this field who have seldom themselves been +imaginative writers let alone novelists, and +who, by the exigencies of their professions, +have usually been what it is the custom to +call academic. That I cannot help. For +the benefit of the reader who wishes to +know what is generally thought of these +subjects I have tried to state along with my +own differing conclusions what that general +thought is. If, I mean, I belabour the winking +lewdness of <i>Tom Jones</i>, I am careful to point +out that most of my professional predecessors +or contemporaries beatify Fielding because +<span class="pagenum" id="p_6">6</span>of his refreshing carelessness in most matters +to which decent men pay attention. The +young, earnest student of literature for professional +purposes should, if he desires good +marks, write in his thesis for examination +pretty well the opposite of what I have here +set down. But, in the end, it is as useful +to have something that will awaken you by +its disagreements with yourself as to live +for ever in concord with somnolent elders. +It gives you another point of view, though +you may return to the plane from which +you started. I was once watching a painter +painting a field of medicinal poppies which +from where he sat appeared quite black. +Suddenly, he grasped me by the wrist and +dragged me up a small hill. From there +that field appeared dark-purple shot with +gold. I said: “It doesn’t make any difference, +does it, to your composition?” He +answered: “No, it doesn’t make any difference, +but I wish the d—d things would not +do it, for, when I have finished, I shall have +to come up here and do them all over again!”</p> + + +<h3 id="2"> + 2 +</h3> + +<p>Since the day when Thackeray obsequiously +apologized to the world and his readers for +<span class="pagenum" id="p_7">7</span>being a mere novelist, in the interests of a +pompous social system which decreed that +the novel should not be seriously regarded +and the novelist himself be stigmatized as +something detrimental to good order and the +decorous employment of spare time—since, +then, Thackeray poked fun at the greatest +of all his books which may well be regarded, +if you will, as the greatest work in the English +language, an immense change has occurred +in the relative place accorded to the Novel +in the Anglo-Saxon social cosmogony. Because, +as novelist, Thackeray felt his social +position insecure, he must attempt to retrieve +himself by poking fun at his book and so +proving that at least he did not take the +Novel seriously, his heart being in the right +place be his occupation never so ungentlemanly. +So he must needs write his epilogue +as to the showman rolling up his marionettes +in green baize and the rest of it.</p> + +<p>To-day, however, even the most fugitive +of novelists takes his work more seriously +and, perhaps all unconsciously, the public +accords to the more serious amongst the +novelists an attention that formerly it accorded +solely to politicians, preachers, scientists, +medical men, and the like. This is because +<span class="pagenum" id="p_8">8</span>the novel has become indispensable to the +understanding of life.</p> + +<p>It is, that is to say, the only source to +which you can turn in order to ascertain how +your fellows spend their entire lives. I +use the words “entire lives” advisedly.</p> + +<p>In older days—dating back to improvement +in locomotion—it was possible for anyone, +whatever his station, to observe, at any +rate roughly as it were, a complete cross-section +of the lives from cradle to coffin of +a whole social order. In England up to the +days of the stage-coach, families were planted +on the land practically to all eternity and +even within my memory it was nearly impossible +for the agricultural labourer to move +from one parish—nay, from one farm to +another. One of the most vivid of my +souvenirs as a boy was seeing a ploughman +weep on a great down. He was weeping +because he had five children and a bad +master who paid him thirteen and six a week +and he was utterly unable to get together +the guinea that it would cost him to hire +a farm wagon and move his sticks of furniture +to another and better farm. Nevertheless +that man knew more about human +lives and their tides and vicissitudes than +<span class="pagenum" id="p_9">9</span>I or any other town-dweller in an age of +shiftings.</p> + +<p>He could follow the lives of local peer, +local squire, doctor, lawyer, gentleman-farmer, +tenant farmer, butcher, baker, barber, +parson, gamekeeper, water-warden, and so +on right down to those of the great bulk of +the population, his fellows and equals. He +could follow them from the time the kid-glove +was affixed to the door-knocker as a +symbol of birth and until the passing-bell +heralded their disappearance into the clay +in the shadow of the church-walls. And +although that was more emphatically true +in Great Britain, the first home of the English +novel, it was almost equally true—<i>mutatis +mutandis</i>—of the earlier settled colonial districts +in the United States. Until, say, the +early forties of the nineteenth century it must +have been almost equally difficult to remove +from Rochester, N.Y., as from the Rochester +of Dickens, and as difficult to move from +the Birmingham that gave to the world the +word Brummagem as a term of contempt, +as from the Birmingham in a Southern State +of the North American Republic.</p> + +<p>Then, with ease of locomotion came the +habit of flux—which is infinitely more developed +<span class="pagenum" id="p_10">10</span>to-day in the United States than +in Great Britain. In London and the urban +districts that house by far the greater bulk +of the English population the prevalence of +the seven years’ lease has hitherto tended to +anchor families in one spot for at least that +length of time, but even that space is not +sufficient to give a family much insight into +the lives and habits of its neighbours. In +any case it is significant that novel-reading +is almost infinitely more a permanent habit +in the United States than in Great Britain, +and the position of the imaginative writer +in so far more satisfactory.</p> + +<p>In observing a social phenomenon like the +novel these social changes must be considered. +The fact is that gossip is a necessity +for keeping the mind of humanity as it were +aerated and where, owing to lack of sufficiently +intimate circumstances in communities +gossip cannot exist, its place must be +supplied—and it is supplied by the novel. +You may say that for the great cities of +to-day its place is taken by what in the +United States is called the “tabloid” and +in England the “yellow” or “gutter” +Press. But these skilful sensational renderings +of merely individual misfortunes, necessary +<span class="pagenum" id="p_11">11</span>as they are to human existence and +sanity in the great cities, are yet too highly +coloured by their producers, and the instances +themselves are too far from the normal to +be of any great educational value. An occasional +phrase in, say, a Peaches-Browning case +may now and then ring true, but the sound +common sense of great publics is aware that +these affairs are too often merely put-up +jobs to attach any importance to them as +casting light on normal human motives.</p> + +<p>The servant of a country parsonage leaning +over the yew-hedge giving on the turnpike +and saying that the vicar’s wife was +carrying on something dreadful with Doctor +Lambert might convey some sort of view +of life, ethics, morals, and the rest to another +young woman; but the minute dissection +by commonplace-minded reporters of the +actions and agonies of a lady who essays +first unsuccessfully to poison her husband +and finally dispatches him with a club—these +minute dissections are not only usually +read with a grain of salt, but not unusually, +too, they are speedily forgotten. Scenes on +the other hand presented with even a minimum +of artistry will remain in the mind as +long as life lasts: <i>Ivanhoe</i> must permanently +<span class="pagenum" id="p_12">12</span>represent mediaevalism for a great proportion +of the inhabitants of the globe, though +Scott was a very poor artist; and the death +of Emma Bovary will remain horrific in +the reader’s mind, whilst the murder of +yesterday is on the morrow forgotten.</p> + +<p>It is this relative difference in the permanence +of impression that distinguishes the +work of the novelist as artist from all the +other arts and pursuits of the world. <i>Trilby</i>, +for instance, was no great shakes of a book +in the great scale of things, but an American +gentleman asserted to me the other day +that that work did more to cosmopolitanize +the populations of the Eastern States than +any movement of an international nature +that has been seen since the Declaration of +Independence. I don’t know if that is true, +but it usefully puts a point of view—and I +am not the one to deny it.</p> + +<p>It is, in short, unbearable to exist without +some view of life as a whole, for one finds +oneself daily in predicaments in which some +sort of a pointer is absolutely necessary. +Even though no novel known to you may +exactly meet your given case, the novel does +supply that cloud of human instances without +which the soul feels unsafe in its adventures +<span class="pagenum" id="p_13">13</span>and the normal mind fairly easily discerns +what events or characters in its fugitive +novels are meretricious in relation to life +however entertaining they may be as fiction.</p> + +<p>That the republic—the body politic—has +need of these human-filtered insights into +lives is amply proved by the present vogue +of what I will call novelized biography. +Lives of every imaginable type of human +being from Shelley to Washington are nowadays +consumed with singular voracity, and +if some of the impeccable immortals are in +the upshot docked of their pedestals there +can, I think, be little doubt that, in the +process, the public consciousness of life is +at once deepened and rendered more down +to the ground. And the human mind is +such a curiously two-sided affair that, along +with down-to-the-ground renderings, it is +perfectly able to accept at once the liveliest +efforts of hero-worshippers, denigrators, or +whitewashers. The amiable mendacities of +the parson who gave to us the little axe and +the cherry-tree are to-day well known to be +the sheerest inventions; the signal reputed +to have been given at the battle of Trafalgar +is far more soul-stirring than the actual +rather stilted message that Lord Nelson composed. +<span class="pagenum" id="p_14">14</span>And even if Henri IV of France +never uttered his celebrated words about the +chicken in the pot, humanity must have +invented them—and that too must have +been the case with the cherry-tree. In the +days when these catch-phrases received worldwide +acceptance the public was in fact doing +for itself what to-day is left to the writer of +fiction.</p> + +<p>For the practised novelist knows that +when he is introducing a character to his +reader it is expedient that the first speech +of that character should be an abstract statement—and +an abstract statement striking +strongly the note of that character. First +impressions are the strongest of all, and once +you have established in that way the character +of one of your figures you will find +it very hard to change it. So humanity, +feeling the need for great typical figures +with whose example to exhort their children +or to guide themselves, adopts with avidity, +invents or modifies the abstract catchwords +by which that figure will stand or fall. +What Nelson actually desired to say was: +“The country confidently anticipates that +in this vicissitude every man of the fleet +will perform his functions with accuracy +<span class="pagenum" id="p_15">15</span>and courage!”—or something equally stiff, +formal and in accord with what was the late +eighteenth-century idea of fine writing. Signal +flags, however, would not run to it: the +signaller did his best, and so we have Nelson. +Had the signal gone out as Nelson conceived +it, not Southey nor any portraitist could +have given him to us. Or had Gilbert +Stuart’s too faithful rendering of the facial +effects of badly-fitting false teeth been what +we first knew of Washington our views of +the Father of His Country would be immensely +modified. But the folk-improved or +adopted sayings were the first things that at +school or before school we heard of these +heroic figures of our self-made novel, and +neither denigrator nor whitewasher will ever +much change them for us, any more than the +probably false verdict of posterity on John +Lackland who had Dante to damn him will +ever be reversed.</p> + +<p>As to whether the sweeping away of the +humaner classical letters in the interests of +the applied sciences as a means of culture +is a good thing or a bad there must be two +opinions—but there is no doubt that by +getting rid of Plutarch the change will +extraordinarily influence humanity. Ethics, +<span class="pagenum" id="p_16">16</span>morality, rules of life must of necessity be +profoundly modified and destandardized. +For I suppose that no human being from +the end of the Dark Ages to the beginning +of the late War—no human being in the +Western World who was fitting himself for +a career as member of the ruling-classes—was +not profoundly influenced by that earliest +of all novelist-biographers. And, if you +sweep away Marcus Aurelius as altruist-moralist, +the Greek Anthology as a standard +of poetry, Livy as novelist-historian, Cicero +as rhetorician, and Pericles as heaven-born +statesman, you will make a cleavage between +the world cosmos of to-day and that of all +preceding ages such as no modern inventions +and researches of the material world +have operated. For though swiftening of +means of locomotion may have deprived +humanity of knowledge of mankind, it did +little to change the species of generalizations +that mankind itself drew from its more +meagre human instances. Till the abolition +of classical culture in the Western World +the ruling-classes went on measuring Gladstone +or the late Theodore Roosevelt by +Plutarchian standards—but neither post-1918 +King George V nor any future President of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_17">17</span>the United States can hope to escape by +that easy touchstone. From the beginnings +of industrialism till 1918 we went on rolling +round within the immense gyrations of buzzings, +clicks, rattles, and bangs that is modern +life under the auspices of the applied sciences; +we went on contentedly spinning round like +worms within madly whirling walnuts. But +as a guide the great figure had gone.</p> + +<p>There is not only no such figure in the +world as Washington, Nelson, or even +Napoleon—but there is no chance that such +a figure can ever arise again. Nay, even the +legendary figures that remain have lost at +least half of their appeal. A statue of Washington +adorns the front of the National +Gallery in Trafalgar Square, but it is doubtful +if one in a thousand of the passers-by +have even heard of the axe and the cherry-tree, +let alone knowing anything of his +tenacity, single-mindedness, and moral courage. +And who in the North American +Republic has heard of Nelson and his signal? +For the matter of that, as I have elsewhere related, +a young lady science graduate of a very +distinguished Eastern University was lately +heard to ask when she caught sight of the dome +of the Invalides: “Who <em>was</em> this Napollyong +<span class="pagenum" id="p_18">18</span>they talk so much about here?” Of course +pronunciation may have had something to do +with that. But it was in 1923 that the question +was asked, and since then a popularizing novel-biography +of Napoleon has had an immense +vogue in the United States.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless it is to be doubted if ever +again figures will be known to the whole +world. It is possible that my distinguished +namesake is so known because of his popularization +of a cheap form of transport, and +there are prize-fighters, aviators, and performers +for the cinema. But these scarcely +fill in the departments of public morals and +ethical codes the places that used to be +occupied by Pericles, Cicero, and Lucius +Junius Brutus.</p> + +<p>I am not writing in the least ironically, +nor in the least in the spirit of the <i>laudator +temporis acti</i>. We have scrapped a whole +culture; the Greek Anthology and Tibullus +and Catullus have gone the way of the +earliest locomotive and the first Tin Lizzie. +We have, then, to supply their places—and +there is only the novel that for the moment +seems in the least likely or equipped so to do. +That at least cheers me, my whole life having +been devoted to the cause of the Novel—I +<span class="pagenum" id="p_19">19</span>don’t mean to the writing of works of fiction +but to the furthering of the views that I +am here giving you.</p> + +<p>One must live in, one must face with +equanimity, the circumstances of one’s own +age. I regret that the figures of Tibullus +and our Saviour do not occupy on the stage +of the lives of men the place that they did +in the days of my childhood—but I have +courageously to face the fact that they do +not. For it is obvious that it is not to the +parson and hardly to the priest that one +would go for counsel as to one’s material +life; still less could the spirit of Alcestis’ +address to her bed inspire the young woman +to-day contemplating matrimony.</p> + +<p>In short, if you look abroad upon the +world you will see that the department of +life that was formerly attended upon by +classical culture has to-day little but the +modern work of the imagination to solace +it. And that the solace of Literature and the +Arts is necessary for—is a craving of—humanity +few but the most hardened captains +of industry or the most arrogant of +professors of Applied Science will be found +to deny. Our joint Anglo-Saxon civilization +to-day is a fairly savage and materialistic +<span class="pagenum" id="p_20">20</span>affair, but it is also an affair relatively new and +untried. It is perhaps more materialistic +than was the civilization of Ancient Rome +and a little less savage than the early Dark +Ages. But both these former periods of +human activity had in the end to develop +arts and that, it is probable, will be the case +with us. The Romans, it is true, relied for +their arts mostly on Greek slaves or on such +imitators of the Greeks as Horace and Virgil, +and the Dark Ages almost solely on Churchmen +who led precarious existences in hidden +valleys. But the respective futures of these +Ages are worth considering for our present +purposes. For the break-up of the Roman +Empire for which innumerable reasons have +been found by innumerable pundits remains +at least as mysterious as it was before the +first ancestor of Mommsen first dug up his +first tile and upon it wrote his first monograph. +Mommsen, to be sure, used to tell us +that Rome disappeared because it had no +Hohenzollern family to guide its destinies—and +that may be true enough. Gibbon +ascribed to Christianity the Fall of the +Roman Empire and People; others of the +learned have laid that catastrophe at the door +of difficulties of communication, of the lack +<span class="pagenum" id="p_21">21</span>of a modern banking system, of the want +of organization of the system of Imperial +Finances, or of a mysterious and unexplained +slackness that overcame alike the Western +and Eastern Empires—a slackness due to +the pleasures of the table, the wine-cup, of +sex and the like.</p> + +<p>But we, as upholders of the Arts, the +Moralist having been pretty well blotted out +as a national or international factor by the +avalanche that in 1914 began to overwhelm +alike classical culture and revealed religion, +we then might just as well ascribe the Fall +of Rome to the inartistic materialism of the +true-Roman citizen as to any other cause. +For the function of the Arts in the State—apart +from the consideration of æsthetics—is +so to aerate the mind of the taxpayer as +to make him less dull a boy. Or if you like, +it is by removing him from his own immediate +affairs and immersing him in those +of his fellows to give him a better view of +the complicated predicaments that surround +him. A financier, that is to say, who turns +from the bewildering and complicated antics +of a maze of tape from tickers, or a realtor +who turns from the consideration of corner +lots and the tangled and exhausting intrigues +<span class="pagenum" id="p_22">22</span>that shall make the new boulevard of his +city run through land controlled by his +interests—both these pillars of the modern +State may be expected to return as it were +with minds refreshed if, taking a short respite +from their arduous and necessary tasks, they +lose themselves for a moment in the consideration +of the adventures and predicaments +of the <i>Babbitt</i> of Mr. Sinclair Lewis or the +attempts at escape from the chair of the central +character of Mr. Dreiser’s <i>American Tragedy</i>.</p> + +<p>I permit myself to mention the works +of friends of my own because I must have +illustrations for my theme and those illustrations +must be works of to-day of sufficient +likelihood to last long enough not to be +forgotten at the next fall of the leaf—and +Mr. Lewis and Mr. Dreiser are so much +more my personal friends than immersed in +my own particular little technical swim that +they are more apposite to my immediate +purpose than would be, say, the authors of +<i>The Sun Also Rises</i> or of <i>My Heart and My +Flesh</i>—or of <i>Ulysses</i>.</p> + + +<h3 id="3"> + 3 +</h3> + +<p>Arrived at that particular five-cornered +plot in the territory of the Novel I have +<span class="pagenum" id="p_23">23</span>foreshadowed the end of this small monograph. +For, having traced the gradual course +of the development from Apuleius to Joseph +Conrad, having followed it from the Rome +of Petronius Arbiter to the Spain of Lope +da Vega, to the London of Defoe and +Richardson, to the Paris of Diderot, Stendhal, +and Flaubert—with side glances at the Cockaigne +of Thackeray and Dickens and the +Russia of Turgenev, Dostoieffsky and Tchekov—and +back again to the London of +Conrad, Henry James, and Stephen Crane—which +last two writers America will not +whole-heartedly accept as American, whilst +England won’t accept them at all—having +followed the devious course of the thin +stream of development of the novel from the +Mediterranean to the Bay of Biscay, from +the Bay of Biscay to the Port of London +and so backwards and forwards across the +English Channel, I shall leave it and you +with a bump and with some regret at the +gateway to the Middle-West—say at about +Altoona. For it is there that the Novel, +throughout the Ages the poor Cinderella +of the Arts, is nowadays erecting itself into +the sole guide and monitor of the world.</p> + +<p>I should like to have allowed myself to +<span class="pagenum" id="p_24">24</span>say a few words about the modern Middle-Western +development, which is for the +moment the final stage, of the art to whose +furtherance I have obscurely devoted my +half-century of existence. But I am condemned +like Moses only to perceive that +Promised Land. This is a monograph on +the English Novel—which includes <i>The House +of the Seven Gables</i> or <i>What Maisie Knew</i>, not +on the Middle-Western Novel of to-day +which very emphatically doesn’t include—oh, +say <i>Riceyman Steps</i> and <i>Mr. Britling Sees +it Through</i>.</p> + +<p>I should like to observe for the benefit of +the Lay Reader, to whom I am addressing +myself—for the Professional Critic will pay +no attention to anything that I say, contenting +himself with cutting me to pieces +with whips of scorpions for having allowed +my head to pop up at all—to the Lay Reader +I should like to point out that what I am +about to write is highly controversial and +that he must take none of it too much <i>au +pied de la lettre</i>. I don’t mean to say that +it will not be written with almost ferocious +seriousness. But what follows are suggestions +not dictates, for in perusing this sort of +book the reader must be prepared to do a +<span class="pagenum" id="p_25">25</span>great deal of the work himself—within his +own mind.</p> + +<p>If I choose to write that great imaginative +literature began in England with Archbishop +Warham in the sixteenth century and ended +with the death of Thomas Vaughan, the +Silurist, in the first year of the eighteenth +century, to come to life again with Joseph +Conrad and the Yellow Book about 1892, +and once more to disappear on the fourth of +August, 1914—if I choose to write those +extreme statements it is because I <em>want</em> the +Reader mentally to object to them the names +of Swift, Keats, Thackeray, Browning, Swinburne, +Meredith—or even those of Messrs. +Galsworthy, Bennett, Wells and, say, Virginia +Woolf. I <em>want</em> the Lay Reader to make those +mental reservations for himself. I should +hate to be a professor, I should hate to be +taken as dogmatizing, and I should still +more hate that what dogmatizing I do perforce +indulge in should be unquestioningly +accepted by any poor victim.</p> + +<p>So that if I should say—as I probably shall—that, +along with all his contemporaries, as +a constructive artist even of the picaresque +school, Dickens was contemptible, or if I say +that Meredith as a stylist in comparison with +<span class="pagenum" id="p_26">26</span>Henry James was simply detestable, or that +the conception of novel-writing as an art +began for Anglo-Saxondom with Joseph Conrad, +or that <i>Babbitt</i> dealt a shrewder blow +at the pre-war idealization of the industrial +system and the idolatry of materialism than +<i>Don Quixote</i> at sixteenth-century vestiges of +the chivalric spirit, or that <i>The Time of Man</i> +is the most beautiful individual piece of +writing that has as yet come out of America, +or that <i>The Lighthouse</i> is the only piece of +British—as opposed to English—writing that +has latterly excited my craftsman’s mind—the +only piece since the decline and death of +Conrad ... if I commit myself to all these +statements the reader must at once violently +object that I am a log-roller writing up my +personal friends—though I never knew, or +even know anyone that knew, Miss Virginia +Woolf. He must object that I have forgotten +not only Trollope in my aspersions on mid-Victorian +novelists, but that I have also forgotten +Mr. George Moore. (Alas, I always +forget Mr. George Moore, who is probably +the greatest and most dispassionate technician +that English Literature has ever seen.)</p> + +<p>He must make all these objections for +himself as violently as possible: then, in +<span class="pagenum" id="p_27">27</span>reaction, thinking it over he will probably +find that there is something in what I say. +At any rate, he will have a sort of rudimentary +map of the Kingdom of the Art of +Letters in his mind. The old-fashioned maps +had their advantages. Their cartographer +left in his plans blank spaces in places where +his enemies dwelt and labelled them: “Here +be Crocodiles,” “Here be Stenches!” or +“Anthropophagi! Avoid this Land!”—and +that was useful because it told you what parts +of the earth were pernicious to that type of +Cartographer. So, if you were of his type, +you avoided territories by him miscalled. +On the other hand, if you disliked the sort +of fellow that that map-maker was, you +adventured into the territory labelled “of the +Anthropophagi” to find it inhabited solely by +sirens, into the Land of Stenches to find it +distinguished by the most beneficent of chalybeate +springs, or amongst the Crocodiles, who +were charming people, ready at any moment +to shed tears over your depleted pockets, +your lost loves, or your rheumatic-gout!</p> + +<p>It is with a map of that sort that I am +trying to provide you. No other sort is of +the remotest value. Nor is it even possible, +critics being human.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_28">28</span></p> + +<p>I am looking at the last page of a Manual +of English Literature compiled by a critic +who takes himself and is taken very seriously +indeed. I read:</p> + +<p>“<i>His work often decadent, appealing to senses; +a pessimist. Lacks restraint; small variety in +mood!</i>”</p> + +<p>Think of that as the last word—the very +last word—of a Manual of English Literature +for the use of the English Classes of +the most numerically attended University +in the Universe! Could I at my worst do +worse? Or so badly!</p> + +<p>For that is that writer’s critical estimate—that +is all that thirty thousand pupils of +a State University are given as an appraisal +of—Algernon Charles Swinburne!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_29">29</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWO"> + CHAPTER TWO + <br> + TOWARDS DEFOE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It is not part of my purpose—nor within +the scope of a short manual would +it be possible!—to trace the influence of +the <i>Golden Ass</i> or the <i>Satiricon</i> on the course +or development of the novel—and indeed +their influences probably came into action +so late that the effect was rather to give +coloration to the pastiches of later writers +like the late Mr. Walter Pater or the very +much living Mr. Ezra Pound. It is the same, +to all intents and purposes, with such mediaeval +compilations of short-stories as the <i>Decameron</i>, +the <i>Heptameron</i> or the <i>Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles</i>. +The <i>Decameron</i> must in particular have +been as enormously read in the course of +centuries as <i>Madame Bovary</i>, but, except for +the <i>Heptameron</i> and the rest of the works +of that tradition, it can have led to no developments +but merely to a few imitations such +as the <i>Contes Drolatiques</i> of Balzac.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_30">30</span></p> + +<p>To our immediate purpose they are germane +solely as indicating the desire—the +necessity—that humanity has always experienced +for fiction of one kind or another, if +merely as an expedient for clarifying the +mind. The mediaeval European intellect +seems to have been able to appreciate these +crystallizing shocks only in smallish doses, +and in Europe it was not until sixteenth-century +Spain that humanity seems to have +been able to sustain its interest for the course +of a long tale—a series of rambling incidents +in the life of one or of one or two central +characters. And again it was not until the +middle nineteenth century in France and the +very late nineteenth or early twentieth that +in England the mind of the public could +be expected to take in the rendering—not +the narrating—of a work whose central +character was not an individual of slightly +superhuman proportions. Still less could it +take in an Affair whose participants, as befits +a democratic age, if not all exactly equal in +the parts they play in the Affair’s development, +are at least nearly all as normally similar +in aspirations, virtues and vices as is usual in +one’s surrounding humanity.</p> + +<p>Let us for a moment consider the difference—if +<span class="pagenum" id="p_31">31</span>difference there be—between the apparently +artless tale and the novel that fulfils my +definition of the functions of the work of fiction +in the modern body politic. The artless +tale, then, is nothing but a <i>conte</i>—a thing told +to keep the hearers gasping or at least engrossed. +Told verbally it is usually short, but +professional story-tellers have been found—as +in the case of the group-authors of the <i>Arabian +Nights</i>—to make them very long indeed. And +the habit of telling very long tales that are practically +serials still persists in Eastern bazaars.</p> + +<p>You may say that listening to tales for +the mere purpose of being thrilled or engrossed +has nothing to do with the gaining of +vicarious experience, so that the stories of the +<i>Decameron</i> or the ordinary novels of commerce +were and are of no value to the body politic, +but a little reflection will show that the reverse +is the case in practice. Human experience +is built up by the averaging out of a great +many cases—some inclining, as it were, to the +extreme right, some to the extreme left, and +the majority probably approaching the normal.</p> + +<p>Personally, on the face of it, I ought to +be glad if, in the interests of non-commercial +literature, the novel of commerce could be +suppressed, but as a matter of fact I should +<span class="pagenum" id="p_32">32</span>be the first to lament such a catastrophe. +Humanity, in fact, needs care-free entertainment—and +in search of it it seldom goes +very far wrong. That is proved by the fact +that, ever since books were books, the great +public has devoured with avidity only two kinds +of work—the very worst from the point of +view of the literary artists, and the very best! +The four most popular books the world over +at any given moment since, say, eighteen-sixty +have always been the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, +<i>Madame Bovary</i> and two sempiternally changing +works of egregious silliness and popularity. +But whereas the so-called popular books change +with the turn of each year, the more serious +works continue to stand at the head of the +best-sellers of the world year in and year out.</p> + +<p>That is a consideration to which we may +return; the point that I wish to make here +is that when <i>contes</i> and <i>nouvelles</i> of the type +to be found in the <i>Decameron</i> were of an +almost boundless popularity, not only had +the serious novel no existence but the reprehension +that the Victorian moralist and +industrialist expressed also found then no +expression. As I am never tired of relating, +my grand-aunt Eliza was the first utterer of +the famous saying: “Sooner than be idle +<span class="pagenum" id="p_33">33</span>I’d take a book and read”; but that utterance, +perfectly normal and applauded about +1860 when it was first presented to the world, +is to-day purely risible and could not in serious +earnestness be uttered in the household of any +family more comfortable in its circumstances +than those of the lower-paid manual labourer.</p> + +<p>It would have been equally unthinkable +at any date from the tenth century to the +early nineteenth. During those nine centuries, +in fact, the professional moralist was +only too glad to enlist the services of the +fiction-teller under the sacred banners of +Faith and Good Works, and although towards +the end of the eighteenth century the habits +of young ladies who lay day-long on sofas +reading the thousandfold novels of popular +female authors from Aphra Behn to Sarah +Fielding—although that habit was lightly +satirized by dramatists and occasionally +scourged in the sermons of nonconformist +divines, these occurrences were very sporadic +and altogether too infrequent to form a +national habit. Indeed, until the nineteenth +century was under way it might even be +advanced that the writers of such works +of fiction as the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, <i>Rasselas</i>, or +<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> were eagerly sought as allies +<span class="pagenum" id="p_34">34</span>by the professional, ecclesiastical, or nonconformist +moralist.</p> + +<p>And that was even more pronouncedly +the case in days still earlier when in Europe +a universal and all-powerful church dictated +the morals of gentle and simple alike. Indeed, +whatever may or may not be said of +Catholicism in the way of praise or blame, +it cannot be alleged that when she was all-powerful +she was ever afraid of the Arts or +afraid to employ them for her own purposes. +The Moralities of the Nun Hrotswitha, the +mystery plays and mummings of every town-guild +in the Middle Ages, are alone overwhelming +evidence that the church, representing +the professional moralists of five +or six centuries, was only too glad to avail +itself of forms of art as an indispensable +means of spreading her teachings. Nor +indeed until the Puritan Divines of the sixteenth +and seventeenth centuries turned upon +the art of fiction as presented on the stage +did that form of art do anything other than +bend itself willingly to the services of morality. +For you might say that the drama of Wycherley +and Killigrew was as much a protest +against the oppression of the then professional +moralist as any spontaneous movement +<span class="pagenum" id="p_35">35</span>for the supply of lecherous fiction to +the public. The greater part of the plays +of the Elizabethan and Jacobean dramatists—by +far the greater part—consisted of works +of profound—and quite conventional—moral +purpose; the earlier drama, and even the +pace-egging and mumming of country shows, +were nothing but pietistic pronouncements +put as picturesquely—and as alluringly spiced +with alliterations in the prosody and low +comedy in the plots—as the fiction-writers +of the day could contrive. Hell always +yawned before the audience beneath the high +trestle-boards and stages of these shows; in +the flies Heaven and its denizens were always +visible, whilst in what would to-day be called +the wings there waited perpetually visible, +on the one hand the Devil ready to pitchfork +the wicked into the lower story of the stage—and +Man’s Good Angel to conduct him to +the Better Place. And clowns and characters +called Vices were always ready to endure the +drubbings that, enlivening the public, were +the portion of the mildly wicked and foolish.</p> + +<p>No, decidedly the mediaeval and early +renaissance art of fiction, quite as much as +Matthew Arnold, was on the side of the angels.</p> + +<p>It might be as well here to point out that +<span class="pagenum" id="p_36">36</span>until the Restoration and its comedies +brought scenery and attempts at scenic realism +to the stage, the Play and the Novel were +practically the same form. Or it might be +better to put it that the Novel was the direct +development of the play—a development +made possible by the art of printing. In +effect the plays of Shakespeare were novels +written for recitation, and that, naturally, was +still more the case with the works of Shakespeare’s +predecessors. And it is significant +that as reading became more common with +the establishment of Edward VI’s grammar +schools, the play itself became less a matter +of rantings and by degrees even a medium +for fine writing. <i>Gorboduc</i> and <i>Ferrex and +Porrex</i> or <i>Ralph Roister Doister</i> were products +of either a stilted classicism or of a boisterous, +native spirit of knockabout buffoonery, puns, +and ribald jests. The classical motive issued +presently into a mode of over-written elegance +that speedily proved itself unreadable: +then Lyly gave place to Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>It has always seemed obvious to me—as +a private conviction for which I have no +wish to do battle and which I have no wish +to force on the reader as any more than a +suggestion—that Shakespeare himself regretted +<span class="pagenum" id="p_37">37</span>the literary chastity of his muse. I +mean that Shakespeare, as gentleman and +one wishing to sport his coat-of-arms in the +very best social and scholastic circles, deprecated +the passing of the Unities and of bombast +and wished that the popular taste would +have let him make a living by verse in the +style of the <i>Rape of Lucrece</i> and the more +florid poems that decorate the last pages of +editions of his works. His speeches to the +players in <i>Hamlet</i> and all his life as far as it is +known would seem to indicate that. But it is +not until you can bring yourself to regard not +merely the plays of Shakespeare but the whole +post-Lylian Elizabethan and Jacobean drama as +novels written for recitation that the great +mystery of Shakespeare’s life seems to become +reasonably explicable. For the great mystery +of Shakespeare as novelist is simply: “Why +did Shakespeare never correct his proofs?”</p> + +<p>Beside this amazing enormity all questions +as to the identity of Mr. W. H. or the Dark +Lady or Mary Fitton or of the motives of +the sonnets become paler and more ineffectual +than any ghosts. For they at least don’t +matter. But that the greatest writer of all +time should not have taken the trouble ever +to read his own works in print, preferring +<span class="pagenum" id="p_38">38</span>to retire to Stratford, sue out his coat armour +and so, on his profits as theatre owner, become +titularly and legally a Gentleman—that, +if you think about it and have ever +known an author, is the most amazing phenomenon +known to the history of Literature. +Napoleon at St. Helena, renaming himself +Monsieur Dupont and shuddering at the mention +of Austerlitz, would not be more astonishing. +For this novelist never blotted a line +and never saw his work through the press!</p> + +<p>On the face of it the plays of Shakespeare +read extravagantly well but, on the modern +stage, play extravagantly badly. I have never +in my life been more bored and appalled +than at having to sit through an uncut performance +of <i>Hamlet</i>, given by the most noted +performers in the world in front of a gigantic +real castle. It was terrifying and it lasted +from nine at night till four in the morning. +There was the real castle, the real moon, real +armour dating back to Shakespeare’s days, +real banners of the epoch; real soldiers played +the troops of Fortinbras—and to add a touch +of reality of another sort, in the middle of +the performance real Communist groundlings +demonstrated for Saccho and Vanzetti!</p> + +<p>But the point was that, with the real castle, +<span class="pagenum" id="p_39">39</span>pump and the rest, all Shakespeare’s descriptions +became intolerable pleonasms and gave +singular unreality to the characters that uttered +them. For normal humanity does not talk of +patines of bright gold when considering the +night skies: it says “Look at the stars,” and +possibly adds: “Aren’t they jolly?” The +stars in fact do the rest: and in this given +case the castle of Avignon, the Rhone, and +the moon were admirably prepared to replace +all that anyone’s descriptions could do.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, I have never in my +life been so overwhelmed as by a ranted +performance given by capable actors in modern +dress in a rather bare modern studio that +had galleries round it—a condition pretty +well reproducing that of the Shakespearean +stage. Hero and heroine and subordinate +characters bellowed rhetorical periods, floods +of bombast; they threw their arms about, +raved, fell down, and staggered to their feet. +The effect, as I have said, was overwhelming; +no such other utter tragedy has ever presented +itself to the world for three hundred +years; the grief of the heroine was so insufferable +that you could not sit in your +place; when the hero died you groaned +aloud. Yet the play was only Kyd’s <i>Spanish +<span class="pagenum" id="p_40">40</span>Tragedy</i>, ranking as a pretty poor work and +to-day very difficult to read.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare, on the other hand, does read +extravagantly well through the greater part +of his work—but large portions of the plays +must pay the penalty of all works intended +for one medium and presented in another. +The sheer silliness of many—of most of his +plots except in the Chronicle Plays—their +sheer silliness and negligence regarded from +the point of view of the art of the novel, +become technical merit when it is a matter +of recitation; bareness of plot is then a necessity, +the mind having no time to turn back +and pick up merely suggested clues. And of +course a great deal of his work must have +seemed to a man of his own delicacy of +temperament much more the merest writing +down to the groundlings or coarse flatterings +of those in authority than that caviare +to the general that he hoped to provide.</p> + +<p>So that his inattention to the printing of +his plays may very conceivably have proceeded +from sheer disgust at them—a frame +of mind not unfamiliar to the artist when +viewing his work in the light of his own +ideals. Or of course it remains open to us—all +things in the case of Shakespeare being +<span class="pagenum" id="p_41">41</span>open to us—to consider that he really regarded +his work as commercial trivia that +had much better be ignored in the later stages +of his aggrandizement to the state of gentility. +That frame of mind is so usual in +the British novelist and ever since novels have +been translated or written in England has +proved so disastrous to the art itself that it +is quite conceivable that the first—and the +greatest—of them all may have shared in +that national characteristic.</p> + +<p>Be that as it may, the assertion that the +Elizabethan and Jacobean play answered in +advance the call from the public for the novel +that was so soon to come may very well be +regarded as fact. And indeed the same may +be regarded as true of all pre-Elizabethan or +rather pre-Edwardian English literature. Or +it might be more just to say that, the Grammar +School spreading at once the capacity and +the taste for reading, the enhanced national +wealth of the age of Drake and countenanced +piracy in Elizabeth’s day made the purchase +and dissemination of books a possibility +amongst a very much wider class of the public.</p> + +<p>We may then regard the rule of thumb +definition of the novel as a printed book +of some length telling one tale or relating +<span class="pagenum" id="p_42">42</span>the adventures of one single personage as +reasonably acceptable. In that case you get +an instance at once of supply created by +demand and of that supply being rendered +possible by the fact that education and +material production arrived almost hand in +hand. For although printing was available as a +means of spreading knowledge almost a couple +of centuries earlier, the exiguity of material +wealth and leisure, the turmoil and the scarcity +of labour of the centuries of pestilence, +dynastic wars, and turmoil that preceded the +firm establishment of the Tudors on the throne +infinitely delayed and indeed indefinitely put +back the clock of culture in these kingdoms.</p> + +<p>Roughly speaking, we may say that Chaucer, +the first English writer of sustained +imaginative pieces, was also the first English +writer for the Press—a writer, that is to +say, for the individual reader in his closet +rather than a composer of lays, ballads, +roundels, or even epics, for recitation. The +dictum should be accepted with caution. +That it is on the whole just is nevertheless +demonstrable by the comparison of the <i>Canterbury +Tales</i> or <i>Troilus and Cresseide</i> with say +the <i>Faerie Queene</i> or Drayton’s <i>Polyolbion</i>. That +the work of Chaucer is readable, whereas the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_43">43</span>epics of Spenser and Drayton practically +defy perusal, is not merely a matter of difference +of greatness in the respective authors. +Chaucer was an infinitely greater writer than +either of his successors: his character-drawing +is extraordinary, his sense of beauty overwhelming, +his minutely observing mind stalls +off the possibility of dullness in his pages. +And read to himself by an individual reader +the work of Spenser is intolerably pompous, +allegorical and dull, and that of Drayton all +too pedestrian because of his lack of any +powers of selection. But, if you will read +the longer works of Chaucer aloud you will +find him a little difficult to follow simply +because of that very minuteness of observation +and that very lack of dullness; the others, +on the other hand, gain immensely by reading +aloud or by recitation—both Spenser and +Drayton taking on a sort of jolly robustness +that is even to-day by no means disagreeable +and that may well have been enormously engrossing +in the mouth of a good reader reading +to audiences that had little to do but listen and +lacked the power of reading for themselves.</p> + +<p>In the matter of the consumption of literature, +in fact, the English world had gone +back several generations between the ages +<span class="pagenum" id="p_44">44</span>of Chaucer and Spenser—if, that is to say, +you regard the evolution of the printed book +and the arrival of the novel as Progress, for +it is quite open to you to regard the disappearance +of oral poetry and the epic as +retrogression. Nevertheless, it is fairly true +to say that Chaucer with Caxton, the first +printer, as an intimate wrote far more definitely +for the Press than did any of the Elizabethan +imaginative writers. Except in the +internal style and the outward effect of his +work there is of course no evidence that +Chaucer considered definitely that the coming +of the printing press called for a change in +the technique of the imaginative writer—but +it would not be utterly fanciful to imagine +that he did at least consider himself a writer +destined to have a great number of individual +readers rather than vast audiences +destined to listen to recitals of his work.</p> + +<p>To what extent I am right in advancing +the suggestion that Eastern and Eastern-European +audiences had tougher brain-stuffs +than their Anglo-Saxon contemporaries, at +any rate in the matter of listening to recitals +of tales in prose or verse, the reader may +decide for himself. The suggestion is nevertheless +handy as presenting a certain not +<span class="pagenum" id="p_45">45</span>unuseful image. We may say that the printing +press killed alike the epic and all forms +of metrical romance, or we may say that the +epic and the metrical romance are essentially +foreign to the taste of the Occidental reader—and +the second statement is in effect merely +a repetition in other terms of the first.</p> + +<p>Into that I do not propose to go. It is +sufficient to say that when I do make the +assertion I find myself, as it were unexpectedly, +in company with the academic critic of +to-day and yesterday. At any rate, quite orthodox +authorities have not unusually asserted +that Romaunts or Romances were, in England +at least, intended for the personal reading of +the mediaeval courtly and clerical individual, +whilst the shorter lays, virelais, ballads, and +the like were aimed, as being less fatiguing, +at popular and numerous audiences. This +seems to be merely common sense. On the +other hand, very long metrical or prose compositions +did simultaneously appeal to Oriental +audiences and it is not unusual in academic +circles to describe the <i>Canterbury Tales</i> themselves +as “Oriental in origin,” which seems +queer but may for the moment pass.</p> + +<p>What, however, I am anxious to establish—at +the risk of a certain prolixity—is the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_46">46</span>fact that an appetite for fiction amounting +also to an expression of a necessity has, at +least since the Dark Ages till the present +day, distinguished all humanity. The reason +probably is, as I have already hinted, that +we need accounts of human life not so much +as matter from which to draw morals for our +own particular cases but rather as something +that will take us outside ourselves and, as +it were, to a height from which we may the +better observe ourselves and our neighbours. +The moral is usually thrown in by the moralist +who nevertheless insists or at any rate asserts +that moralizing is the sole purpose of his +life and work. But the Morality Plays of +the Nun Hrotswitha, the Mysteries of every +English town from Salisbury to Lytham, the +terrifically moralizing novels from <i>Guzman +d’Alfarache</i> to the history of <i>Moll Flanders</i>, +were simply evidence of the fact that humanity +did not want moralizing and did want fiction. +They represent the moralist throwing up the +sponge and trying to get a pinch of salt on to +the tail of that difficult bird, man. It is +obvious that large audiences in days of complete +boredom could be found for the sermons +of ranting monks and violent reformers. +But even at that the appeal was largely fictional +<span class="pagenum" id="p_47">47</span>and what the audiences went to hear—as was +the case with, say, Savonarola—was rather +semi-hysterical and lively descriptions of the +sufferings of souls in eternal flame than any +doctrinal discourses on the life and teachings +of Him Whose message was: “Neither do +I condemn thee!”</p> + +<p>So, gradually, fiction emerging with timidity +from under the wing of the Church itself +took such prentice flights in the direction +of pure rendering of life as picaresque novels +like <i>Don Quixote</i>. It is, however, doubtful +if the adventures of the knight of la Mancha +would have got past the Index had not the +Church been called in in the person of the +parish priest who in the end burns the poor +hero’s books of romance; and from that +point of view Cervantes may be regarded +as simply drawing the cord of conventional +morality closer round the necks of the unfortunate +public. The romance of <i>The Seven +Champions of Christendom</i> had to be burned not +because it was a silly book but because its +morality was insufficiently puritan, the Church +of Rome in the throes of the Catholic Reaction +having to prove itself at least as puritan as the +Anabaptists of Münster. So the body that tolerated +Rabelais good-naturedly had to invent +<span class="pagenum" id="p_48">48</span>an <i>auto da fé</i> in order to deal with Amadis de +Gaul; and Cervantes, for all the world like +a seventeenth-century Thackeray, had to attune +his satire to the pipe of a reacting church. +Fiction, in short, had to pay an always greater +tribute to morality as it escaped from being +the mere servant of established religion.</p> + +<p>In effect the Church—and then the Churches—said +to the novel, the play, the romance, +and the ballad: “We are too busy cutting +each other’s throats and inventing newer +theologies, to bother any more about artistic +productions. In the meantime we will remove +the benefit of clergy that used to shield those +who could manipulate a pen. You may +write and compose what lay fictions you +like, but the rack, the faggot or the pillory +will attend you if you publish anything that +we <em>don’t</em> like.” And the novelist, always a +timid creature and in England avid of social +consideration, was quick to take the hint. +So Don Quichotte de la Mancha, the only +gentleman produced by the genius of Cervantes, +and indeed by all the genius of that +age, had to become a pitiable lunatic. Yet +it is impossible that a man of the perspicacity +of the writer of that work could not have +seen that the Don, wiping curds from his +<span class="pagenum" id="p_49">49</span>benign and tranquil countenance, was godlike +in comparison to the crooks and gross +peasants—the cats and monkeys!—that surrounded +him. Nevertheless the Don must go!</p> + +<p>With those Spaniards, then, the novel approached +some sort of rendering of life and +that sort of rendering was soon enough to +make its appearance in England. It crossed +the Bay of Biscay and the Channel with a +picaresque work of a prodigious popularity +in its day—<i>Guzman d’Alfarache</i> or the <i>Story +of a Rogue</i>. Less picaresque in the true sense +of being the strung-together life of a <i>picaro</i> +or professional thief—less picaresque than +the immortal <i>Lazarillo de Tormes</i> and less +achingly tragic as a presentation of the life +of the brothel and wine-shop than <i>Celestina</i>, +the work of Hermann Alemannos, whose +name betrays his Teutonic origin, was much +more suited to the Anglo-Saxon taste than +either one of the other three Spanish books +that I have selected for mention.</p> + +<p>The true Spanish genius is for us obviously +too austere. Our public could, it is true, +guffaw over the discomfitures of the knight +of the Woeful Countenance and the manœuvre +by which Lazarillo gets rid of his blind master +who himself was the most ferocious of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_50">50</span>scoundrels; and the suicide from the tower +in <i>Celestina</i> may have excited disagreeable emotions +in the English reader who preferred to +think that punishment for sins was a matter of +the hereafter. But the remorseless, essentially +Spanish black and white of the greater novels +was no more for the English public or the +English litterateur than are <i>Titus Andronicus</i> +and <i>Pericles</i> when they can get the <i>Comedy of +Errors</i> or the <i>Midsummer Night’s Dream</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Guzman d’Alfarache</i>, on the other hand, was +a wilderness of enormous passages of trite +morality enlivened here and there with episodes +of cozening and purse-cutting and it has +always been a matter of speculation to me—for +I have known these works ever since +I was a very small child—to what extent the +seventeenth-century public really liked the +moralizings, to what extent it was merely +hypocrisy, and to what extent, again, readers +were really tricked by the tiny ha’-pennyworth +of sack into consuming the intolerable quantity +of very dry bread. Obviously in the seventeenth +and eighteenth centuries mere length +was not a deterrent, because there was an +immense amount of time for vacant minds +to fill in and relatively very few books. So +that just as in distant colonies we will read +<span class="pagenum" id="p_51">51</span>home newspapers with all the advertisements +they contain three and four times over, so +the subjects of the James’s, Charles’s, and +early George’s would accept almost anything +that could be read or listened to and probably +from being attuned to prolixities they would +have disliked anything crisp if anything crisp +had been to be found.</p> + +<p>That is perhaps a vain speculation, but a +short consideration of the first great English +novelist, who was for a time at least nearly +solely novelist, would lead one to believe that +such was indeed the case. Defoe was born +about the time of the restoration of Charles II—that +is to say, in 1660 or 1661—and died in +1731, aged in consequence about seventy. And +it is interesting to note that his novels were all +produced in the last twelve years of his life—as +an expedient for procuring bread and butter +after bankruptcy produced by too ingenious +speculations both financial and philosophical.</p> + +<p>That gets rid of the theory we might +otherwise have entertained that he was a +Restoration novelist in the sense that the +friends of Charles II were Restoration dramatists. +Nevertheless, the active portions of +Defoe’s life were so passed in the seventeenth +century that it comes naturally to think of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_52">52</span>him rather as Jacobean than Georgian or +eighteenth century. It is, that is to say, not +in the pomposity of the eighteenth century +that Captain Singleton or Colonel Jack or +Moll Flanders seem to be clothed. They +were rather mobile, swaggering, piratical +creatures seated on barrels and smoking +their yards of clay than strutters in brocades +and ruffles. And probably Defoe’s ideal was +the substantial London merchant, sturdily +planted over his stout calves on square feet. +That was his ideal because he had himself +lamentably failed in attaining to it.</p> + +<p>His financial ideas are said to have found +favour in succeeding ages; his plans for +increasing the national revenues, like Swift’s, +it is said, would have been admirable could +they have been adopted. So his moralities are +practical rather than theological—it was to the +respectable suffrages of the merchants that his +pious passages addressed themselves. Thus +his moralizings may have been less hypocritical +than those of most of his contemporaries, his +predecessors or descendants; but the aspiring +after respectability was none the less as marked.</p> + +<p>What, however, is in him the most interesting +from our special point of view of +tracing the development of the art of the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_53">53</span>novel is the fact that Defoe may be called +the first English or foreign writer to strive +after some sort of satisfactory convention +for the novel. He aimed, that is to say, at +being convincing—at convincing his reader +that he was reading of real adventures set in +the, as it were, official biographies of real +individuals. Such fictitious documents as +<i>The Apparition of Mrs. Veal</i>, the <i>Memoirs of a +Cavalier</i>, or the <i>History of the Plague in London</i> +are very near to historic forgeries and ought +perhaps to be regarded as fictitious journalism. +For, whatever else he was or wasn’t, Defoe +was the first great journalist.</p> + +<p>His <i>Review of the Affairs of France</i>, which +was a periodical news-pamphlet devoting +itself to foreign affairs and what to-day we +should call Town Topics, was no doubt +Defoe’s introduction to fiction. When, that +is to say, foreign news ran out he filled in +his space with the chronicles of an invented +Scandalous Club and there, a little in the +style of La Bruyère and still more in the style +of the later <i>Tatlers</i>, <i>Ramblers</i>, and <i>Spectators</i>, +he presented the Town with slightly scandalous +anecdotes of characters purely fictitious or +suggested faintly by well-known living men.</p> + +<p>From that to inventing false news as in the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_54">54</span>case of the <i>Mrs. Veal</i> fascicule and from that +again to the production of sham autobiography-like +<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> is a very obvious progression. +Few journalists would make it +to-day, but to-day news being more common +is more easily checked. Be that as it may, +there is no doubt that, whether it were his +intention or no, he did evolve a convention +for fiction that up to a certain point was effective +enough. That he intended so to do +there is not, as was on the other hand the +case with his great successor Samuel Richardson, +any evidence. On the contrary, there +is a good deal of evidence that several of his +works of fiction were really intended as +mystifications or frauds on the public.</p> + +<p>That does not interfere with the artistic +merit of his work, which was very great. +For whether you set out to hypnotize the +public into believing for the time being that +they have attended at a scene, or trick them +into believing that they have read real memoirs +when the memoirs are fictitious, the artistic, +if not the ethical, results are nearly equal. +There is, however, this difference:</p> + +<p>If you should read <i>Salammbo</i> and should +be asked if you had ever been in Carthage +before its destruction by the Romans you +<span class="pagenum" id="p_55">55</span>might almost answer in the affirmative with +truth, whereas in the same scale of things if +you were asked if you had been present at +the Fire of London and had read Defoe’s +<i>History</i> you could not answer more than +that you had read a very authentic account +by an eye-witness. And inasmuch as an +authentic rendering—a rendering made with +extreme artistic skill—will give you more +the sense of having been present at an event +than if you had actually been corporeally +present, whereas the reading of the most +skilful of literary forgeries will only leave +you with the sense that you have read a book, +the artistic rendering is the more valuable +to you and therefore the greater achievement. +I once heard a couple of French marine engineers +agreeing that although they had traversed +the Indian Ocean many times and had several +times passed through, or through the fringes +of, typhoons, neither of them had ever been +in one till they had read Conrad’s <i>Typhoon</i>. +And indeed I have myself had the singular +experience of looking out at dawn from a +tent-flap and seeing the tents of a sleeping +army running up into deep woods. And +having just been reading Stephen Crane’s +<i>Red Badge of Courage</i>, which opens with the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_56">56</span>description of the dawn breaking on the +tents of a sleeping army, for some minutes +I was confused, not being able to understand +why the one or two men that I saw about +were dressed in our khaki instead of in the +blue of the Federal troops of the United +States during the Civil War. That is what +I mean by saying that one might answer with +truth that one had been present at a rendered +scene although one might never physically +have been present there. For to me it is +certain that I was at that given moment more +present at the preparation of a battle somewhere +near Gettysburg in the ’sixties of last +century than actually amongst British troops +in support at a battle that was then proceeding +in the Belgian Salient in September, 1916.</p> + +<p>To produce that or similar effects is the +ambition of the novel of to-day.</p> + +<p>Two centuries before—by, say, 1716—the +novel had proceeded but a very little way. +I should say that Bunyan in the <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i> and still more in <i>The Holy War</i> had +gone as far as any writer till that day and +dying in 1688 he anticipated Defoe as novelist +by at least a generation. Ostensibly the +<i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> is an allegorical work just +as the English Bible is a theological or even +<span class="pagenum" id="p_57">57</span>a doctrinal one; but just as in the Morality +Plays which were produced by professionally +religious writers or actors and the Mysteries +which were religious spectacles produced and +acted under the direction of clerics by members +of the professedly lay Guilds—just as in those +productions the real attraction was the imaginative +presentation of realities rather than the +pious aspirations of authors or producers, so +it is strongly to be suspected that the realistically +human appeal of the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> +far outweighs the moral or religious interests. +Indeed in <i>The Holy War</i>, which is an allegorical +presentation of the eternal struggle +between the unseen forces that make for good +and evil on earth, the presentation of seventeenth-century +warfare is for long passages +so realistic that one might accuse Bunyan of +having thrown up the moral sponge and of +taking a pagan pleasure in fighting for fighting’s +sake. He renders, in short, battles of +the Great Rebellion in which he took part or +on whose outskirts he was present. He rendered +them and did not write about them.</p> + +<p>But the moral fervour and fierce sincerity +of Bunyan are so far above suspicion that +the mere fact that at times he was carried +away in a sheer outburst of the artist’s spirit +<span class="pagenum" id="p_58">58</span>and love of terrestrial aspects for the mere +sake of those aspects—his moral fervour is +so great and so deserving of respect that no +slightest tang of hypocrisy can attach to him +any more than it can attach to the translators +of the English Bible. And, if we except +Smollett and possibly Samuel Richardson +who was the real great precursor of the +modern novel, we cannot say as much for +any other English novelist who wrote before +the later years of the nineteenth century. +For it is impossible to absolve such writers +as Defoe, Fielding, or Thackeray from the +charge of deliberately writing with their +tongues in their cheeks passages of virtuous +aspirations that were in no way any aspirations +of theirs and that in consequence very seriously +detracted from the value of their works as art.</p> + +<p>With Bunyan that was not the case. He +desired to inculcate certain moral teachings +and he had the sense to see that the best way +to inculcate a doctrine and to get it deep +into the brain and marrow of the reader +was to make him be vicariously present at +scenes the contemplation of which would +cause certain moral or practical ideas to arise +in the mind. And the deservedly prodigious—the +deservedly unrivalled popular appeal +<span class="pagenum" id="p_59">59</span>of the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> is sufficient testimony +at once to the immense skill and the unparalleledly +simple moral fervour of its author. +For the reader attending on the episode of the +Slough of Despond is actually in a bog a little +way away from his native town and the man +who reads of Giant Despair is in all truth confronted +with either Gog or Magog of the Lord +Mayor’s procession in the very flesh. At any +rate, it is to be remembered that, the world +over, together with the <i>Imitation of Christ</i> and +<i>Madame Bovary</i>, the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> is the most +read book in Christendom. And this we must +put down to the artistic skill—to the power +of presentation and of rendering of the author.</p> + +<p>For there is no other criterion of art but +success, and the more lasting the success +the better the art. I wish to strike that note +very strongly because as soon as one begins +to talk about an art misinterpretations come +creeping in and one is at once suspected of +at the least asserting one’s possession of +superior knowledges or—let us say—of high-hatting +one’s neighbour. Nothing is less true. +The knowledge of the art of novel writing is +open to every one who takes the trouble to +like one book better than another and the literary +tastes of men are fairly identical the world +<span class="pagenum" id="p_60">60</span>over and throughout time. The great art of +the world is found in books that are familiar +to millions, if not the world over, then, at any +rate, down several ages of several continents.</p> + +<p>The difference between Bunyan and his +predecessors is one more than anything of +whole-heartedness and if there is only one +work of fiction—for one can hardly call the +Bible a work of fiction—if there is one work +of prose fiction in England that, written before +the birth of Bunyan, has survived to our time +it is Malory’s <i>Morte d’Arthur</i> and that survives +because Malory whole-heartedly and unassumingly +collected such legends of the Arthurian +cycle as he liked and wrote them down +simply and without flourishes. Otherwise, +none of the pre-Elizabethan prose romances +could to-day be read with any other than +archæological pleasure, nor could any of the +prose fiction which began to be mildly +abundant in late Elizabethan and early Jacobean +days. I suppose you might read +Deloney’s <i>Jack of Newbury</i> with some pleasure +if you were interested in Elizabethan guild +or household mysteries. But I cannot imagine +anyone reading for pleasure either <i>Euphues</i> or +Greene’s <i>Menaphon</i>, either Lodge’s <i>Rosalynde</i> +or even Sidney’s <i>Arcadia</i>. One may glance +<span class="pagenum" id="p_61">61</span>at them from time to time, more or less in +order to keep one’s end up against the literary +archæologist, but they would all, including +<i>Amadis de Gaul</i>, prove intolerable as books for +“reading in”—to use an old phrase which +meant a long, long, engrossed perusal. Nash’s +<i>Jack of Wilton</i> has been compared to <i>Don +Quixote</i>, but there is no sense in reading the +Englishman’s satire of forgotten manners when +one can re-read Cervantes’ satire on things +that are at the root of the human heart.</p> + +<p>The difference between Malory and the +earlier romances or <i>Euphues</i> or <i>Menaphon</i> is +simply the difference in the relative sincerities +of their authors. Malory records what a +simple mediaeval knight liked and to some +extent how he looked at the world: it is +modest and, its author being wrapped up +in his subject, the work has no eye to the +modes of the time—or to displaying the +cleverness of the writer. You can engross +yourself in the <i>Morte d’Arthur</i> if your tastes +lie in the least in Malory’s direction and, except +that finally you may arrive at the conclusion +that he was a modest and pleasant gentleman, +you need never give the author a thought.</p> + +<p>With <i>Amadis de Gaul</i> or <i>Euphues</i>, on the +other hand, you are for ever thinking of the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_62">62</span>cleverness of the author. And you are meant +to think of the cleverness of the author, and so +you are in the case of <i>Rosalynde</i> and an enormous +proportion of the Elizabethan drama. +The prose and even the blank verse of that +age sparkled with trope, metaphor, image, +simile, plays upon words, conceits and every +type of verbal felicity, so that the last thing +that comes to the mind in the case of almost +any work of that age is the subject treated of.</p> + +<p>Hundreds of thousands—nay millions—of +readers have read the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> +and <i>Robinson Crusoe</i> without giving a thought +to or even knowing the name of Defoe or +Bunyan. I asked the other day in France a +child who was reading about Crusoe who had +written it and she replied: “Je crois que +c’est par ... par Madame de Ségur ... +Ou non: peut-être, Madame d’Aulnoy. +Enfin, je n’y ai jamais pensé.” And that is +about the highest compliment that could +be paid to Defoe. I may as well add the +same child’s comment on the story itself. +She did not much like <i>Robinson Crusoe</i> because, +she said, the sufferings depicted in it were +true. She liked, like all children, to read +of sufferings, bloodsheddings, and horrors +but only as long as she could believe that +<span class="pagenum" id="p_63">63</span>they were invented, whereas she was of +opinion that the prolonged loneliness and +fears of Crusoe had actually occurred. Similarly +she found the story of the Crucifixion +insupportable. The root of all adult criticism +is to be found in those revelations.</p> + +<p>As long, that is to say, as a work remains +in fashion you can be contented to read it +in order to remain in the fashion yourself. +It matters very little to you that whereas +<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> is just <i>Robinson Crusoe</i>, or +<i>Othello</i> just <i>Othello</i>, <i>Euphues</i> is Lyly’s <i>Euphues</i>, +the <i>Groat’s Worth of Wit</i> Greene’s <i>Groat’s +Worth</i> or the <i>Spanish Tragedy</i> Kyd’s <i>Spanish +Tragedy</i>. For it is impossible to talk of almost +any sixteenth-century work without prefixing +the author’s name, if the name is known—simply +because the attraction, and even the +attraction that it once had, lies and lay in +the verbal juggleries of the author. I must +have read <i>Euphues</i> once at least right through +and have looked into it several times—but I +have not the least idea what it is all about. +And even although I have read Lyly’s <i>Campaspe</i> +once or twice, I remember only that +the plot is a classical plot—and the lyric:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Cupid and my Campaspe played</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At cards for kisses, Cupid paid....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_64">64</span></p> + +<p>The fact is that with Elizabeth English +became a supple and easily employable language +and, making the discovery that words +could be played with as if they were oranges +or gilt balls to be tossed half a dozen together +in the air, mankind rushed upon it as colts +will dash into suddenly opened rich and +easy pastures. So it was, for the rich and +cultured, much more a matter of who could +kick heels the higher and most flourish tail +and mane than any ambition of carrying +burdens or drawing loads.</p> + +<p>In the end, however, what humanity needs +is that burdens should be carried, and provided +that things get from place to place +the name of carter or horse is of very secondary +importance. If it is in the fashion we will +go down to the meadow and watch the colts +cavorting: but all the while we are aware +that the business of words as of colts or of +the arts is to carry things and we tire reasonably +soon of watching horse-play! For if +I say: “I am hungry,” the business of those +words is to carry that information to you, +and if you read the <i>Iliad</i> it is that the art +of that epic may make Hecuba significant +to you. Consider the prose of Cranmer!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_65">65</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_THREE"> + CHAPTER THREE + <br> + TOWARDS FLAUBERT + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It may at first sight seem curious that a +section of a small work devoted to the +English—and of course the American—Novel +should be captioned with the name of a +French novelist. But in the first place the +art and still more the frame of mind of the +Sage of Croisset are so deep-embedded in the +art and frame of mind of the English and +still more of the American novelist and all +thought of the great, Nordic work of “that +poor dear Gustave,” as Mr. Henry James +used to call him, is so cast out of all French +literary practices or aspirations to-day that if +Flaubert is not an English novelist his Titanic +and Norman ghost has no place at all. To +state one of those half-truths that are infinitely +illuminating, you may say that without +<i>Madame Bovary</i>, <i>Babbitt</i> could never have +existed and without <i>Bouvard et Pécuchet</i> there +could have been no <i>Way of All Flesh</i>. For +<span class="pagenum" id="p_66">66</span>all I know Mr. Sinclair Lewis may never have +read a word of Flaubert and I will bet my hat +that, for the purposes of this discussion, the +shade of Samuel Butler would declare that he +knew no French at all. But the point is that, +without those two works in French, those two +national monuments in English could hardly at +this time exist or weigh with the public since +the public would not be prepared for them.</p> + +<p>Let us go a step further and declare that +without Cranmer we should have had another +three centuries to wait for Flaubert, Henry +James, Stephen Crane, Joseph Conrad, Mr. +John Galsworthy, and my friend “Red” +Lewis. For without the English Prayer Book +and its follower in date and style the English +Bible, with or without Cranmer’s suppressed +preface, and without the followers in date and +style of Defoe, Bunyan, and Samuel Richardson, +how should we have to-day any English +prose, novel-form or any English frame of +mind? Or any Anglo-American Concord +literature; or any British Empire or any +Anglo-Saxon anything?</p> + +<p>You may say that that is stretching things +a little. And yet I do not know that it is. +Let us make concessions. If you will concede +to me my little point about the descent +<span class="pagenum" id="p_67">67</span>of the English Novel from Cranmer’s prayer +book and the English Bible—which cannot +matter to you at all, I will willingly concede +to you that it was the phraseology if not the +doctrine of the Book of Common Prayer and +the frame of mind of the Old Testament As +By Law Appointed that gave to England +the Empire of India and to the world the +United States of North America, those two +shining products of English stiff-neckedness +and non-theological Bible-reading. For how +without the Books of Kings could either +Clive or, say, Andrew Jackson have found +heart or courage to continue in their courses? +Of course a thought or so might be given +to North’s <i>Plutarch</i> that was published in +1579.</p> + +<p>Be that as it may, what I am here getting +at is the fact that preceding and underlying +the ornate florescences of Lyly and the prodigious +formlessnesses of Spenser and preceding +and underlying the incredible verbal +felicity and neat plottings of Shakespeare +himself went the stream of dogged, menacing +prose and the realist’s native imagery of +those two religious compilations. And that +subterranean stream immensely fecundated—to +make no larger claim—at once the Anglo-Saxon +<span class="pagenum" id="p_68">68</span>national character and the literature +that is to be found in the English language.</p> + +<p>I am aware that here we are on ticklish +ground and that reformers and the advanced +generally deny with a great deal of heat that +literature has any influence at all on peoples. +I remember once being furiously lectured by +the most moral and one of the most advanced +of English novelists—being furiously and +minatorily taken to task because mildly and +to make conversation I alleged that <i>Don +Quixote</i> had something to do with the passing +of the sham chivalric spirit in Europe. The +lecture was indeed so furious that, being a +non-combative person and caring nothing +about the matter, I have from that day to +this rather given up considering the subject +at all. You see, my friend the novelist was +so notoriously virtuous and benevolent that +hitherto I should have hated to hurt his +feelings by advancing that anyone could be +influenced by any book at all. For what he +alleged, like an apostle announcing some kind +of creed, was that populaces influence literature—that +Cervantes was produced because +a widespread spirit of mockery for chivalry, +real or sham, was so abroad in the world +that <i>Don Quixote</i> was written merely in +<span class="pagenum" id="p_69">69</span>answer to a demand, as articles on the Calcutta +Sweepstake are written about the time when +Derby Day approaches.</p> + +<p>As to that I am no authority and the +reader must settle for himself whether that +hen or that egg came first—I mean whether +the spirit of the English populace demanded +first the English Prayer Book and the English +Bible and demanded afterwards in due course +the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> and <i>Robinson Crusoe</i>, +or whether the English Bible so influenced +the English people that they demanded in +due course the works of Bunyan and Defoe. +Or as a third proposition: Did the English +Bible so influence Bunyan and both so influence +Defoe that in the end the product was +<i>Pamela</i>, the short tales of Diderot, the novels +of Stendhal, Flaubert, and his successors and so +on until the novel of to-day was arrived at?</p> + +<p>As I have said, I do not immensely care +about the matter. Bunyan may never have +read the Bible, Defoe may never have read +Bunyan, or Richardson Defoe. But it makes +such a convenient pattern to assume that +writers are descended the one from the other +that I mean to assume it and the reader must +modify the theory how he will.</p> + +<p>Regarded from that point of view, in pre- +<span class="pagenum" id="p_70">70</span>as in post-Elizabethan days and underlying +Elizabethan days themselves, you did have +that stern but decorated prose and that +determination to rely on illustrations, parables, +and images drawn solely from material to +be found about normal people the world +over and throughout time; simultaneously, +on the surface of things you had a courtlier +and more elaborated prose which had the +Sublime as its ideal and nothing less vulgar +than passages modelled on Juvenal or the +plays of Plautus for its light relief. The +Bible says: “Take us the little foxes, the +foxes that eat our grapes” as an illustration +of love, and “He shall feed his sheep” as +the highest expression of the divine functionings +of the Saviour. The <i>Faerie Queene</i> cannot +deal with any fox or any hound of lower +extraction than Cerberus and the only redeemer +who could have saved the world +for the writers of Romances was, in his +panoply, King Arthur with Lancelot, Gawain, +and the rest of his apostles all pricking over +the plains of Camelot.</p> + +<p>So let us say that it was to the homespun +illustrations, the simple imagery and the stern +diction of the Bible that we owe Bunyan—for +obviously Bunyan read the Scriptures, +<span class="pagenum" id="p_71">71</span>year in and year out, during a lifetime of +Bedford Gaol, of persecution and turmoil, +whereas the only remains of the courtlier +modes are found to come from North’s +<i>Plutarch</i> which influenced profoundly Shakespeare +and possibly Sir Thomas Browne. +But Shakespeare obviously could not have +any successors and Browne found none till +R. L. S. came to be his sedulous ape. So +that the influence of North’s translation +remained, if profound, at least rather ethical +than literary—until it was finally ousted by +the versions of the Langhornes and Church’s +of days much more modern.</p> + +<p>Our space not being boundless we must +now skip to Richardson. For Richardson I +have the profoundest respect that amounts as +nearly as possible to an affection—if that is +to say it is possible to have an affection for a +man whose death preceded one’s birth by one +hundred and twelve years. I do not apologize +for the fact that <i>Pamela</i> is my personal favourite, +whereas the graver critics and mankind in +general prefer <i>Clarissa</i>. By that the reader +need not be guided, but he should certainly +pay a good deal of attention to the works of +Richardson—and indeed to Richardson himself.</p> + +<p>That tranquil person came into the world +<span class="pagenum" id="p_72">72</span>in 1689—twenty-seven or eight years after +the birth of Defoe and one year after the +death of Bunyan. But whereas both of his +predecessors seem to strike notes almost +entirely of the seventeenth century, Richardson +seems to be absolutely of the eighteenth and, +with him, sentimentality was born in the world +of the novel. That perhaps was necessary +to an age that banished if not conventional, +then at least doctrinal, moralizings to its +collections of sermons in volume form. For +them of course there was a prodigious +demand.</p> + +<p>Of course, too, it would be wrong to assert +that moralizing found no place in the novels +of Richardson since the high moral purpose +breathes from every pore of his pages. But +it was not with moralizing that he made his +primary appeal as had been the case with +Bunyan, nor was it likely that had he so +done he would have found many readers. No, +it is his sentimentalizing that is his E string.</p> + +<p>Against that I have nothing to say. Anglo-Saxons +are sentimentalists before everything +and in all their arts, and it is probable that +without sentimentality as an ingredient no +Anglo-Saxon artist could work: certainly he +could have no appeal. To produce national +<span class="pagenum" id="p_73">73</span>masterpieces in paint Turner must bathe his +canvases deep in that gentle fluid; the +English lyric is a marvel of sentimentality +and so is English domestic architecture with +its mellow—or mellowed!—red brick, its +dove-cotes, its south walls for netted fruits. +So the first of modern novelists must be +one of the greatest of sentimentalists. And +on those lines his appeal is universal and +everlasting.</p> + +<p>Only to-day an American left the ship on +which I am writing in the port of Lisbon +and, I happening to mention because he was +in my mind the name of Richardson, this +American—professor at that and practitioner +of a sister art—this American gentleman +assured me solemnly that he read <i>Clarissa +Harlowe</i> at least twice every year and cried +often during each reading. Now there must +be some reason for this phenomenon, which +appears very singular. It is not, however, +rare, for the hottest literary discussions I have +ever had in England—where, of course, the +discussion of literature is not in good form—have +been with laymen like professors or +lawyers as to the relative merits of <i>Pamela</i> +and <i>Clarissa</i>.</p> + +<p>For me, I read Richardson for a hearty +<span class="pagenum" id="p_74">74</span>and wholesome dose of sentimentality and if +one does that one may as well have that +quality laid on as thickly as it will go. And +it seems to me that the history of a serving-maid +who resists her master’s efforts at seduction +and ultimately forces him to marry her +is a more sentimental affair than that of a +young lady of quality who permits herself +to be seduced by a relatively commonplace +Lothario. For myself I have always felt +inclined to cheer over the success of the +one young female rather than to weep for +the tribulations of the other. Pamela certainly +seems to be the more sporting character +of the two.</p> + +<p>Still, one should perhaps not read Richardson +for his sporting quality, and that sort of +thing is really no affair of mine. The main +point is that Samuel Richardson is still read +and read with enthusiasm. I have even met +persons who were engrossed by the conversations +in the Cedar Parlour of <i>Sir Charles +Grandison</i>.</p> + +<p>That Richardson’s tender muse was at +times too much for the robuster and more +cynical taste of his age is proved by the fact +that Fielding’s first famous novel was begun +as a parody on the first famous novel of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_75">75</span>Richardson. By that date the novel of commerce +was well on the way to the market +and young ladies lying on sofas reading the +latest fiction or furiously sending their maids +to the circulating libraries for the next five +volumes of their latest favourite—such young +ladies were familiar features of the social +landscape. Literature had, in fact, become a +sound, if not an immensely lucrative, +proposition.</p> + +<p>And it is pleasant to think that, happy as +he was in everything that he touched, Richardson +was not only novelist but printer and +publisher and quite a warm business man +in either capacity. He was, too, a favourite +correspondent and companion of innumerable +young ladies who consulted him as to +their amatory predicaments and because of +that he is not only the first novelist in the +modern sense of the word but also the first +literary feminist. You might call him an +eighteenth-century Henry James and not go +so far wrong.</p> + +<p>At any rate, he stands alone as a modern +novelist and had in England neither appreciable +imitators nor rivals until the arrival on +the scene of the author of the <i>Barchester +Towers</i> series.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_76">76</span></p> + +<p>Except for Smollett—whom it is hopeless +to expect Anglo-Saxon readers to appreciate +or to consume, the main stream of development +of the novel passed once more to the +Continent of Europe. Smollett begat Captain +Marryat, who was one of the greatest +of English novelists and is therefore regarded +as a writer for boys, Smollett himself being +most prized by the purveyors of books called +“curious” in second-hand catalogues.</p> + +<p>Before, however, considering Diderot, +Stendhal, Chateaubriand, and Flaubert, all +avowed followers of the author of <i>Clarissa</i>, +it might be as well to think a little about +Fielding—as at once a dreadful example of +how not to do things and as the begetter of +Thackeray and the product that it is convenient +to call the nuvvle as opposed to the +novel. For at about the date of the births of +Napoleon, Wellington, Ney, and many others +who began the modern world, and just +a little after the death of Richardson, and +just a little before the birth of the North +American Republic, and still a little more +before the Cæsarian operation that produced +the French Republic, distinct cleavages began +to make themselves observed in the fields +of writing, these eventually hardening themselves +<span class="pagenum" id="p_77">77</span>into the three main streams of the +Literature of Escape from the everyday +world; into the commercial product that +Mamma selected for your reading, that it is +convenient to call the nuvvle and that formed +the immense bulk of the reading matter, and +finally into the modern novel which does not +avoid the problems of the day and is written +with some literary skill. This last Richardson +begat.</p> + +<p>And it is convenient to say that Defoe, +in spite of his moralizations, was the first +writer of the Literature of Escape, just as +Smollett and Marryat may be described as +carrying it on and the young H. G. Wells +and the young Rudyard Kipling as bringing +it—at any rate temporarily—to a triumphant +close.</p> + +<p>Were it not that they were avowed moralizers +of a middle-to-lower-middle-class type, +the Fielding-to-Thackeray lineage of writers +might also be regarded as purveyors of the +Literature of Escape, but their continually +brought-in passages of moralizations are such +a nuisance that they cannot be ignored. +Though they were both amateurs in the +sense that neither knew how to write or +cared anything about it, Thackeray at times +<span class="pagenum" id="p_78">78</span>projected his scenes so wonderfully that now +and then he trembles dreadfully excitingly +on the point of passing from the stage of +purveyor of the nuvvle to that of the real +novelist. And it is to be said for Fielding +that although <i>Tom Jones</i> contains an immense +amount of rather nauseous special-pleading, +the author does pack most of it away into +solid wads of hypocrisy at the headings of +Parts or Chapters. These can in consequence +be skipped and the picaresque story with its +mildly salacious details can without difficulty +be followed. One might indeed almost say +that Fielding was a natural story-teller, whereas +Thackeray was none at all. Fielding at least, +like a story-teller in a school dormitory, does +manage to lose himself in details of people +running into and out of each others’ bedrooms +in hotel corridors at night—something +like that. But Thackeray never could: the +dread spectre of the Athenæum Club was +for ever in his background.</p> + +<p>And I imagine that the greatest literary +crime ever committed was Thackeray’s sudden, +apologetic incursion of himself into his +matchless account of the manœuvres of Becky +Sharp on Waterloo day in Brussels. The +greatest crime that anyone perhaps ever +<span class="pagenum" id="p_79">79</span>committed! For the motive of most crimes +is so obscure, so pathological or so fatalized +by hereditary weakness, that there is almost +nothing that cannot be pardoned once one +has dived beneath the calm surface of things. +But Thackeray as child-murderer can never +be forgiven: the deeper you delve into the +hidden springs of his offence the more unforgivable +does he appear.</p> + +<p>I had better perhaps explain the cause of +all this emotion for the benefit of the lay +reader who has not yet got at what I am +writing about.</p> + +<p>The struggle—the aspiration—of the +novelist down the ages has been to evolve a +water-tight convention for the framework +of the novel. He aspires—and for centuries +has aspired—so to construct his stories and +so to manage their surfaces that the carried-away +and rapt reader shall really think himself +to be in Brussels on the first of Waterloo +days or in Grand Central Station waiting +for the Knickerbocker Express to come in +from Boston though actually he may be sitting +in a cane lounge on a beach of Bermuda +in December. This is not easy.</p> + +<p>Of the three major novelists that we have +hitherto examined each in his own way had +<span class="pagenum" id="p_80">80</span>a try, consciously or unconsciously, at performing +this conjuring trick. Bunyan tried +to do it—and succeeded remarkably well—by +the simplest of story-teller’s devices. He +just told on in simple language, using such +simple images that the reader, astonished +and charmed to find the circumstances of his +own life typified in words and glorified by +print, is seized by the homely narrative and +carried clean out of himself into the world +of that singular and glorious tinker.</p> + +<p>Defoe, on the other hand, in the conscious +or unconscious effort to achieve a convention +for the novel, adopted the biographical or +autobiographical form, relying on the verisimilitude +of the details that he invented to +confirm the reader in the belief that his +characters had really existed and so to awaken +the sympathy that makes books readable. +And had he possessed a little more power of +projection or a little more subtlety in presenting +his figures and had his writing been +a little less pedestrian his works might have +gained and held the power to arouse a great +deal more enthusiasm than they actually do.</p> + +<p>Richardson, going a good deal further, has +left it on record that he was actually bothered +by the problem of the novelistic convention +<span class="pagenum" id="p_81">81</span>and that he racked his brain a long time before +arriving at the one he finally adopted. He +asked himself, that is to say, how the reader +was to be convinced that the author—and +by analogy still more his characters—how +could they know all the details that go to +making up a book? If, to reduce the matter +to its most elementary form, Sir Charles +Grandison is walking in the Yew Walk, how +can he know what characters are present +and what conversations are being carried on +in the Cedar Parlour, and since, to satisfy the +reader, the author is to be supposed to be +cognizant of all that passes in his novel, how +is <em>he</em> to know simultaneously what is happening +in both places?</p> + +<p>That at least is what bothered Richardson +and what has bothered all other novelists since +his day, though until quite lately no English +novelist made any serious attempt to attack +the problem. The method that Richardson +with characteristically homespun common +sense eventually worked out was simply to +cast the whole novel into correspondence, +the characters exchanging letters as to events +and as to their psychologies with other characters +or with anyone to whom a letter could +be handily addressed. In that way any +<span class="pagenum" id="p_82">82</span>character who was needed to know anything +could be given the information and the author +had only to let it be supposed that he had +an unusual knack of getting hold of the +correspondence of other people to convince +the reader for all eighteenth-century purposes. +For in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, +as every one knows, every one from +Madame de Sevigné upwards and downwards +addressed to every one else letters of +prodigious length and in the most excruciating +detail—and Richardson himself, as +we have seen, had a prodigious knowledge +of the prodigious letters that eighteenth-century +young ladies could address to even +unknown correspondents once their hearts +and feelings were touched. So that although +to-day the letter is one of the worst of methods +that exist for telling a story if the dictates of +probability are to be considered, Richardson +may be considered to have done very well +indeed with his peculiar form.</p> + +<p>To its disadvantages in other hands we +shall come in due time, but meanwhile +enormous applause is due to the author of +<i>Pamela</i> for having given the matter any +thought at all. And in any case his is a +figure so sympathetic and so craftsmanlike +<span class="pagenum" id="p_83">83</span>that we do well to love him. He is sound, +quiet, without fuss, going about his work +as a carpenter goes about making a chair and +in the end turning out an article of supreme +symmetry and consistence. I know of no other +figure in English literature—if it be not that of +Trollope—who so suggests the two supreme +artists of the world—Holbein and Bach.</p> + +<p>It would be hyperbole to suggest that +Richardson is as great in his art as either of +the other two. He had neither their power +over their materials nor their sense of the +beauty of natural things. Our gratitude to +him nevertheless should be great, for he +worked with the simplest materials and +manœuvred only the most normal of characters +in the most commonplace of events and +yet contrived to engross the minds of a large +section of mankind. How to do that is the +problem that, Richardson having been dead a +century and a half, still engrosses the novelist.</p> + +<p>And what more than anything is impressive +about his figure is that one knows almost +nothing about it: he is as little overdrawn +as are his characters, whereas the besetting +sin of almost all other English novelists from +Fielding to George Meredith is that they +seem to cut their characters out with hatchets +<span class="pagenum" id="p_84">84</span>and to colour them with the brushes of +house-painters and, never, even at that, being +able to let them alone, they are perpetually +pushing their own faces and winking at you +over the shoulders of Young Blifil, Uncle +Toby, the Widow Wadman, Dick Swiveller, +the Marchioness, Becky Sharp, Evan Harrington, +and the rest. That is usually applauded +by orthodox Anglo-Saxon criticism +and to talk of the gallery of portraits left by +this or that novelist is considered to be high +praise indeed. But, as a matter of fact, the +overdrawing of characters is merely a symptom +of the laziness and contempt for their +vehicle that is the too usual hall-mark of the +English writer of nuvvles. And that it +should be tremendously applauded is a symptom +of the disdain that the English critic +really feels for the novel. If English painting +consisted of nothing but the caricatures +of Rowlandson, Gillray, or Cruikshank, the +art-critic would discover very soon that that +grew monotonous, but since it is merely a +matter of prose-fiction it is easily accepted as +good enough; that which is too stupid to +be said in any other way being consigned +to the novel.</p> + +<p>Of course if you choose to consider Swift +<span class="pagenum" id="p_85">85</span>and, say, Beckford as novelists you do arrive +at something that you must, as you might +say, chew upon—at something that has some +mental dignity; and Smollett presents you +with problems of humanity that are at least +worth consideration. And naturally great +vital spirits like Dickens, floundering away +in oceans of words and eccentricities, will +from time to time hit upon collocations of +words and confrontations of characters that +are unsurpassed in the literature of any time +or nation. But from the death of Swift to +the publication of <i>The Way of All Flesh</i> +there is very little to be found in the English +novel that is not slightly unworthy of the +whole attention of a grown-up man—say of +a grown-up Frenchman.</p> + +<p>I have adumbrated somewhere—in some +previous pessimism!—the perturbation that +must beset any Anglo-Saxon who desired to +point out to almost any grown-up foreigner +of average intelligence the glories of the +English novel before, say, the day of the +<i>Yellow Book</i>. Let us then examine with a +little more attention the chief lights of that +Institution between, say, 1745, the year of +the death of Swift, and, say, 1890, when the +<i>Yellow Book</i> was well on the way.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_86">86</span></p> + +<p>Swift himself is obviously one of those +solitary figures like, in their different ways, +Shakespeare or Smollett or the author of +<i>The Way of All Flesh</i>. In a sense he resembles +Bunyan, that is to say he wrote allegories +which, as a literary <i>genre</i>, are usually tiresome +and unconvincing; but in his case, as in that +of Bunyan, his fierce powers of observation +and rendering carry him, as it were, in spite +of himself, into the realms of realism. It is +to be doubted if Swift ever aimed—as did, +say, Mr. H. G. Wells in, say, <i>The First Men +in the Moon</i>,—at giving the reader the sense +of vicarious experience. Nevertheless he got +there all the same and the corrosive nature +of his misanthropy almost aids the sense of +reality with which he overwhelms us. The +“purpose” of <i>Gulliver’s Travels</i> was no doubt +philosophic, as the purpose of the <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i> was moral; but Lilliput is as real +to us as the Slough of Despond and the Yahoos +are the figures of the most horrible experience +of every man who has come across them.</p> + +<p>So that if to your intelligent—and of +course slightly cynical—foreigner you presented +<i>Gulliver</i> and left it at that he might +remain edified or horror-struck according as +his individual frame of mind were pessimist +<span class="pagenum" id="p_87">87</span>of the other thing. But supposing you were +to present him with the Steele-cum-Addison +collaboration of the <i>Tatler</i> or the <i>Spectator</i> +or with <i>Tom Jones</i> itself, which was written +about a quarter of a century later than +<i>Gulliver</i> and thirty years or so after the last +number of the <i>Spectator</i> appeared in 1714: +and supposing you added—yes, certainly, +suppose you add <i>Tristram Shandy</i> and the +<i>Sentimental Journey</i>, the first appearing or +being written between 1760 and 1767 and +the second being published in 1768! Keep +up your sleeve Tobias Smollett whose <i>Humphry +Clinker</i> was published three years after the +<i>Sentimental Journey</i> and in the year of Smollett’s +death at the age of fifty. And let us conclude +this immediate inquiry of ours as ending with +the awful name of the Wizard of the North +who was born in the year of Smollett’s death +and lived to be sixty.</p> + +<p>As we have seen, Defoe in his <i>Advice +from the Scandalous Club</i>, that was a “feature” +of his periodical <i>Review of the Affairs of France</i>, +very little anticipated—but by five years, +indeed—what may be regarded as the fiction +of the Addison-Steele collaboration. One is +so apt to regard Defoe as of the seventeenth +and Addison as of the eighteenth centuries +<span class="pagenum" id="p_88">88</span>that this appears rather astonishing, but actually +the <i>Review</i> ran from 1704 to 1713 and the +<i>Tatler</i> plus <i>Spectator</i> from 1709 to 1714. +Defoe’s publication was so essentially commercial +and the other two so essentially +social that the matter is rather one of chronology +than comparison.</p> + +<p>The fact that the novel had not yet begun +as a commercial “proposition” to come into +its own reduced Addison and Steele no doubt +from the rank of novelists to those of draftsmen +of “characters.” The novels of Defoe +were “faked” memoirs and the other fiction +of the period mostly consisted of equally +“faked” memoirs of persons of quality, +court-mistresses, and the like. And the “characters” +and sham correspondence about social +questions of the day that characterized the +<i>Spectator</i> may well be considered as developments +of those popular, fictitious productions. +Sir Roger de Coverley, Will Wimble, and +the rest are as it were the characters of a +novel, standing about and waiting for employment +as the leaden soldiers of a child await +their owner’s orders to fall in.</p> + +<p>The idea of sustained fiction might indeed, +if you liked and if you analysed the matter +very closely, be said not by any means yet +<span class="pagenum" id="p_89">89</span>to have reached the public consciousness, and +though for us <i>Clarissa</i> may seem to be the +first of novels, its peculiar form—of correspondence—may +well, in the public mind of +its day, have given it the aspect of the last +of the spurious memoirs. And, considering +the nature of the future influence of Richardson +over the French realists from Diderot to +Flaubert, it may be more accurate to regard +that aspect as the truer one. For, in effect, +the French realist movement from Diderot’s +<i>Le Neveu de Rameau</i> to <i>Le Rouge et le Noir</i> +and again to <i>Madame Bovary</i> may in the last +event be regarded as much more a movement +for the production of fictitious memoirs than +the narration of sustained tales, the difference +between Richardson, Flaubert, and Joseph +Conrad or Turgenev being simply one of +form. Richardson, that is to say, tried to +assure you that Clarissa was a real person +by the mechanical device of publishing her +letters, whilst Flaubert and his school try +to hypnotize you into believing in their +characters by methods of projection rather +than of narration.</p> + +<p>And the trouble with the English nuvvelist +from Fielding to Meredith is that not one +of them cares whether you quite believe in +<span class="pagenum" id="p_90">90</span>their characters or not. If you had told +Flaubert or Conrad in the midst of their +passionate composings that you were not +convinced of the reality of Homais or Tuan +Jim, as like as not they would have called +you out and shot you, and in similar circumstances +Richardson would have showed himself +extremely disagreeable. But Fielding, Thackeray, +or Meredith would have cared relatively +little about that, though any one of them +would have knocked you down if they +could, supposing you had suggested that +he was not a “gentleman.” So would +any English novelist to-day.</p> + +<p>That of course is admirable in its effect on +Anglo-Saxon literary-social life where anyone +taking pen in hand becomes <i>ipso fatso</i> an +esquire for all users of type-writing machines. +But it is bitter bad for the English novel.</p> + +<p>It is bitter bad for the English novel because—as +is the case with all human enterprises—the +art of the novel is so difficult a thing that +unless a man’s whole energies are given to +it he had much better otherwise occupy himself. +For if Shakespeare’s ambitions for coat-armour +had antedated instead of coming +after <i>The Tempest</i>, where should we be to-day? +We have to thank our stars that he was +<span class="pagenum" id="p_91">91</span>probably first a lousy, adulterous, poaching +scoundrel—like Villon!</p> + +<p>The lot of the novelist is, in fact, hard—but +not harder than that of any other man. +If you put it to bakers, tram-conductors, +politicians, or musicians that they must be +first bakers and the rest and then gentlemen, +they will sigh, but admit it. It is almost +only the English novelist who will aspire +at being first gentleman and then craftsman—or +even not craftsman at all since it is not +really gentlemanly to think of being anything +but a gentleman.</p> + +<p>This is an incisive way of putting a truth +that might perhaps be more wrapped up in +social or material generalizations, but it is +none the less a hard truth, and if you consider +the case of Fielding, connected with the best +families, placeman and diplomatist in a small +way, and compare him with Smollett who +was socially nothing at all with no chance +of a change, you will see that truth all the +more clearly.</p> + +<p>God forbid that I should say anything +really condemnatory of any book by any +brother-novelist, alive or dead. One is here +to commend all that one can commend and +to leave the rest alone. But there are few +<span class="pagenum" id="p_92">92</span>books that I more cordially dislike than +<i>Tom Jones</i>. That is no critical pronouncement +but merely a statement of a personal +prejudice: one may dislike grape-fruit and +yet acknowledge its admirable qualities, or one +may, as I do, dislike the quality of goose-flesh +that reading Mr. George Moore will confer on +one’s skin and yet acknowledge Mr. Moore +as easily the greatest of living technicians.</p> + +<p>But as regards <i>Tom Jones</i> my personal +dislike goes along with a certain cold-blooded, +critical condemnation. I dislike +Tom Jones, the character, because he is a +lewd, stupid, and treacherous phenomenon; +I dislike Fielding, his chronicler, because he +is a bad sort of hypocrite. Had Fielding +been in the least genuine in his moral aspirations +it is Blifil that he would have painted +attractively and Jones who would have come +to the electric chair, as would have been the +case had Jones lived to-day.</p> + +<p>Of course that is merely saying that Fielding +liked a type that I dislike—but what +appals me in view of the serious, cynical +foreigner that I have postulated our taking +about with us is the extremely thin nature of +all the character-drawing, of all the events and +of all the catastrophes. Is it to be seriously +<span class="pagenum" id="p_93">93</span>believed that Tom Jones’s benefactor would +have turned upon him on the flimsy nature +of the evidence adduced against him, or, +equally, is it to be believed that Tom Jones’s +young woman would have again taken up +with him after all the eye-openers she had +had, she being represented as a girl of spirit? +It simply isn’t in any world of any seriousness +at all. The fact, in short, is that Tom Jones +is a papier-mâché figure, the catastrophes +the merest invention without any pretence at +being convincing and even the mere morality +of the most leering and disastrous kind.</p> + +<p>For myself, I am no moralist: I consider +that if you do what you want you must take +what you get for it and that if you deny +yourself things you will be better off than if +you don’t. But fellows like Fielding, and +to some extent Thackeray, who pretend that +if you are a gay drunkard, lecher, squanderer +of your goods and fumbler in placket-holes you +will eventually find a benevolent uncle, concealed +father or benefactor who will shower +on you bags of tens of thousands of guineas, +estates and the hands of adorable mistresses—those +fellows are dangers to the body politic +and horribly bad constructors of plots.</p> + +<p>It is all very well to say that such happy +<span class="pagenum" id="p_94">94</span>endings were the convention of the day, +that you find them in the <i>School for Scandal</i>, +<i>The Vicar of Wakefield</i> and in every eighteenth-century +romance that you pick up out of the +twopenny book-box, and it is all very well +to say that the public demands a happy +ending. But the really great writer is not +bound by the conventions of his day, nor, +if he desires to give his reader a happy ending, +need he select a wastrel like Jones as the +recipient of his too easily bestowed favours.</p> + +<p>If, in short, we are to regard Fielding as a +serious writer writing for grown-up people, we +must regard him also as a rather intolerable +scoundrel with perhaps <i>Jonathan Wild</i> to his +credit. But <i>Jonathan Wild</i> is of another category +and, neither winking nor leering, might be +regarded as the finger on the wall, pointing out +what happens to the Tom Joneses of the world +if their case is regarded with any seriousness.</p> + +<p>But the fact is that for a century and a +half after the death of Fielding nothing in +the Anglo-Saxon world was further from +anyone, either novelist or layman, than the +idea that the novel could be taken seriously. +It was a thing a little above a fairy-tale for +children, a little above a puppet-play; and, +if not actually as damned socially and clerically +<span class="pagenum" id="p_95">95</span>as the actor who could not be either +received at court or buried in consecrated +ground, the novelist was practically without +what the French call an <i>état civil</i> because his +was not a serious profession. In England +that state of things still pertains. In the +demobilization forms after the late War the +novelist was actually placed in the eighteenth +category—along with gipsies, vagrants, and +other non-productive persons; and my last +public act in Great Britain being to allow +my name to be placed on a list of voters, when +I gave my avocation to the political agent +as being that of a novelist, he exclaimed: +“Oh, don’t say that, sir. Say ‘Gentleman’!” +He was anxious that his list should appear as +serious as possible.</p> + +<p>That being the state of things and the +novelist being human—for you cannot be a +novelist and lack the ordinary aspirations of +the human being!—for that century and a +half the Anglo-Saxon public had the novels +that it deserved. I do not mean to say that +generous spirits lacked amongst the ranks of +fiction-writers. That great genius, Dickens, +thrashed oppressions and shams with the +resplendent fury of an Isaiah; and that singular +megalomaniac, Charles Reade, did, with <i>It Is +<span class="pagenum" id="p_96">96</span>Never Too Late to Mend</i>, really succeed in +modifying the system of solitary confinement +in English gaols. And you have had <i>Uncle +Tom’s Cabin</i>. But those works of propaganda +had either no literary value at all or when, +as in the case of Dickens, they did have the +literary value that genius can infuse into work +however faulty, their work itself suffered by +the very intensity of their reforming passions.</p> + +<p>That tendency alone has deprived the novel +in Anglo-Saxondom of almost all the artistic +or even the social value that it might have +had, since it became a vehicle for preventing +the comfortable classes thinking of unpleasant +subjects whilst presenting their agreeable somnolences +with the warming possibilities of +considering their neighbours’ defects. It became, +that is to say, the week-day, post-prandial +sermon preached by a family divine above all +anxious to avoid giving offence to those who +provided his daily bread. And gentlemanly +reformer, the British novelist consciously or +unconsciously remains to this day—in the +great bulk.</p> + +<p>That Dickens, on the other hand, had, any +more than Bunyan, any <i>arrière-pensée</i> at all +should never for a moment be thought. His +was an agonized soul shuddering at the tortures +<span class="pagenum" id="p_97">97</span>that, as a poor child, he had seen inflicted +on the sufferings of non-comfortable humanity +in the horrible days—for the under-dog!—of +the last years of the reigns of the Georges +and of the early years of the reign of Queen +Victoria. All the horrors of insanitation, +filth, child-labour, imprisonment for debt, +the gallows for petty theft, the hulks and the +rest he had himself witnessed or endured and +at these horrors he lashed with the mad +enthusiasm of a wolf that snaps at the insupportable +whip of the trainer. His novels +were probably—at least in the beginning—relatively +nothing to him; if he could have +found any other way he would have poured +out his feelings as readily in that. But, +happening on the novel and having a matchless +command of English, he took the simple +course of presenting you with villains all +black, heroes all white and ringletted heroines +all pink. He had to see—though that is to +reverse the colours—the world in terms of +Legrees, Uncle Toms, or Amelia Osbornes.</p> + +<p>That, in effect, was the beginning of the +end, the novel becoming <em>the</em> vehicle for the +reform of abuses. And it is astonishing how +short has been the career of the novel as an +art compared with that of pottery-moulding, +<span class="pagenum" id="p_98">98</span>baking, weaving, or any other human avocation. +You may say that it began with Richardson +and ended—for the time being and as far +as Anglo-Saxondom is concerned—with <i>Oliver +Twist</i>, which, significantly enough, appeared +in the first year of Victoria’s spacious reign.</p> + +<p>Richardson, that is to say, did have an +artistic convention of sorts, did try in some +way to render life, did deal almost exclusively +in neither very moral nor very immoral +personages, but there almost all attempts at +rendering life or the normal almost came to +an end. <i>The Vicar of Wakefield</i>, “noted for +purity and optimism,” says my official guide +to dates, was an obviously Richardsonian +<i>pastiche</i>; Henry Mackenzie’s <i>Man of Feeling</i> +may be said to have exaggerated Richardson’s +tearful sentimentality; and Smollett (“marked +by coarseness and brutality”) whose first +book was published eight years after the +publication of <i>Pamela</i> and in the same year +as <i>Clarissa</i>, undoubtedly had a shot at rendering +the same world that Richardson rendered. +It is not as absurd as it may seem to say that +<i>Pamela</i> suggested <i>Roderick Random</i>; it certainly +suggested <i>Madame Bovary</i>—and <i>Babbitt</i>!</p> + +<p>It would, however, undoubtedly be absurd +to suggest to the public that Smollett was a +<span class="pagenum" id="p_99">99</span>greater artist or a greater novelist than either +Fielding or Dickens: and yet, if the novel is +to be regarded as a rendering of life, there +is not much way out of it. He remains, +however, and will probably always remain, +an isolated figure. He was bitter, and as he +rendered what he had seen and since what he +had seen had been coarse and brutal, those +will be the epithets that Anglo-Saxondom +will for ever bestow on him. He wrote +about the sea in a period glorious for England’s +sea-history—but in spite of that he could +hardly be regarded—as is Marryat—as a +writer for boys. The life of which he treated +was too remote from to-day for the reader +interested in the renderings of the life of +to-day to read of it with any enthusiasm; +he was little less virulent than Swift and, if +he is even less read, he receives even less lip-service. +So no doubt he is contented.</p> + +<p>Marryat—as a writer read by boys, men +being already too dulled in the sense at twenty +to appreciate him—has probably, through +the boys, exercised the greatest influence on +the English character that any writer ever did +exercise. His magnificent gifts of drawing—not +exaggerating—character and of getting +an atmosphere have so worked that few of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_100">100</span>us have not been to sea in frigates before the +age of eighteen and come in some way in +contact with non-comfortable men and women. +I have seldom been so impressed as when, the +other day, I re-read <i>Peter Simple</i> for my +pleasure. It was to come into contact with +a man who could write and see and feel. +For me, nothing in <i>War and Peace</i> is as valuable +as the boat cutting-out expeditions of Marryat +and for me he remains the greatest of English +novelists. His name is not even mentioned +in the manual of literary dates with which I +have just been refreshing my memory.</p> + +<p>I do not, however, dwell at any length on +either Smollett or Marryat because, great as +for me they seem, they still remain individual +figures leaving very little trace on the traditions +of English literature—and that indeed was +the case with Fenimore Cooper who was one +of the most beautiful pure stylists that the +English language has yet excited into writing. +There is in <i>The Two Admirals</i> a passage +descriptive of mists rising from the sails and +cordage of battleships as seen from the turf +of cliff-tops at dawn, that remains for me one +of the incomparable passages in the language. +And, whilst I am about the matter of pure +style, I may as well explain here why lately I +<span class="pagenum" id="p_101">101</span>mentioned that I was then writing in Lisbon +harbour. That apparently egotistic excrescence +was due to the fact that I liked to +remember that—no, not Fielding—but Beckford +once lay in Lisbon harbour and wrote +most beautiful prose there. Beckford is +known only as the author of <i>Vathek</i>, which +is, to be sure, most remarkable as a <i>tour de +force</i>—and which is usually bound up with +<i>Rasselas</i> in popular reprints; but he is also +the author of <i>Letters from Portugal</i> which +might almost be regarded as a novel, such +an admirable autobiographical portrait do +they give of their writer in his adventurous +progress from the city of Camoens and Vasco +da Gama to the monastery of Batalha.</p> + +<p>Prose, I suppose, is to some extent the +business of a writer on the English Novel, +so I suppose I may be pardoned my digression +about Beckford and make the note that if I +wanted to put together a small, exquisitely +pleasing fascicule of admirable because simple +English prose I should take a passage from the +suppressed Preface to the Bible, a passage from +Henry V’s address to his soldiers before Agincourt, +one from Clarendon, one from <i>Gulliver</i>, +one from Johnson’s <i>Life of Drake</i>, the passage +from Cooper that I have mentioned above, and +<span class="pagenum" id="p_102">102</span>one from the <i>Letters from Portugal</i>, one from +Maine’s <i>Ancient Law</i>—and then one from any +book of W. H. Hudson. The English language +is not very distinguished for its prose, but that +would make a very admirable little volume! +One might almost add the opening description +of the village from White’s <i>Selborne</i>.</p> + +<p>It is of course impossible to exhaust the +topic of the English novel from Fielding to +Henry James in a few paragraphs of a small +book. But the topic of main currents of that +literature is more easily got rid of simply +because there are practically no main currents +at all. There are some good writers, but of +a Tradition practically no trace. The writers +who spring most immediately to the imagination +as being somewhere near in their works +to the main stream of the international novel—for +the Novel is after all an international +affair—the most unforgettable writers of that +type are two or three women. That I suppose +is because, whilst the men ran about +actively intent on proving that they were +gentlemen or in improving the ungentle +world, the women had to prove that they +were not unladylike and so remained at home +and looked at life, without any very immediate +aim at publicity or even at publication.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_103">103</span></p> + +<p>At any rate, if you take Miss Burney’s +<i>Evelina</i>, Miss Edgeworth’s <i>Castle Rackrent</i>, +Miss Austen’s <i>Sense and Sensibility</i>, Mrs. +Gaskell’s <i>Mary Barton</i>, George Eliot’s <i>Scenes +from Clerical Life</i>, and Miss Brontë’s <i>Villette</i>, +you do get something of a kinship, if not +much of a tradition, and if you add to them +the <i>Barchester Towers</i> series of Trollope and +the works of Mark Rutherford and George +Gissing you do get, too, some attempts at +rendering English life that are above the +attention of adults with the mentality of +French boys of sixteen. At rendering, that +is to say, rather than at the mere relating of +a more or less arbitrary tale so turned as to +ensure a complacent view of life and carried +on by characters that as a rule are—six feet +high and gliding two inches above the ground!</p> + +<p>That is, of course, an arbitrary generalization +as to all the English nuvvles that string out +from, say, Scott to, say, the late Marion Crawford. +But if sweeping it is not <em>completely</em> +unfair. Obviously even Scott’s <i>Antiquary</i> is +worth consideration if one had the time, or +<i>The Cloister and the Hearth</i>, or let us say <i>Lorna +Doone</i>. That last work I read over twelve +times when I was a boy and from the beginning: +“If any man would hear a plain tale +<span class="pagenum" id="p_104">104</span>told plainly, I John Ridd of the parish of +Oare” to the end; I dare say I could recite +half the book to-day. But then Blackmore +was a market-gardener! Let me lay on his +altar these alms for oblivion, for I suppose +that few people to-day read of the Doones +of Badgeworthy or of how John Ridd took +his Lorna home in the great snows.</p> + +<p>In short, if you omit Dickens and Thackeray +as immense amateurs who wrote from +time to time very admirable passages, and if +you do not like the works—from <i>Evelina</i> to +<i>New Grub Street</i>—that I have mentioned in +my last paragraph but two, the amount of +work that you can read in English produced +between 1799 and 1899 or so will seem +extremely small—supposing you to be of any +at all adult tastes or of any seriousness of +approach to literary matters.</p> + +<p>If, on the other hand, you are indifferent +to whether you are convinced by what you +read and care little with what you occupy +your spare time and desire to fill up your +hours with an occupation calling for as little +mental concentration as, say, a game of golf, +I dare say you could agreeably narcotize yourself +still with <i>Rob Roy</i> or <i>The Tower of London</i> +or <i>The Woman in White</i> or, say, <i>Rudder Grange</i>.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_105">105</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_FOUR"> + CHAPTER FOUR + <br> + TO JOSEPH CONRAD + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Thus in Mid-Victorian years there established +itself for all the world to see—The English Nuvvle.</p> + +<p>And inasmuch as this phenomenon was +really, in the last event, combined—and no +doubt unconscious—socio-political propaganda, +it was accepted by the whole world—and +by the whole world even more than +by England. For if, as it were, you shut +your eyes and consider what images are +brought up before you by the words The +English Novel you will see a Manor House, +inhabited by the Best People: Sir Thomas, +amiable but not bright; Lady Charlotte, +benevolent, charitable, in an ample crinoline, +an Earl’s daughter; the Misses Jean and +Charlotte as pure as dew within lily-chalices; +Mr. Tom—not absolutely satisfactory; Mr. +Edward, always satisfactory; pigeons, shorthorns, +a rose-garden, a still-room, a housekeeper, +<span class="pagenum" id="p_106">106</span>a rectory. And you will see a whole +countryside, a whole continent, a whole +world so conducted that those amiable but +not bright personages shall lead amiable, idle, +and almost blameless existences in an atmosphere +of curtsyings and cap-touchings. It +was a world-ideal: you found households +modelling themselves upon it in the Government +of Kiev, in the State of Massachusetts, +in Pomerania, in the department of the +Var. So that God’s Englishman of the novels +of William Black—God’s drooping-bearded +Englishman with his crinolined or be-bustled +consort, carrying fly-fishing rods and croquet +mallets, became the type which the whole +world sighingly aped. For these nuvvles—to +which nobody surely could object—were +read in Sarajevo as in Potsdam, in Washington +as on the Berkshire downs. They were +works written for the would-be gentry by the +near-gentry which latter, if their books proved +sufficiently acceptable, might almost aspire +to such establishments as they described and, +in the second generation, to authentic gentrydom. +The writer himself, like Shakespeare, +would as a rule have to content himself +with a grant of arms from the College of +Heralds. But one could always, if one were +<span class="pagenum" id="p_107">107</span>a novelist, dazzle one’s mind with the idea +that Edward Bulwer Lytton, author of <i>The +Last Days of Pompeii</i>, became successively Sir +Edward Bulwer, and Lord, Lytton, and Benjamin +Disraeli, also a novelist, Earl of +Beaconsfield and favourite of his Sovereign.</p> + +<p>The nuvvles, naturally, differed in subject +and even sometimes in treatment. <i>The Woman +in White</i> was, I think, written in letters for +all the world like <i>Clarissa</i>; <i>Esmond</i>—which +described the founding of a county-family +in Virginia, U.S.A.,—was autobiographical; +or you might have several characters each +speaking in solid autobiographical wads; +or several diarists. There was, in fact, no +literary convention in particular—there was +only the point of view. <i>Romola</i> and <i>Far +From the Madding Crowd</i> had to be recognized +as of the same ethical family as <i>Pelham</i> or +<i>Lorna Doone</i> or they would not do at all.</p> + +<p>Occasionally disturbing breaths swept across +the trout-ponds. The newest novel of Thackeray +might cause a great deal of trepidating +discussion under the breath, or the latest +passionate outpouring of Dickens might cause +Mamma to ask dear Papa whether Lucy and +Emily ought really to be allowed to read it. +Steerforth and Little Em’ly came <em>very</em> near +<span class="pagenum" id="p_108">108</span>the Knuckle: but the lap-dog died amongst +such lamentations and the first heroine so +delicately, and such refined retribution overtook +alike Steerforth and the young woman +that, if <i>Copperfield</i> itself was put on the index +of the young ladies’ boudoir, <i>Bleak House</i> +which “introduced Society” could not be +kept from the fair denizens of that be-chintzed +sanctuary. I believe, however, that <i>Great +Expectations</i>, the last of Dickens’ works to +show his passionate compassion for the under-dog, +had a pretty rough passage.</p> + +<p>I came into the world myself at about the +hey-day of this national phenomenon, but, +by the time I had any real literary consciousness, +its supremacy was beginning to be +already challenged. My own mother enjoined +on me the reading of <i>Silas Marner</i>, <i>The Mill +on the Floss</i>, <i>Wuthering Heights</i>, <i>Sidonia the +Sorceress</i>, <i>Lorna Doone</i>, <i>The Woman in White</i>, +<i>The Moonstone</i>, <i>Diana of the Crossways</i>, and +<i>Far From the Madding Crowd</i>. But then my +mother was “advanced” and never wore +a crinoline. My father thought Dickens was +vulgar and though he did not forbid me to +read he certainly deprecated my expressing +any enthusiasm for—<i>Bleak House</i>. He thought +too—I don’t know why—that Robert Louis +<span class="pagenum" id="p_109">109</span>Stevenson was meretricious, except for the +<i>Inland Voyage</i>. My grandfather, who was +considerably more “advanced” than either +my father or my mother, first recommended +me to read—when I was about seventeen—<i>Madame +Bovary</i>, <i>Tartarin de Tarascon</i> and <i>Tartarin +sur les Alpes</i>. He was pleased when +at school they gave us the <i>Lettres de mon +Moulin</i> of Daudet and a little later made me +read <i>Roderick Random</i>, <i>Humphry Clinker</i>, +<i>Snarleyyow</i>, <i>Midshipman Easy</i>, Waterton’s <i>Wanderings +in South America</i>, which was all the +same as a novel. My uncle William Rossetti +gave me <i>The Castle of Otranto</i>, <i>Caleb Williams</i>, +<i>Frankenstein</i> and another novel of Meinhold’s—<i>The +Amber Witch</i>. I inherited from my +uncle Oliver Madox Brown a large number +of translations from the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century +Spanish. Trollope I had to +find out for myself, oddly enough. I suppose +my own family were too advanced to care +to advocate the reading of projections of the +lives of the cathedral clergy. That, at any +rate, was the reading of a boy of from twelve +to eighteen of fairly advanced family in the +’eighties of last century. It will be observed +that, with the possible exception of Wilkie +Collins’ two books, these were all works that +<span class="pagenum" id="p_110">110</span>would not normally be read in Middle Class +families, either because of social outspokennesses, +individuality of outlook, or difficulties +of style. But even for my family it was then +possible to go too far. I remember my mother +being seriously perturbed because at the age +of thirteen or so I was kissed at a tea-party +by Mrs. Lynn Lynton whose gleaming spectacles +certainly frightened me and whose +novels advocated the Revolt of the Daughters +of that day—and, if it had lain within the +ideas of right and wrong of my family to +forbid anyone to read anything, I should +certainly have been forbidden to read the +works of Rhoda Broughton, who advocated +the giving of latchkeys to women.</p> + +<p>Nemesis was by then on the way.</p> + +<p>The newer ideas began with the cheapening +of the products of the press—and I dare say +that cheapening was a good deal hastened +by the pirating of American works. I remember +still with delight the shilling edition—it +was bound in scarlet paper—in which I first +purchased at the age of fourteen in a place +called Malvern Wells, Artemus Ward’s <i>Among +the Mormons</i>, Sam Slick’s <i>The Clockmaker</i>, +Mark Twain’s <i>Mississippi Pilot</i>, Carleton’s +<i>Farm Ballads</i>, and ever so many other American +<span class="pagenum" id="p_111">111</span>books which I suppose must have been pirated +or they could scarcely have been sold for a +shilling. And, though I was ready at the +injunctions of my family to read Lope da +Vega or Smollett, nothing would have induced +me to spend sixpence on taking out from a +circulating library the three-volume novels +of William Black, Besant and Rice and the +other purveyors of the nuvvle when by saving +up my pocket-money I could buy for a shilling—or +ninepence net—the <i>Biglow Ballads</i> or +<i>Hans Breitmann</i>.</p> + +<p>So that of the novel of commerce of those +days I really know very little—and I do not +think that there is very much about it that +anyone need know. That it existed in great +numbers in three volumes apiece was obvious. +In every little town in England there was +in those days a circulating library and in +every circulating library in every town were +shelves on shelves of obfusc bindings—but +even the literary textbooks of to-day give you +no more names for the Victorian period than +Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, the Brontës, +Charles Kingsley, Robert Louis Stevenson +(who died in 1894), George Meredith and +Thomas Hardy. So that even the official +list is a pretty meagre one and if I rack my +<span class="pagenum" id="p_112">112</span>brains really hard I cannot add many names +to it. I have already given you Black, +Blackmore, Besant and Rice who collaborated—and +of writers of considerable merit, +Mark Rutherford and Samuel Butler, but +neither of these really belong to the period—and +Jane Austen really precedes it, though +we may well say that she originated the novel +of the country-house that was followed—at +such great intervals—by the swarm of +commercial writers.</p> + +<p>That all the commercial writers who solidly +turned out solid three-deckers produced absolute +rubbish need not be assumed. Miss +Braddon, authoress of <i>Lady Audley’s Secret</i>, +did honest, sound journeyman’s work, year +in, year out, during a very long life—and +obviously such a writer as Mrs. Gaskell will +not ever be entirely forgotten, if only on +account of <i>Cranford</i>. I wish, myself, that +more weight attached to her <i>Mary Barton</i>, a +grim—and indeed an extraordinarily painful—account +of Mid-Victorian labour troubles.</p> + +<p>And of course there is Trollope.</p> + +<p>Trollope and Miss Austen—like Shakespeare +and Richardson—stand so absolutely +alone that nothing very profitable can be +said about them by a writer analysing British +<span class="pagenum" id="p_113">113</span>fiction in search of traces of main-currents +of tradition. They were both so aloof, so +engrossed, so contemplative—and so masterly—that +beyond saying that some people prefer +<i>The Warden</i> to <i>Framley Parsonage</i> and <i>Sense +and Sensibility</i> to <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>, and that +others think the reverse, there is very little +to be said. These at least are authentic +writers: they neither flare out into passages +that are all super-genius—as in Dickens’ +passage about the dry leaves at Mr. Pecksniff’s +back-door, nor do they descend to the +intolerable banalities of the endings of <i>Copperfield</i> +or <i>Vanity Fair</i>. But, as in the case of +Turgenev, the aspiring writer can learn very +little of either. These novelists write well, +know how to construct a novel so as to keep +the interest going with every word until +the last page—but after that all you can say +is that they were just temperaments, and +quiet ones at that. Inimitable—that is what +they are. You could imitate Oscar Wilde—but +never Trollope giving you the still, +slow stream of English country and small-town +life. Nor could anyone else ever give +you such pure agony of interest and engrossment +as you can get out of the financial troubles +over a few pounds of the poor clergyman in +<span class="pagenum" id="p_114">114</span><i>Framley Parsonage</i>. I shiver every time that +I think of that book.</p> + +<p>But once those tributes are paid it is astonishing +to look back on the course of the novel +in England from the earliest times to say, 1895, +Bunyan, Defoe, Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, +and then the few Victorians of whom we +have been treating. It is an astonishingly +small crop, even if you let me add Marryat and +add for yourselves the other solitary figure +of Mark Twain, one of the greatest prose-writers +the English language has produced.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, across the Channel, the main +stream of the Novel pursued its slow course.</p> + +<p>It had begun with Richardson. His vogue +with the French would be incomprehensible +if we were not able to consider that the +French Revolution was, in the end, a sentimental +movement, basing itself on civic, +parental, filial, and rhetorical virtues. If the +French beheaded Marie Antoinette it was in +order that Monsieur Durand, stay-maker of +the Passage Choiseul, might be sufficiently +well-fed to utter tearful homilies to his children; +for homilies uttered by starving peasants +with their bones pushing through their +skins and rags—such homilies would little +impress their children with the solid advantages +<span class="pagenum" id="p_115">115</span>of virtuous careers. And the moment +you consider pre-revolutionary France from +that angle the appeal of the author of <i>Pamela</i> +becomes instantly blindingly clear.</p> + +<p>At any rate, Diderot wrote <i>Rameau’s Nephew</i> +as a direct imitation of that work of Richardson +and a whole school of the contemporaries of +Diderot imitated <i>Rameau’s Nephew</i>. The influence, +again, of Richardson is plainly visible +in Chateaubriand—for without Richardson +how could he have written long passages +like: “How sad it is to think that eyes that +are too old to see have not yet outlived the +ability to shed tears,” and the like. And +if the Richardsonian influence upon Stendhal +does not so immediately spring to the eye, +we know from Stendhal’s letters that it was +extremely profound.</p> + +<p>It was to Diderot—and still more to +Stendhal—that the Novel owes its next great +step forward. That consisted in the discovery +that words put into the mouth of a character +need not be considered as having the +personal backing of the author. At that point +it became suddenly evident that the Novel +as such was capable of being regarded as a +means of profoundly serious and many-sided +discussion and therefore a medium of profoundly +<span class="pagenum" id="p_116">116</span>serious investigation into the human +case. It came into its own.</p> + +<p>It is obvious of course that before the day +of Diderot authors had put into the mouths +of their characters sentiments with which +they themselves could not be imagined to +sympathize. But that was done only by +characters marked “villain,” all the sympathetic +characters having to utter sentiments +which were either those of the author or +those with which the author imagined the solid +middle classes would agree. Young Mr. Blifil, +Mrs. Slipslop, and the rest might say very +wicked things, but they were so obviously +wicked and absurd that no one could take +them with any seriousness either as pronouncements +or as worthy to be taken as the author’s +opinion: Mr. Allworthy or Amelia Dobbin, +on the other hand, could never utter anything +without the reader having to exclaim: +“<em>How</em> virtuous!”... And consider the +material success that always awaited the good!</p> + +<p>By the time the thirty years or so that +stretched between 1790 and 1820 had impinged +on the world it had gradually become evident, +on the Continent at least, that so many differing +codes of morality could synchronize in +the same era, in the same nation and even +<span class="pagenum" id="p_117">117</span>in the same small community—it had become +so evident that if Simeon Stylites and Oliver +Cromwell were saints, Jesus Christ and Gautama +Buddha and several Chinese philosophers +were very good men, that the Novel, if it +was at all to express its day, must express itself +through figures less amateurishly blacked +than Uriah Heep and less sedulously whited +than the Cherryble brothers.</p> + +<p>Changes in literary methods are brought +about very slowly and permeate more slowly +still into the taste of the more or less unlettered +classes who make up the bulk of the desirable +readers for an author. As a rule the process +begins with the younger writers who find +tiresome or ludicrous the accepted work of +their day; a little later the more experienced +of readers, tiring in their turn of accepted +methods in the works they consume, turn +with relief to the younger writers, the professorial +and established critics still thundering +violently against the younger schools. For, +everywhere but in England, schools establish +themselves as soon as restlessnesses betray +themselves in artistic circles. The more experienced +readers, in spite of the critics, +spreading abroad amongst the larger classes +of the relatively unlettered the taste for the +<span class="pagenum" id="p_118">118</span>newer modes, at first that larger class become +converts and then the professional critics +whose bread and butter depends on their +following the public taste. So a school is +established and for a time holds its own. +Then it gives place to other modes.</p> + +<p>That is the quite invariable process with +all the products and all the methods, of all +the arts. But naturally, as the arts grow +older, their practitioners have a better chance +of evolving newer and sounder methods, for +the number of their predecessors has inevitably +increased. Bunyan must evolve his method +for himself; Defoe could study Bunyan; +Richardson, Bunyan and Defoe; Diderot, +Richardson and his predecessors; Stendhal +could draw on the experience of four generations; +Flaubert on that of five; Conrad on +that of six. This of course is a source of +danger to weaker brethren, for in each generation +an enormous amount of insipid art is +turned out by inferior students receiving +their instruction at the hands of academic +instructors. That cannot be helped. But +the fact remains that to a real master possessed +of a real individuality the study of the methods +of his predecessors must be of enormous use. +Anyone at all instructed, reading the work of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_119">119</span>Conrad, must find evidence of an almost lifelong +and almost incredibly minute study of +writers preceding him and the amount of +reading and of study—for they are not the +same thing—that must have gone to the +making of the author of <i>Ulysses</i>, who is +certainly the greatest of all prose virtuosi +of the word—that beggars the imagination!</p> + +<p>So it happened that in France from, say, +the ’fifties to the early ’nineties of the last +century, you had a place of dignity found for +the hitherto despised Novel—and in consequence +you very speedily found an accepted +convention. For once an occupation is discovered +to be dignified you will very soon +find that investigators of methods are at +work upon it. The game of marbles was, +in my hey-day, regarded as an occupation +solely for little boys; but with the institution +some few years ago of an international championship +it came in for the most serious of +study by grown men, and the photographs +of last year’s world-contest that a little time +ago filled the public prints, showed the +competitors to be white-headed, grey-bearded, +or very rotund of figure. The champion was +eventually found, as far as I can remember, +in a gentleman of sixty and over.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_120">120</span></p> + +<p>So with <i>Le Rouge et le Noir</i> it became +evident to the world that the novel of discussion +or of investigation was a possibility +and, with that discovery, the great novels +began to come. The discussions to be found +in the very few works of fiction by Diderot +were naturally experimental and amateurish. +Like Richardson he was tremendously on the +side of the more or less patriarchal and civic +angels. Nevertheless, he could give you a +parasite talking in favour of his profession +or a rogue justifying his courses with a +sincerity and a reasonable ingenuousness that +differed extremely from the exaggerated +speeches of the villains of the Fielding, the +Dickens, or the commercial, nuvvle. Stendhal, +on the other hand, being what one might call +a cold Nietzschean—or it might be more just +to say that Nietzsche was a warmed-up +Stendhalean—Stendhal, then, swung the balance +rather to the other extreme, tending to +make his detrimentals argumentatively masterly +and his conventionally virtuous characters +banal and impotent.</p> + +<p>At any rate, with or after Stendhal, it +became evident that, if the novel was to +have what is called <i>vraisemblance</i>, if it was so to +render life as to engross its reader, the novelist +<span class="pagenum" id="p_121">121</span>must not take sides either with the virtuous +whose virtues cause them to prosper or with +the vicious whose very virtues drive them +always nearer and nearer to the gallows or +the pauper’s grave. That does not say that +the author need abstain from letting his +conventionally virtuous characters prosper +to any thinkable extent. For however scientifically +the matter be considered, material if +not intellectual honesty, sobriety, continence, +frugality, parsimony, and the other material +virtues will give any man a better chance of +fourteen thousand—pounds or dollars—a year +than if he should be, however intellectually +honest, financially unsound, or a drunkard +or a dreamer or one who never talks about +the baths he takes. The publisher, in fact, +has a better chance of both terrestrial and +skyey mansions than the novelist.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, the novelist must not, by +taking sides, exhibit his preferences. He must +not show his publisher as all shining benevolence +and well-soaped chastity without pointing +out that his fellows, the unwashed, +incontinent, wastrel Villons of the world, +sometimes practise Robin Hoodish generosities +and sometimes smooth with their works +the pillows of the agonized and sleepless. +<span class="pagenum" id="p_122">122</span>And in between the starving Chatterton and +the august house of, say, Longmans, Norton, +Hurst, Rees, and Co.—who did not publish +Chatterton—he must place and set in motion +the teeming world of averagely sensual, +averagely kindly, averagely cruel, averagely +honest, averagely imbecile human beings +whose providentially appointed mission would +seem to be to turn into the stuff that fills +graveyards. So that it is not so much the +function of the novelist to hold the balance +straight as, dispensing with all scales or +instruments for measuring, to show all the +human beings of his creation going about +their avocations. He has, that is to say, to +render and not to tell. (If I say, “The +wicked Mr. Blank shot nice Blanche’s dear +cat!” that is telling. If I say: “Blank +raised his rifle and aimed it at the quivering, +black-burdened topmost bough of the cherry-tree. +After the report a spattered bunch of +scarlet and black quiverings dropped from +branch to branch to pancake itself on the +orchard grass!” that is rather bad rendering, +but still rendering. Or if I say Monsieur +Chose was a vulgar, coarse, obese and presumptuous +fellow—that is telling. But if I +say, “He was a gentleman with red whiskers +<span class="pagenum" id="p_123">123</span>that always preceded him through a doorway,” +there you have him rendered—as Maupassant +rendered him.)</p> + +<p>It was Flaubert who most shiningly preached +the doctrine of the novelist as Creator who +should have a Creator’s aloofness, rendering +the world as he sees it, uttering no comments, +falsifying no issues and carrying the subject—the +Affair—he has selected for rendering, +remorselessly out to its logical conclusion.</p> + +<p>There came thus into existence the novel +of Aloofness. It had even in France something +of a struggle for that existence and the +author of <i>Madame Bovary</i> which was the +first great novel logically—and indeed passionately—to +carry out this theory, had to +face a criminal prosecution because in the +opinion of the Government of Napoleon III +a book that is not actively on the side of +constituted authority and of established morality +is of necessity dangerous to morals and +subversive of good government.</p> + +<p>That view—it is still largely entertained by +the academic critics of Anglo-Saxondom—is +of course imbecile, but it is not without a +certain basis in the sentiments of common +humanity. It is normal for poor, badgered +men to desire to read of a sort of representative +<span class="pagenum" id="p_124">124</span>type who, as hero of a book, shall triumph +over all obstacles with surprising ease and +as if with the backing of a deity. In that +way they can dream of easy ends for themselves. +So they will dislike authors who do not side +with their own types. And as constituted +governments and academic bodies are made +up of what the French call <i>hommes moyen +sensuels</i>, such corporations will do what they +can to prevent novelists from not taking +sides with agreeable characters.</p> + +<p>To the theory of Aloofness added itself, +by a very natural process, the other theory +that the story of a novel should be the history +of an Affair and not a tale in which a +central character with an attendant female +should be followed through a certain space +of time until the book comes to a happy end +on a note of matrimony or to an unhappy +end—represented by a death. That latter—the +normal practice of the earlier novelist +and still the normal expedient of the novel +of commerce or of escape—is again imbecile, +but again designed to satisfy a very natural +human desire for finality. We have a natural +desire to be kidded into thinking that for +nice agreeable persons like ourselves life will +finally bring us to a stage where an admirably +<span class="pagenum" id="p_125">125</span>planned villa, a sempiternally charming—and +yet changing—companion, and a sufficiency +of bathrooms, automobiles, gramophones, +radios, and grand pianos to establish us well +in the forefront of the class to which we hope +to belong, shall witness the long, uneventful, +fortunate and effortless closing years of our +lives. And our desire to be kidded into that +belief is all the stronger in that whenever +we do examine with any minuteness into the +lives of our fellow human beings practically +nothing of the sort ever happens to them. +So we say: “Life is too sad for us to want +to read books that remind us of it!”</p> + +<p>But that is the justification for the novel of +Aloofness, rendering not the arbitrary felicities +of a central character but the singular normalities +of an Affair. Normal humanity, deprived +of the possibility of viewing either lives or +life, makes naturally for a pessimism that +demands relief either in the drugs of the +happy endings of falsified fictions or in the +anodynes of superstition—one habit being as +fatal to the human intelligence as the other. +But there is no need to entertain the belief +that life is sad any more than there is any +benefit to be derived from the contemplation +of fictitious and banal joys. The French +<span class="pagenum" id="p_126">126</span>peasant long ago evolved the rule that life +is never either as good or as bad as one +expects it to be and so the French peasant, +like every proper man, faces life with composure—and +reads <i>Madame Bovary</i>, whilst the +English, say, lawyer has never got beyond +<i>The Three Musketeers</i>.</p> + +<p>The progress from the one to the other is +simple and logical enough. If you no longer +allow yourself to take sides with your characters +you begin very soon to see that such +a thing as a hero does not exist—a discovery +that even Thackeray could make. And, from +there to seeing that it is not individuals but +enterprises or groups that succeed or fail is +a very small step to take. And then immediately +there suggests itself the other fact +that it is not the mere death and still less the +mere marriage of an individual that brings +to an end either a group or an enterprise. +It is perhaps going too far to say that <em>no</em> man +is indispensable, but it is far more usual to +find that, when a seemingly indispensable +individual disappears for one reason or another +from an enterprise, that adventure proceeds +with equanimity and very little shock. I +suppose the most co-operative and at the +same time the most one-man concern of to-day +<span class="pagenum" id="p_127">127</span>is the newspaper or the periodical publication, +and I suppose that in my time I must +have been acquainted with something at least +of the affairs of at least a hundred journals or +periodicals each of them of necessity more or +less autocratically conducted, simply because +a journal running along and having to appear +on a stated day, it is hardly ever practicable +to get together an editorial committee soon +enough to make momentous decisions that +may have to be arrived at in a minute or two. +Yet almost the first discovery that the most +strong-minded of editors makes after he has +got the periodical of his founding running +for a month or two is that it is the periodical +that has taken charge—and the most notable +fact of journalism is that even when the most +noted of editors suddenly dies his paper in +the immense majority of cases goes on running +in perfect tranquillity and with no apparent +change for a period sufficiently long to make +it perfectly manifest that the great man was +not in the least indispensable.</p> + +<p>And, as with newspapers, so with nearly +all the other enterprises of life. I am not of +course saying that no great man exists or no +founder of great enterprises, though I should +imagine that there must be even more mute +<span class="pagenum" id="p_128">128</span>inglorious Miltons than ever got a chance of +putting their epics before the public. Still, +the evolver of a new process or a revived +combination does exist and not infrequently +does get his chance: and there is no particular +reason why the serious novelist should not +select the Affair of a successful individual for +treatment. That he seldom does so is usually +because, having studied the cases of successful +men, he is apt to come to the conclusion that +they are not unseldom neither edifying as +histories nor psychologically very interesting. +Alexander, that is to say, may have sighed for +new worlds to conquer, but it is probable +that he would have bartered several of his +empires for the certainty of a little peace at +his own fireside and an improved digestion.</p> + +<p>Flaubert, then, gave us <i>Madame Bovary</i>, +which may be described as the first great +novel that aimed at aloofness. That it did +not succeed in its aim, Flaubert being in +the end so fascinated by his Emma that +beside her and the ingenuous weakness of +her genuine romanticism every other character +in the book is either hypocritical, mean or +meanly imbecile—that it did not succeed in +that aim is not to be wondered at when we +consider the great, buoyant, and essentially +<span class="pagenum" id="p_129">129</span>optimist figure that he was. And indeed, +all authors being men, it is very unlikely +that the completely aloof novel will ever see +the light. If you want to be a novelist +you must first be a poet and it is impossible +to be a poet and lack human sympathies or +generosity of outlook. In <i>Education Sentimentale</i>—which, +if I had to decide the matter, +though fortunately I don’t, I should call the +greatest novel ever written—the author of +<i>Madame Bovary</i> gave us a nearly perfect group +novel, written from a standpoint of very +nearly complete aloofness. In <i>Bouvard et +Pécuchet</i>, abandoning as it were human measures +of success and failure, he takes as his +hero the imbecility of co-operative mankind +and as his heroine the futility of the accepted +idea, and, being thus as it were detached from +the earth and its standards, he could draw +in Bouvard and his mate, two of the most +lovable of human beings that ever set out +upon a forlorn hope. He died in the attempt.</p> + +<p>The Flaubert school or group lasted sufficiently +long in France, though, after the +late War, its influence was completely washed +out by a sort of eclecticism whose main +features it is very difficult to trace and into +whose ramifications I do not intend to enter, +<span class="pagenum" id="p_130">130</span>for it has had practically no time to influence +the work of Anglo-Saxon novel writers. +Flaubert, Maupassant, Turgenev, the Gourmonts, +Daudet, and the rest of those who had +their places at Brébant’s died in their allotted +years, the last survivor of any prominence +being Anatole France, whose death was +greeted by an outburst of furious hatred in +France such as can seldom have greeted the +passing of a distinguished figure. That was +because the French young, saddened and +rendered starving by the War which just preceded +France’s death, turned with loathing +from the rather <i>débonnaire</i> aloofness of the +author of <i>Histoire Comique</i>. And indeed if +we Anglo-Saxons had suffered in the least +as much as those Latins I might well expect +to find myself lynched for writing what I +have done above. I have seldom witnessed +anything to equal the dismay of a great +French gathering of <i>littérateurs</i> when their +honoured guest, an English novelist of distinction +and indeed of internationally public +literary functions, told them in quite immaculate +French that all he knew of writing he +had from France, and that all that he had +from France he had learned from the works +of Guy de Maupassant! If he had gone round +<span class="pagenum" id="p_131">131</span>that great assembly and had, with his glove, +flicked each one of the guests in the face, he +could not have caused greater consternation. +Nevertheless it is true that Maupassant must +have had more influence on the Anglo-Saxon +writer of to-day than any other writer of +fiction, Henry James possibly excepted.</p> + +<p>In England, meantime, slightly before the +1890’s, the solid vogue of—or the somnolent +rumination over—the three-volumed nuvvle +of commerce had been seriously threatened +by the slow spread of the idea that writing +might be an art, by a tremendous drop in +the prices at which books might be sold and +by revolutionary attacks on Victorian conventional +morality. The loosening in morality +need not concern us except in so far as it +shook the idea that the novelist must of +necessity colour all his characters with one +or other hue, but the drop in the price of +books facilitated at least all sorts of experimental +adventures. Whilst the nuvvle remained +a thirty-shilling three-decker publishers +must needs play for safety whether in morals +or methods and neither, say, the <i>Hill-top</i> novels +of Grant Allen, which were pseudo-scientific +attacks on conventional morality, nor yet +<i>Almayer’s Folly</i>, which was an attempt to +<span class="pagenum" id="p_132">132</span>introduce the artistic standards and methods +of Flaubert into Anglo-Saxondom, could have +had even the remotest chance of publication +had the novel remained at its former price.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, such writers as Wilde, +Stevenson, Pater, and Meredith did, dealing +mostly in verbal felicities or infelicities, begin +rather vaguely to perceive that writing was +an art. Neither Wilde nor Pater were novelists +in the sense of devoting the greater part +of their time or energies to the art of fiction, +and Stevenson remained an avowed moralist, +whilst Meredith devoted himself to large +national aspirations—which have nothing to +do with art. And all the four, as I have +said, were essentially rather stylists <i>tels quels</i> +than anything else. When Pater, Wilde, +or Meredith had succeeded in a passage in +showing what clever fellows they were they +were satisfied and Stevenson, if he had some +conception of how to tell a story, was far +more gratified if he had succeeded in producing +a quaint sentence with turns of phrase +after the manner of Sir Thomas Browne +than intent on the fact that every sentence—nay, +every word!—should carry on the +effect of the story to be told.</p> + +<p>But the mere fact that writers were then +<span class="pagenum" id="p_133">133</span>beginning to pay some attention to manner +rather than to matter or morals—that they +were intent on being writers rather than +gentlemen—that mere fact is one to excite +lively gratitude in lands like ours and the job +of being a novelist is one of such excruciating +difficulty that it would be ungrateful to ask +of pioneers that they should be more than +pioneers.</p> + +<p>The effect of their propaganda almost more +than of their achievements, combined with +the cheapening of books and the impingement +on Anglo-Saxon shores of French examples of +how things should be done—for it was not +until the late ’eighties that Flaubert, Maupassant, +and Turgenev really produced any +overwhelming effect in either England or the +United States—the effect then of all these +factors coming almost together was an outburst +of technical effort such as can have +rarely been witnessed in any other race or +time. The idea that writing was an art and +as such had its dignity, that it had methods +to be studied and was therefore such another +acknowledged craft as is shoe-making—such +ideas acted for a time, in the days of the +<i>Yellow Book</i>, like magic on a whole horde of +English—and still more of American—writers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_134">134</span></p> + +<p>I have of course not here the space to +go with any minuteness into the history of +the <i>Yellow Book</i> period. Founded by two +Americans—Henry James and Henry Harland—in +London where circumstances were +certainly more favourable than they would +have been in, say, New York or Boston, the +<i>Yellow Book</i> did undoubtedly promote an +interest in technical matters that hardly any +other periodical or Movement could have +done. James was a direct pupil of Turgenev; +Harland and most of the contributors to the +periodical were products rather of a general +“Frenchness” than the students of any one +author—the products of a blend of Mallarmé, +Mérimée, Murger, and Maupassant and a +Quartier Latin frame of mind and personal +untidiness.</p> + +<p>Its defect as a movement was that its supporters, +also, probably aimed rather at displaying +personal cleverness than at the concealment +of themselves beneath the surfaces +of their works. They had not yet learnt the +sternest of all lessons—that the story is the +thing, and the story and then the story, and +that there is nothing else that matters in the +world.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p_135">135</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LENVOI"> + <i>L’ENVOI</i> + <br> + IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A CENTURY + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When the dust of the <i>Yellow Book</i> period +died away with the trial and disappearance +of Wilde there did nevertheless +remain in the public and the literary mind +some conception that novel-writing was an +art and that the novel was a vehicle by means +of which every kind of psychological or scientific +truth connected with human life and +affairs could be very fittingly conveyed. To-day +I imagine that there would not be many +found to deny that it is the vehicle by means +of which those truths can be most fittingly +investigated. To that we may some day +return.</p> + +<p>In the meantime the <i>Yellow Book</i> period +also left behind it three men whose names +must for ever stand out for the student of the +history of the English Novel—they were +Henry James, Stephen Crane, and Joseph +<span class="pagenum" id="p_136">136</span>Conrad. I do not purpose here to attempt an +estimate of any one of the three; I merely +wish to point out what it was that distinguished +them from all of their predecessors +and nearly all of their distinguished contemporaries. +Their distinguished contemporaries +are all, most fortunately, still alive and so +beyond the reach of my pen—but it must, I +imagine, he fairly obvious that, say, Mr. +Wells, Mr. Kipling, Mr. Galsworthy, or Mr. +Arnold Bennett are each solitary figures, +ploughing lonely furrows and expressing +their admirable selves in admirable ways +known only to themselves.</p> + +<p>About that other triad there was a certain +solidarity, a certain oneness of method and +even a certain comradeship. They lived in +the same corner of England, saw each other +often and discussed literary methods more +thoroughly and more frequently than can +ever at any other time in England have been +the case. To be sure, not one of the three +was English.</p> + +<p>Indeed, some ten years or so ago my friend +Mr. Wells wrote to the papers to say that +in the first decade of this century a group +of foreigners occupied that corner of England +and were engaged in plotting against +<span class="pagenum" id="p_137">137</span>the English novel. At the time that appeared +to be the sort of patriotic nonsense that +occupied our minds a good deal just after the +War—but Mr. Wells, as usual, was right. +The extent of the conspiracy was this: the +works of those three writers whose influence +on the Anglo-Saxon—and even to some +extent on the British—novel was overwhelming—were +united by a common technique +and their literary aims were to all intents +exactly the same.</p> + +<p>All three treated their characters with +aloofness; all three kept themselves, their +comments and their prejudices out of their +works, and all three rendered rather than told. +On the whole those characteristics which +never before characterized the English novel +characterize it to-day. No one, that is, +would to-day set out to capture the suffrages +of either the more instructed or of even the +almost altogether naïf with a novel of the +type of those written by the followers of +Bunyan, Defoe, Fielding, Charles Reade, or +William Black. No author would, like Thackeray, +to-day intrude his broken nose and +myopic spectacles into the middle of the +most thrilling scene he ever wrote, in order +to tell you that, though his heroine was rather +<span class="pagenum" id="p_138">138</span>a wrong ’un, his own heart was in his right +place.</p> + +<p>James, Conrad, and Crane differed from +each other in minute points and indeed in +broader characteristics. James was more introspective, +Crane more incisive in his writing, +Conrad more nearly approached the +ordinary definition of the poet and was less +remorselessly aloof than either of the others. +But their common, Gallic origin united them, +so that they had before all for their strongest +passion the desire to convey vicarious experience +to the reader. Conrad wrote of his +literary aim: “It is above all to make you +see,” and Crane might have written the same +thing had he ever written about himself. +And Henry James might have written if he +could ever have brought himself to write +anything so unqualified about his aims: “It +is above all to make you feel!” At any rate, +the common aim was to take the reader, +immerse him in an Affair so completely +that he was unconscious either of the fact +that he was reading or of the identity of the +author, so that in the end he might say—and +believe: “I have been in a drawing-room +overlooking Boston Common, in a +drinking saloon in Yellow Sky or beneath +<span class="pagenum" id="p_139">139</span>the palm leaves of Palembang! I <em>have</em> +been!”</p> + +<p>At this aim, to which they certainly attained, +they arrived by certain technical devices or +rules. Most of these I have already foreshadowed +and as I am not here writing a +technical work, I do not propose to go into +the others at all closely. The only sound +technical rules are those that are founded +on a study of what pleases: if what you +write is to please you must see how your +predecessors did it. There can be nothing +either highbrow or recondite about your +efforts; the nearer you are to your fellowman +who differs from you only in not having +literary ambitions or gifts, the nearer you are +to universality; the nearer you are to universality +the greater you are, the more nearly +you will have justified your existence.</p> + +<p>You must therefore write as simply as you +can—with the extreme of the simplicity that +is granted to you, and you must write of +subjects that spring at your throat. But why +subjects appeal to you you have no means +of knowing. The appeal of the subject is +nevertheless the only thing that is open to +your native genius—the only thing as to +which you can say: “I cannot help it: that +<span class="pagenum" id="p_140">140</span>is what appealed to me!” You must never, +after that, say: “I write like this because I +want to,” but you must say: “I write like +this because I hope it is what the unspoiled +reader likes!”</p> + +<p>Having got your subject you will, if you +are prudent, live with it for a long, long time +before you sit down to write it. During +that time you will be doing at odd moments +what Conrad used to call “squeezing the guts +out of it.” For it is a mistake to think that +what looks like the rendering of an ordinary +affair is ever an artless chronicling. Your +“subject” may be just the merest nothing in +the way of intrigue or plot—but to the merest +nothings in human affairs all the intrigues +of the universe have contributed since first +this earth swung away, a drop of molten +metal, from the first of all principles. Your +“subject” might be no more than a child +catching frogs in a swamp or the emotions +of a nervous woman in a thunderstorm, but +all the history of the world has gone to putting +child or woman where they are and up +to either subject you might lead with an +epic as thrilling in its end as that of <i>Othello</i> +or an episode as poignant with absolute relief +as came to the world on the eleventh of +<span class="pagenum" id="p_141">141</span>November, 1918. You have at your disposal +heredity, environment, the concatenation +of the effects of the one damn thing +after another that life is—and Destiny who +is blind and august. Those are the colours of +your palette: it is for you to see that line +by line and filament of colour by filament, +the reader’s eye is conducted to your culminating +point.</p> + +<p>That is, then, all that I have to say of the +gradual progress of the English novel—to +the point where it becomes the Novel. I +have traced out as plainly as I could the lines +of the pattern as it appears to me and the +reader must use that pattern for what jumpings +off of his own he chooses to make.</p> + +<p>That this is not the final stage of the Novel +is obvious; there will be developments that +we cannot foresee, strain our visions how we +may. There are probably—humanity being +stable, change the world how it may—there +are probably eternal principles for all the arts, +but the applications of those principles are +eternally changing, or eternally revolving. It +is, for instance, an obvious and unchanging +fact that if an author intrudes his comments +into the middle of his story he will endanger +the illusion conveyed by that story—but a +<span class="pagenum" id="p_142">142</span>generation of readers may come along who +would prefer witnessing the capers of the +author to being carried away by stories and +that generation of readers may coincide with +a generation of writers tired of self-obliteration. +So you might have a world of Oscar +Wildes or of Lylys. Or you might, again, +have a world tired of the really well constructed +novel every word of which carries +its story forward: then you will have a movement +towards diffuseness, backboneless sentences, +digressions, and inchoatenesses.</p> + +<p>But, for the moment, the outline that I +have traced for you seems to have got about +as far as we ourselves have.</p> + + +<p class="center p2 smaller"> +Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London +</p> + +<p class="transnote"> +Transcriber’s note: As no original book cover image is available, a cover image made by + the transcriber is placed in the public domain. +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78426 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78426-h/images/cover.jpg b/78426-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..71471b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/78426-h/images/cover.jpg |
