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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/38887-8.txt b/38887-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e26670 --- /dev/null +++ b/38887-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4587 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of How to Write a Novel, by Grant Richards + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: How to Write a Novel + A Practical Guide to the Art of Fiction + +Author: Anonymous + +Release Date: February 15, 2012 [EBook #38887] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Lisa Reigel, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been +left as in the original. Words in italics in the original are surrounded +by _underscores_. Ellipses match the original. + +A few typographical errors have been corrected. A complete list follows +the text. + + + The "how to" Series + + + + + HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL + + + + + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + | The "how to" Series | + | | + | | + | I. HOW TO DEAL WITH | + | YOUR BANKER | + | | + | BY HENRY WARREN | + | | + | Author of "Banks and their Customers" | + | | + | _Third Edition._ | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 5s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | II. WHERE AND HOW TO | + | DINE IN PARIS | + | | + | BY ROWLAND STRONG | + | | + | _Fcap. 8vo, Cloth, Cover Designed, 2s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | III. HOW TO WRITE FOR | + | THE MAGAZINES | + | | + | BY "£600 A YEAR FROM IT" | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 2s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | IV. HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR | + | BANKER | + | | + | BY HENRY WARREN | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | V. HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL: | + | | + | A Practical Guide to the Art | + | of Fiction. | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | VI. HOW TO INVEST AND | + | HOW TO SPECULATE | + | | + | BY C. H. THORPE | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 5s._ | + | | + | | + | LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS | + | 9 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. | + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + The "how to" Series + + + + + HOW TO WRITE A + NOVEL + + A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE ART + OF FICTION + + + LONDON + GRANT RICHARDS + 9 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. + 1901 + + + + +PREFACE + + +This little book is one which so well explains itself that no +introductory word is needed; and I only venture to intrude a sentence or +two here with a view to explain the style in which I have conveyed my +ideas. I desired to be plain and practical, and therefore chose the +direct and epistolary form as being most suitable for the purpose in +hand. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER I + + THE OBJECT IN VIEW + PAGE + An Inevitable Comparison 3 + + A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing 5 + + The Teachable and the Unteachable 9 + + + CHAPTER II + + A GOOD STORY TO TELL + + Where do Novelists get their Stories from? 12 + + Is there a Deeper Question? 14 + + What about the Newspapers? 17 + + + CHAPTER III + + HOW TO BEGIN + + Formation of the Plot 25 + + The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction" 28 + + Care in the Use of Actual Events 31 + + The Natural History of a Plot 35 + + Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot 40 + + Plot-Formation in Earnest 43 + + Characters first: Plot afterwards 45 + + The Natural Background 47 + + + CHAPTER IV + + CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERISATION + + The Chief Character 50 + + How to Portray Character 52 + + Methods of Characterisation 55 + + The Trick of "Idiosyncrasies" 58 + + + CHAPTER V + + STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE + + Narrative Art 63 + + Movement 66 + + Aids to Description: The Point of View 67 + + Selecting the Main Features 70 + + Description by Suggestion 73 + + Facts to Remember 75 + + + CHAPTER VI + + STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE--CONTINUED + + Colour: Local and Otherwise 79 + + What about Dialect? 84 + + On Dialogue 86 + + Points in Conversation 91 + + "Atmosphere" 94 + + + CHAPTER VII + + PITFALLS + + Items of General Knowledge 96 + + Specific Subjects 98 + + Topography and Geography 100 + + Scientific Facts 101 + + Grammar 103 + + + CHAPTER VIII + + THE SECRET OF STYLE + + Communicable Elements 105 + + Incommunicable Elements 110 + + + CHAPTER IX + + HOW AUTHORS WORK + + Quick and Slow 116 + + How many Words a Day? 119 + + Charles Reade and Anthony Trollope 122 + + The Mission of Fancy 127 + + Fancies of another Type 129 + + Some of our Younger Writers: Mr Zangwill, Mr Coulson + Kernahan, Mr Robert Barr, Mr H. G. Wells 132 + + Curious Methods 134 + + + CHAPTER X + + IS THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF NOVELS EXHAUSTED? + + The Question Stated 138 + + "Change" not "Exhaustion" 142 + + Why we talk about Exhaustion 145 + + + CHAPTER XI + + THE NOVEL _v._ THE SHORT STORY + + Practise the Short Story 154 + + Short Story Writers on their Art 159 + + + CHAPTER XII + + SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS + + The Truth about Success 164 + + Minor Conditions of Success 169 + + + APPENDIX I + + THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. By Edgar Allan Poe 175 + + + APPENDIX II + + BOOKS WORTH READING 201 + + + APPENDIX III + + MAGAZINE ARTICLE ON WRITING FICTION 205 + + + + +HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE OBJECT IN VIEW + + +I am setting myself a task which some people would call very ambitious; +others would call it by a name not quite so polite; and a considerable +number would say it was positively absurd, accompanying their criticism +with derisive laughter. Having discussed the possibility of teaching the +art of writing fiction with a good many different kinds of people, I +know quite intimately the opinions which are likely to be expressed +about this little book; and although I do not intend to burden the +reader with an account of their respective merits, I do intend to make +my own position as clear as possible. First of all, I will examine the +results of a recent symposium on the general question.[1:A] When asked +as to the practicability of a School of Fiction, Messrs Robert Barr, G. +Manville Fenn, M. Betham Edwards, Arthur Morrison, G. B. Burgin, C. J. +C. Hyne, and "Mr" John Oliver Hobbes declared against it; Miss Mary L. +Pendered and Miss Clementina Black--with certain reservations--spoke in +favour of such an institution. True, these names do not include all +representatives of the high places in Fiction, but they are quite +respectable enough for my purpose. It will be seen that the vote is +adverse to the object I have in view. Why? Well, here are a few reasons. +Mr Morrison affirms that writing as a trade is far too pleasant an idea; +John Oliver Hobbes is of opinion that it is impossible to teach anyone +how to produce a work of imagination; and Mr G. B. Burgin asserts that +genius is its own teacher--a remark characterised by unwitting modesty. +Now, with the spirit of these convictions I am not disposed to quarrel. +This is an age which imagines that everything can be crammed into the +limits of an academical curriculum; and there are actually some people +who would not hesitate to endow a chair of "Ideas and Imagination." We +need to be reminded occasionally that there are incommunicable elements +in all art. + + +An Inevitable Comparison + +But the question arises: If there be an art of literature, why cannot +its principles be taught and practised as well as those of any other +art? We have schools of Painting, Sculpture, and Music--why not a school +of Fiction? Let it be supposed that a would-be artist has conceived a +brilliant idea which he is anxious to embody in literature or put on a +canvas. In order to do so, he must observe certain well-established +rules which we may call the grammar of art: for just as in literature a +man may express beautiful ideas in ungrammatical language, and without +any sense of relationship or development, so may the same ideas be put +in a picture, and yet the art be of the crudest. Now, in what way will +our would-be artist become acquainted with those rules? The answer is +simple. If his genius had been of the first order he would have known +them intuitively: the society of men and women, of great books and fine +pictures, would have provided sufficient stimuli to bring forth the best +productions of his mind. Thus Shakespeare was never taught the +principles of dramatic art; Bach had an instinctive appreciation of the +laws of harmony; and Turner had the same insight into laws of painting. +These were artists of the front rank: they simply looked--and +understood. + +But if his powers belonged to the order which is called _talent_, he +would have to do one of two things: either stumble upon these rules one +by one and learn them by experience--or be taught them in their true +order by others, in which case an Institute of Literary Art would +already exist in an embryonic stage. Why should it not be developed into +a matured school? Is it that the dignity of genius forbids it, or that +pupilage is half a disgrace? True genius never shuns the marks of the +learner. Even Shakespeare grew in the understanding of art and in his +power of handling its elements. Professor Dowden says: "In the 'Two +Gentlemen of Verona,' Porteus, the fickle, is set over against +Valentine the faithful; Sylvia, the bright and intellectual, is set over +against Julia, the ardent and tender; Launce, the humorist, is set over +against Speed, the wit. This indicates a certain want of confidence on +the part of the poet; he fears the weight of too much liberty. He cannot +yet feel that his structure is secure without a mechanism to support the +structure. He endeavours to attain unity of effect less by the +inspiration of a common life than by the disposition of parts. In the +early plays structure determines function; in the later plays +organisation is preceded by life."[5:A] + + +A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing + +When certain grumpy folk ask: "How do you propose to draw up your +lessons on 'The way to find Local Colour'; 'Plotting'; 'How to manage a +Love-Scene,' and so forth?" it is expected that a writer like myself +will be greatly disconcerted. Not at all. It so happens that a +distinguished critic, now deceased, once delivered himself on the +possibility of teaching literary art, and I propose to quote a paragraph +or two from his article. "The morning finds the master in his working +arm-chair; and seated about the room which is generally the study, but +is now the studio, are some half-dozen pupils. The subject for the hour +is narrative-construction, and the master holds in his hand a small MS. +which, as he slowly reads it aloud, proves to be a somewhat elaborate +synopsis of the story of one of his own published or projected novels. +The reading over, students are free to state objections, or to ask +questions. One remarks that the _dénouement_ is brought about by a mere +accident, and therefore seems to lack the inevitableness which, the +master has always taught, is essential to organic unity. The criticism +is recognised as intelligent, but the master shows that the accident has +not the purely fortuitous character which renders it obnoxious to the +general objection. While it is technically an accident, it is in reality +hardly accidental, but an occurrence which fits naturally into an +opening provided by a given set of circumstances, the circumstances +having been brought about by a course of action which is vitally +characteristic of the person whose fate is involved. Then the master +himself will ask a question. 'The students,' he says, 'will have noticed +that a character who takes no important part in the action until the +story is more than half told, makes an insignificant and unnoticeable +appearance in a very early chapter, where he seems a purposeless and +irrelevant intrusion.' They have paper before them, and he gives them +twenty minutes in which to state their opinion as to whether this +premature appearance is, or is not, justified by the canons of narrative +art, giving, of course, the reasons upon which that opinion has been +formed. The papers are handed in to be reported upon next morning, and +the lesson is at an end."[7:A] + +This is James Ashcroft Noble's idea of handling a theme in fiction; one +of a large and varied number. To me it is a feasible plan emanating from +a man who was the sanest of literary advisers. If it be objected that Mr +Noble was only a critic and not a novelist, perhaps a word from Sir +Walter Besant may add the needful element of authority. "I can conceive +of a lecturer dissecting a work, or a series of works, showing how the +thing sprang first from a central figure in a central group; how there +arose about this group, scenery, the setting of the fable; how the +atmosphere became presently charged with the presence of mankind, other +characters attaching themselves to the group; how situations, scenes, +conversations, led up little by little to the full development of this +central idea. I can also conceive of a School of Fiction in which the +students should be made to practise observation, description, dialogue, +and dramatic effects. The student, in fact, would be taught how to use +his tools." A reading-class for the artistic study of great writers +could not be other than helpful. One lesson might be devoted to the way +in which the best authors foreshadowed crises and important turns in +events. An example may be found in "Julius Cæsar," where, in the second +scene, the soothsayer says: + + "Beware the Ides of March!" + +--a solitary voice in strange contrast with those by whom he is +surrounded, and preparing us for the dark deed upon which the play is +based. Or the text-book might be a modern novel--Hardy's "Well-Beloved" +for instance--a work full of delicate literary craftsmanship. The storm +which overtook Pierston and Miss Bencomb is prepared for--first by the +conversation of two men who pass them on the road, and one of whom +casually remarks that the weather seems likely to change; then Pierston +himself observes "the evening--louring"; finally, and most suddenly, the +rain descends in perfect fury. + + +The Teachable and the Unteachable + +I hope my position is now beginning to be tolerably clear to the reader. +I address myself to the man or woman of talent--those people who have +writing ability, but who need instruction in the manipulation of +characters, the formation of plots, and a host of other points with +which I shall deal hereafter. As to what is teachable, and not +teachable, in writing novels, perhaps I may be permitted to use a close +analogy. Style, _per se_, is absolutely unteachable simply because it is +the man himself; you cannot teach _personality_. Can Dickens, Thackeray, +and George Meredith be reduced to an academic schedule? Never. Every +soul of man is an individual entity and cannot be reproduced. But +although style is incommunicable, the writing of easy, graceful English +can be taught in any class-room--that is to say, the structure of +sentences and paragraphs, the logical sequence of thought, and the +secret of forceful expression are capable of exact scientific treatment. + +In like manner, although no school could turn out novelists to order--a +supply of Stevensons annually, and a brace of Hardys every two +years--there is yet enough common material in all art-work to be mapped +out in a course of lessons. I shall show that the two great requisites +of novel-writing are (1) a good story to tell, and (2) ability to tell +it effectively. Briefly stated, my position is this: no teaching can +produce "good stories to tell," but it can increase the power of "the +telling," and change it from crude and ineffective methods to those +which reach the apex of developed art. Of course there are dangers to +be avoided, and the chief of them is that mechanical correctness, "so +praiseworthy and so intolerable," as Lowell says in his essay on +Lessing. But this need not be an insurmountable difficulty. A truly +educated man never labours to speak correctly; being educated, +grammatical language follows as a necessary consequence. The same is +true of the artist: when he has learned the secrets of literature, he +puts away all thoughts of rule and law--nay, in time, his very ideas +assume artistic form. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1:A] _The New Century Review_, vol. i. + +[5:A] "Shakespeare: His Mind and Art," p. 61. + +[7:A] Article in _The New Age_. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +A GOOD STORY TO TELL + + +Where do Novelists get their Stories from? + +I said a moment ago that no teaching could impart a story. If you cannot +invent one for yourself, by observation of life and sympathetic insight +into human nature, you may depend upon it that you are not called to be +a writer of novels. Then where, it may be asked, do novelists get their +stories? Well, they hardly know themselves; they say the ideas "come." +For instance, here is the way Mr Baring Gould describes the advent of +"Mehalah." "One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in the coastguard, +invited me to accompany him on a cruise among the creeks in the estuary +of the Maldon river--the Blackwater. I went out, and we spent the day +running among mud flats and low holms, covered with coarse grass and +wild lavender, and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a ruined farm +built on arches above this marsh to eat some lunch; no glass was in the +windows, and the raw wind howled in and swept around us. That night I +was laid up with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed and was in the marshes in +imagination, listening to the wind and the lap of the tide; and +'Mehalah' naturally rose out of it all, a tragic gloomy tale."[13:A] + +Exactly. "Mehalah" _rose_; that is enough! If ideas, plots of stories, +and new groupings of character do not "rise" in _your_ mind, it is +simply because you lack the power to originate them spontaneously. Take +the somewhat fabulous story of Newton and the apple. Many a man before +Sir Isaac had seen an apple fall, but not one of them used that +observation as he did. In the same way there are scores of men who have +the same experiences and live the same kind of life, but it occurs to +only one among their number to gather up these experiences into an +interesting narrative. Why should it "occur" to one and not the others? +Because the one has literary gifts and literary impetus, and the +others--haven't. + + +Is there a Deeper Question? + +Having dealt with that side of the subject, I should like to say that +all novelists have their own methods of obtaining raw material for +stories. By raw material I mean those facts of life which give birth to +narrative ideas. It is said of Thomas Hardy that he never rides in an +omnibus or railway carriage without mentally inventing the history of +every traveller. One has to beware of fables in writing of such men, but +I have no reason to doubt the statement just made. I do not make it with +the intention of advocating anybody to go and do likewise, but as +illustrating one way of studying human nature and developing the +imaginative faculty. + +It will be necessary to speak of _observation_ a good many times in the +course of these remarks, and one might as well say what the word really +means. Does it mean "seeing things"? A great deal more than that. It is +very easy to "see things" and yet not observe at all. If you want ideas +for stories, or characters with which to form a longer narrative, you +must not only use your _eyes_ but your _mind_. What is wanted is +_observation_ with _inference_; or, to be more correct, with +_imagination_. Make sure that you know the traits of character that are +typically human; those which are the same in a Boer, a Hindu, or a +Chinaman. It is not difficult to mark the special points of each of +these as distinct from the Englishman; but your first duty is to know +human nature _per se_. How is that knowledge to be obtained? do you say! +Well, begin with yourself; there is ample scope in that direction. And +when you are tired of looking within--look without. Enter a tram-car and +listen to the people talking. Who talks the loudest? What kind of woman +is it who always gives the conductor most trouble? The man who sits at +the far end of the car in a shabby coat, and who is regarding his boots +with a fixed, anxious stare--what is he thinking about? and what is his +history? Then a baby begins to yell, and its mother cannot soothe it. +One old man smiles benignly on the struggling infant, but the old man +next to him looks "daggers." And why? + +To see character in action there is no finer vantage-point than the top +of a London omnibus. Watch the way in which people walk; notice their +forms of salutation when they meet; and study the expressions on their +faces. Tragedy and comedy are everywhere, and you have not to go beneath +the surface of life in order to find them. It sounds prosaic enough to +speak of studying human nature at a railway station, but such places are +brimful of event. I know more than one novelist who has found his +"motif" by quietly watching the crowd on a platform from behind a +waiting-room window. Wherever humanity congregates there should the +student be. Not that he should restrict his observations to men and +women in groups or masses--he must cover all the ground by including +individuals who are to be specially considered. The logician's terms +come in handy at this point: _extensive_ and _intensive_--such must be +the methods of a beginner's analysis of his fellow-creatures. + + +What about the Newspapers? + +The daily press is the great mirror of human events. When we open the +paper at our breakfast table we find a literal record of the previous +day's joy and sorrow--marriages and murders, failures and successes, +news from afar and news from the next street--they all find a place. The +would-be novel writer should be a diligent student of the newspaper. In +no other sphere will he discover such a plenitude of raw material. Some +of the cases tried at the Courts contain elements of dramatic quality +far beyond those he has ever imagined; and here and there may be found +in miniature the outlines of a splendid plot. Of course everything +depends on the reader's mind. If you cannot read between the lines--that +is the end of the matter, and your novel will remain unwritten; but if +you can--some day you may expect to succeed. + +I once came across a practical illustration of the manner in which a +newspaper paragraph was treated imaginatively. The result is rather +crude and unfinished, but most likely it was never intended to stand as +a finished production, occurring as it does, in an American book on +American journalism.[18:A] + +Here is the paragraph: + + "John Simpson and Michael Flannagan, two railroad labourers, + quarrelled yesterday morning, and Flannagan killed Simpson + with a coupling-pin. The murderer is in jail. He says Simpson + provoked him and dared him to strike." + +Now the question arises: What was the quarrel about? We don't know; so +an originating cause must be invented. The inventor whose illustration I +am about to give conceived the story thus: + + "'Taint none o' yer business how often I go to see the girl." + + "Ef Oi ketch yez around my Nora's house agin, Oi'll break a + hole in yer shneakin' head, d'ye moind thot!" + + "You braggin' Irish coward, you haint got sand enough in you + to come down off'n that car and say that to my face." + + It was John Simpson, a yard switchman who spoke this taunt to + a section hand. A moment more and Michael Flannagan stood on + the ground beside him. There was a murderous fire in the + Irishman's eyes, and in his hand he held a heavy coupling-pin. + + "Tut! tut! Mike. Throw away the iron and play fair. You can + wallup him!" cried the rest of the gang. + + "He's a coward; he dassn't hit me," came the wasp-like taunt + of the switchman. "Let him alone, fellers; his girl's give him + the shake, and----" + + Those were the last words Simpson spoke. The murderous + coupling-pin had descended like a scimitar and crushed his + skull. + + An awed silence fell upon the little group as they raised the + fallen man and saw that he was dead. + + "Ye'll be hangin' fur this, Mikey, me bye," whispered one of + his horrified companions as the police dragged off the + unresisting murderer. + + "Oi don't care," came the sullen reply, with a dry sob that + belied it. Then, with a look of unutterable hatred, and a nod + towards the white, upturned face of his enemy, he added under + his breath, "He'll niver git her now." + +This is enough to give the beginner an idea of the way in which stories +and plots sometimes "occur" to writers of fiction. It is, however, only +one of a thousand ways, and my advice to the novice is this: Keep your +eyes and ears open; observe and inquire, read and reflect; look at life +and the things of life from your own point of view; and just as a +financier manipulates events for the sake of money, so ought you to turn +all your experiences into the mould of fiction. If, after this, you +don't succeed, it is evident you have made a mistake. Be courageous +enough to acknowledge the fact, and leave the writing of novels to +others. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[13:A] "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 43. + +[18:A] Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 208. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +HOW TO BEGIN + + +You have now obtained your story--in its bare outlines, at least. The +next question is, How are you to make a start? Well, that is an +important question, and it cannot be evaded. + +Clarence Rook, in a waggish moment, said two things were necessary in +order to write a novel: + + (1) _Writing Materials_, + (2) _A Month_; + +but he seems to have thought that the month should be a month's +imprisonment for attempting such an indiscretion. In these pages, +however, we are serious folk, and having thanked Mr Rook for his +pleasantry, we return to the point before us. + +First of all, What kind of a novel is yours to be? Historical? If so, +have you read all the authorities? Do you feel the throb of the life of +that period about which you are going to write? Are its chief personages +living beings in your imagination? and have you learned all the details +respecting customs, manners, language, and dress? If not, you are very +far from being ready to make a start, even though the "story" itself is +quite clear to you. + +Our great historical novelists devour libraries before they sit down to +write. One would like to know how many books Dr Conan Doyle digested +before he published "The Refugees," and Stanley Weyman before he brought +out his "A Gentleman of France." Do not be carried away with the +alluring idea that it is easy to take up historical subjects because the +characters are there to hand, and the "story" practically "made." +Directly you make the attempt, you will find out your mistake. Write +about the life you know best--the life of the present day. You will then +avoid the necessity of keeping everything in chronological +perspective--a necessity which an open-air preacher, whom I heard last +week, quite forgot when he said that the sailors shouted down the +hatchway to the sleeping Prophet of Nineveh: "Jonah! We're sinking! Come +and help us with the pumps!" + +No; before you begin, have a clear idea of what you are going to do. The +type of your story will in many cases decide the kind of treatment +required; but it may be well, nevertheless, to say a few words about the +various kinds of novels that are written nowadays, and the differences +that separate them one from another. + +There is the _Realistic_ novel, of which Mr Maugham's "Liza of Lambeth" +and Mr Morrison's "A Child of the Jago" may be taken as recent examples. +These authors attempt to picture life as it is; they sink their own +personalities, and endeavour to write a literal account of the +"personalities" of other people. Very often they succeed, but absolute +realism is impossible unless a man has no objection to appearing in a +Police Court. In this type of fiction, plot, action, and inter-play of +characters are not important: the main purpose is a sort of literary +biograph; life in action, without comment or underlying philosophy, and +minus the pre-eminent factor of art. + +Then there is the novel of _Manners_. The customs of life, the social +peculiarities of certain groups of men and women, the humours and moral +qualities of life--these are the chief features in the novel of manners. +As a form of fiction it is earlier than the realistic novel, but both +are alike in having little or no concern with plot and character +development. + +Next comes the novel of _Incident_. Here the stress is placed upon +particular events--what led up to them and the consequences that +followed--hence the structure of the narrative, and the powers of +movement and suspense are important factors in achieving success. + +A _Romance_ is in a very important sense a novel of incident, but the +"incident" is specialised in character, and usually deals with the +passionate and fundamental powers of man--hate, jealousy, revenge, and +scenes of violence. Or it may be "incident" which has to do with life in +other worlds as imagined by the writer, and occasionally takes on the +style of the supernatural. + +Lastly, there is the _Dramatic_ novel, where the chief feature is the +influence of event on character, and of characters on each other. + +Now, to which class is your projected novel to belong? In fiction you +must walk by sight and not by faith. Never sit down to write believing +that although you can't see the finish of your story, it will come out +all right "in the end." It won't. You should know at the outset to which +type of fiction you are to devote your energies; how, otherwise, can you +observe the laws of art which govern its ideal being? + + +Formation of the Plot + +In one sense your plot is formed already--that is to say, the very idea +of your story involves a plot more or less distinct. As yet, however, +you do not see clearly how things are going to work out, and it is now +your business to settle the matter so far as it lies in your power to +do so. Now, a plot is not _made_; it is _a structural growth_. Suppose +you wish to present a domestic scene in which the folly of high temper +is to be proved. Is not the plot concealed in the idea? Certainly. Hence +you perhaps place a man and his wife at breakfast. They begin to talk +amiably, then become quarrelsome, and finally fall into loving +agreement. Or you light upon a more original plan of bringing out your +point; but in any case, the plot evolves itself step by step. Wilkie +Collins has left some interesting gossip behind him with reference to +"The Woman in White": "My first proceeding is to get my central +idea--the pivot on which the story turns. The central idea in 'The Woman +in White' is the idea of a conspiracy in private life, in which +circumstances are so handled as to rob a woman of her identity, by +confounding her with another woman sufficiently like her in personal +appearance to answer the wicked purpose. The destruction of her identity +represents a first division of her story; the recovery of her identity +marks a second division. My central idea next suggests some of my chief +characters. + +"A clever devil must conduct the conspiracy. Male devil or female devil? +The sort of wickedness wanted seems to be a man's wickedness. Perhaps a +foreign man. Count Fosco faintly shows himself to me before I know his +name. I let him wait, and begin to think about the two women. They must +be both innocent, and both interesting. Lady Glyde dawns on me as one of +the innocent victims. I try to discover the other--and fail. I try what +a walk will do for me--and fail. I devote the evening to a new +effort--and fail. Experience tells me to take no more trouble about it, +and leave that other woman to come of her own accord. The next morning +before I have been awake in my bed for more than ten minutes, my +perverse brains set to work without consulting me. Poor Anne Catherick +comes into the room, and says 'Try me.' + +"I have now got an idea, and three of my characters. What is there to do +now? My next proceeding is to begin building up the story. Here my +favourite three efforts must be encountered. First effort: To begin at +the beginning. Second effort: To keep the story always advancing, +without paying the smallest attention to the serial division in parts, +or to the book publications in volumes. Third effort: To decide on the +end. All this is done as my father used to paint his skies in his famous +sea-pictures--at one heat. As yet I do not enter into details; I merely +set up my landmarks. In doing this, the main situations of the story +present themselves in all sorts of new aspects. These discoveries lead +me nearer and nearer to finding the right end. The end being decided on, +I go back again to the beginning, and look at it with a new eye, and +fail to be satisfied with it." + + +The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction" + +"I have yielded to the worst temptation that besets a novelist--the +temptation to begin with a striking incident without counting the cost +in the shape of explanations that must and will follow. These pests of +fiction, to reader and writer alike, can only be eradicated in one way. +I have already mentioned the way--to begin at the beginning. In the case +of 'The Woman in White,' I get back, as I vainly believe, to the true +starting-point of the story. I am now at liberty to set the new novel +going, having, let me repeat, no more than an outline of story and +characters before me, and leaving the details in each case to the spur +of the moment. For a week, as well as I can remember, I work for the +best part of every day, but not as happily as usual. An unpleasant sense +of something wrong worries me. At the beginning of the second week a +disheartening discovery reveals itself. I have not found the right +beginning of 'The Woman in White' yet. The scene of my opening chapters +is in Cumberland. Miss Fairlie (afterwards Lady Glyde); Mr Fairlie, with +his irritable nerves and his art treasures; Miss Halcombe (discovered +suddenly, like Anne Catherick), are all waiting the arrival of the young +drawing-master, Walter Hartwright. No; this won't do. The person to be +first introduced is Anne Catherick. She must already be a familiar +figure to the reader when the reader accompanies me to Cumberland. This +is what must be done, but I don't see how to do it; no new idea comes to +me; I and my MS. have quarrelled, and don't speak to each other. One +evening I happen to read of a lunatic who has escaped from an asylum--a +paragraph of a few lines only in a newspaper. Instantly the idea comes +to me of Walter Hartwright's midnight meeting with Anne Catherick +escaped from the asylum. 'The Woman in White' begins again, and nobody +will ever be half as much interested in it now as I am. From that moment +I have done with my miseries. For the next six months the pen goes on. +It is work, hard work; but the harder the better, for this excellent +reason: the work is its own exceeding great reward. As an example of the +gradual manner in which I reached the development of character, I may +return for a moment to Fosco. The making him fat was an afterthought; +his canaries and his white mice were found next; and, the most valuable +discovery of all, his admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a +conviction that he would not be true to nature unless there was some +weak point somewhere in his character." + + +Care in the Use of Actual Events + +I do not apologise for the lengthiness of this quotation--it is so much +to the point, and is replete with instructive ideas. The beginner must +beware of following actual events too closely. There is a danger of +accepting actuality instead of literary possibility as the measure of +value. _Picturesque_ means fit to be put in a picture, and +_literatesque_ means fit to be put in a book. In making your plot, +therefore, be quite sure you have a subject with these said +possibilities in it, and that in developing them by an ordered and +cumulative series of events, you are following the wise rule laid down +by Aristotle: "Prefer an impossibility which seems probable, to a +probability which seems impossible." + +Remember always that truth is stranger than fiction. Let facts, +newspaper items, things seen and heard, suggest as much as you please, +but never follow literally the literal event. + +Then your plot must be original. I was amused some time ago by reading +the editorial notice to correspondents in an American paper. That editor +meant to save the time of his contributors as well as his own, and he +gave a list of the plots he did not want. The paper was one which +catered for young people. Here is a selection from the list: + + 1. A lost purse where the finder is tempted to keep it, but + finally rises to the emergency and returns it. + + 2. Heaping coals of fire(!) + + 3. Saving one's enemy from drowning. + + 4. Stories of cruel step-mothers. + + 5. Children praying, and having their prayers answered through + being overheard, etc., etc. + +Mr Clarence Rook, to whom I have previously referred, says: "There are +several plots, four or five, at least. Here are some of the recipes for +them. You may rely on them to give thorough satisfaction. Thousands use +them daily, and having tried them once, use no other. Take a heroine. +The age of heroes is past, and this is the age of heroines. She must be +noble, high-souled. (Souls have been worn very high for the past few +seasons.) Her soul is too high for conventional morality. Mix her up +with some disgraceful situations, taking care to add the purest of +motives. Let her poison her mother and run away with a thoughtful +scavenger. When you are tired of her you can pitch her over Waterloo +Bridge."[33:A] + +Over against this style of criticism I should like to place another +which comes from an academical source. Speaking of the plots of Hall +Caine's novels, Professor Saintsbury says that, "with the exception of +'The Scapegoat,' there is an extraordinary and almost heroic monotony of +plot. One might almost throw Mr Caine's plots into the form which is +used by comparative students of folk-lore to tabulate the various +versions of the same legends. Two close relations (if not brothers, at +least cousins) the relationship being sometimes legal, sometimes only +natural, fall in love with the same girl ('Shadow,' 'Hagar,' 'Bondman,' +'Manxman'); in 'The Deemster' the situation is slightly but not really +very different, the brother being jealous of the cousin's affection. In +almost all cases there is renunciation by one; in all, including 'The +Deemster,' one has, if both have not, to pay more or less heavy +penalties for the intended or unintended rivalry. Sometimes, as in 'The +Shadow of a Crime,' 'A Son of Hagar,' and 'The Bondman,' filial +relations are brought in to augment the strife of sentiment in the +individual. Sometimes ('Shadow,' 'Bondman,' and to some extent +'Manxman') the worsted and renouncing party is self-sacrificing more or +less all through; sometimes ('Hagar,' 'Deemster,') he is violent for a +time, and only at last repents. In two cases ('Deemster,' 'Manxman,') +the injured one, or the one who thinks he is injured, has a rival at his +mercy in sleep or disease, is tempted to take his life and forbears. +This might be worked out still further."[35:A] + +No; you must be original or nothing at all. Of course your originality +may not be striking, but, at any rate, make your own plot, and let +others judge it. It is far better to do that than to copy others weakly. +Originality and sincerity are pretty much the same thing, as Carlyle +observed; and if you want a stimulating essay on the subject, read +Lewes' "Principles of Success in Literature," a book, by the way, which +you ought to master thoroughly. + + +The Natural History of a Plot + +I have quoted already from Wilkie Collins as to the growth of plot from +its embryo stages, but that need not deter us from taking an imaginary +example. Let us suppose that you have been possessed for some time with +the idea of treating the great facts of race and religion as a theme for +a novel. After casting about for a suitable illustration, you finally +decide that a Jewish girl, with strictly orthodox parentage, shall fall +in love with a youth of Gentile blood, and Roman Catholic in religion. +That is the bare idea. You can see at once how many dramatic +possibilities it presents; for the passion of love in each case is +pitted against the forces of religious prejudice; and all the powers of +racial exclusiveness are brought into full play. Now, what is the first +thing to do? Well, for you as a beginner, it is to decide _how the story +shall end_. Why? Because everything depends on that. If you intend them +to have a short flirtation, your course of procedure will be very +different to that which must inevitably follow if you intend to make +them marry. In the first case, you will have to provide for the stern +and unalterable facts of race and religion; in the second, for the +possibility of their being overcome. To illustrate further, let me +suppose that the Jewess and the Gentile youth are ultimately to marry. +How will this affect your choice of characters? It will compel you to +choose a Jewess who, although brought up in the orthodox fashion, has +enough ability and education to appreciate life and thought outside her +own immediate circle, and you must invent facts to account for these +things, even though she still worships at the synagogue. On the other +hand, the Gentile Catholic must be a man of liberal tendencies, or he +would never think twice about the Jewess with the possibility of +marrying her. He may persuade himself that he is a good Catholic, but +you are bound to prepare your readers for actions which, to say the +least, are not normal in men of such religious profession. + +The choice of your secondary characters is also determined by the end in +view. Because your story has to do with Jews and Catholics, that is no +reason why your pages should be full of Jews and priests. You want just +as many other people, in addition to your hero and heroine, as are +necessary to bring about the _dénouement_: not one more, not one less. +Now, the end in view is to make these young people triumph over their +race and their religion; and over and above the difficulties they have +between themselves, there are difficulties placed by other people. By +whom? Here is a chance for your inventiveness. I would suggest as a +beginning that you create parents for the girl and for the man--orthodox +in each case, and unyielding to the last degree. Give them a name, and +put them down on your list. Money is likely to figure in a narrative of +this kind, and you might arrange for the opportune entrance of an uncle +on the girl's side, who threatens to alter his will (at present made in +her interest) if she encourages the advances of her Gentile lover. On +the man's side, the priest, of course, will have something to say, and +you will be compelled to make a place for him. + +In this way your characters will grow to their complete number, and I +should advise you to draw up a list of them, and opposite each one write +a few notes describing the part they will have to play. One word on +nomenclature. There is a mystic suitability--at any rate in +novels--between a name and a character. To call your marvellous heroine +"Annie" is to hoist a signal of distress, unless you have a unique power +of characterisation; and to speak of your hero as "William" is to +handicap his movements from the start. I am not pleading for fancy +names, but just for that distinctiveness in choice which the artistic +sense decides is fitting. + +To return. The end in view will also shape the course of _events_. +Instead of arranging that these are to be a series of psychological +skirmishes between two people the poles asunder (as would be the case if +their relations were superficial), you have to arrange for events where +the characters are in dead earnest. Then, too, in order to relieve the +tense nature of the narrative, it will be necessary to provide for +happenings which, though not exactly humorous, are still light enough to +distract the attention from the severer aspects of the story. Further, +the natural background should be selected with an eye to the main issue, +and each event should have that cumulative effect which ultimately leads +the reader on to the climax. + +Of course, it is possible to take a quite different _dénouement_ to the +one here considered. You might make the pair desperately in love, but +foiled by some disaster near the end. In this case, as in the other, +the narrative will, or ought to, change its perspective accordingly. + + +Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot + +In order to illustrate the subject still further, I quote the +following:-- + +"Consider--say, a diamond robbery. Very well: then, first of all, it +must be a robbery committed under exceptional and mysterious conditions, +otherwise there would be no interest in it. Also, you will perceive that +the robbery must be a big and important thing--no little shoplifting +business. Next, the person robbed must not be a mere diamond merchant, +but a person whose loss will interest the reader, say, one to whom the +robbery is all-important. She shall be, say, a vulgar woman with an +overweening pride in her jewels, and, of course, without the money to +replace them if they are lost. They must be so valuable as to be worn +only on extraordinary occasions, and too valuable to be kept at home. +They must be consigned to the care of a jeweller who has strong rooms. +You observe that the story is now growing. You have got the preliminary +germ. How can the strong room be entered and robbed? Well, it cannot. +That expedient will not do. Can the diamonds be taken from the lady +while she is wearing them? That would have done in the days of the +gallant Claude Duval, but it will not do now. Might the house be broken +into by a burglar on a night when a lady had worn them and returned? But +she would not rest with such a great property in the house unprotected. +They must be taken back to their guardian the same night. Thus the only +vulnerable point in the care of the diamonds seems their carriage to and +from their guardian. They must be stolen between the jeweller's and the +owner's house. Then by whom? The robbery must somehow be connected with +the hero of the love story--that is indispensable; he must be innocent +of all complicity in it--that is equally indispensable; he must +preserve our respect; he will have to be somehow a victim: how is that +to be managed? + +"The story is getting on in earnest. . . . The only way--or the best +way--seems, on consideration, to make the lover be the person who is +entrusted with the carriage of this precious package of jewels to and +from their owner's house. This, however, is not a very distinguished +_rôle_ to play; it wants a very skilled hand to interest us in a +jeweller's assistant. . . . We must therefore give this young man an +exceptional position. Force of circumstances, perhaps, has compelled him +to accept the situation which he holds. He need not, again, be a +shopman; he may be a confidential _employé_, holding a position of great +trust; and he may be a young man with ambitions outside the narrow +circle of his work. + +"The girl to whom he is engaged must be lovable to begin with; she must +be of the same station in life as her lover--that is to say, of the +middle class, and preferably of the professional class. As to her home +circle, that must be distinctive and interesting."[43:A] + +I need not quote any further for my present purpose, which is to show +mental procedure in plot-formation; but the whole article is full of +sound teaching on this and other points. + + +Plot-Formation in Earnest + +You have now obtained your characters, and a general outline of the +events their actions will compass. What comes next? A carefully +written-out statement of the story from the beginning to the end; that +is the next step. This story should contain just as much as you would +give in outlining the plot to a friend in the course of conversation. It +would briefly detail the characters and circumstances of the hero and +heroine, and the events which led to their first meeting each other. You +would then describe the ripening of their friendship, and the gradual +growth of social hostility to the idea of a projected union. The +psychological transformations, the domestic infelicities, the racial +animosities--these will find suitable expression in word and action. At +last the season of cruel suspense is over, and the pair have arrived at +their great decision. Elaborate preventive plans are arranged to +frustrate their purpose, and there is much excitement lest they should +succeed; but when all have done their best, the two are happily wedded +and the story is ended. + +The exercise of writing out a plain, unvarnished statement of what you +are going to do is one that will enable you to see whether your story +has balance or not, and it will most certainly test its power to +interest; for if in its bald form there is real _story_ in it, you may +well believe that when properly written it will possess the true +fascination of fiction. + +Now, a plot is much like a drama, and should have a beginning, a middle, +and an end; answering roughly to premiss, argument, and conclusion. +There is no better training in plot-study than the reading of such a +book as Professor Moulton's "Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist," in +which the author, with rare critical skill, exhibits the construction of +plots that are an object of never-ceasing wonder. I will dare to +reiterate what I have said before. Take your stand at the end of the +story, and work it out backwards. For an excellent illustration see +Edgar Allan Poe's account of how he came to write "The Raven" (Appendix +I.). Perhaps you object to this kind of literary dissection? You think +it spoils the effect of a work of art to be too familiar with its +physiology? I do not grant these points; but even if they are true, that +is no reason why you yourself should be offended by the sight of ropes +and pulleys behind the scenes. No; work out the details from the end, +and not from the beginning. No character and no action should find a +place if it contributes nothing towards the _dénouement_. + + +Characters first: Plot afterwards + +It must not be supposed that a plot _always_ comes first in the +constructing of a novel. Very often the characters suggest themselves +long before the story is even vaguely outlined. Nor is there any reason +why such a story should be any worse because it did not originate in the +usual way. In fact, the probabilities are that it will be all the +better, on account of its stress upon character, and the reaction of +various characters on each other. I imagine "Jude the Obscure" grew in +this fashion. There is no very striking plot in the book; at any rate +not the plot we have in mind when we think of "The Moonstone." But if +plot means the inevitable evolution of certain men and women in given +circumstances, then there is plot of a high order. In the usual +acceptation of the term, however, "Jude the Obscure" is a novel of +character; and most probably Jude existed as a creature of imagination +months before it was ever thought he would go to Oxford, or have an +adventure with Sue. To many men, doubtless, there is far more +fascination in conceiving a group of characters in which there are two +or three supreme figures, and then setting to work to discover a +narrative which will give them the freest action, than in toiling over +the bare idea, the subsequent plot, followed by a series of actors and +actresses who work out the _dénouement_. Should you belong to this +number, do not hesitate to act accordingly. Nothing wooden in style or +method finds a place in these pages, and since some of the finest +creations have arisen in the order indicated at the head of this +section, perhaps you are to be congratulated that the work before you +will be a living growth rather than a mechanical contrivance. + + +The Natural Background + +Since your story will presumably be located somewhere on this planet, +the next thing to do is to obtain a thorough knowledge of the places +where your characters will display themselves. If the scenes are laid in +a district which you know by heart, you are not likely to go astray; but +more often than not, the scenes are largely imaginative, especially in +reference to smaller items such as roads, rivers, trees, and woods. The +best plan is to follow the example of Thomas Hardy, and draw a map--both +geographical and topographical--of the country and the towns in which +your hero and heroine, and subordinate characters, will appear for the +interest of the reader. That individual does not care to be puzzled with +semi-miraculous transmittances through space. I read a novel some time +ago, where on one page the heroine was busy shopping in London, and on +the next page was--an hour afterwards--quietly having tea with her +beloved somewhere in the Midlands. But the drawing of a map, and using +it closely, will not merely render such negative assistance as to avoid +mistakes of this kind, it will act positively as a stimulus to creative +suggestion. You can follow the lover's jealous rival along the road that +leads to the meeting-place with increased imaginative power. That +measure of realism which makes the ideal both possible and interesting +will come all the more easily, because the map aids you in following the +movements of your characters; in fact, if you take this second step +with serious resolution, it will go far to add that piquant something +which renders your story a series of life-like happenings. The result +will be equally beneficial to the reader. It may be a moot question as +to how far the map in Stevenson's "Treasure Island" deepens the interest +of those who read this exciting story, but in my humble opinion it adds +an actuality to the events which is most convincing. Mr Maurice Hewlett +has followed suit in his "Forest Lovers." I do not say _publish_ your +map, but _draw_ one and use it. A poor story accompanied by a good map +would be too ridiculous; so you had better give all your attention to +the narrative, and leave the publication of maps until later days. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[33:A] "Hints to Novelists," in _To-Day_, May 8, 1897. + +[35:A] _Fortnightly Review_, vol. lvii. N.S. p. 187. + +[43:A] Besant, "On the Writing of Novels," _Atalanta_, vol i. p. 372. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERISATION + + +The Chief Character + +In the plot previously outlined, which figure is supreme? It depends. In +some senses the supremacy is not a matter of choice, but is decided by +the nature of the story. If the man is making the greater sacrifice, it +means that, whether you like it or not, his is the struggle that calls +for a larger measure of sympathy; and you must assign him the chief +place. Still, there are circumstances which would justify a departure +from this law--something after the fashion of respecting the rights of a +minority. But in our projected narrative, the woman is undoubtedly the +supreme character; for the man's battle is mainly one of religious +scruple, and only secondarily a question of race; whereas, the Jewess +has a vigorous conflict with both race and religion. + +Well, what do you know about women? Anything? Do you know how their +minds work? how they talk? what they wear? and the thousand and one +trivialities that go to make up character portrayal? If you do not know +these things, it is a poor look-out for the success of your novel, and +you might as well start another story at once. It may be a disputed +question as to whether women understand women better than men: the point +is, do _you_ understand them? Perhaps you know enough for the purposes +of a secondary character, but this Jewess is to be supreme; you must +know enough to meet the highest demands. + +Where to obtain this knowledge? Ah! Where! Only by studying human lives, +human manners, human weaknesses--everything human. The life of the world +must become your text-book; as for temperaments, you should know them by +heart; social influences in their effect on action and outlook, ought to +be within easy comprehension; and even then, you will still cry +"Mystery!" + + +How to Portray Character + +The first thing is to _realise_ your characters--_i.e._ make them real +persons to yourself, and then you will be more likely to persuade the +reader that they are real people. Unless this is done, your hero and +heroine will be described as "puppets" or "abstractions." I am not +saying the task is easy--in fact, it is one of the most difficult that +the novelist has to face. But there is no profit in shirking it, and the +sooner it is dealt with the better. The history of character +representation in drama is full of luminous teaching, and a study of it +cannot be other than highly instructive. In the early _Mystery_ and +_Morality_ plays, virtues and vices were each apportioned their +respective actors--that is to say, one man set forth Good Counsel, +another Repentance, another Gluttony, and another Pride. Even so late as +Philip Massinger's "A New Way to Pay Old Debts," we have Wellborn, +Justice, Greedy, Tapwell, Froth, and Furnace. Now this seems very +elementary to us, but it has one great merit: the audience knew +what each character stood for, and could form an intelligent idea +of his place in the piece. In these days we have become more +subtle--necessarily so. Following the lead of the Shakespearean +dramatists, we have not described our characters by giving them +names--virtuous or otherwise--we let them describe themselves by their +speech and action. The essential thing is that we should know our +characters intimately, so intimately that, although they exist in +imagination alone, they are as real to us as the members of our own +family. Falstaff never had flesh and blood, but as Shakespeare portrayed +him, you feel that you have only to prick him and he will bleed. The +historical Hamlet is a mist; the Hamlet of the play is a reality. + +This power of realisation depends on two things: _Observation with +insight, and Sympathy with imagination_. Observation is a most valuable +gift, but without insight it is likely to work mischief by creating a +tendency to write down just what you see and hear. Zola's novels too +often suggest the note-book. Avoid photographing life as you would +avoid a dangerous foe. The newspaper reporter can "beat you hollow," for +that is his special subject: life as it is. Observe what goes on around +you, but get behind the scenes; study selfishness and "otherness," and +the inter-play of motives, the conflict of interests which causes this +tangle of human affairs--in other words, obtain an insight into them by +asking the "why" and "wherefore." + +Above all, learn to see with other people's eyes, and to feel with other +people's hearts. For instance, you may find it needful to attend +synagogue-worship in order to obtain a first-hand knowledge of the +religion of your Jewish heroine. When you see the men in silk hats, and +praying-shawls over their shoulders, you may be tempted to despise +Judaism; the result being that you determine not to cumber your novel +with a description of such "nonsense." Well, you will lose one of the +most picturesque features of your story; you will fail to see the part +which the synagogue plays in your heroine's mental struggle, and the +portrayal of her character will be sadly defective in consequence. No; +a novelist, as such, should have no religion, no politics, no social +creed; whatever he believes as a private individual should not interfere +with the outgoing of sympathy in constructing the characters he intends +to set forth. Human nature is a compound of the virtuous and the +vicious, or, to change the figure, a perpetual oscillation between flesh +and spirit. Life is half tragedy and half comedy: men and women are +sometimes wise and often foolish. From this maze of mystery you are to +develop new creations, and actual people are your _starting-point_, +never your _models_. + + +Methods of Characterisation + +By characterisation is meant the power to make your ideal persons appear +real. It is one thing to make them real to yourself, and quite another +thing to make them real to other people. Characterisation needs a union +of imaginative and artistic gifts. In this respect, as in all others, +Shakespeare is pre-eminent. His characters are alike clear in +conception and expression, and their human quality is just as wonderful +as the large scale on which they move, covering, as they do, the entire +field of human nature. + +There are certain well-known methods of characterisation, and to these I +propose to devote the remainder of this chapter. The first and most +obvious is for the author to describe the character. This is generally +recognised as bad art. To say "She was a very wicked woman," is like the +boy who drew a four-legged animal and wrote underneath, "This is a cow." +If that boy had succeeded in drawing a cow there would have been no need +to label it; and, in the same way, if you succeed in realising and +drawing your characters there will be no need to talk about them. The +best characterisation never _says_ what a person is; it shows what he or +she is by what they do and say. I do not mean that you must say nothing +at all about your creations; the novels of Hardy and Meredith contain a +good deal of indirect comment of this kind; but it is a notable fact +that Hardy's weakest work, "A Laodicean," contains more comment than +any of the others he has written. Stevenson aptly said, "Readers cannot +fail to have remarked that what an author tells us of the beauty or the +charm of his creatures goes for nought; that we know instantly better; +that the heroine cannot open her mouth but what, all in a moment, the +fine phrases of preparation fall from her like the robes of Cinderella, +and she stands before us as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps a +strapping market-woman." + +There is another point to be remembered. If you label a character at the +outset as a very humorous person, the reader prepares himself for a good +laugh now and then, and if you disappoint him--well, you have lost a +reader and gained an adverse critic. To announce beforehand what you are +going to do, and then fail, is to put a weapon into the hands of those +who honour you with a reading. "Often a single significant detail will +throw more light on a character than pages of comment. An example in +perfection is the phrase in which Thackeray tells how Becky Crawley, +amid all her guilt and terror, when her husband had Lord Steyne by the +throat, felt a sudden thrill of admiration for Rawdon's splendid +strength. It is like a flash of lightning which shows the deeps of the +selfish, sensual woman's nature. It is no wonder that Thackeray threw +down his pen, as he confessed that he did, and cried, 'That is a stroke +of genius.'" + +The lesson is plain. Don't say what your hero and heroine _are_: make +them tell their own characters by words and deeds. + + +The Trick of "Idiosyncrasies" + +Young writers, who fail to mark off the individuality of one character +from another, by the strong lines of difference which are found in real +life, endeavour to atone for their incompetency by emphasising physical +and mental oddities. This is a mere literary "trick." To invest your +hero with a squint, or an irritating habit of blowing his nose +continually; or to make your heroine guilty of using a few funny phrases +every time she speaks, is certainly to distinguish them from the other +characters in the book who cannot boast of such excellences, but it must +not be called characterisation. It is a bastard attempt to economise the +labour that is necessary to discover individuality of soul and to bring +it out in skilful dialogues and carefully chosen situations. + +Another form of the trick of idiosyncrasy is the bald realism of the +sensationalist. He persuades himself that he is character-drawing. He is +doing nothing of the kind. He takes snap-shots with a literary camera +and reproduces direct from the negative. The art of re-touching nature +so that it becomes ideal, is not in his line at all: the commercial +instinct in him is stronger than the artistic, and he sees more business +in realism than in idealism. And what is more, there is less +labour--characters exist ready for use. It is easy to listen to a lively +altercation between cabbies in a London street, when language passes +that makes one hesitate to strike a match, and then go home and draw a +city driver. You have no need to search for contrasts, for colour, for +sound, for passion: you saw and heard everything at once. But the truth +still remains--the seeing of things, and the hearing of things, are but +the raw material: where are your new creations? + +The trick of selecting oddities as a method of characterisation is +superficial, simply because oddities lie upon the surface. You can, +without much difficulty, construct a dialogue between a blacksmith and a +student, showing how the unlettered man exhibits his ignorance and the +scholar his taste. But such a distinction is quite external; at heart +the men may be very much alike. It is one thing to paint the type, and +another to paint the individual. Take Sir Willoughby Patterne. He is a +man who belongs to the type "selfish"; but he is much more than a +typically selfish man; he is an _individual_. There is a turn in his +remarks, a way of speaking in dialogue, and a style of doing things +which show him to be self-centred, not in a general way, but in the +particular way of Sir Willoughby Patterne. + +There is one fact in characterisation for which a due margin should +always be made. Wilkie Collins, you will remember, says of his Fosco: +"The making him fat was an afterthought; his canaries and his white +mice were found next; and the most valuable discovery of all, his +admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a conviction that he would +not be true to nature unless there was some weak point somewhere in his +character." You must provide for these "afterthoughts" by not being too +ready to cast your characters in the final mould. Let every personality +be in a state of _becoming_ until he has actually _come_--in all the +completeness of appearance, manner, speech, and action. Your first +conception of the Jewess may be that of one who possesses the usual +physique of her class--short and stout; but afterwards it may suit your +purpose better to make her fairer, taller, and slighter, than the rest +of her race. If so, do not hesitate to undo the work of laborious hours +by effecting such an improvement. It will go against the grain, no +doubt; but novel-writing is a serious business, and much depends on +trifles in accomplishing success; so do not begrudge the extra toil +involved. + + * * * * * + +Characterisation is the finest feature of the novelist's art. Here you +will have your greatest difficulties, but, if you overcome them, you +will have your greatest triumphs. Here, too, the crying need is a +knowledge of human nature. Acquire a mastership of this subtle quantity, +and then you may hope for genuine results. Of course, knowledge is not +_all_; it is in artistic appreciation that true character-drawing +consists. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE + + +Narrative Art + +David Pryde has summed up the whole matter in a few well-chosen +sentences: "Keeping the beginning and the end in view, we set out from +the right starting-place, and go straight towards the destination; we +introduce no event that does not spring from the first cause and tend to +the great effect; we make each detail a link joined to the one going +before and the one coming after; we make, in fact, all the details into +one entire chain, which we can take up as a whole, carry about with us, +and retain as long as we please."[63:A] How many elements are here +referred to? There are plot, movement, unity, proportion, purpose, and +climax. I have already dealt with some of these, and now propose to +devote a few paragraphs to the rest. + +Unity means unity of effect, and is first a matter of literary +architecture--afterwards a matter of impression. It has been said of +Macbeth that "the play moves forward with an absolute regularity; it is +almost architectural in its rise and fall, in the balance of its parts. +The plot is a complex one; it has an ebb and flow, a complication and a +resolution, to use technical terms. That is to say, the fortunes of +Macbeth swoop up to a crisis or turning-point, and thence down again to +a catastrophe. The catastrophe, of course, closes the play; the crisis, +as so often with Shakespeare, comes in its exact centre, in the middle +of the middle act, with the Escape of Fleance. Hitherto Macbeth's path +has been gilded with success; now the epoch of failure begins. And the +parallelisms and correspondences throughout are remarkable. Each act has +a definite subject: The Temptation; The First, Second, and Third Crimes; +The Retribution. Three accidents, if we may so call them, help Macbeth +in the first part of the play: the visit of Duncan to Inverness, his own +impulsive murder of the grooms, the flight of Malcolm and Donalbain. And +in the second half three accidents help to bring about his ruin: the +escape of Fleance, the false prophecy of the witches, the escape of +Macduff. Malcolm and Macduff at the end answer to Duncan and Banquo at +the beginning. A meeting with the witches heralds both rise and fall. +Finally, each of the crimes is represented in the Retribution. Malcolm, +the son of Duncan, and Macduff, whose wife and child he slew, conquer +Macbeth; Fleance begets a race that shall reign in his stead."[65:A] + +From a construction point of view, a novel and a play have many points +in common; and although the parallelism of events and characters is not +necessary for either, the account of Macbeth just given is a good +illustration of unity of effect and impression. Stevenson's "Kidnapped" +and "David Balfour" are good examples of unity of structure. + + +Movement + +How many times have you put a novel away with the remark: "It _drags_ +awfully!" The narrative that drags is not worthy of the name. There are +a few writers who can go into byways and take the reader with them--Mr +Le Gallienne, for instance--but, as a rule, the digressive novelist is +the one whose book is thrown on to the table with the remark just +quoted. A story should be _progressive_, not _digressive_ and +episodical. Hence the importance of movement and suspense. Keep your +narrative in motion, and do not let it sleep for a while unless it is of +deliberate intention. There is a definite law to be observed--namely, +that as feeling rises higher, sentences become crisp and shorter; +witness Acts i. and ii. in _Macbeth_. Suspense, too, is an agent in +accelerating the forward march of a story. There is no music in a pause, +but it renders great service in giving proper emphasis to music that +goes before and comes after it. Notice how Stevenson employs suspense +and contrast in "Kidnapped." "The sea had gone down, and the wind was +steady and kept the sails quiet, so that there was a great stillness in +the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of muttering voices. A +little after, and there came a clash of steel upon the deck, by which I +knew they were dealing out the cutlasses, and one had been let fall; and +after that silence again." These little touches are capable of affecting +the entire interest of the whole story, and should receive careful +attention. + + +Aids to Description + +THE POINT OF VIEW + +So much has been said in praise of descriptive power, that it will not +be amiss if I repeat one or two opinions which, seemingly, point the +other way. Gray, in a letter to West, speaks of describing as "an ill +habit that will wear off"; and Disraeli said description was "always a +bore both to the describer and the describee." To some, these +authorities may not be of sufficient weight. Will they listen to Robert +Louis Stevenson? He says that "no human being ever spoke of scenery for +above two minutes at a time, which makes one suspect we hear too much of +it in literature." These remarks will save us from that +description-worship which is a sort of literary influenza. + +The first thing to be determined in descriptive art is _the point of +view_. Suppose you are standing on an eminence commanding a wide stretch +of plain with a river winding through it. What does the river look like? +A silver thread; and so you would describe it. But if you stood close to +the brink and looked back to the eminence on which you stood previously, +you would no longer speak of a silver thread, simply because now your +point of view is changed. The principle is elementary enough, and there +is no need to dwell upon it further, except to quote an illustration +from Blackmore: + +"For she stood at the head of a deep green valley, carved from out the +mountains in a perfect oval, with a fence of sheer rock standing round +it, eighty feet or a hundred high, from whose brink black wooded hills +swept up to the skyline. By her side a little river glided out from +underground with a soft, dark babble, unawares of daylight; then growing +brighter, lapsed away, and fell into the valley. Then, as it ran down +the meadow, alders stood on either marge, and grass was blading out of +it, and yellow tufts of rushes gathered, looking at the hurry. But +further down, on either bank, were covered houses built of stone, +square, and roughly covered, set as if the brook were meant to be the +street between them. Only one room high they were, and not placed +opposite each other, but in and out as skittles are; only that the first +of all, which proved to be the captain's was a sort of double house, or +rather two houses joined together by a plank-bridge over the +river."[69:A] + +SELECTING THE MAIN FEATURES + +The fundamental principle of all art is selection, and nowhere is it +seen to better advantage than in description. A battle, a landscape, or +a mental agony, can only be described artistically, in so far as the +writer chooses the most characteristic features for presentation. In the +following passage George Eliot states the law and keeps it. "She had +time to remark that he was a peculiar-looking person, but not +insignificant, which was the quality that most hopelessly consigned a +man to perdition. He was massively built. The striking points in his +face were large, clear, grey eyes, and full lips." Suppose for a moment +that the reader were told about the pattern and "hang" of the hero's +trousers, his waistcoat and his coat, and that information was given +respecting the number of links in his watch-chain, and the exact depth +of his double chin--what would have been the effect from an artistic +point of view? Failure--for instead of getting a description alive with +interest, we should get a catalogue wearisome in its multiplicity of +detail. A certain author once thought Homer was niggardly in describing +Helen's charms, so he endeavoured to atone for the great poet's +shortcomings in the following manner:--"She was a woman right beautiful, +with fine eyebrows, of clearest complexion, beautiful cheeks; comely, +with large, full eyes, with snow-white skin, quick glancing, graceful; a +grove filled with graces, fair-armed, voluptuous, breathing beauty +undisguised. The complexion fair, the cheek rosy, the countenance +pleasing, the eye blooming, a beauty unartificial, untinted, of its +natural colour, adding brightness to the brightest cherry, as if one +should dye ivory with resplendent purple. Her neck long, of dazzling +whiteness, whence she was called the swan-born, beautiful Helen." + +After reading this can you form a distinct idea of Helen's beauty? We +think not. The details are too many, the language too exuberant, and the +whole too much in the form of a catalogue. It would have been better to +select a few of what George Eliot calls the "striking points," and +present them with taste and skill. As it is, the attempt to improve on +Homer has resulted in a description which, for detail and minuteness, is +like the enumeration of the parts of a new motor-car--indeed, that is +the true sphere of description by detail, where, as in all matters +mechanical, fulness and accuracy are demanded. In "Mariana," Tennyson +refers to no more facts than are necessary to emphasise her great +loneliness: + + "With blackest moss the flower-pots + Were thickly crusted, one and all; + The rusted nails fell from the knots + That held the pear to the gable wall. + The broken sheds looked sad and strange: + Unlifted was the clinking latch; + Weeded and worn the ancient thatch + Upon the lonely moated grange." + +In ordering such details as may be chosen to represent an event, idea, +or person, it is the rule to proceed from "the near to the remote, and +from the obvious to the obscure." Homer thus describes a shield as +smooth, beautiful, brazen, and well-hammered--that is, he gives the +particulars in the order in which they would naturally be observed. +Homer's method is also one of epithet: "the far-darting Apollo," +"swift-footed Achilles," "wide-ruling Agamemnon," "white-armed Hera," +and "bright-eyed Athene." Now it is but a step from this giving of +epithets to what is called + +DESCRIPTION BY SUGGESTION + +When Hawthorne speaks of the "black, moody brow of Septimus Felton," it +is really suggestion by the use of epithet. Dickens took the trouble to +enumerate the characteristics of Mrs Gamp one by one; but he succeeded +in presenting Mrs Fezziwig by simply saying, "In came Mrs Fezziwig, one +vast substantial smile." This latter method differs from the former in +almost every possible way. The enumeration of details becomes wearisome +unless very cleverly handled, whereas the suggestive method unifies the +writer's impressions, thereby saving the reader's mental exertions and +heightening his pleasures. He tells us how things and persons impress +him, and prefers to _indicate_ rather than describe. Thus Dickens +refers to "a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman in a blue +coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very +red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body had been +squeezed into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the +appearance of being rather cold about the heart." Lowell says of +Chaucer, "Sometimes he describes amply by the merest hint, as where the +Friar, before sitting himself down, drives away the cat. We know without +need of more words that he has chosen the snuggest corner." + +Notice how succinctly Blackmore delineates a natural fact, "And so in a +sorry plight I came to an opening in the bushes where a great black pool +lay in front of me, whitened with snow (as I thought) at the sides, till +I saw it was only foam-froth, . . . and the look of this black pit was +enough to stop one from diving into it, even on a hot summer's day, with +sunshine on the water; I mean if the sun ever shone there. As it was, I +shuddered and drew back; not alone at the pool itself, and the black air +there was about it, but also at the whirling manner, and wisping of +white threads upon it in stripy circles round and round; and the centre +still as jet."[75:A] + +Hardy's description of Egdon Heath is too well known to need remark; it +is a classic of its kind. + +Robert Louis Stevenson possessed the power of suggestion to a high +degree. "An ivory-faced and silver-haired old woman opened the door. She +had an evil face, smoothed with hypocrisy, but her manners were +excellent." To advise a young writer to imitate Stevenson would be +absurd, but perhaps I may be permitted to say: study Stevenson's method, +from the blind man in "Treasure Island," to Kirstie in "The Weir of +Hermiston." + +FACTS TO REMEMBER + +"It is a peculiarity of Walter Scott," says Goethe, "that his great +talent in representing details often leads him into faults. Thus in +'Ivanhoe' there is a scene where they are seated at a table in a +castle-hall, at night, and a stranger enters. Now he is quite right in +describing the stranger's appearance and dress, but it is a fault that +he goes to the length of describing his feet, shoes and stockings. When +we sit down in the evening and someone comes in, we notice only the +upper part of his body. If I describe the feet, daylight enters at once +and the scene loses its nocturnal character." And yet Scott in some +respects was a master of description--witness his picture of Norham +Castle and of the ravine of Greeta between Rokeby and Mortham. But +Goethe's criticism is justified notwithstanding. Never write more than +can be said of a man or a scene when regarded from the surrounding +circumstances of light and being. Ruskin is never tired of saying, "Draw +what you see." In the "Fighting Téméraire," Turner paints the old +warship as if it had no rigging. It was there in its proper place, but +the artist could not see it, and he refused to put it in his picture if, +at the distance, it was not visible. "When you see birds fly, you do +not see any _feathers_," says Mr W. M. Hunt. "You are not to draw +_reality_, but reality as it _appears_ to you." + +Avoid the _pathetic fallacy_. Kingsley, in "Alton Locke," says: + + "They rowed her in across the rolling foam-- + The cruel crawling foam," + +on which Ruskin remarks, "The foam is not cruel, neither does it crawl. +The state of mind which attributes to it these characteristics of a +living creature is one in which the reason is unhinged by grief. All +violent feelings have the same effect. They produce in us a falseness in +all our impressions of external things." + + * * * * * + +Perhaps the secret of all accurate description is a trained eye. Do you +know how a cab-driver mounts on to the box, or the shape of a +coal-heaver's mouth when he cries "Coal!"? Do you know how a wood looks +in early spring as distinct from its precise appearance in summer, or +how a man uses his eyes when concealing feelings of jealousy? or a +woman when hiding feelings of love? Observation with insight, and +Imagination with sympathy; these are the great necessities in every +department of novel-writing. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[63:A] "Studies in Composition," p. 26. + +[65:A] E. K. Chambers' _Macbeth_, pp. 25, 26. "The Warwick Shakespeare." + +[69:A] "Lorna Doone." + +[75:A] "Lorna Doone." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE + + +Colour: Local and Otherwise + +One morning you opened your paper and found that Mr Simon St Clair had +gone into Wales in search of local colour. What does local colour mean? +The appearance of the country, the dress and language of the people, all +that distinguishes the particular locality from others near and +remote--is local colour. Take Kipling's "Mandalay" as an illustration. +He speaks of the ringing temple bell, of the garlic smells, and the dawn +that comes up like thunder; there are elephants piling teak, and all the +special details of the particular locality find a characteristic +expression. For what reason? Well, local colour renders two services to +literature; it makes very often a pleasing or a striking picture in +itself; and it is used by the author to bring out special features in +his story. Kipling's underlying idea comes to the surface when he says +that a man who has lived in the East always hears the East "a-callin'" +him back again. There is deep pathos in the idea alone; but when it is +set in the external characteristics of Eastern life, one locality chosen +to set forth the rest, and stated in language that few can equal, the +entire effect is very striking. + +Whenever local colour is of picturesque quality there is a temptation to +substitute "word-painting" for the story. The desire for novelty is at +the bottom of a good deal of modern extravagance in this direction, but +the truth still remains that local colour has an important function to +discharge--namely, to increase the artistic value of good narrative by +suggesting the environment of the _dramatis personæ_. You must have +noticed the opening chapters of "The Scarlet Letter." Why all this +careful detailing of the Customs House, the manners and the talk of the +people? For no other reason than that just given. + +But there is another use of colour in literary composition. Perhaps I +can best illustrate my purpose by quoting from an interview with James +Lane Allen, who certainly ought to know what he is talking about. The +author of "The Choir Invisible," and "Summer in Arcady," occupies a +position in Fiction which makes his words worth considering. + +Said Mr Allen to the interviewer:[81:A] "A friend of mine--a +painter--had just finished reading some little thing that I had +succeeded in having published in the _Century_. 'What do you think of +it?' I asked him. 'Tell me frankly what you like and what you don't +like.' + +"'It's interestingly told, dramatic, polished, and all that, Allen,' was +his reply, 'but why in the world did you neglect such an opportunity to +drop in some colour here, and at this point, and there?' + +"It came over me like that," said the Kentuckian, snapping his fingers, +"that words indicating colours can be manipulated by the writer just as +pigments are by the painter. I never forgot the lesson. And now when I +describe a landscape, or a house, or a costume, I try to put it into +such words that an artist can paint the scene from my words." + +Evidently Mr Allen learned his lesson long ago, but it is one every +writer should study carefully. Mr Baring Gould also gives his +experience. "In one of my stories I sketched a girl in a white frock +leaning against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses. I had some +burnished gold-green flies on the old wall, preening in the sun; so, to +complete the scene, I put her on gold-green leather shoes, and made the +girl's eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had a picture where the colour +was carried through, and, if painted, would have been artistic and +satisfying. A red sash would have spoiled all, so I gave her one that +was green. So we had the white dress, the guelder-rose-balls +greeny-white, and through the ranges of green-gold were led up to her +hair, which was red-gold. I lay some stress on this formation of picture +in tones of colour, because it pleases myself when writing--it satisfies +my artistic sense. A thousand readers may not observe it; but those who +have any art in them will at once receive therefrom a pleasing +impression."[83:A] + +These two testimonies make the matter very plain. If anything is needed +it is a more practical illustration taken direct from a book. For this +purpose I have chosen a choice piece from George Du Maurier's "Peter +Ibbetson," a book that was half-killed by the Trilby boom. + +"Before us lies a sea of fern, gone a russet-brown from decay, in which +are isles of dark green gorse, and little trees with scarlet and orange +and lemon-coloured leaflets fluttering down, and running after each +other on the bright grass, under the brisk west wind which makes the +willows rustle, and turn up the whites of their leaves in pious +resignation to the coming change. + +"Harrow-on-the-Hill, with its pointed spire, rises blue in the distance; +and distant ridges, like the receding waves, rise into blueness, one +after the other, out of the low-lying mist; the last ridge bluely +melting into space. In the midst of it all, gleams the Welsh Harp Lake, +like a piece of sky that has become unstuck and tumbled into the +landscape with its shiny side up." + + +What About Dialect? + +Dialect is local colour individualised. Ian Maclaren, in "The Bonnie +Brier Bush," following in the wake of Crockett and Barrie, has given us +the dialect of Scotland: Baring Gould and a host of others have provided +us with dialect stories of English counties; Jane Barlow and several +Irish writers deal with the sister island; Wales has not been forgotten; +and the American novelists have their big territory mapped out into +convenient sections. Soon the acreage of locality literature will have +been completely "written up"; I do not say its yielding powers will have +been exhausted, for, as with other species of local colour, dialect has +had to suffer at the hands of the imitator who dragged dialect into his +paltry narrative for its own sake, and to give him the opportunity of +providing the reader with a glossary. + +The reason why dialect-stories were so popular some time ago is twofold. +First, dialect imparts a flavour to a narrative, especially when it is +in contrast to educated utterances on the part of other characters. But +the chief reason is that dialect people have more character than other +people--as a rule. They afford greater scope for literary artistry than +can be found in life a stage or two higher, with its correctness and +artificiality. St Beuve said, "All peasants have style." Yes; that is +the truth exactly. There is an individuality about the peasant that is +absent from the town-dweller, and this fact explains the piquancy of +many novels that owe their popularity to the representations of the +rustic population. The dialect story, or novel, cannot hope for +permanency unless it contains elements of universal interest. The +emphasis laid on a certain type of speech stamps such a literary +production with the brand of narrowness. I understand that Ian Maclaren +has been translated into French. Can you imagine Drumsheugh in Gallic? +or Jamie Soutar? Never. Only that which is literature in the highest +sense can be translated into another language; hence the life of +corners in Scotland, or elsewhere, has no special interest for the world +in general. + +The rule as to dealing with dialect is quite simple. Never use the +letters of the alphabet to reproduce the sound of such language in a +literal manner. _Suggest dialect_; that is all. Have nothing to do with +glossaries. People hate dictionaries, however brief, when they read +fiction. George Eliot and Thomas Hardy are good models of the wise use +of county speech. + + +On Dialogue + +In making your characters talk, it should be your aim not to _reproduce_ +their conversation, but to _indicate_ it. Here, as elsewhere, the first +principle of all art is selection, and from the many words which you +have heard your characters use, you must choose those that are typical +in view of the purpose you have in hand. I once had a letter from a +youthful novelist, in which he said: "It's splendid to write a story. I +make my characters say what I like--swear, if necessary--and all that." +Now you can't make your characters say what you like; you are obliged to +make them say what is in keeping with their known dispositions, and with +the circumstances in which they are placed at the time of speaking. If +you know your characters intimately, you will not put wise words into +the mouth of a clown, unless you have suitably provided for such a +surprise; neither will you write long speeches for the sullen villain +who is to be the human devil of the narrative. Remember, therefore, that +the key to propriety and effectiveness in writing is the knowledge of +those ideal people whom you are going to use in your pages. + +"Windiness" and irrelevancy are the twin evils of conversations in +fiction. Trollope says, "It is so easy to make two persons talk on any +casual subject with which the writer presumes himself to be conversant! +Literature, philosophy, politics, or sport may be handled in a loosely +discursive style; and the writer, while indulging himself, is apt to +think he is pleasing the reader. I think he can make no greater mistake. +The dialogue is generally the most agreeable part of a novel; but it is +only so as long as it tends in some way to the telling of the main +story. It need not be confined to this, but it should always have a +tendency in that direction. The unconscious critical acumen of a reader +is both just and severe. When a long dialogue on extraneous matter +reaches his mind, he at once feels that he is being cheated into taking +something that he did not bargain to accept when he took up the novel. +He does not at that moment require politics or philosophy, but he wants +a story. He will not, perhaps, be able to say in so many words that at +some point the dialogue has deviated from the story; but when it does, +he will feel it."[88:A] + +A word or two as to what kind of dialogue assists in telling the main +story may not be amiss. Return to the suggested plot of the Jewess and +the Roman Catholic. What are they to talk about? Anything that will +assist their growing intimacy, that will bring out the peculiar +personalities of both, and contribute to the development of the +narrative. In a previous section I said that the _dénouement_ decided +the selection of your characters; in some respects it will also decide +the topics of their conversation. Certain events have to be provided +for, in order that they may be both natural and inevitable, and it +becomes your duty to create incidents and introduce dialogue which will +lead up to these events. + +With reference to models for study, advice is difficult to give. Quite a +gallery of masters would be needed for the purpose, as there are so many +points in one which are lacking in another. Besides, a great novelist +may have eccentricities in dialogue, and be quite normal in other +respects. George Meredith is as artificial in dialogue as he is in the +use of phrases pure and simple, and yet he succeeds, _in spite of_ +defects, not _by_ them. Here is a sample from "The Egoist": + + "Have you walked far to-day?" + + "Nine and a half hours. My Flibbertigibbet is too much for me + at times, and I had to walk off my temper." + + "All those hours were required?" + + "Not quite so long." + + "You are training for your Alpine tour?" + + "It's doubtful whether I shall get to the Alps this year. I + leave the Hall, and shall probably be in London with a pen to + sell." + + "Willoughby knows that you leave him?" + + "As much as Mont Blanc knows that he is going to be climbed by + a party below. He sees a speck or two in the valley." + + "He has spoken of it." + + "He would attribute it to changes." + +I need not discuss how far this advances the novelist's narrative, but +it is plain that it is not a model for the beginner. For smartness and +"point" nothing could be better than Anthony Hope's "Dolly Dialogues," +although the style is not necessarily that of a novel. + + +Points in Conversation + +Never allow the reader to be in doubt as to who is speaking. When he has +to turn back to discover the speaker's identity, you may be sure there +is something wrong with your construction. You need not quote the +speaker's name in order to make it plain that he is speaking: all that +is needed is a little attention to the "said James" and "replied Susan" +of your dialogues. When once these two have commenced to talk, they can +go on in catechism form for a considerable period. But if a third party +chimes in, a more careful disposition of names is called for. + +Beginners very often have a good deal of trouble with their "saids," +"replieds," and "answereds." + +Here, again, a little skilful manoevring will obviate the difficulty. +This is a specimen of third-class style. + + "I'm off on Monday," _said_ he. + + "Not really," _said_ she. + + "Yes, I have only come to say goodbye," _said_ he. + + "Shall you be gone long?" _asked_ she. + + "That depends," _said_ he. + + "I should like to know what takes you away," _said_ she. + + "I daresay," _said_ he, smiling. + + "I shouldn't wonder if I know," _said_ she. + + "I daresay you might guess," _said_ he. + +Could anything be more wooden than this perpetual "said he, said she," +which I have accentuated by putting into italics? Now, observe the +difference when you read the following:-- + + _Observed_ Silver. + + _Cried_ the Cook. + + _Returned_ Morgan. + + _Said_ Another. + + _Agreed_ Silver. + + _Said_ the fellow with the bandage. + +There is no lack of suitable verbs for dialogue purposes--remarked, +retorted, inquired, demanded, murmured, grumbled, growled, +sneered, explained, and a host more. Without a ready command +of such a vocabulary you cannot hope to give variety to your +character-conversations, and, what is of graver importance, you will not +be able to bring out the essential qualities of such remarks as you +introduce. For instance, to put a sarcastic utterance into a man's +mouth, and then to write down that he "replied" with those words is not +half so effective as to say he "sneered" them.[93:A] + +Probably you will be tempted to comment on your dialogue as you write by +insinuating remarks as to actions, looks, gestures, and the like. This +is a good temptation, so far, but it has its dangers. The ancient Hebrew +writer, in telling the story of Hezekiah, said that Isaiah went to the +king with these words: + + "Set thine house in order: for thou shalt die and not live." + + _And Hezekiah turned his face to the wall--and prayed._ + +If you can make a comment as dramatic and forceful as that, _make it_. +But avoid useless and uncalled-for remarks, and remember that you +really want nothing, not even a fine epigram, which fails to contribute +to the main purpose. + + +"Atmosphere" + +It will not be inappropriate to close this chapter with a few words on +what is called "atmosphere." The word is often met with in the +vocabulary of the reviewer; he is marvellously keen in scenting +atmospheres. Perhaps an illustration may be the best means of +exposition. The reviewer is speaking of Maeterlinck's "Alladine and +Palomides," "Interior," and "The Death of Tintagiles." He says, "We find +in them the same strange atmosphere to which we had grown accustomed in +'Pelleas' and 'L'Intruse.' We are in a region of no fixed plane--a +region that this world never saw. It is a region such as Arnold Böcklin, +perhaps, might paint, and many a child describe. A castle stands upon a +cliff. Endless galleries and corridors and winding stairs run through +it. Beneath lie vast grottoes where subterranean waters throw up +unearthly light from depths where seaweed grows." This is very true, and +put into bald language it means that Maeterlinck has succeeded in +creating an artistic environment for his weird characters; it is the +_setting_ in which he has placed them. In the first scene of _Hamlet_, +Shakespeare creates the necessary atmosphere to introduce the events +that are to follow. The soldiers on guard are concerned and afraid; the +reader is thereby prepared, step by step, for the reception of the whole +situation; everything that will strengthen the impression of a coming +fatality is seized by a master hand, and made to do service in creating +an atmosphere of such expectant quality. An artist by nature will select +intuitively the persons and facts he needs; but there is no reason why a +study of these necessities, a slow and careful pondering, should not at +last succeed in alighting upon the precise and inevitable details which +delicately and subtly produce the desired result. In this sense the +matter can hardly be called a minor detail, but the expression has been +sufficiently guarded. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[81:A] Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 201. + +[83:A] "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 40. + +[88:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. p. 58. + +[93:A] See Bates' "Talks on Writing English." An excellent manual, to +which I am indebted for ideas and suggestions. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +PITFALLS + + +Items of General Knowledge + +I propose to show in this chapter that a literary artist can never +afford to despise details. He may have genius enough to write a +first-rate novel, and sell it rapidly in spite of real blemishes, but if +a work of art is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well. No writer +is any the better for slovenly inaccuracy. Take the details of everyday +life. Do you suppose you are infallible in these commonplace things? If +so, be undeceived at once. It is simply marvellous with what ease a +mistake will creep into your narrative. Even Mr Zangwill once made a +hansom cab door to open with a handle from the inside, and the mistake +appeared in six editions, escaping the reviewers, and was quietly +altered by the author in the seventh. There is nothing particularly +serious about an error of this kind; but at the same time, where truth +to fact is so simple a matter, why not give the fact as it is? +Trivialities may not interfere with the power of the story, but they +often attach an ugliness, or a smack of the ridiculous, which cannot but +hinder, to some extent, the beauty of otherwise good work. Mistakes such +as that just referred to, arise, in most instances, out of the passion +and feeling in which the novelist advances his narrative. The detail +connected with the opening of the hansom door (doors) was nothing to Mr +Zangwill, compared to the person who opened it. I should advise you, +therefore, to master all the necessary _minutiae_ of travelling, if your +hero and heroine are going abroad; of city life if you take them to +the theatre for amusement--in fact, of every environment in which +imagination may place them. Then, when all your work is done, read what +has been written with the microscopic eyes of a Flaubert. + + +Specific Subjects + +For instance, the plot suggested in the previous chapters deals with +Judaism. Now, if you don't know Jewish life through and through, it is +the height of foolishness to attempt to write a novel about it. (The +same remark applies to Roman Catholicism.) You will find it necessary to +study the Bible and Hebrew history; and when you have mastered the +literature of the subject and caught its spirit, you will turn your +attention to the sacred people as they exist to-day--their isolation, +their wealth, their synagogues, and their psychological peculiarities. +Does this seem to be too big a programme? Well, if you are to present a +living and truthful picture of the Jewess and her surroundings, you can +only succeed by going through such a programme; whereas, if you skip the +hard preparatory work you will bungle in the use of Hebrew terms, and +when you make the Rabbi drop the scroll through absent-mindedness, you +will very likely say that "the congregation looked on half-amused and +half-wondering." Just visit a synagogue when the Rabbi happens to drop +the scroll. The congregation would be "horribly shocked." The same law +applies whatever be your subject. If you intend to follow a prevailing +fashion and depict slum life, you will have to spend a good deal of time +in those unpleasant regions, not only to know them in their outward +aspects, but to know them in their inward and human features. Even then +something important may escape you, with the result that you fall into +error, and the expert enjoys a quiet giggle at your expense; but you +will have some consolation in the thought that you spared no pains in +the diligent work of preparation. + +Perhaps your novel will take the reader into aristocratic circles. Pray +do not make the attempt if you are not thoroughly acquainted with the +manners and customs of such circles. Ignorance will surely betray you, +and in describing a dinner, or an "At Home," you will raise derisive +laughter by suggesting the details of a most impossible meal, or spoil +your heroine by making her guilty of atrocious etiquette. The remedy is +close at hand: _know your subject_. + + +Topography and Geography + +Watch your topography and geography. Have you never read novels where +the characters are made to walk miles of country in as many minutes? In +fairy tales we rather like these extraordinary creatures--their +startling performances have a charm we should be sorry to part with. But +in the higher world of fiction, where ideal things should appear as real +as possible, we decidedly object to miraculous journeys, especially, as +in most instances, it is plainly a mistake in calculation on the part of +the writer. Of course the writer is occasionally placed in an awkward +position. A dramatic episode is about to take place, or, more correctly, +the author wishes it to take place, but the characters have been +dispersed about the map, and time and distance conspire against the +author's purpose. It is madness to "blur" the positions and "risk" the +reader's acuteness, but it is almost equally unfortunate to fail in +observing the difficulty, and write on in blissful ignorance of the fact +that nature's laws have been set at defiance. The drawing of a map, as +before suggested, will obviate all these troubles. + +Should you depict a lover's scene in India, take care not to describe it +as occurring in "beautiful twilight." It is quite possible to know that +darkness follows sunset, and yet to forget it in the moment of writing; +but a good writer is never caught "napping" in these matters. If you +don't know India, choose Cairo, about which, after half-a-dozen +lengthened visits, you can speak with certainty. + + +Scientific Facts + +What a nuisance the weather is to many novelists. Some triumph over +their difficulties; a few contribute to our amusement. The meteorology +of fiction would be a fascinating study. In second-rate productions, it +is astonishing to witness the ease with which the weather is ordered +about. The writer makes it rain when he thinks the incidents of a +downpour will enliven the narrative, forgetting that the movement of the +story, as previously stated, requires a blue sky and a shining sun; or +he contrives to have the wind blowing in two or three directions at +once. The sun and the moon require careful manipulation. At the +beginning of a novel, the room of an invalid is said to have a window +looking directly towards the east; but at the end of the book when the +invalid dies, the author, wishing to make him depart this life in a +flood of glory, suffuses this eastern-windowed room with "the red glare +of the setting sun." The detail may appear unimportant, but it is not +so, and a few hours devoted to notes on these minor points would save +all the unpleasantness and ridicule which such mistakes too frequently +bring. The reviewer loves to descant on the "peculiar cosmology and +physical science of the volume before us." + +The moon is most unfortunate. Mrs Humphry Ward confesses that she never +knows when to make the moon rise, and obtains Miss Ward's assistance in +all astronomical references. This is, of course, a pleasant +exaggeration, but it shows that no venture should be made in science +without being perfectly sure of your ground. + + +Grammar + +Grammar is the most dangerous of all pitfalls. Suppose you read your +novel through, and check each sentence. After weary toil you are ready +to offer a prize of one guinea to the man who can show you a mistake. +When the full list of errors is drawn up by an expert grammarian, you +are glad that offer was not made, for your guineas would have been going +too quickly. In everyday conversation you speak as other people +do--having a special hatred of painful accuracy, otherwise called +pedantry; and as you frequently hear the phrase: "Those sort of people +are never nice," it does not strike you as being incorrect when you +read it in your proof-sheets. Or somebody refers to a theatrical +performance, and regretting his inability to be present, says, "I should +like to have gone, but could not." So often is the phrase used in daily +speech, that its sound (when you read your book aloud) does not suggest +anything erroneous. And yet if you wish your reader to know that you are +a good grammarian, you will not be ashamed to revise your grammar and +say, "I should have liked to go, but could not." These are simple +instances: there are hundreds more. + +Reviewing all that has been said in this chapter, the one conclusion is +that the novelist must be a man of knowledge; he must know the English +language from base to summit; and whatever references he makes to +science, art, history, theology, or any other subject, he should have +what is expected of writers in these specific departments--accuracy. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE SECRET OF STYLE + + +Communicable Elements + +One can readily sympathise with the melancholy of a man who, after +reading De Quincey, Macaulay, Addison, Lamb, Pater, and Stevenson, found +that literary style was still a mystery to him. He was obliged to +confess that the secret of style is with them that have it. His main +difficulty, however, was to reconcile this conviction with the advice of +a learned friend who urged him to study the best models if he would +attain a good style. Was style communicable? or was it not? Now of all +questions relating to this subject, this is the most pertinent, and, if +I may say so, the only real question. It is the easiest thing in the +world to tell a student about Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant, about +Tolstoi and Turgenieff, but no quantity of advice as to reading is of +much avail unless the preliminary question just referred to is +intelligently answered. The so-called stylists of all ages may be +carefully read from beginning to end, and yet style will not disclose +its secret. Such a course of reading could not but be beneficial; to +live among the lovely things of literature would develop the taste and +educate appreciation; the reader would be quick to discern beauty when +he saw it, but the art of producing it other than by deliberate +imitation of known models would be still a mystery. + +_Is_ style communicable? The answer is _Yes_ and _No_; in some senses it +is, in others it is not. Let us deal with the affirmative side first. +This concerns all points of grammar and composition without which the +story would not be clear and forcible. No writer can make a "corner" in +the facts of grammar and composition; it is impossible to appropriate +them individually to the exclusion of everybody else; and since style +depends to some extent on a knowledge of those rules which govern the +use of language, it follows that there are certain elements which are +open to all who are willing to learn them. For instance, there is the +study of words. How often do we hear it said of a certain novelist that +he uses the right word with unerring accuracy. And this is regarded as +an important feature in his style; therefore words and their uses should +have a prominent place in your programme. In "The Silverado Squatters," +Stevenson represents himself as carrying a pail of water up a hill: "the +water _lipping_ over the side, and a _quivering_ sunbeam in the midst." +The words in italics are the exact words wanted; no others could +possibly set forth the facts with greater accuracy. Stevenson was a +diligent word-student, and had a certain knowledge of their dynamic and +suggestive qualities. + +The right word! How shall we find it? Sometimes it will come with the +thought; more often we must seek it. Landor says: "I hate false words, +and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the +thing." What could be stronger than the language of Guy de Maupassant? +"Whatever the thing we wish to say there is but one word to express it, +but one verb to give it movement, but one adjective to qualify it. We +must seek till we find this noun, this verb, this adjective, and never +allow ourselves to play tricks, even happy ones, or have recourse to +sleights of language to avoid a difficulty. The subtlest things may be +rendered and suggested by applying the hint conveyed in Boileau's line, +'He taught the power of a word in the right place.'" In similar vein, +Professor Raleigh remarks, "Let the truth be said outright: there are no +synonyms, and the same statement can never be repeated in a changed form +of words." + +The number of words used is another consideration. When Phil May has +drawn a picture he proceeds to make erasures here and there with a view +to retaining wholeness of effect by the least possible number of lines. +There is a similar excellence in literature, the literature where "there +is not a superfluous word." Oh, the "gasiness" of many a modern +novel--pages and pages of so-called "style," "word-painting," and +"description." + +The conclusion of the matter is this: the right number of words, and +each word in its place. Frederic Schlegel used to say that in good +prose every word should be underlined; as if he had said that the +interpretation of a sentence should not depend on the manner in which it +is read. + +It is also highly necessary that the would-be stylist should be a +student of sentences and paragraphs. Surprising as it may seem, it is +nevertheless true that many aspirants after literary success never give +these matters a thought; they expect that proficiency will "come." +Proficiency is not an angel who visits us unsolicited; it is a power +that must be paid for with a price, and the price is laborious study of +such practical technique as the following:--"In a series of sentences +the stress should be varied continually so as to come in the beginning +of some sentences, and at the end of others, regard being had for the +two considerations, variation of rhythm, and grouping of similar ideas +together." And this, "Every paragraph is subject to the general laws of +unity, selection, proportion, sequence, and variety which govern all +good composition." The observance of these rules (and they are specimens +of hundreds more) and the discovery of apt illustrations in literature +are matters of time and labour. But the time and labour are well +spent--nay, they are absolutely necessary if the literary man would know +his craft thoroughly. For the ordinary man, something equivalent to a +text-book course in rhetoric is indispensable. True, many writers have +learned insensibly from other writers, but too severe a devotion to the +masterpieces of literature may beget the master's weaknesses without +imparting his strength. + + +Incommunicable Elements + +The incommunicable element in style is that personal impress which a +writer sets upon his work. What is a personal impress? I am asked. Can +it be defined? Scarcely. Personality itself is a mysterious thing. We +know what it means when it is used to distinguish a remarkable man from +those who are not remarkable. "He has a unique personality," we say. Now +that personality--if the man be a writer--will show itself in his +literary offspring. It will be in evidence over and above rule, +regulation, canons of art, and the like. If there be such a thing as a +mystic presence, then style is that mystic presence of the writer's +personality which permeates the ideas and language in such a way as to +give them a distinction and individuality all their own. I will employ +comparison as a means of illustration by supposing that the three +following passages appeared in the same book in separate paragraphs and +without the authors' names:-- + + "Each material thing has its celestial side, has its + translation into the spiritual and necessary sphere, where it + plays a part as indestructible as any other, and to these ends + all things continually ascend. The gases gather to the solid + firmament; the chemic lump arrives at the plant and grows; + arrives at the quadruped and walks; arrives at the man and + thinks." + + * * * * * + + "He [Daniel Webster] is a magnificent specimen; you might say + to all the world, 'This is your Yankee Englishman; such limbs + we make in Yankeeland! The tanned complexion; the amorphous + crag-like face; the dull black eyes under their precipice of + brows, like dull anthracite furnaces, needing only to be + blown; the mastiff mouth, accurately closed:--I have not + traced so much silent Bersekir rage that I remember of in any + man.'" + + * * * * * + + "In the edifices of Man there should be found reverent worship + and following, not only of the Spirit which rounds the form of + the forest, and arches the vault of the avenue,--which gives + veining to the leaf and polish to the shell, and grace to + every pulse that agitates animal organisation--but of that + also which reproves the pillars of the earth and builds up her + barren precipices into the coldness of the clouds, and lifts + her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the pale arch of the + sky." + +Now, an experienced writer, or reader, would identify these quotations +at once; in some measure from a knowledge of the books from which they +are taken, but mostly from a recognition of style pure and simple. The +merest tyro can see that the passages are not the work of one author; +there is, apart from subject-matter, a subtle something that lies +hidden beneath the language, informing each paragraph with a style +peculiar to itself. What is it? Ah! _The style is the man._ It is +composition charged with personality. Emerson, Carlyle, and Ruskin used +the English language with due regard for the rules of grammar, and such +principles of literary art as they felt to be necessary. And yet when +Emerson philosophises he does it in a way quite different to everybody +else; when Carlyle analyses a character, you know without the Sage's +signature that the work is his; and when Ruskin describes natural +beauties by speaking of "shadowy cones of mountain purple" being lifted +"into the pale arch of the sky"--well, that is Ruskin--it could be no +other. In each case language is made the bearer of the writer's +personality. Style in literature is the breathing forth of soul and +spirit; as is the soul, and as is the spirit in depth, sympathy, and +power, so will the style be rich, distinctive, and memorable. Professor +Raleigh says that "All style is gesture--the gesture of the mind and of +the soul. Mind we have in common, inasmuch as the laws of right reason +are not different for different minds. Therefore clearness and +arrangement can be taught, sheer incompetence in the art of expression +can be partly remedied. But who shall impose laws on the soul? . . . +Write, and after you have attained to some control over the instrument, +you write yourself down whether you will or no. There is no vice, +however unconscious, no virtue, however shy, no touch of meanness or of +generosity in your character that will not pass on to paper." Hence the +oft-repeated call for sincerity on the part of writers. If you try to +imitate Hardy it is a literary hypocrisy, and your sin will find you +out. If you are Meredith-minded, and play the sedulous ape to him, you +must expect a similar catastrophe. + + _If the style is the man, how can you hope to equal that + style if you can never come near the man?_ + +Be true to all you know, and see, and feel; live with the masters, and +catch their spirit. You will then get your own style--it may not be as +good as those you have so long admired, but it will be _yours_; and, +truth to tell, that is all you can hope for. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +HOW AUTHORS WORK + + +Quick and Slow + +The public has shown a deep interest in all details respecting the way +in which writers produce their books; the food they eat, the clothes +they wear, their weaknesses and their hobbies, what pens they use, and +whether they prefer the typewriter or not--all these are items which a +greedy public expects to know. So much is this the case to-day that an +acrid critic recently offered the tart suggestion that a novelist was a +man who wrote a great book, and spent the rest of his time--very +profitably--in telling the world how he came to write it. I do not +intend to pander to the literary news-monger in these pages, but to +reproduce as much as I know of the way in which novelists work, in order +to throw out hints as to how a beginner may perchance better his own +methods. A word of warning, however, is necessary. Do not, for Heaven's +sake, _ape_ anybody. Because Zola darkens his rooms when he writes, that +is no reason why you should go and do likewise; and if John Fiske likes +to sit in a draught, pray save yourself the expense of a doctor's bill +by imitating him. An author's methods are only of service to a novice +when they enable him to improve his own; and it is with this object in +view that I reproduce the following personal notes. + +The relative speeds of the writing fraternity are little short of +amazing. Hawthorne was slow in composing. Sometimes he wrote only what +amounted to half-a-dozen pages a week, often only a few lines in the +same space of time, and, alas! he frequently went to his chamber and +took up his pen only to find himself wholly unable to perform any +literary work. Bret Harte has been known to pass days and weeks on a +short story or poem before he was ready to deliver it into the hands of +the printer. Thomas Hardy is said to have spent seven years in writing +"Jude the Obscure." On the other hand, Victor Hugo wrote his "Cromwell" +in three months, and his "Notre Dame de Paris" in four months and a +half. Wilkie Collins, prince among the plotters, was accustomed to +compose at white heat. Speaking of "Heart and Science," he says: "Rest +was impossible. I made a desperate effort, rushed to the sea, went +sailing and fishing, and was writing my book all the time 'in my head,' +as the children say. The one wise course to take was to go back to my +desk and empty my head, and then rest. My nerves are too much shaken for +travelling. An arm-chair and a cigar, and a hundred and fiftieth reading +of the glorious Walter Scott--King, Emperor, and President of +Novelists--there is the regimen that is doing me good." An enterprising +editor, not very long ago, sent out circulars to prominent authors +asking them how much they can do in a day. The reply in most cases was +that the rate of production varied; sometimes the pen or the typewriter +could not keep pace with thought; at other times it was just the +opposite. + +It is very necessary at this point to draw a distinction between the +execution of a work, and its development in the mind from birth to full +perfection. When we read that Mr Crockett, or somebody else, produced so +many books in so many years, it does not always mean--if ever--that the +idea and its expression have been a matter of weeks or months. To +_write_ a novel in six weeks is not an impossibility--even a passable +novel; but to sit down and think out a plot, with all its details of +character and event, and to write it out so that in six weeks, or two or +three months, the MS. is on the publisher's desk--well, don't believe +it. No novel worthy of the name was ever produced at that rate. + + +How many Words a Day? + +In nothing do authors differ so much as on the eternal problem of +whether it is right to produce a certain quantity of matter every +day--inspiration or no inspiration. Thomas Hardy has no definite hours +for working, and, although he often uses the night-time for this +purpose, he has a preference for the day-time. Charlotte Brontë had to +choose favourable seasons for literary work--"weeks, sometimes months, +elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion of +her story which was already written; then some morning she would wake up +and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before her in distinct +vision, and she set to work to write out what was more present to her +mind at such times than actual life was."[120:A] When writing "Jane +Eyre," and little Jane had been brought to Thornfield, the author's +enthusiasm had grown so great that she could not stop. She went on +incessantly for weeks. + +Miss Jane Barlow confesses that she is "a very slow worker; indeed, when +I consider the amount of work which the majority of writers turn out in +a year, I feel that I must be dreadfully lazy. Even in my quiet life +here I find it difficult to get a long, clear space of time for my work, +and the slightest interruption will upset me for hours. It is difficult +to make people understand that it is not so much the time they take up, +as causing me to break the line of thought. It may be that somebody only +comes into the study to speak to me for a minute, but it is quite +enough. I suppose it is very silly to be so sensitive to interruptions, +but I cannot help it. I sometimes say it is as though a box of beads had +been upset, and I had to gather them together again; that is just the +effect of anyone speaking to me when I am at work. I write everything by +hand, and it takes a long time. I am sure I could not use a typewriter, +or dictate; indeed, I never let anybody see what I have written until it +is in print. Sometimes I write a passage over a dozen times before it +comes right, and I always make a second copy of everything, but the +corrections are not very numerous." + +Mr William Black was also a slow producer: "I am building up a book +months before I write the first chapter; before I can put pen to paper I +have to realise all the chief incidents and characters. I have to live +with my characters, so to speak; otherwise, I am afraid they would +never appear living people to my readers. This is my work during the +summer; the only time I am free from the novel that-is-to-be is when I +am grouse-shooting or salmon-fishing. At other times I am haunted by the +characters and the scenes in which they take part, so that, for the sake +of his peace of mind, my method is not to be recommended to the young +novelist. When I come to the writing, I have to immure myself in perfect +quietude; my study is at the top of the house, and on the two or three +days a week I am writing, Mrs Black guards me from interruption. . . . +Of course, now and again, I have had to read a good deal preparatory to +writing. Before beginning 'Sunrise,' for instance, I went through the +history of secret societies in Europe." + + +Charles Reade and Anthony Trollope + +"Charles Reade's habit of working was unique. When he had decided on a +new work, he plotted out the scheme, situations, facts, and characters +on three large sheets of pasteboard. Then he set to work, using very +large foolscap to write on, working rapidly, but with frequent +references to his storehouse of facts in the scrap-books which were +ready at his hand. The genial novelist was a great reader of newspapers. +Anything that struck him as interesting, or any fact which tended to +support one of his humanitarian theories, was cut out, pasted in a large +folio scrap-book, and carefully indexed. Facts of any sort were his +hobby. From the scrap-books thus collected with great care, he used to +'elaborate' the questions treated of in his novels." + +Anthony Trollope is one of the few men who have taken their readers into +their full confidence about book production. The quotation I am about to +make is rather long, but it is too detailed to be shortened: + +"When I have commenced a new book I have always prepared a diary, +divided into weeks, and carried it on for the period which I have +allowed myself for the completion of the work. In this I have entered +day by day the number of pages I have written, so that if at any time I +have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of that idleness +has been there staring me in the face, and demanding of me increased +labour, so that the deficiency might be supplied. According to the +circumstances of the time, whether any other business might be then +heavy or light, or whether the book which I was writing was, or was not, +wanted with speed, I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The +average number has been about forty. It has been placed as low as +twenty, and has risen to one hundred and twelve. And as a page is an +ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain two hundred and fifty +words, and as words, if not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I +have had every word counted as I went."[124:A] + +Under the title of "A Walk in the Wood," Trollope thus describes his +method of plot-making, and the difficulty the novelist experiences in +making the "tricksy Ariel" of the imagination do his bidding. "I have +to confess that my incidents are fabricated to fit my story as it goes +on, and not my story to fit my incidents. I wrote a novel once in which +a lady forged a will, but I had not myself decided that she had forged +it till the chapter before that in which she confesses her guilt. In +another, a lady is made to steal her own diamonds, a grand _tour de +force_, as I thought, but the brilliant idea struck me only when I was +writing the page in which the theft is described. I once heard an +unknown critic abuse my workmanship because a certain lady had been made +to appear too frequently in my pages. I went home and killed her +immediately. I say this to show that the process of thinking to which I +am alluding has not generally been applied to any great effort of +construction. It has expended itself on the minute ramifications of +tale-telling: how this young lady should be made to behave herself with +that young gentleman; how this mother or that father would be affected +by the ill conduct or the good of a son or a daughter; how these words +or those other would be most appropriate or true to nature if used on +some special occasion. Such plottings as these with a fabricator of +fiction are infinite in number, but not one of them can be done fitly +without thinking. My little effort will miss its wished-for result +unless I be true to nature; and to be true to nature, I must think what +nature would produce. Where shall I go to find my thoughts with the +greatest ease and most perfect freedom? + +"I have found that I can best command my thoughts on foot, and can do so +with the most perfect mastery when wandering through a wood. To be alone +is, of course, essential. Companionship requires conversation, for +which, indeed, the spot is most fit; but conversation is not now the +object in view. I have found it best even to reject the society of a +dog, who, if he be a dog of manners, will make some attempt at talking; +and, though he should be silent, the sight of him provokes words and +caresses and sport. It is best to be away from cottages, away from +children, away as far as may be from chance wanderers. So much easier +is it to speak than to think, that any slightest temptation suffices to +carry away the idler from the harder to the lighter work. An old woman +with a bundle of sticks becomes an agreeable companion, or a little girl +picking wild fruit. Even when quite alone, when all the surroundings +seem to be fitted for thought, the thinker will still find a difficulty +in thinking. It is easy to lose an hour in maundering over the past, and +to waste the good things which have been provided, in remembering +instead of creating!" + + +The Mission of Fancy + +"It is not for rules of construction that the writer is seeking, as he +roams listlessly or walks rapidly through the trees. These have come to +him from much observation, from the writings of others, from that which +we call study, in which imagination has but little immediate concern. It +is the fitting of the rules to the characters which he has created, the +filling in with living touches and true colours those daubs and blotches +on his canvas which have been easily scribbled with a rough hand, that +the true work consists. It is here that he requires that his fancy +should be undisturbed, that the trees should overshadow him, that the +birds should comfort him, that the green and yellow mosses should be in +unison with him, that the very air should be good to him. The rules are +there fixed--fixed as far as his judgment can fix them--and are no +longer a difficulty to him. The first coarse outlines of his story he +has found to be a matter almost indifferent to him. It is with these +little plottings that he has to contend. It is for them that he must +catch his Ariel and bind him fast, and yet so bind him that not a thread +shall touch the easy action of his wings. Every little scene must be +arranged so that--if it may be possible--the proper words may be spoken, +and the fitting effect produced." + + +Fancies of another Type + +Most authors indulge in little eccentricities when working, and, if the +time should ever come that your name is brought before the public +notice, it would be advisable to develop some whimsical habit so as to +be prepared for the interviewer, who is sure to ask whether you have +one. To push your pen through your hair during creative moments would be +a good plan; it would reveal a line of baldness where you had furrowed +the hair off, and afford ocular proof to all and sundry that you +possessed a genuine eccentricity. Or if you prefer a habit still more +_bizarre_, you might put a hammock in a tree, and always write your most +exciting scenes during a rain-storm, and under the shelter of a dripping +umbrella. + +The fact is, every penman has his little peculiarities when at work, but +they should be kept as private property. Of course, there are authors +who revel in publicity, and others again have intimate details wormed +out of them. The fact remains, however, that these details are +interesting, because they are personal; and they are occasionally +helpful, because they enable one writer to compare notes with others. We +have all heard of the methodical habits of Kant. When thinking out his +deep thoughts, he always placed himself so that his eyes might fall on a +certain old tower. This old tower became so necessary to his thoughts, +that when some poplar trees grew up and hid it from his sight, he found +himself unable to think at all, until, at his earnest request, the trees +were cropped and the tower was brought into sight again. + +George Eliot was very susceptible as to her surroundings. When about to +write, she dressed herself with great care, and arranged her +harmoniously-furnished room in perfect order.[130:A] Hawthorne had a +habit of cutting some article while composing. He is said to have taken +a garment from his wife's sewing-basket, and cut it into pieces without +being conscious of the act. Thus an entire table and the arms of a +rocking-chair were whittled away in this manner. + +Upon Ibsen's writing-table is a small tray containing a number of +grotesque figures--a wooden bear, a tiny devil, two or three cats (one +of them playing a fiddle), and some rabbits. Ibsen has said: "I never +write a single line of any of my dramas without having that tray and its +occupants before me on my table. I could not write without them. But why +I use them is my own secret." + +Ouida writes in the early morning. She gets up at five o'clock, and +before she begins, works herself up into a sort of literary trance. +Maurice Jokai always uses violet ink, to which he is so accustomed that +he becomes perplexed when compelled, outside of his own house, to resort +to ink of another colour. He claims that thoughts are not forthcoming +when he writes with any other ink. One of the corners of his +writing-desk holds a miniature library, consisting of neatly-bound +note-books which contain the outline of his novels as they originated in +his mind. When he has once begun a romance, he keeps right on until it +is completed. + + +Some of our Younger Writers + +Mr Zangwill has no particular method of working; he works in spasms. +Regular hours, he says, may be possible to a writer of pure romance, but +if you are writing of the life about you, such regularity is +impossible.[132:A] Coulson Kernahan works in the morning and in the +evening, but never in the afternoon. He always reserves the afternoon +for walking, cycling, and exercise generally. He is unable to work +regularly; some days indeed pass without doing a stroke.[132:B] Anthony +Hope is found at his desk every morning, but if the inspiration does not +come, he never forces himself to write. Sometimes it will come after +waiting several hours, and sometimes it will seem to have come when it +hasn't, which means that next morning he has to tear up what was +written the day before and start afresh.[133:A] Before Robert Barr +publishes a novel he spends years in thinking the thing out. In this way +ten years were spent over "The Mutable Many," and two more years in +writing it.[133:B] When Max Pemberton has a book in the making he just +sits down and writes away at it when in the mood. "I find," he says, +"that I can always work best in the morning. One's brain is fresher and +one's ideas come more readily. If I work at night I find that I have to +undo a great deal of it in the morning. In working late at night I have +done so under the impression that I have accomplished some really fine +work, only to rise in the morning and, after looking at it, feel that +one ought to shed tears over such stuff."[133:C] H. G. Wells, as might +be expected, has a way of his own. "In the morning I merely revise +proofs and type-written copy, and write letters, and, in fact, any work +that does not require the exercise of much imagination. If it is fine, I +either have a walk or a ride on the cycle. We also have a tandem, and +sometimes my wife and I take the double machine out; and then after +lunch we have tea about half-past three in the afternoon. It is after +this cup of tea that I do my work. The afternoon is the best time of the +day for me, and I nearly always work on until eight o'clock, when we +have dinner. If I am working at something in which I feel keenly +interested, I work on from nine o'clock until after midnight, but it is +on the afternoon work that my output mainly depends."[134:A] + + +Curious Methods + +In another interview Mr Wells said, "I write and re-write. If you want +to get an effect, it seems to me that the first thing you have to do is +to write the thing down as it comes into your mind" ("slush," Mr Wells +calls it), "and so get some idea of the shape of it. In this preliminary +process, no doubt, one can write a good many thousand words a day, +perhaps seven or eight thousand. But when all that is finished, it will +take you seven or eight solid days to pick it to pieces again, and knock +it straight. + +"The 'slush' effort of 'The Invisible Man' came to more than 100,000 +words; the final outcome of it amounts to 55,000. My first tendency was +to make it much shorter still. + +"I used to feel a great deal ashamed of this method. I thought it simply +showed incapacity, and inability to hit the right nail on the head. The +process is like this: + + "(1) Worry and confusion. + + "(2) Testing the idea, and trying to settle the question. Is + the idea any good? + + "(3) Throwing the idea away; getting another; finally + returning, perhaps, to the first. + + "(4) The next thing is possibly a bad start. + + "(5) Grappling with the idea with the feeling that it has to + be done. + + "(6) Then the slush work, which I've already described. + + "(7) Reading this over, and taking out what you think is + essential, and re-writing the essential part of it. + + "(8) After it has been type-written, you cut it about, so that + it has to be re-typed. + + "(9) The result of your labour finds its way into print, and + you take hold of the first opportunity to go over the whole + thing again."[136:A] + +Contrasted with the pleasant humour of the above is the gravity of Ian +Maclaren. "Although the stories I have written may seem very simple, +they are very laboriously done. This kind of short story cannot be done +quickly. There is no plot, no incident, and one has to depend entirely +upon character and slight touches, curiously arranged and bound +together, to produce the effect. . . . Each of the 'Bonnie Brier Bush' +stories went through these processes:--(1) Slowly drafted arrangement; +(2) draft revised before writing; (3) written; (4) manuscript revised; +(5) first proof corrected; (6) revise corrected; (7) having been +published in a periodical, revised for book; (8) first proof corrected; +(9) second proof corrected."[137:A] + + * * * * * + +Enough. These personal notes will teach the novice that every man must +make and follow his own plan of work. Experience is the best guide and +the wisest teacher. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[120:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors." + +[124:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. + +[130:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors." + +[132:A] Interview in _The Young Man_, by Percy L. Parker. + +[132:B] Interview in _The Young Man_, by A. H. Lawrence. + +[133:A] Interview in _The Young Man_, by Sarah A. Tooley. + +[133:B] _Ibid._ + +[133:C] Interview in _The Young Man_, by A. H. Lawrence. + +[134:A] Interview in _The Young Man_, by A. H. Lawrence. + +[136:A] Interview in _To-Day_, for September 11th, 1897, by A. H. +Lawrence. + +[137:A] Interview in _The Christian Commonwealth_ for September 24th, +1896. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +IS THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF NOVELS EXHAUSTED? + + +The Question Stated + +This is the way in which the question is most often stated, but the real +question is more intelligently expressed by asking: Has the novel, as a +form of literature, become obsolete? or is it likely to be obsolete in +the near future? To many people the matter is dismissed with a +contemptuous _Pshaw!_; others think it worthy of serious inquiry, and a +few with practical minds say they don't care whether it is or not. Seven +years ago Mr Frederic Harrison delivered himself of very pessimistic +views as to the present position and prospects of the novelist, and not +long ago Mr A. J. Balfour asserted that in his opinion the art of +fiction had reached its zenith, and was now in its decline. These +critics may be prejudiced in their views, but it is worth while +considering the remarks of the one who has the greater claim to respect +for literary judgment. After exclaiming that we have now no novelist of +the first rank, and substantiating this statement to the best of his +ability, Mr Harrison goes on to inquire into the causes of this decay. +In the first place, we have too high a standard of taste and criticism. +"A highly organised code of culture may give us good manners, but it is +the death of genius." We have lost the true sense of the romantic, and +if "Jane Eyre" were produced to-day it "would not rise above a common +shocker." Secondly, we are too disturbed in political affairs to allow +for the rest that is necessary for literary productiveness. Thirdly, +life is not so dramatic as it was--character is being driven inwards, +and we have lost the picturesque qualities of earlier days. + +I am not at present concerned with the truth or error of these +arguments; my object just now is to state the case, and before +proceeding to an examination of its merits I wish to take the testimony +of another writer and thinker, one who is a philosopher quite as much +as the author of "The Foundations of Belief" or the author of "The +Meaning of History," and who has a claim upon our attention as an +investigator of moving causes. + +Mr C. H. Pearson, in his notable book, "National Life and Character," +has made some confident statements on the subject of the exhaustion of +literary products. He is of opinion that "a change in social relations +has made the drama impossible by dwarfing the immediate agency of the +individual," and that "a change in manners has robbed the drama of a +great deal of effect." He goes on to say that "Human nature, various as +it is, is only capable after all of a certain number of emotions and +acts, and these as the topics of an incessant literature are bound after +a time to be exhausted. We may say with absolute certainty that certain +subjects are never to be taken again. The tale of Troy, the wanderings +of Odysseus, the vision of Heaven and Hell as Dante saw it, the theme of +'Paradise Lost,' and the story of Faust are familiar instances. . . . +Effective adaptations of an old subject may still be possible; but it +is not writers of the highest capacity who will attempt them, and the +reading world, which remembers what has been done before, will never +accord more than a secondary recognition to the adaptation" (p. 299). + +There is a curious atmosphere of logical conclusiveness about these +arguments. They carry with them, apparently, an air of certainty which +it is useless to question. We know that the novelist has already +exploited Politics, Socialism, History, Theology, Marriage, Education, +and a host of other subjects; indeed, a perusal of Dixon's "Index to +Fiction" is calculated to provoke the inquiry: "Is there anything left +to write about?" We know that everywhere is springing up the "literature +of locality," and it would seem as if the resources of this world's +experience had been exhausted when writers like Mr H. G. Wells and the +late George Du Maurier invade the planet Mars for fresh material. The +heavens above, the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth have +all been "written up." Is there anything new? + + +"Change" not "Exhaustion" + +There can be no doubt that fiction has undergone great changes during +recent years. These changes are the result of deeper changes in our +common life. Consider for a moment the position of the drama. What is +the significance of the problem play on the one hand, and the cry for a +"Static Theatre" on the other hand? It means that life has changed, and +is still changing; that the national character is not so emphatically +external or spontaneous as in those days when Ben Jonson killed two men, +and Marlowe himself was killed in a brawl. We have lost the passion, the +force, and the brutality of those times, and have become more +contemplative and analytical. The simple law is this: that literature +and the drama are a reflex of life; hence, when character has a tendency +to be driven inwards, as is the case to-day, Maeterlinck pleads on +behalf of a drama without action; and Paul Bourget in France and Henry +James in England embody the spirit of the age in the fiction of +psychological minutiæ. Now there may be symptoms of decay in these +manifestations of literary impulse, but the impulse is part of that new +experience which the facts of an increasingly complex civilisation foist +upon us. And, further, _change_ is not necessarily _exhaustion_; in +fact, it is more than surprising that anyone can believe all the stories +possible have been told already, or have been told in the most +interesting way. It is a very ancient cry--this cry about exhaustion. +The old Hebrew writer wailed something about wanting to meet with a man +who could show him a new thing. A new thing? "There is no new thing +under the Sun." But we have found a few since those days, and the future +will give birth to as many more. + +Men and women have written about love from time immemorial, but have we +finished with the theme? Is it exhausted? Did Homer satisfy our love of +recorded adventure once and for all? There is only one answer--namely, +that human experience is infinite in its possibilities and its capacity +for renewal. If human experience--these vague and subtle emotions, +these violently real but inscrutable feelings, these tremulous +questionings of existence encompassed with mystery--if human experience +were no more than a hard and dry scientific fact, well, our novelists +would have a poor time of it. But life knows no finality; its stream +flows on in perennial flood. Human nature is said to be much the same +the world over, and yet every personality is absolutely a new thing. +Goethe might attempt a rough classification by saying we are either +Platonists or Aristotelians, but actually a great many of us are neither +one nor the other, and there are infinities of degrees amongst us even +then. New character is a necessary outcome of the advancing centuries, +and new personalities are being born every day. + +No; the world still loves a story, and there are stories which have +never been told. It is, perhaps, true, that the story-tellers have not +found them yet. Why? + + +Why we talk about Exhaustion + +The answer is: We are becoming too artificial; we are losing +spontaneity, and are getting too far away from the soil. Have we not +noticed over and over again that the first book of a novelist is his +best? Those which followed are called "good," but they sell because the +author is the author of the first book which created a sensation. + +Speaking of the first work of a young writer, Anthony Trollope says: "He +sits down and tells his story because he has a story to tell; as you, my +friend, when you have heard something which has at once tickled your +fancy or moved your pathos, will hurry to tell it to the first person +you meet. But when that first novel has been received graciously by the +public, and has made for itself a success, then the writer, naturally +feeling that the writing of novels is within his grasp, looks about for +something to tell in another. He cudgels his brains, not always +successfully, and sits down to write, not because he has something +which he burns to tell, but because he feels it to be incumbent on him +to be telling something. . . . So it has been with many novelists, who, +after some good work, perhaps after much good work, have distressed +their audience because they have gone on with their work till their work +has become simply a trade with them."[146:A] There is often a good +reason for such a change. The first book was written in a place near to +Nature's heart; the writer was free from the obligations of society as +found in city life; he was thrown back on his own resources, and +fortunately could not spoil his individual view of things by +multitudinous references to books and authorities. Do we not selfishly +wish that Miss Olive Schreiner had never left the veldt, in the +loneliness of which she produced "The Story of an African Farm"? Nearer +contact with civilisation has failed to induce an impulse the result of +which is at all comparable with this genuine story. It may or may not +be of significance that Mr Wells, the creator of a distinct type of +romance, dislikes what is called "Society," but I fancy that a few of +those who lament too frequently that "everything has been said" spend +more time in "Society" and clubs than is possible for good work. Mr C. +H. Pearson, in a notable chapter on "Dangers of Political Development," +says: "The world at large is just as reverent of greatness, as observant +of a Browning, a Newman, or a Mill, as it ever was; but the world of +Society prefers the small change of available and ephemeral talent to +the wealth of great thoughts, which must always be kept more or less in +reserve. The result seems to be that men, anxious to do great work, find +city life less congenial than they did, and either live away from the +Metropolis, as Darwin and Newman did, or restrict their intercourse, as +Carlyle and George Eliot practically did, to a circle of chosen +friends." + +In further confirmation of the position I have taken up, let me quote +the testimony of Thomas Hardy as given in an interview. Said the +interviewer--"In reading 'A Group of Noble Dames,' I was struck with +the waste of good material." + +"Yes," replied Mr Hardy, "I suppose I was wasteful. But, there! it +doesn't matter, for I have far more material now than I shall ever be +able to use." + +"In your note-books?" + +"Yes, and in my head. I don't believe in that idea of man's imaginative +powers becoming naturally exhausted; I believe that, if he liked, a man +could go on writing till his physical strength gave out. Most men +exhaust themselves prematurely by something artificial--their manner of +living--Scott and Dickens for example. Victor Hugo, on the other hand, +who was so long in exile, and who necessarily lived a very simple life +during much of his time, was writing as well as ever when he died at a +good old age. So, too, was Carlyle, if we except his philosophy, the +least interesting part of him. The great secret is perhaps for the +writer to be content with the life he was living when he made his first +success. I can do more work here [in Dorsetshire] in six months than in +twelve months in London."[148:A] + +These are the convictions of a strong man, one who stands at the head of +English writers of fiction, and therefore one to whom the beginner +especially should listen with respect. A reader of MSS. told me quite +recently that there was a pitiable narrowness of experience in the +productions which were handed to him for valuation; nearly all were cast +in the "city" mould, and showed signs of having been written to say +something rather than because the writers had something to say. Mr Hardy +has put his finger on the weak spot: more stories "come" in the country +stillness than in the city's bustle. Of course, a man can be as much of +a hermit in the heart of London as in the heart of a forest, but how few +can resist the attractions of Society and the temptation to multiply +literary friendships! Besides, it is always a risk to make a permanent +change in that environment which assisted in producing the first +success. Follow Mr Hardy's advice and stay where you are. Stories will +then not be slow to "come" and ideas to "occur"; and the pessimists will +be less ready to utter their laments over the decadence of fiction and +philosophers to argue that the novel will soon become extinct. I cannot +do better than close with the following tempered statement from Mr +Edmund Gosse: "A question which constantly recurs to my mind is this: +Having secured the practical monopoly of literature, what do the +novelists propose to do next? To what use will they put the +unprecedented opportunity thrown in their way? It is quite plain that to +a certain extent the material out of which the English novel has been +constructed is in danger of becoming exhausted. Why do the American +novelists inveigh against plots? Not, we may be sure, through any +inherent tenderness of conscience, as they would have us believe; but +because their eminently sane and somewhat timid natures revolt against +the effort of inventing what is extravagant. But all the obvious plots, +all the stories that are not in some degree extravagant, seem to have +been told already, and for a writer of the temperament of Mr Howells, +there is nothing left but the portraiture of a small portion of the +limitless field of ordinary humdrum existence. So long as this is fresh, +this also may amuse and please; to the practitioners of this kind of +work it seems as though the infinite prairie of life might be surveyed +thus for centuries acre by acre. But that is not possible. A very little +while suffices to show that in this direction also the material is +promptly exhausted. Novelty, freshness, and excitement are to be sought +for at all hazards, and where can they be found? The novelists hope many +things from that happy system of nature which supplies them year by year +with fresh generations of the ingenuous young." In this, however, Mr +Gosse is very doubtful of good results: the fact is, he is too +pessimistic. But in making suggestions as to what kind of novels might +be written he almost gives the lie to his previous opinions. He asks for +novels addressed especially to middle-aged persons, and not to the +ingenuous young, ever interested in love. "It is supposed that to +describe one of the positive employments of life--a business or a +profession for example--would alienate the tender reader, and check that +circulation about which novelists talk as if they were delicate +invalids. But what evidence is there to show that an attention to real +things does frighten away the novel reader. The experiments which have +been made in this country to widen the field of fiction in one +direction, that of religious and moral speculation, have not proved +unfortunate. What was the source of the great popular success of 'John +Inglesant,' and then of 'Robert Elsmere,' if not the intense delight of +readers in being admitted, in a story, to a wider analysis of the +interior workings of the mind than is compatible with the mere record of +billing and cooing of the callow young? . . . All I ask for is a larger +study of life. Have the stress and turmoil of a political career no +charm? Why, if novels of the shop and counting-house be considered +sordid, can our novels not describe the life of a sailor, of a +game-keeper, of a railway porter, of a civil engineer? What capital +central figures for a story would be the whip of a leading hunt, the +foreman of a colliery, the master of a fishing-smack, or a speculator on +the Stock Exchange?"[152:A] + +Since these words were written, the novel of politics, for example, has +come to the fore; but does that mean that the subject is exhausted? It +has only been touched upon as yet. There were plenty of dramas before +Shakespeare but there were no Shakespeares; and to-day there are +thousands of novels but how many real novelists? Once again let it be +said that "exhausted subject-matter" is a misnomer; what we wait for is +creative genius. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[146:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. pp. 45-6. There is no harm in telling +stories as a trade provided the stories are good. + +[148:A] Interview in _The Young Man_. + +[152:A] "Questions at Issue," _The Tyranny of the Novel_. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE NOVEL _v._ THE SHORT STORY + + +Practise the Short Story + +The beginner in fiction often asks: Is it not best to prepare for +novel-writing by writing short stories? The question is much to the +point, and merits a careful answer. + +First of all, what is the difference between a novel and a short story? +The difference lies in the point of view. The short story generally +deals with one event in one particular life; the novel deals with many +events in several lives, where both characters and action are dominated +by one progressive purpose. To put it another way: the short story is +like a miniature in painting, whilst the novel demands a much larger +canvas. A suggestive paragraph from a review sets forth clearly the +difference referred to: "The smaller your object of artistry, the nicer +should be your touch, the more careful your attention to minutiæ. That, +surely, would seem an axiom. You don't paint a miniature in the broad +strokes that answer for a drop curtain, nor does the weaver of a +pocket-handkerchief give to that fabric the texture of a carpet. But the +usual writer of fiction, when it occurs to him to utilise one of his +second best ideas in the manufacture of a short story, will commonly +bring to his undertaking exactly the same slap-dash methods which he has +found to serve in the construction of his novels. . . . Where he should +have brought a finer method, he has brought a coarser; where he should +have worked goldsmithwise, with tiny chisel, finishing exquisitely, he +has worked blacksmithwise, with sledge hammer and anvil; where, because +the thing is little, every detail counts, he has been slovenly in +detail."[155:A] + +It has been said that the novel deals with life from the inside, and +short stories with life from the outside; but this is not so. Guy de +Maupassant's "The Necklace" opens out to us a state of soul just as much +as "Tess" does, even though it may be but a glimpse as compared with the +prolonged exhibition of Mr Hardy's "pure woman." + +Returning to the question previously referred to, one may well hesitate +to advise a novice to commence writing short stories which demand such +infinite care in conception and execution. The tendency of young writers +is to verbosity--longwindedness in dialogues, in descriptions, and in +delineations of character,--whereas the chief excellence of the story is +the extent and depth of its suggestions as compared with its brevity in +words. Should not a man perfect himself in the less minute and less +delicate methods of the novel before he attempts the finer art of the +short story? + +There is a sound of good logic about all this, but it is not conclusive. +Some men have a natural predilection for the larger canvas and some for +the smaller, so that the final decision cannot be forced upon anyone on +purely abstract grounds; we must first know a writer's native capacity +before advising him what to do. If you feel that literary art on a +minute scale is your _forte_, then follow it enthusiastically, and work +hard; if otherwise, act accordingly. + +But, after all, there are certain abstract considerations which lead me +to say that the short story should be practised before the novel. Take +the very material fact of _size_. Have those who object to this +recommendation ever thought of what practising novel-writing means? How +long does it take to make a couple of experiments of 80,000 words each? +A good deal, no doubt, depends on the man himself, but a quick writer +would not do much to satisfy others at the rate of 160,000 words in +twelve months. No, time is too precious for practising works of such +length as these, and since the general principles of fiction apply to +both novel and short story alike, the student cannot do better than +practise his art in the briefer form. Moreover, if he is wise, he will +seek the advice of experts, and (a further base consideration) it will +be cheaper to have 4000 words criticised than a MS. containing 80,000. + +Further, the foundation principles of the art of fiction cannot be +learned more effectively, even for the purpose of writing novels, than +in practising short stories. All the points brought forward in the +preceding pages relating to plot, dialogue, proportion, climax, and so +forth, are elements of the latter as well as of the former. If, as has +been said, "windiness" is the chief fault of the beginner, where can he +learn to correct that error more quickly? The art of knowing what to +leave out is important to a novelist; it is more important to the short +story writer; hence, if it be studied on the smaller canvas, it will be +of excellent service when attempting the larger. "The attention to +detail, the obliteration of the unessential, the concentration in +expression, which the form of the short story demands, tends to a +beneficent influence on the style of fiction. No one doubts that many of +the great novelists of the past are somewhat tedious and prolix. The +style of Richardson, Scott, Dumas, Balzac, and Dickens, when they are +not at their strongest and highest, is often slipshod and slovenly; and +such carelessly-worded passages as are everywhere in their works will +scarcely be found in the novels of the future. The writers of short +stories have made clear that the highest literary art knows neither +synonyms, episodes, nor parentheses."[159:A] + + +Short Story Writers on their Art + +I cannot pretend to give more than a few hints as to the best way of +following out the advice laid down in the foregoing paragraphs, and +prefer to let some writers speak for themselves. Of course, it does not +follow that Mr Wedmore can instruct a novice in literary art, simply +because he can write exquisite short stories himself; indeed, it often +happens that such men do not really know how they produce their work; +but Mr Wedmore's article on _The Short Story_ in his volume called +"Books and Arts" is most profitable reading. + +Some time ago a symposium appeared in a popular journal,[160:A] on the +subject _How to Write a Short Story_. Mr Robert Barr could be no other +than pithy in his recipe. He says: "It seems to me that a short story +writer should act, metaphorically, like this--he should put his idea for +a story into one cup of a pair of balances, then into the other he +should deal out words--five hundred, a thousand, two thousand, three +thousand, as the case may be--and when the number of words thus paid in +causes the beam to rise on which his idea hangs, then his story is +finished. If he puts a word more or less he is doing false work. . . . +My model is Euclid, whose justly celebrated book of short stories +entitled 'The Elements of Geometry' will live when most of us who are +scribbling to-day are forgotten. Euclid lays down his plot, sets +instantly to work at its development, letting no incident creep in that +does not bear relation to the climax, using no unnecessary word, always +keeping his one end in view, and the moment he reaches the culmination +he stops." Mr Walter Raymond is apologetic. He fences a good deal, and +pleads that the mention of "short story" is dangerous to his mental +sequence, so much and so painfully has he tried to solve the problem of +how one is written. Finally, however, he delivers himself of these +pregnant sentences: "Show us the psychological moment; give us a sniff +of the earth below; a glimpse of the sky above; and you will have +produced a fine story. It need not exceed two thousand words." + +The author of "Tales of Mean Streets" says: "The command of form is the +first thing to be cultivated. Let the pupil take a story by a writer +distinguished by the perfection of his workmanship--none could be better +than Guy de Maupassant--and let him consider that story apart from the +book as something happening before his eyes. Let him review mentally +_everything_ that happens--the things that are not written in the story +as well as those that are--and let him review them, not necessarily in +the order in which the story presents them, but in that in which they +would come before an observer in real life. In short, from the fiction +let him construct ordinary, natural, detailed, unselected, unarranged +fact, making notes, if necessary, as he goes. Then let him compare his +raw fact with the words of the master. He will see where the unessential +is rejected; he will see how everything is given its just proportion in +the design; he will perceive that every incident, every sentence, and +every word has its value, its meaning, and its part in the whole." + +Mr Morrison's ideas are endorsed by Miss Jane Barlow, Mr G. B. Burgin, +Mr G. M. Fenn, and Mrs L. T. Meade. Mr Joseph Hocking does not seem to +care for the brevity of short story methods. He cites eight lines which +he heard some children sing: + + "Little boy, + Pair of skates, + Broken ice, + Heaven's gates. + + Little girl + Stole a plum, + Cholera bad, + Kingdom come," + +and remarks: "Many of our short stories are constructed on the principle +of these verses. So few words are used, that the reader does not feel he +is reading a story, but an outline." Mr Hocking has the British Public +on his side, no doubt, but the great British Public is not always right, +as he appears to believe. + +I think if the reader will study the short stories of Guy de Maupassant +and Mr Frederic Wedmore, and digest the advice given above, he will know +enough to begin his work. Each experiment will enlarge his vision and +discipline his pen, so that when he has accomplished something like +tolerable success, he may safely attempt the larger canvas on the lines +laid down in the preceding chapters. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[155:A] _Daily Chronicle_, June 22, 1899. + +[159:A] _The International Monthly_, vol. i. + +[160:A] _The Young Man._ + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS + + +The Truth about Success + +There are two kinds of success in fiction--commercial and literary; and +sometimes a writer is able to combine the two. Thomas Hardy is an +example of the writer who produces literature and has large sales. On +the other hand, there are many writers who succeed in one direction, +but not in the other. The works of Marie Corelli have an amazing +circulation, but they are not regarded as literature; whereas such +genuine work as that of Mr Quiller Couch has to be content with sales +far less extensive. + +Now Thomas Hardy, Marie Corelli, and Quiller Couch have all succeeded, +but in different ways. No doubt the reader would prefer to succeed in +the manner of Hardy, but if he can't do it, he must be content to +succeed in the best way he can. It is easy to talk about Miss Corelli's +"rot" and "bosh" and "high falutin," but long columns of figures in a +publisher's ledger mean something after all. They do not necessarily +mean literary merit, delicate insight, or beautiful characterisation; +they probably mean a keen sense of what the public likes, and a power to +tickle its palate in an agreeable manner. Still, not every man or woman +is able to do this, and although such a success may not rank as one of +the first order, it _is_ a success which nobody can gainsay. Literary +journals have been instituting "inquiries" into the cases of men like Mr +Silas Hocking and the Rev. E. P. Roe: why have they a circulation +numbered by the million? No "inquiry" is needed. They are literary +merchantmen who have studied the book-market thoroughly, and as a result +they know what is wanted and supply it. Let them have their reward +without mean and angry demur. + +However one may try to explain the fact, it is none the less true that +genuine literature often fails to pay the expenses of publication; at +any rate, if it accomplishes more than that, it is infinitesimal as +compared with the huge sales of inferior work. I do not know the +circulation of Mr Henry Harland's "Comedies and Errors"--possibly it has +been moderate--but I would rather be the author of this volume of +beautiful workmanship than of all the works of Marie Corelli--the bags +of gold notwithstanding. Of course, this is merely a personal preference +with which the reader may have no sympathy; but the fact remains that, +if a writer produces real literature and it does not sell, he has not +therefore failed in his purpose; he may not receive many cheques from +his publisher, but it is real compensation to have an audience, "fit +though few." + +On the general question of literary success, George Henry Lewes says: +"We may lay it down, as a rule, that no work ever succeeded, even for a +day, but it deserved that success; no work ever failed but under +conditions which made failure inevitable. This will seem hard to men who +feel that, in their case, neglect arises from prejudice or stupidity. +Yet it is true even in extreme cases; true even when the work once +neglected has since been acknowledged superior to the works which for a +time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, is the measure of the +relation, temporary or enduring, which exists between a work and the +public mind."[167:A] + +Failure has a still more fruitful cause--namely, the misdirection of +talent. "Men are constantly attempting, without special aptitude, work +for which special aptitude is indispensable. + + 'On peut être honnête homme et faire mal des vers.' + +A man may be variously accomplished and yet be a feeble poet. He may be +a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist. He may have dramatic faculty, yet +be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow +thinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of work, +it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this +seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check a +mistaken presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certain +susceptibility to the graces and refinements of literature, which has +been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power; +and these men being destitute of native power are forced to imitate what +others have created. They can understand how a man may have musical +sensibility, and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to understand, +at least in their own case, how a man may have literary sensibility, yet +not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist."[168:A] + +The conclusion of the whole matter is this: determine what your +projected work is to do; if you are going to offer it in a popular +market, give the public plenty for its money, and spice it well; if you +are going to offer a sacrifice to the Goddess of Art, be content if you +receive no more applause than that which comes from the few worshippers +who surround the sacred shrine. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[167:A] "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 10. + +[168:A] "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 7. + + + + +SUCCESS + + +Minor Conditions of Success + +1. Good literature has the same value in manuscript as in typescript, +but from the standpoint of author and publisher, it can hardly be said +to have the same chances. Penmanship does not tend to improve, and some +of the scrawly MSS. sent in to publishers are enough to create dismay in +the stoutest heart. It is pure affectation to pretend to be above such +small matters. Just as a dinner is all the more appetising because it is +neatly and daintily served, so a _MS._ has better chances of being read +and appreciated when set out in type-written characters. + +2. Be sure that you are sending your _MS._ to the right publisher. +Novels with a strongly developed moral purpose are not exactly the kind +of thing wanted by Mr Heinemann; and if you have anything like "The +Woman Who Did," don't send it to a Sunday School Publishing Company. +These suppositions are no doubt absurd in the extreme, but they will +serve my purpose in pointing out the careless way in which many +beginners dispose of their wares. Nearly all publishers specialise in +some kind of literature, and it is the novelist's duty to study these +types from publishers' catalogues, providing, of course, he does not +know them already. The commercial instinct is proverbially lacking in +authors; if it were not we should witness less frequently the spectacle +of portly MSS. being sent out haphazard to publisher after publisher. + +3. Perhaps my third point ought to have come first. It relates to the +obtaining of an expert's views on the matter and form of your story. +This will cost you a guinea, perhaps more, but it will save your time +and hasten the possibilities of success. You can easily spend a guinea +in postage and two or three more in having the MS. re-typed,--and yet +the tale be ever the same--"Declined with thanks." Spare yourself many +disappointments by putting your literary efforts before a competent +critic, and let him point out the crudities, the digressions, and those +weaknesses which betray the 'prentice hand. It will not be pleasant to +see a pen line through your "glorious" passages, or two blue pencil +marks across a favourite piece of dialogue, but it is better to know +your defects at once than to discover them by painful and constant +rejections. + +4. Be willing to learn; have no fear of hard work; do the best, and +write the best that is in you; and never ape anybody, but be yourself. + + + + +APPENDICES + + + + +APPENDIX I + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION[175:1] + +By EDGAR ALLAN POE + + +Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an +examination I once made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says--"By +the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb Williams' backwards? +He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second +volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of +accounting for what had been done." + +I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of +Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in +accordance with Mr. Dickens' idea--but the author of "Caleb Williams" +was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at +least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every +plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _dénouement_ before +anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _dénouement_ +constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of +consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the +tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention. + +There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a +story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an +incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the +combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his +narrative--designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, +or authorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from +page to page, render themselves apparent. + +I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect_. Keeping +originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to +dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of +interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable +effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more +generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present +occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid +effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or +tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, +or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterward looking about me +(or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall +best aid me in the construction of the effect. + +I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written +by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by +step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its +ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to +the world, I am much at a loss to say--but, perhaps, the authorial +vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. +Most writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they +compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would +positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, +at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true +purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of +idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully matured +fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections +and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations--in a word, +at the wheels and pinions--the tackle for scene-shifting--the +stepladders, and demon-traps--the cock's feathers, the red paint and the +black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, +constitute the properties of the literary _histrio_. + +I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in +which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his +conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen +pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. + +For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, +nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the +progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of +an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a +_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in +the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on +my part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works +was put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my +design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is +referable either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded, step +by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a +mathematical problem. + +Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the +circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise +to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the +popular and the critical taste. + +We commence, then, with this intention. + +The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is +too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with +the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for, +if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and +everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _cæteris +paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may +advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in +extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends +it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely +a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects. +It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it +intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements +are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one +half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of +poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding +depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its +length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of +effect. + +It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards +length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and +that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as +"Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously +overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this +limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to +its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in +other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is +capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct +ratio of the intensity of the intended effect:--this, with one +proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for +the production of any effect at all. + +Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of +excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the +critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_ +for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in +fact, a hundred and eight. + +My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be +conveyed; and here I may as well observe that, throughout the +construction I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work +_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my +immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have +repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the +slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the +sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in +elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a +disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most +intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in +the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, +they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they +refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of +_soul_--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, +and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the +beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely +because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to +spring from direct causes--that objects should be attained through means +best adapted for their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough +to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is _most readily_ +attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the +intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, +although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily +attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a +_homeliness_ (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are +absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the +excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means +follows from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be +introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem--for they may +serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in +music, by contrast--but the true artist will always contrive, first, to +tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim; and, +secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is +the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. + +Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the +_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that +this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme +development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy +is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. + +The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook +myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic +piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the +poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In +carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly +_points_, in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive +immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the +_refrain_. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of +its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to +analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of +improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly +used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but +depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and +thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of +repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by +adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually +varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce +continuously novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the +_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried. + +These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my +_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was +clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been +an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in +any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, +would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once +to a single word as the best _refrain_. + +The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up +my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of +course, a corollary: the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. +That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of +protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations +inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel, in +connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant. + +The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to +select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest +possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the +tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely +impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very +first which presented itself. + +The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one +word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in +inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, +I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the +pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously +spoken by _a human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that +the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the +exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, +then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable +of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, +suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally +capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended +_tone_. + +I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven--the bird of ill +omen--monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore," at the +conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length +about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object +_supremeness_, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself--"Of all +melancholy topics, what, according to the _universal_ understanding of +mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death--was the obvious reply. "And +when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From +what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is +obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_: the death, +then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic +in the world--and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited +for such topic are those of a bereaved lover." + +I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased +mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore."--I had +to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, +the _application_ of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode +of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in +answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once +the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been +depending--that is to say, the effect of the _variation of +application_. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the +lover--the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that +I could make this first query a commonplace one--the second less so--the +third still less, and so on--until at length the lover, startled from +his original _nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word +itself--by its frequent repetition--and by a consideration of the +ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it--is at length excited to +superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different +character--queries whose solution he has passionately at +heart--propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of +despair which delights in self-torture--propounds them not altogether +because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird +(which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by +rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling +his question as to receive from the _expected_ "Nevermore" the most +delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the +opportunity thus afforded me--or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in +the progress of the construction--I first established in mind the +climax, or concluding query--that query to which "Nevermore" should be +in the last place an answer--that query in reply to which this word +"Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and +despair. + +Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning--at the end, where +all works of art should begin--for it was here, at this point of my +pre-considerations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of +the stanza: + + "'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or + devil! + By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore, + Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, + It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?' + Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'" + +I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the +climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness +and importance, the preceding queries of the lover--and, secondly, that +I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and +general arrangement of the stanza--as well as graduate the stanzas which +were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical +effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct +more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely +enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect. + +And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first +object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been +neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in +the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere +_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and +stanza are absolutely infinite--and yet, _for centuries, no man, in +verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original +thing_. The fact is, that originality (unless in minds of very unusual +force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or +intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and +although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its +attainment less of invention than negation. + +Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of +the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octameter +acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the +_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter +catalectic. Less pedantically--the feet employed throughout (trochees) +consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the +stanza consists of eight of these feet--the second of seven and a half +(in effect two-thirds)--the third of eight--the fourth of seven and a +half--the fifth the same--the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these +lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what +originality the "Raven" has, is in their _combination into stanza_; +nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been +attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by +other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an +extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and +alliteration. + +The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the +lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the +_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a +forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close +_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of +insulated incident:--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an +indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of +course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place. + +I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber +rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The +room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the +ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole +true poetical thesis. + +The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and +the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The +idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the +flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at +the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's +curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from +the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence +adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that +knocked. + +I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven's seeking +admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) +serenity within the chamber. + +I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of +contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that +the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_ +being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the +lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself. + +About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force +of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For +example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous +as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with +many a flirt and flutter." + + "Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed + he, + _But, with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door." + +In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried +out:-- + + "Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling + By the _grace and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_, + 'Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou,' I said, 'art sure + no craven, + Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?' + Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' + + Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_, + With such name as 'Nevermore.'" + +The effect of the _dénouement_ being thus provided for, I immediately +drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:--this +tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, +with the line, + + "But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only," + etc. + +From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees any thing even +of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanour. He speaks of him as a "grim, +ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the +"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of +thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar +one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for +the _dénouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as +_directly_ as possible. + +With the _dénouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to +the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another +world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may +be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits +of the accountable--of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the +single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its +owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek +admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the +chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half +in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown +open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on +the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, +amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanour, +demands of it, in jest, and without looking for a reply, its name. The +raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"--a word +which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, +giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is +again startled by the fowl's repetition of "Nevermore." The student now +guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before +explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by +superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, +the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated +answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this +self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious +phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no +overstepping of the limits of the real. + +But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an +array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, +which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably +required--first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, +adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness--some +under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in +especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that _richness_ (to +borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of +confounding with _the ideal_. It is the _excess_ of the suggested +meaning--it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current +of the theme--which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest +kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists. + +Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the +poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative +which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first +apparent in the lines-- + + "'Take thy beak from out _my heart_, and take thy form from off my + door!' + Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore!'" + +It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the +first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer +"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been +previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as +emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last +stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and +Never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:-- + + "And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, + On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the + floor; + And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor + Shall be lifted--nevermore!" + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[175:1] I do not hold myself responsible for Poe's literary judgments: +my purpose in reproducing this essay is to reveal Poe's _methods_. + + + + +APPENDIX II + +BOOKS WORTH READING + + +1. "The Art of Fiction." By Sir Walter Besant. Lecture delivered at the +Royal Institution, April 25th, 1884. + +2. "Le Roman Naturaliste." By F. Brunetiére. Paris, 1883. + +3. "The Novel: What it is." By F. Marion Crawford. New York, 1894. + +4. "The Development of the English Novel." By W. L. Cross. London, 1899. + +5. "Style." By T. de Quincey. "Works." Edinburgh, 1890. + +6. "The Limits of Realism in Fiction," and "The Tyranny of the Novel" +(in "Questions at Issue"). By Edmund Gosse. + +7. "The House of Seven Gables." By N. Hawthorne. See Preface. + +8. "Confessions and Criticisms." By Julian Hawthorne. + +9. "Criticism and Fiction." By W. D. Howells. New York, 1891. + +10. "The Art of Fiction" (in "Partial Portraits"). By Henry James. +London, 1888. + +11. "The Art of Thomas Hardy." By Lionel Johnson. + +12. "The Principles of Success in Literature." By G. H. Lewes. London, +1898. + +13. "The English Novel and the Principles of its Development." New York, +1883. + +14. "The Philosophy of the Short Story" (in _Pen and Ink_). By Brander +Matthews. New York, 1888. + +15. "Pierre and Jean." By Guy de Maupassant. See Preface. + +16. "Four Years of Novel Reading." By Professor Moulton. London, 1895. + +17. "The British Novelists and their Styles." By David Masson. London, +1859. + +18. "Appreciations, with an Essay on Style." By Walter Pater. London, +1890. + +19. "The English Novel." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1894. + +20. "Style." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1897. + +21. "The Logic of Style." By W. Renton. London, 1874. + +22. "The Philosophy of Fiction." By D. G. Thompson. New York, 1890. + +23. "A Humble Remonstrance," and "A Gossip on Romance" (in "Memories and +Portraits"). By R. L. Stevenson. + +24. "The Present State of the English Novel" (in "Miscellaneous +Essays"). By George Saintsbury. London, 1892. + +25. "Notes on Style" (in "Essays: Speculative and Suggestive"). By J. A. +Symonds. London, 1890. + +26. "The Philosophy of Style." By Herbert Spencer. London, 1872. + +27. "Introduction to the Study of English Fiction." By W. E. Simonds. +Boston, U.S.A., 1894. + +28. "Le Roman Experimental." Paris, 1881. + +29. "How to Write Fiction." Published by George Redway. + +30. "The Art of Writing Fiction." Published by Wells Gardner. + +31. "On Novels and the Art of Writing Them." By Anthony Trollope. In his +"Autobiography," vol. ii. + + + + +APPENDIX III + +MAGAZINE ARTICLES ON WRITING FICTION + + +"One Way to Write a Novel." By Julian Hawthorne. _Cosmopolitan_, vol. ii +p. 96. + +"Names in Novels." _Blackwood_, vol cl. p. 230. + +"Naming of Novels." _Macmillan_, vol. lxi. p. 372. + +"Fiction as a Literary Form." By H. W. Mabie. _Scribner's Magazine_, +vol. v. p. 620. + +"Candour in English Fiction." By W. Besant, Mrs Lynn Linton, and Thomas +Hardy. _New Review_, vol. ii. p. 6. + +"The Future of Fiction." By James Sully. _Forum_, vol. ix. p. 644. + +"Names in Fiction." By G. Saintsbury. _Macmillan_, vol. lix. p. 115. + +"Real People in Fiction." By W. S. Walsh. _Lippincott_, vol. xlviii. p. +309. + +"The Relation of Art to Truth." By W. H. Mallock. _Forum_, vol. ix p. +36. + +"Success in Fiction." By M. O. W. Oliphant. _Forum_, vol vii. p. 314. + +"Great Writers and their Art." _Chambers's Journal_, vol. lxv. p. 465. + +"The Jews in English Fiction." _London Quarterly Review_, vol. xxviii. +1897. + +"Heroines in Modern Fiction." _National Review_, vol. xxix. 1897. + +"A Claim for the Art of Fiction." By E. G. Wheelwright. _Westminster +Review_, vol. cxlvi. 1896. + +"The Speculations of a Story-Teller." By G. W. Cable. _Atlantic +Monthly_, vol. lxxviii. 1896. + +"A Novelist's Views of Novel Writing." By E. S. Phelps. _M'Clure's +Magazine_, vol. viii. 1896. + +"Hints to Young Authors of Fiction." By Grant Allen. _Great Thoughts_, +vol. vii. 1896. + +"Novels Without a Purpose." _North American Review_, vol. clxiii. 1896. + +"The Fiction of the Future." Symposium. _Ludgate Monthly_, vol. ii. +1896. + +"The Place of Realism in Fiction." _Humanitarian_, vol. vii. 1895. By Dr +W. Barry, A. Daudet, Miss E. Dixon, Sir G. Douglas, G. Gissing, W. H. +Mallock, Richard Pryce, Miss A. Sergeant, F. Wedmore, and W. H. Wilkins. + +"The Influence of Idealism in Fiction." By Ingrad Harting. +_Humanitarian_, vol. vi. 1895. + +"Novelists on their Works." _Ludgate Monthly_, vol. i. 1895. + +"Novel Writing and Novel Reading." Interview with Baring Gould. +_Cassell's Family Magazine_, vol. xxii. 1894. + +"The Women Characters of Fiction." By H. Schutz Wilson. _Gentleman's +Magazine_, vol. cclxxvii. 1894. + +"School of Fiction Series." In _Atalanta_, vol. vii. 1894: + + 1. "The Picturesque Novel, as represented by R. D. Blackmore." + By K. Macquoid. + + 2. "The Autobiographical Novel, as represented by C. Brontë." + By Dr A. H. Japp. + + 3. "The Historical Novel, as represented by Sir Walter Scott." + By E. L. Arnold. + + 4. "The Ethical Novel, as represented by George Eliot." By J. + A. Noble. + + 5. "The Satirical Novel, as represented by W. M. Thackeray." + By H. A. Page. + + 6. "The Human Novel, as represented by Mrs Gaskell." By + Maxwell Gray. + + 7. "The Sensational Novel, as represented by Mrs Henry Wood." + By E. C. Grey. + + 8. "The Humorous Novel, as represented by Oliver Goldsmith." + By Dr A. H. Japp. + +"The Shudder in Literature." By Jules Claretie. _North American Review_, +vol. clv. 1892. + +"The Profitable Reading of Fiction." By Thomas Hardy. _Forum_, vol. v. +p. 57. + +"The Picturesque in Novels." _Chambers's Journal_, vol. lxii. 1892. + +"Realism in Fiction." By E. F. Benson. _Nineteenth Century_, vol. xxxiv. +1893. + +"Great Characters in Novels." _Spectator_, vol. lxxi. 1893. + +"The Modern Novel." By A. E. Barr. _North American Review_, vol. clix. +1894. + +"The Novels of Adventure and Manners." _Quarterly Review_, vol. clxxix. +1894. + +"The Women of Fiction." By H. S. Wilson. _Gentleman's Magazine_, new +series, vol. liii. 1894. + +"Why do Certain Works of Fiction Succeed?" By M. Wilcox. _New Scientific +Review_, vol. i. 1894. + +"Magazine Fiction, and How not to Write It." By F. M. Bird. +_Lippincott's Magazine_, vol. liv. 1894. + +"The Picaresque Novel." By J. F. Kelly. _New Review_, vol. xiii. p. 59. + +"The Irresponsible Novelist." _Macmillan's Magazine_, vol. lxxii. p. 73. + +"Great Realists and Empty Story Tellers." By H. H. Boyesen. _Forum_, +vol. xviii. p. 724. + +"Motion and Emotion in Fiction." By R. M. Doggett. _Overland Monthly_, +new series, vol. xxvi. p. 614. + +"'Tendencies' in Fiction." By A. Lang. _North American Review_, vol. +clxi. p. 153. + +"The Two Eternal Types in Fiction." By H. W. Mabie. _Forum_, vol. xix. +p. 41. + +"The Problem of the Novel." By A. N. Meyer. _Arena_, vol xvii. 1897. + +"My Favourite Novel and Novelist." _The Munsey Magazine_, vols. +xvii.-xviii. 1897. By W. D. Howells, B. Matthews, F. B. Stockton, Mrs B. +Harrison, S. R. Crockett, P. Bourget, W. C. Russell, and A. Hope +Hawkins. + +"Hard Times among the Heroines of Novels." By E. A. Madden. +_Lippincott's Magazine_, vol. lxix. 1897. + +"On the Theory and Practice of Local Colour." By W. P. James. +_Macmillan's Magazine_, vol. lxxvi. 1897. + +"The Writing of Fiction." By F. M. Bird. _Lippincott's Magazine_, vol. +lx. 1897. + +"Novelists' Estimates of their own Work." _National Magazine_ (Boston, +U.S.A.), vol. x. 1897. + +"Fundamentals of Fiction." By B. Burton. _Forum_, vol. xxviii. 1899. + +"On the Future of Novel Writing." By Sir Walter Besant. _The Idler_, +vol. xiii. 1898. + +"The Short Story." By F. Wedmore. _Nineteenth Century_, vol. xliii. +1898. + +"The Complete Novelist." By James Payn. _Strand_, vol. xiv. 1897. + +"What is a Realist?" By A. Morrison. _New Review_, vol. xvi. 1897. + +"The Historical Novel." By B. Matthews. _Forum_, vol. xxiv. 1897. + +"The Limits of Realism in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. _New Review_, vol. +viii. p. 201. + +"New Watchwords in Fiction." By Hall Caine. _Contemporary Review_, vol. +lvii. p. 479. + +"The Science of Fiction." By Paul Bourget, Walter Besant, and Thomas +Hardy. _New Review_, vol. iv. p. 304. + +"The Dangers of the Analytic Spirit in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. _New +Review_, vol. vi. p. 48. + +"Cervantes, Zola, Kipling, and Coy." By Brander Matthews. +_Cosmopolitan_, vol. xiv. p. 609. + +"On Style in Literature." By R. L. Stevenson. _Contemporary Review_, +vol. xlvii. p. 458. + +"The Apotheosis of the Novel." By Herbert Paul. _Contemporary Review_, +vol. xli. 1897. + +"Vacant Places in Literature." By W. Robertson Nicoll. _British Weekly_, +March 20, 1895. + +"What Makes a Novel Successful?" By W. Robertson Nicoll. _British +Weekly_, June 16, 1896. + +"The Use of Dialect in Fiction." By F. H. French. _Atalanta_, vol. viii. +p. 125. + + +THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES + + +The word "manoevring" has an oe ligature in the original. + +The following corrections have been made to the text: + + Page 77: says Mr W. M. Hunt.[original has comma] + + Page 87: If you know your characters[original has + chararacters] + + Page 101: and "risk" the reader's acuteness,[original has + cuteness] + + Page 113: in a way quite different to[illegible in the + original] everybody else + + Page 126: for which, indeed, the spot[illegible in the + original--confirmed in other sources] is most fit + + Page 202: 9. "Criticism and Fiction."[quotation mark missing + in original] By W. D. Howells. + + [120:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors.[period missing in + original]" + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of How to Write a Novel, by Anonymous + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL *** + +***** This file should be named 38887-8.txt or 38887-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/8/8/38887/ + +Produced by David Starner, Lisa Reigel, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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+ margin-right: 10%; + } + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + + hr { width: 33%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both; } + + table { margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + + table.toc table { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; } + + p.smallgap { margin-top: 2em; } /* adds white space on title page */ + p.gap { margin-top: 4em; } /* adds white space on title page */ + p.p2 {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: 110%;} /* instead of header tags, bold and big for title pages */ + p.hang {padding-left: 2.5em; text-indent: -2.5em;} /* hanging indent */ + + hr.booklist { width: 10%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both; } + hr.thoughtbreak { width: 45%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both; } + hr.newchapter { width: 65%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both; } + hr.footnotes { width: 90%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both; } + + div.centered {text-align: center;} /* work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 1 */ + div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;} /* work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 2 */ + + ul.list { list-style-type: none; + font-size: inherit; + line-height: 1.7em; /*controls spacing between list items*/ + } + + .tdtocchapter {text-align:center} /* chapter in toc centered */ + .tdtocchapsub {text-align:center} /* chapter subheading in toc centered */ + .tdtocentry {text-align:left; vertical-align: top; padding-left: 1.5em; text-indent: -1.5em;} /* toc entries left-aligned with hanging indent */ + .tdleft {text-align:left;} + .tdtocpage {text-align:right} /* page number in toc right-aligned */ + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + right: 3%; + font-size: smaller; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + font-style: normal; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .blockquot2 {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i0i {display: block; margin-left: .3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} /* small indent to follow on lines after leading apostrophe */ + .poem span.i6h {display: block; margin-left: 6.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .sectctr {margin-top: 1.5em; text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} /* adds extra space at top of section and centers text */ + + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right; } + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; } + + .notebox {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; /* makes box around Transcriber's Notes */ + margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 1em; border: solid black 1px;} + + .smallbox {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; margin-top: 5%; /* makes box around book list */ + margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 1em; border: solid black 2px;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of How to Write a Novel, by Grant Richards + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: How to Write a Novel + A Practical Guide to the Art of Fiction + +Author: Anonymous + +Release Date: February 15, 2012 [EBook #38887] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Lisa Reigel, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="notebox"> +<p>Transcriber's Notes:</p> + +<p>Variations in spelling and hyphenation are as in the original. Ellipses +match the original. A complete list of typographical corrections as well +as other notes <a href="#TN">follows</a> the text.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> +<p class="gap"> </p> +<p class="p2">The "how to" Series</p> + +<p class="gap"> </p> +<h1>HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL</h1> + +<p class="gap"> </p> + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> + +<p class="gap"> </p> + +<div class="centered"> +<div class="smallbox"> +<p class="p2">The "how to" Series</p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center">I. HOW TO DEAL WITH<br /> +YOUR BANKER</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span> HENRY WARREN</p> + +<p class="center">Author of "Banks and their Customers"</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Third Edition.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo, Cloth, 5s. 6d.</i></p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center">II. WHERE AND HOW TO<br /> +DINE IN PARIS</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span> ROWLAND STRONG</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Fcap. 8vo, Cloth, Cover Designed, 2s. 6d.</i></p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center">III. HOW TO WRITE FOR<br /> +THE MAGAZINES</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span> "£600 A YEAR FROM IT"</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo, Cloth, 2s. 6d.</i></p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center">IV. HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR<br /> +BANKER</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span> HENRY WARREN</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d.</i></p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center">V. HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL:</p> + +<p class="center">A Practical Guide to the Art<br /> +of Fiction.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d.</i></p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center">VI. HOW TO INVEST AND<br /> +HOW TO SPECULATE</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span> C. H. THORPE</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo, Cloth, 5s.</i></p> + +<hr class="booklist" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">London</span>: GRANT RICHARDS</p> +<p class="center">9 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="gap"> </p> + +<hr class="newchapter" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> + +<p class="smallgap"> </p> + +<p class="p2">The "how to" Series</p> + +<p class="gap"> </p> + + + + +<h1>HOW TO WRITE A<br /> +NOVEL</h1> + +<p class="smallgap"> </p> + +<h2>A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE ART<br /> +OF FICTION</h2> + +<p class="gap"> </p> + +<p class="p2">LONDON<br /> +GRANT RICHARDS<br /> +9 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.<br /> +1901</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>PREFACE</h2> + + +<p>This little book is one which so well explains itself that no +introductory word is needed; and I only venture to intrude a sentence or +two here with a view to explain the style in which I have conveyed my +ideas. I desired to be plain and practical, and therefore chose the +direct and epistolary form as being most suitable for the purpose in +hand.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class="centered"> +<table class="toc" summary="table of contents" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="4" border="0"> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER I</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">THE OBJECT IN VIEW</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocpage" colspan="2" style="font-size: 70%;">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">An Inevitable Comparison</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Teachable and the Unteachable</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER II</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">A GOOD STORY TO TELL</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Where do Novelists get their Stories from?</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Is there a Deeper Question?</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">What about the Newspapers?</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER III</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">HOW TO BEGIN</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Formation of the Plot</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction"</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span>Care in the Use of Actual Events</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Natural History of a Plot</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Plot-Formation in Earnest</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Characters first: Plot afterwards</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Natural Background</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER IV</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERISATION</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Chief Character</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">How to Portray Character</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Methods of Characterisation</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Trick of "Idiosyncrasies"</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER V</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Narrative Art</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Movement</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Aids to Description: The Point of View</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span>Selecting the Main Features</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Description by Suggestion</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Facts to Remember</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER VI</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE—CONTINUED</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Colour: Local and Otherwise</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">What about Dialect?</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">On Dialogue</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Points in Conversation</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">"Atmosphere"</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER VII</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">PITFALLS</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Items of General Knowledge</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Specific Subjects</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Topography and Geography</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Scientific Facts</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Grammar</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span>CHAPTER VIII</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">THE SECRET OF STYLE</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Communicable Elements</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Incommunicable Elements</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER IX</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">HOW AUTHORS WORK</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Quick and Slow</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">How many Words a Day?</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Charles Reade and Anthony Trollope</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Mission of Fancy</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Fancies of another Type</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry" style="padding-right: 4em;">Some of our Younger Writers: Mr Zangwill, Mr Coulson + Kernahan, Mr Robert Barr, Mr H. G. Wells</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Curious Methods</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER X</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">IS THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF NOVELS EXHAUSTED?</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Question Stated</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">"Change" not "Exhaustion"</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Why we talk about Exhaustion</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span>CHAPTER XI</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">THE NOVEL <i>v.</i> THE SHORT STORY</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Practise the Short Story</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Short Story Writers on their Art</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">CHAPTER XII</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapsub" colspan="2">SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">The Truth about Success</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry">Minor Conditions of Success</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">APPENDIX I</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry"><span class="smcap">The Philosophy of Composition.</span> By Edgar Allan Poe</td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">APPENDIX II</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry"><span class="smcap">Books Worth Reading</span></td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocchapter" colspan="2">APPENDIX III</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdtocentry"><span class="smcap">Magazine Article on Writing Fiction</span></td> + <td class="tdtocpage"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span></p> + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="smallgap"> </p> +<h1>HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL</h1> +<p class="smallgap"> </p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>THE OBJECT IN VIEW</h3> + + +<p>I am setting myself a task which some people would call very ambitious; +others would call it by a name not quite so polite; and a considerable +number would say it was positively absurd, accompanying their criticism +with derisive laughter. Having discussed the possibility of teaching the +art of writing fiction with a good many different kinds of people, I +know quite intimately the opinions which are likely to be expressed +about this little book; and although I do not intend to burden the +reader with an account of their respective merits, I do intend to make +my own position as clear as possible. First of all, I will examine the +results of a recent symposium on the general question.<a name="FNanchor_1:A_1" id="FNanchor_1:A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1:A_1" class="fnanchor">[1:A]</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>When asked as to the practicability of a School of Fiction, Messrs +Robert Barr, G. Manville Fenn, M. Betham Edwards, Arthur Morrison, G. B. +Burgin, C. J. C. Hyne, and "Mr" John Oliver Hobbes declared against it; +Miss Mary L. Pendered and Miss Clementina Black—with certain +reservations—spoke in favour of such an institution. True, these names +do not include all representatives of the high places in Fiction, but +they are quite respectable enough for my purpose. It will be seen that +the vote is adverse to the object I have in view. Why? Well, here are a +few reasons. Mr Morrison affirms that writing as a trade is far too +pleasant an idea; John Oliver Hobbes is of opinion that it is impossible +to teach anyone how to produce a work of imagination; and Mr G. B. +Burgin asserts that genius is its own teacher—a remark characterised by +unwitting modesty. Now, with the spirit of these convictions I am not +disposed to quarrel. This is an age which imagines that everything can +be crammed into the limits of an academical curriculum; and there are +actually some people who would not hesitate to endow a chair <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>of "Ideas +and Imagination." We need to be reminded occasionally that there are +incommunicable elements in all art.</p> + + +<h3>An Inevitable Comparison</h3> + +<p>But the question arises: If there be an art of literature, why cannot +its principles be taught and practised as well as those of any other +art? We have schools of Painting, Sculpture, and Music—why not a school +of Fiction? Let it be supposed that a would-be artist has conceived a +brilliant idea which he is anxious to embody in literature or put on a +canvas. In order to do so, he must observe certain well-established +rules which we may call the grammar of art: for just as in literature a +man may express beautiful ideas in ungrammatical language, and without +any sense of relationship or development, so may the same ideas be put +in a picture, and yet the art be of the crudest. Now, in what way will +our would-be artist become acquainted with those rules? The answer is +simple. If his genius had been of the first order he would have known +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>them intuitively: the society of men and women, of great books and fine +pictures, would have provided sufficient stimuli to bring forth the best +productions of his mind. Thus Shakespeare was never taught the +principles of dramatic art; Bach had an instinctive appreciation of the +laws of harmony; and Turner had the same insight into laws of painting. +These were artists of the front rank: they simply looked—and +understood.</p> + +<p>But if his powers belonged to the order which is called <i>talent</i>, he +would have to do one of two things: either stumble upon these rules one +by one and learn them by experience—or be taught them in their true +order by others, in which case an Institute of Literary Art would +already exist in an embryonic stage. Why should it not be developed into +a matured school? Is it that the dignity of genius forbids it, or that +pupilage is half a disgrace? True genius never shuns the marks of the +learner. Even Shakespeare grew in the understanding of art and in his +power of handling its elements. Professor Dowden says: "In the 'Two +Gentlemen of Verona,' Porteus, the fickle, is set <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>over against +Valentine the faithful; Sylvia, the bright and intellectual, is set over +against Julia, the ardent and tender; Launce, the humorist, is set over +against Speed, the wit. This indicates a certain want of confidence on +the part of the poet; he fears the weight of too much liberty. He cannot +yet feel that his structure is secure without a mechanism to support the +structure. He endeavours to attain unity of effect less by the +inspiration of a common life than by the disposition of parts. In the +early plays structure determines function; in the later plays +organisation is preceded by life."<a name="FNanchor_5:A_2" id="FNanchor_5:A_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_5:A_2" class="fnanchor">[5:A]</a></p> + + +<h3>A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing</h3> + +<p>When certain grumpy folk ask: "How do you propose to draw up your +lessons on 'The way to find Local Colour'; 'Plotting'; 'How to manage a +Love-Scene,' and so forth?" it is expected that a writer like myself +will be greatly disconcerted. Not at all. It so happens that a +distinguished critic, now deceased, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>once delivered himself on the +possibility of teaching literary art, and I propose to quote a paragraph +or two from his article. "The morning finds the master in his working +arm-chair; and seated about the room which is generally the study, but +is now the studio, are some half-dozen pupils. The subject for the hour +is narrative-construction, and the master holds in his hand a small MS. +which, as he slowly reads it aloud, proves to be a somewhat elaborate +synopsis of the story of one of his own published or projected novels. +The reading over, students are free to state objections, or to ask +questions. One remarks that the <i>dénouement</i> is brought about by a mere +accident, and therefore seems to lack the inevitableness which, the +master has always taught, is essential to organic unity. The criticism +is recognised as intelligent, but the master shows that the accident has +not the purely fortuitous character which renders it obnoxious to the +general objection. While it is technically an accident, it is in reality +hardly accidental, but an occurrence which fits naturally into an +opening provided by a given set of circumstances, the circumstances +having been brought about by <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>a course of action which is vitally +characteristic of the person whose fate is involved. Then the master +himself will ask a question. 'The students,' he says, 'will have noticed +that a character who takes no important part in the action until the +story is more than half told, makes an insignificant and unnoticeable +appearance in a very early chapter, where he seems a purposeless and +irrelevant intrusion.' They have paper before them, and he gives them +twenty minutes in which to state their opinion as to whether this +premature appearance is, or is not, justified by the canons of narrative +art, giving, of course, the reasons upon which that opinion has been +formed. The papers are handed in to be reported upon next morning, and +the lesson is at an end."<a name="FNanchor_7:A_3" id="FNanchor_7:A_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_7:A_3" class="fnanchor">[7:A]</a></p> + +<p>This is James Ashcroft Noble's idea of handling a theme in fiction; one +of a large and varied number. To me it is a feasible plan emanating from +a man who was the sanest of literary advisers. If it be objected that Mr +Noble was only a critic and not a novelist, perhaps a word from <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>Sir +Walter Besant may add the needful element of authority. "I can conceive +of a lecturer dissecting a work, or a series of works, showing how the +thing sprang first from a central figure in a central group; how there +arose about this group, scenery, the setting of the fable; how the +atmosphere became presently charged with the presence of mankind, other +characters attaching themselves to the group; how situations, scenes, +conversations, led up little by little to the full development of this +central idea. I can also conceive of a School of Fiction in which the +students should be made to practise observation, description, dialogue, +and dramatic effects. The student, in fact, would be taught how to use +his tools." A reading-class for the artistic study of great writers +could not be other than helpful. One lesson might be devoted to the way +in which the best authors foreshadowed crises and important turns in +events. An example may be found in "Julius Cæsar," where, in the second +scene, the soothsayer says:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Beware the Ides of March!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>—a solitary voice in strange contrast with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>those by whom he is +surrounded, and preparing us for the dark deed upon which the play is +based. Or the text-book might be a modern novel—Hardy's "Well-Beloved" +for instance—a work full of delicate literary craftsmanship. The storm +which overtook Pierston and Miss Bencomb is prepared for—first by the +conversation of two men who pass them on the road, and one of whom +casually remarks that the weather seems likely to change; then Pierston +himself observes "the evening—louring"; finally, and most suddenly, the +rain descends in perfect fury.</p> + + +<h3>The Teachable and the Unteachable</h3> + +<p>I hope my position is now beginning to be tolerably clear to the reader. +I address myself to the man or woman of talent—those people who have +writing ability, but who need instruction in the manipulation of +characters, the formation of plots, and a host of other points with +which I shall deal hereafter. As to what is teachable, and not +teachable, in writing novels, perhaps I may be permitted to use a close +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>analogy. Style, <i>per se</i>, is absolutely unteachable simply because it is +the man himself; you cannot teach <i>personality</i>. Can Dickens, Thackeray, +and George Meredith be reduced to an academic schedule? Never. Every +soul of man is an individual entity and cannot be reproduced. But +although style is incommunicable, the writing of easy, graceful English +can be taught in any class-room—that is to say, the structure of +sentences and paragraphs, the logical sequence of thought, and the +secret of forceful expression are capable of exact scientific treatment.</p> + +<p>In like manner, although no school could turn out novelists to order—a +supply of Stevensons annually, and a brace of Hardys every two +years—there is yet enough common material in all art-work to be mapped +out in a course of lessons. I shall show that the two great requisites +of novel-writing are (1) a good story to tell, and (2) ability to tell +it effectively. Briefly stated, my position is this: no teaching can +produce "good stories to tell," but it can increase the power of "the +telling," and change it from crude and ineffective methods to those +which reach <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>the apex of developed art. Of course there are dangers to +be avoided, and the chief of them is that mechanical correctness, "so +praiseworthy and so intolerable," as Lowell says in his essay on +Lessing. But this need not be an insurmountable difficulty. A truly +educated man never labours to speak correctly; being educated, +grammatical language follows as a necessary consequence. The same is +true of the artist: when he has learned the secrets of literature, he +puts away all thoughts of rule and law—nay, in time, his very ideas +assume artistic form.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1:A_1" id="Footnote_1:A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1:A_1"><span class="label">[1:A]</span></a> <i>The New Century Review</i>, vol. i.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5:A_2" id="Footnote_5:A_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5:A_2"><span class="label">[5:A]</span></a> "Shakespeare: His Mind and Art," p. 61.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7:A_3" id="Footnote_7:A_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7:A_3"><span class="label">[7:A]</span></a> Article in <i>The New Age</i>.</p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>A GOOD STORY TO TELL</h3> + + +<h4>Where do Novelists get their Stories from?</h4> + +<p>I said a moment ago that no teaching could impart a story. If you cannot +invent one for yourself, by observation of life and sympathetic insight +into human nature, you may depend upon it that you are not called to be +a writer of novels. Then where, it may be asked, do novelists get their +stories? Well, they hardly know themselves; they say the ideas "come." +For instance, here is the way Mr Baring Gould describes the advent of +"Mehalah." "One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in the coastguard, +invited me to accompany him on a cruise among the creeks in the estuary +of the Maldon river—the Blackwater. I went out, and we spent the day +running among mud flats and low holms, covered with coarse grass and +wild lavender, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a ruined farm +built on arches above this marsh to eat some lunch; no glass was in the +windows, and the raw wind howled in and swept around us. That night I +was laid up with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed and was in the marshes in +imagination, listening to the wind and the lap of the tide; and +'Mehalah' naturally rose out of it all, a tragic gloomy tale."<a name="FNanchor_13:A_4" id="FNanchor_13:A_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_13:A_4" class="fnanchor">[13:A]</a></p> + +<p>Exactly. "Mehalah" <i>rose</i>; that is enough! If ideas, plots of stories, +and new groupings of character do not "rise" in <i>your</i> mind, it is +simply because you lack the power to originate them spontaneously. Take +the somewhat fabulous story of Newton and the apple. Many a man before +Sir Isaac had seen an apple fall, but not one of them used that +observation as he did. In the same way there are scores of men who have +the same experiences and live the same kind of life, but it occurs to +only one among their number to gather up these experiences into an +interesting narrative. Why should it "occur" to one and not the others? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>Because the one has literary gifts and literary impetus, and the +others—haven't.</p> + + +<h4>Is there a Deeper Question?</h4> + +<p>Having dealt with that side of the subject, I should like to say that +all novelists have their own methods of obtaining raw material for +stories. By raw material I mean those facts of life which give birth to +narrative ideas. It is said of Thomas Hardy that he never rides in an +omnibus or railway carriage without mentally inventing the history of +every traveller. One has to beware of fables in writing of such men, but +I have no reason to doubt the statement just made. I do not make it with +the intention of advocating anybody to go and do likewise, but as +illustrating one way of studying human nature and developing the +imaginative faculty.</p> + +<p>It will be necessary to speak of <i>observation</i> a good many times in the +course of these remarks, and one might as well say what the word really +means. Does it mean "seeing things"? A great deal more than that. It is +very easy to "see <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>things" and yet not observe at all. If you want ideas +for stories, or characters with which to form a longer narrative, you +must not only use your <i>eyes</i> but your <i>mind</i>. What is wanted is +<i>observation</i> with <i>inference</i>; or, to be more correct, with +<i>imagination</i>. Make sure that you know the traits of character that are +typically human; those which are the same in a Boer, a Hindu, or a +Chinaman. It is not difficult to mark the special points of each of +these as distinct from the Englishman; but your first duty is to know +human nature <i>per se</i>. How is that knowledge to be obtained? do you say! +Well, begin with yourself; there is ample scope in that direction. And +when you are tired of looking within—look without. Enter a tram-car and +listen to the people talking. Who talks the loudest? What kind of woman +is it who always gives the conductor most trouble? The man who sits at +the far end of the car in a shabby coat, and who is regarding his boots +with a fixed, anxious stare—what is he thinking about? and what is his +history? Then a baby begins to yell, and its mother cannot soothe it. +One old man smiles benignly on the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>struggling infant, but the old man +next to him looks "daggers." And why?</p> + +<p>To see character in action there is no finer vantage-point than the top +of a London omnibus. Watch the way in which people walk; notice their +forms of salutation when they meet; and study the expressions on their +faces. Tragedy and comedy are everywhere, and you have not to go beneath +the surface of life in order to find them. It sounds prosaic enough to +speak of studying human nature at a railway station, but such places are +brimful of event. I know more than one novelist who has found his +"motif" by quietly watching the crowd on a platform from behind a +waiting-room window. Wherever humanity congregates there should the +student be. Not that he should restrict his observations to men and +women in groups or masses—he must cover all the ground by including +individuals who are to be specially considered. The logician's terms +come in handy at this point: <i>extensive</i> and <i>intensive</i>—such must be +the methods of a beginner's analysis of his fellow-creatures.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> +<h4>What about the Newspapers?</h4> + +<p>The daily press is the great mirror of human events. When we open the +paper at our breakfast table we find a literal record of the previous +day's joy and sorrow—marriages and murders, failures and successes, +news from afar and news from the next street—they all find a place. The +would-be novel writer should be a diligent student of the newspaper. In +no other sphere will he discover such a plenitude of raw material. Some +of the cases tried at the Courts contain elements of dramatic quality +far beyond those he has ever imagined; and here and there may be found +in miniature the outlines of a splendid plot. Of course everything +depends on the reader's mind. If you cannot read between the lines—that +is the end of the matter, and your novel will remain unwritten; but if +you can—some day you may expect to succeed.</p> + +<p>I once came across a practical illustration of the manner in which a +newspaper paragraph was treated imaginatively. The result is rather +crude and unfinished, but <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>most likely it was never intended to stand as +a finished production, occurring as it does, in an American book on +American journalism.<a name="FNanchor_18:A_5" id="FNanchor_18:A_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_18:A_5" class="fnanchor">[18:A]</a></p> + +<p>Here is the paragraph:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"John Simpson and Michael Flannagan, two railroad labourers, +quarrelled yesterday morning, and Flannagan killed Simpson +with a coupling-pin. The murderer is in jail. He says Simpson +provoked him and dared him to strike."</p></div> + +<p>Now the question arises: What was the quarrel about? We don't know; so +an originating cause must be invented. The inventor whose illustration I +am about to give conceived the story thus:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"'Taint none o' yer business how often I go to see the girl."</p> + +<p>"Ef Oi ketch yez around my Nora's house agin, Oi'll break a +hole in yer shneakin' head, d'ye moind thot!"</p> + +<p>"You braggin' Irish coward, you haint got sand enough in you +to come down off'n that car and say that to my face."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>It was John Simpson, a yard switchman who spoke this taunt to +a section hand. A moment more and Michael Flannagan stood on +the ground beside him. There was a murderous fire in the +Irishman's eyes, and in his hand he held a heavy coupling-pin.</p> + +<p>"Tut! tut! Mike. Throw away the iron and play fair. You can +wallup him!" cried the rest of the gang.</p> + +<p>"He's a coward; he dassn't hit me," came the wasp-like taunt +of the switchman. "Let him alone, fellers; his girl's give him +the shake, and——"</p> + +<p>Those were the last words Simpson spoke. The murderous +coupling-pin had descended like a scimitar and crushed his +skull.</p> + +<p>An awed silence fell upon the little group as they raised the +fallen man and saw that he was dead.</p> + +<p>"Ye'll be hangin' fur this, Mikey, me bye," whispered one of +his horrified companions as the police dragged off the +unresisting murderer.</p> + +<p>"Oi don't care," came the sullen reply, with a dry sob that +belied it. Then, with a look of unutterable hatred, and a nod +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>towards the white, upturned face of his enemy, he added under +his breath, "He'll niver git her now."</p> +</div> + +<p>This is enough to give the beginner an idea of the way in which stories +and plots sometimes "occur" to writers of fiction. It is, however, only +one of a thousand ways, and my advice to the novice is this: Keep your +eyes and ears open; observe and inquire, read and reflect; look at life +and the things of life from your own point of view; and just as a +financier manipulates events for the sake of money, so ought you to turn +all your experiences into the mould of fiction. If, after this, you +don't succeed, it is evident you have made a mistake. Be courageous +enough to acknowledge the fact, and leave the writing of novels to +others.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13:A_4" id="Footnote_13:A_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13:A_4"><span class="label">[13:A]</span></a> "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 43.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18:A_5" id="Footnote_18:A_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18:A_5"><span class="label">[18:A]</span></a> Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 208.</p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>HOW TO BEGIN</h3> + + +<p>You have now obtained your story—in its bare outlines, at least. The +next question is, How are you to make a start? Well, that is an +important question, and it cannot be evaded.</p> + +<p>Clarence Rook, in a waggish moment, said two things were necessary in +order to write a novel:</p> + +<ul class="list"> + <li>(1) <i>Writing Materials</i>,</li> + <li>(2) <i>A Month</i>;</li> +</ul> + +<p>but he seems to have thought that the month should be a month's +imprisonment for attempting such an indiscretion. In these pages, +however, we are serious folk, and having thanked Mr Rook for his +pleasantry, we return to the point before us.</p> + +<p>First of all, What kind of a novel is yours to be? Historical? If so, +have <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>you read all the authorities? Do you feel the throb of the life of +that period about which you are going to write? Are its chief personages +living beings in your imagination? and have you learned all the details +respecting customs, manners, language, and dress? If not, you are very +far from being ready to make a start, even though the "story" itself is +quite clear to you.</p> + +<p>Our great historical novelists devour libraries before they sit down to +write. One would like to know how many books Dr Conan Doyle digested +before he published "The Refugees," and Stanley Weyman before he brought +out his "A Gentleman of France." Do not be carried away with the +alluring idea that it is easy to take up historical subjects because the +characters are there to hand, and the "story" practically "made." +Directly you make the attempt, you will find out your mistake. Write +about the life you know best—the life of the present day. You will then +avoid the necessity of keeping everything in chronological +perspective—a necessity which an open-air preacher, whom I heard last +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>week, quite forgot when he said that the sailors shouted down the +hatchway to the sleeping Prophet of Nineveh: "Jonah! We're sinking! Come +and help us with the pumps!"</p> + +<p>No; before you begin, have a clear idea of what you are going to do. The +type of your story will in many cases decide the kind of treatment +required; but it may be well, nevertheless, to say a few words about the +various kinds of novels that are written nowadays, and the differences +that separate them one from another.</p> + +<p>There is the <i>Realistic</i> novel, of which Mr Maugham's "Liza of Lambeth" +and Mr Morrison's "A Child of the Jago" may be taken as recent examples. +These authors attempt to picture life as it is; they sink their own +personalities, and endeavour to write a literal account of the +"personalities" of other people. Very often they succeed, but absolute +realism is impossible unless a man has no objection to appearing in a +Police Court. In this type of fiction, plot, action, and inter-play of +characters are not important: the main purpose is a sort of literary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>biograph; life in action, without comment or underlying philosophy, and +minus the pre-eminent factor of art.</p> + +<p>Then there is the novel of <i>Manners</i>. The customs of life, the social +peculiarities of certain groups of men and women, the humours and moral +qualities of life—these are the chief features in the novel of manners. +As a form of fiction it is earlier than the realistic novel, but both +are alike in having little or no concern with plot and character +development.</p> + +<p>Next comes the novel of <i>Incident</i>. Here the stress is placed upon +particular events—what led up to them and the consequences that +followed—hence the structure of the narrative, and the powers of +movement and suspense are important factors in achieving success.</p> + +<p>A <i>Romance</i> is in a very important sense a novel of incident, but the +"incident" is specialised in character, and usually deals with the +passionate and fundamental powers of man—hate, jealousy, revenge, and +scenes of violence. Or it may be "incident" which has to do with life in +other worlds as imagined <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>by the writer, and occasionally takes on the +style of the supernatural.</p> + +<p>Lastly, there is the <i>Dramatic</i> novel, where the chief feature is the +influence of event on character, and of characters on each other.</p> + +<p>Now, to which class is your projected novel to belong? In fiction you +must walk by sight and not by faith. Never sit down to write believing +that although you can't see the finish of your story, it will come out +all right "in the end." It won't. You should know at the outset to which +type of fiction you are to devote your energies; how, otherwise, can you +observe the laws of art which govern its ideal being?</p> + + +<h4>Formation of the Plot</h4> + +<p>In one sense your plot is formed already—that is to say, the very idea +of your story involves a plot more or less distinct. As yet, however, +you do not see clearly how things are going to work out, and it is now +your business to settle <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>the matter so far as it lies in your power to +do so. Now, a plot is not <i>made</i>; it is <i>a structural growth</i>. Suppose +you wish to present a domestic scene in which the folly of high temper +is to be proved. Is not the plot concealed in the idea? Certainly. Hence +you perhaps place a man and his wife at breakfast. They begin to talk +amiably, then become quarrelsome, and finally fall into loving +agreement. Or you light upon a more original plan of bringing out your +point; but in any case, the plot evolves itself step by step. Wilkie +Collins has left some interesting gossip behind him with reference to +"The Woman in White": "My first proceeding is to get my central +idea—the pivot on which the story turns. The central idea in 'The Woman +in White' is the idea of a conspiracy in private life, in which +circumstances are so handled as to rob a woman of her identity, by +confounding her with another woman sufficiently like her in personal +appearance to answer the wicked purpose. The destruction of her identity +represents a first division of her story; the recovery of her identity +marks a second division. My central <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>idea next suggests some of my chief +characters.</p> + +<p>"A clever devil must conduct the conspiracy. Male devil or female devil? +The sort of wickedness wanted seems to be a man's wickedness. Perhaps a +foreign man. Count Fosco faintly shows himself to me before I know his +name. I let him wait, and begin to think about the two women. They must +be both innocent, and both interesting. Lady Glyde dawns on me as one of +the innocent victims. I try to discover the other—and fail. I try what +a walk will do for me—and fail. I devote the evening to a new +effort—and fail. Experience tells me to take no more trouble about it, +and leave that other woman to come of her own accord. The next morning +before I have been awake in my bed for more than ten minutes, my +perverse brains set to work without consulting me. Poor Anne Catherick +comes into the room, and says 'Try me.'</p> + +<p>"I have now got an idea, and three of my characters. What is there to do +now? My next proceeding is to begin building up the story. Here my +favourite <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>three efforts must be encountered. First effort: To begin at +the beginning. Second effort: To keep the story always advancing, +without paying the smallest attention to the serial division in parts, +or to the book publications in volumes. Third effort: To decide on the +end. All this is done as my father used to paint his skies in his famous +sea-pictures—at one heat. As yet I do not enter into details; I merely +set up my landmarks. In doing this, the main situations of the story +present themselves in all sorts of new aspects. These discoveries lead +me nearer and nearer to finding the right end. The end being decided on, +I go back again to the beginning, and look at it with a new eye, and +fail to be satisfied with it."</p> + + +<h4>The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction"</h4> + +<p>"I have yielded to the worst temptation that besets a novelist—the +temptation to begin with a striking incident without counting the cost +in the shape of explanations that must and will follow. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>These pests of +fiction, to reader and writer alike, can only be eradicated in one way. +I have already mentioned the way—to begin at the beginning. In the case +of 'The Woman in White,' I get back, as I vainly believe, to the true +starting-point of the story. I am now at liberty to set the new novel +going, having, let me repeat, no more than an outline of story and +characters before me, and leaving the details in each case to the spur +of the moment. For a week, as well as I can remember, I work for the +best part of every day, but not as happily as usual. An unpleasant sense +of something wrong worries me. At the beginning of the second week a +disheartening discovery reveals itself. I have not found the right +beginning of 'The Woman in White' yet. The scene of my opening chapters +is in Cumberland. Miss Fairlie (afterwards Lady Glyde); Mr Fairlie, with +his irritable nerves and his art treasures; Miss Halcombe (discovered +suddenly, like Anne Catherick), are all waiting the arrival of the young +drawing-master, Walter Hartwright. No; this won't do. The person to be +first introduced <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>is Anne Catherick. She must already be a familiar +figure to the reader when the reader accompanies me to Cumberland. This +is what must be done, but I don't see how to do it; no new idea comes to +me; I and my MS. have quarrelled, and don't speak to each other. One +evening I happen to read of a lunatic who has escaped from an asylum—a +paragraph of a few lines only in a newspaper. Instantly the idea comes +to me of Walter Hartwright's midnight meeting with Anne Catherick +escaped from the asylum. 'The Woman in White' begins again, and nobody +will ever be half as much interested in it now as I am. From that moment +I have done with my miseries. For the next six months the pen goes on. +It is work, hard work; but the harder the better, for this excellent +reason: the work is its own exceeding great reward. As an example of the +gradual manner in which I reached the development of character, I may +return for a moment to Fosco. The making him fat was an afterthought; +his canaries and his white mice were found next; and, the most valuable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>discovery of all, his admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a +conviction that he would not be true to nature unless there was some +weak point somewhere in his character."</p> + + +<h4>Care in the Use of Actual Events</h4> + +<p>I do not apologise for the lengthiness of this quotation—it is so much +to the point, and is replete with instructive ideas. The beginner must +beware of following actual events too closely. There is a danger of +accepting actuality instead of literary possibility as the measure of +value. <i>Picturesque</i> means fit to be put in a picture, and +<i>literatesque</i> means fit to be put in a book. In making your plot, +therefore, be quite sure you have a subject with these said +possibilities in it, and that in developing them by an ordered and +cumulative series of events, you are following the wise rule laid down +by Aristotle: "Prefer an impossibility which seems probable, to a +probability which seems impossible."</p> + +<p>Remember always that truth is stranger <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>than fiction. Let facts, +newspaper items, things seen and heard, suggest as much as you please, +but never follow literally the literal event.</p> + +<p>Then your plot must be original. I was amused some time ago by reading +the editorial notice to correspondents in an American paper. That editor +meant to save the time of his contributors as well as his own, and he +gave a list of the plots he did not want. The paper was one which +catered for young people. Here is a selection from the list:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>1. A lost purse where the finder is tempted to keep it, but +finally rises to the emergency and returns it.</p> + +<p>2. Heaping coals of fire(!)</p> + +<p>3. Saving one's enemy from drowning.</p> + +<p>4. Stories of cruel step-mothers.</p> + +<p>5. Children praying, and having their prayers answered through +being overheard, etc., etc.</p> +</div> + +<p>Mr Clarence Rook, to whom I have previously referred, says: "There are +several plots, four or five, at least. Here are some of the recipes for +them. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>You may rely on them to give thorough satisfaction. Thousands use +them daily, and having tried them once, use no other. Take a heroine. +The age of heroes is past, and this is the age of heroines. She must be +noble, high-souled. (Souls have been worn very high for the past few +seasons.) Her soul is too high for conventional morality. Mix her up +with some disgraceful situations, taking care to add the purest of +motives. Let her poison her mother and run away with a thoughtful +scavenger. When you are tired of her you can pitch her over Waterloo +Bridge."<a name="FNanchor_33:A_6" id="FNanchor_33:A_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_33:A_6" class="fnanchor">[33:A]</a></p> + +<p>Over against this style of criticism I should like to place another +which comes from an academical source. Speaking of the plots of Hall +Caine's novels, Professor Saintsbury says that, "with the exception of +'The Scapegoat,' there is an extraordinary and almost heroic monotony of +plot. One might almost throw Mr Caine's plots into the form which is +used by comparative students of folk-lore to tabulate the various +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>versions of the same legends. Two close relations (if not brothers, at +least cousins) the relationship being sometimes legal, sometimes only +natural, fall in love with the same girl ('Shadow,' 'Hagar,' 'Bondman,' +'Manxman'); in 'The Deemster' the situation is slightly but not really +very different, the brother being jealous of the cousin's affection. In +almost all cases there is renunciation by one; in all, including 'The +Deemster,' one has, if both have not, to pay more or less heavy +penalties for the intended or unintended rivalry. Sometimes, as in 'The +Shadow of a Crime,' 'A Son of Hagar,' and 'The Bondman,' filial +relations are brought in to augment the strife of sentiment in the +individual. Sometimes ('Shadow,' 'Bondman,' and to some extent +'Manxman') the worsted and renouncing party is self-sacrificing more or +less all through; sometimes ('Hagar,' 'Deemster,') he is violent for a +time, and only at last repents. In two cases ('Deemster,' 'Manxman,') +the injured one, or the one who thinks he is injured, has a rival at his +mercy in sleep or disease, is tempted to take his life and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>forbears. +This might be worked out still further."<a name="FNanchor_35:A_7" id="FNanchor_35:A_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_35:A_7" class="fnanchor">[35:A]</a></p> + +<p>No; you must be original or nothing at all. Of course your originality +may not be striking, but, at any rate, make your own plot, and let +others judge it. It is far better to do that than to copy others weakly. +Originality and sincerity are pretty much the same thing, as Carlyle +observed; and if you want a stimulating essay on the subject, read +Lewes' "Principles of Success in Literature," a book, by the way, which +you ought to master thoroughly.</p> + + +<h4>The Natural History of a Plot</h4> + +<p>I have quoted already from Wilkie Collins as to the growth of plot from +its embryo stages, but that need not deter us from taking an imaginary +example. Let us suppose that you have been possessed for some time with +the idea of treating the great facts of race and religion as a theme for +a novel. After casting about for a suitable illustration, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>you finally +decide that a Jewish girl, with strictly orthodox parentage, shall fall +in love with a youth of Gentile blood, and Roman Catholic in religion. +That is the bare idea. You can see at once how many dramatic +possibilities it presents; for the passion of love in each case is +pitted against the forces of religious prejudice; and all the powers of +racial exclusiveness are brought into full play. Now, what is the first +thing to do? Well, for you as a beginner, it is to decide <i>how the story +shall end</i>. Why? Because everything depends on that. If you intend them +to have a short flirtation, your course of procedure will be very +different to that which must inevitably follow if you intend to make +them marry. In the first case, you will have to provide for the stern +and unalterable facts of race and religion; in the second, for the +possibility of their being overcome. To illustrate further, let me +suppose that the Jewess and the Gentile youth are ultimately to marry. +How will this affect your choice of characters? It will compel you to +choose a Jewess who, although brought up in the orthodox fashion, has +enough <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>ability and education to appreciate life and thought outside her +own immediate circle, and you must invent facts to account for these +things, even though she still worships at the synagogue. On the other +hand, the Gentile Catholic must be a man of liberal tendencies, or he +would never think twice about the Jewess with the possibility of +marrying her. He may persuade himself that he is a good Catholic, but +you are bound to prepare your readers for actions which, to say the +least, are not normal in men of such religious profession.</p> + +<p>The choice of your secondary characters is also determined by the end in +view. Because your story has to do with Jews and Catholics, that is no +reason why your pages should be full of Jews and priests. You want just +as many other people, in addition to your hero and heroine, as are +necessary to bring about the <i>dénouement</i>: not one more, not one less. +Now, the end in view is to make these young people triumph over their +race and their religion; and over and above the difficulties they have +between themselves, there are difficulties placed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>by other people. By +whom? Here is a chance for your inventiveness. I would suggest as a +beginning that you create parents for the girl and for the man—orthodox +in each case, and unyielding to the last degree. Give them a name, and +put them down on your list. Money is likely to figure in a narrative of +this kind, and you might arrange for the opportune entrance of an uncle +on the girl's side, who threatens to alter his will (at present made in +her interest) if she encourages the advances of her Gentile lover. On +the man's side, the priest, of course, will have something to say, and +you will be compelled to make a place for him.</p> + +<p>In this way your characters will grow to their complete number, and I +should advise you to draw up a list of them, and opposite each one write +a few notes describing the part they will have to play. One word on +nomenclature. There is a mystic suitability—at any rate in +novels—between a name and a character. To call your marvellous heroine +"Annie" is to hoist a signal of distress, unless you have a unique power +of characterisation; and to speak of your hero as "William" <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>is to +handicap his movements from the start. I am not pleading for fancy +names, but just for that distinctiveness in choice which the artistic +sense decides is fitting.</p> + +<p>To return. The end in view will also shape the course of <i>events</i>. +Instead of arranging that these are to be a series of psychological +skirmishes between two people the poles asunder (as would be the case if +their relations were superficial), you have to arrange for events where +the characters are in dead earnest. Then, too, in order to relieve the +tense nature of the narrative, it will be necessary to provide for +happenings which, though not exactly humorous, are still light enough to +distract the attention from the severer aspects of the story. Further, +the natural background should be selected with an eye to the main issue, +and each event should have that cumulative effect which ultimately leads +the reader on to the climax.</p> + +<p>Of course, it is possible to take a quite different <i>dénouement</i> to the +one here considered. You might make the pair desperately in love, but +foiled by <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>some disaster near the end. In this case, as in the other, +the narrative will, or ought to, change its perspective accordingly.</p> + + +<h4>Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot</h4> + +<p>In order to illustrate the subject still further, I quote the +following:—</p> + +<p>"Consider—say, a diamond robbery. Very well: then, first of all, it +must be a robbery committed under exceptional and mysterious conditions, +otherwise there would be no interest in it. Also, you will perceive that +the robbery must be a big and important thing—no little shoplifting +business. Next, the person robbed must not be a mere diamond merchant, +but a person whose loss will interest the reader, say, one to whom the +robbery is all-important. She shall be, say, a vulgar woman with an +overweening pride in her jewels, and, of course, without the money to +replace them if they are lost. They <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>must be so valuable as to be worn +only on extraordinary occasions, and too valuable to be kept at home. +They must be consigned to the care of a jeweller who has strong rooms. +You observe that the story is now growing. You have got the preliminary +germ. How can the strong room be entered and robbed? Well, it cannot. +That expedient will not do. Can the diamonds be taken from the lady +while she is wearing them? That would have done in the days of the +gallant Claude Duval, but it will not do now. Might the house be broken +into by a burglar on a night when a lady had worn them and returned? But +she would not rest with such a great property in the house unprotected. +They must be taken back to their guardian the same night. Thus the only +vulnerable point in the care of the diamonds seems their carriage to and +from their guardian. They must be stolen between the jeweller's and the +owner's house. Then by whom? The robbery must somehow be connected with +the hero of the love story—that is indispensable; he must be innocent +of all complicity in it—that is equally <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>indispensable; he must +preserve our respect; he will have to be somehow a victim: how is that +to be managed?</p> + +<p>"The story is getting on in earnest. . . . The only way—or the best +way—seems, on consideration, to make the lover be the person who is +entrusted with the carriage of this precious package of jewels to and +from their owner's house. This, however, is not a very distinguished +<i>rôle</i> to play; it wants a very skilled hand to interest us in a +jeweller's assistant. . . . We must therefore give this young man an +exceptional position. Force of circumstances, perhaps, has compelled him +to accept the situation which he holds. He need not, again, be a +shopman; he may be a confidential <i>employé</i>, holding a position of great +trust; and he may be a young man with ambitions outside the narrow +circle of his work.</p> + +<p>"The girl to whom he is engaged must be lovable to begin with; she must +be of the same station in life as her lover—that is to say, of the +middle class, and preferably of the professional class. As <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>to her home +circle, that must be distinctive and interesting."<a name="FNanchor_43:A_8" id="FNanchor_43:A_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_43:A_8" class="fnanchor">[43:A]</a></p> + +<p>I need not quote any further for my present purpose, which is to show +mental procedure in plot-formation; but the whole article is full of +sound teaching on this and other points.</p> + + +<h4>Plot-Formation in Earnest</h4> + +<p>You have now obtained your characters, and a general outline of the +events their actions will compass. What comes next? A carefully +written-out statement of the story from the beginning to the end; that +is the next step. This story should contain just as much as you would +give in outlining the plot to a friend in the course of conversation. It +would briefly detail the characters and circumstances of the hero and +heroine, and the events which led to their first meeting each other. You +would then describe the ripening of their friendship, and the gradual +growth of social hostility to the idea of a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>projected union. The +psychological transformations, the domestic infelicities, the racial +animosities—these will find suitable expression in word and action. At +last the season of cruel suspense is over, and the pair have arrived at +their great decision. Elaborate preventive plans are arranged to +frustrate their purpose, and there is much excitement lest they should +succeed; but when all have done their best, the two are happily wedded +and the story is ended.</p> + +<p>The exercise of writing out a plain, unvarnished statement of what you +are going to do is one that will enable you to see whether your story +has balance or not, and it will most certainly test its power to +interest; for if in its bald form there is real <i>story</i> in it, you may +well believe that when properly written it will possess the true +fascination of fiction.</p> + +<p>Now, a plot is much like a drama, and should have a beginning, a middle, +and an end; answering roughly to premiss, argument, and conclusion. +There is no better training in plot-study than the reading of such a +book as Professor Moulton's "Shakespeare as a Dramatic <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>Artist," in +which the author, with rare critical skill, exhibits the construction of +plots that are an object of never-ceasing wonder. I will dare to +reiterate what I have said before. Take your stand at the end of the +story, and work it out backwards. For an excellent illustration see +Edgar Allan Poe's account of how he came to write "The Raven" (<a href="#APPENDIX_I">Appendix +I.</a>). Perhaps you object to this kind of literary dissection? You think +it spoils the effect of a work of art to be too familiar with its +physiology? I do not grant these points; but even if they are true, that +is no reason why you yourself should be offended by the sight of ropes +and pulleys behind the scenes. No; work out the details from the end, +and not from the beginning. No character and no action should find a +place if it contributes nothing towards the <i>dénouement</i>.</p> + + +<h4>Characters first: Plot afterwards</h4> + +<p>It must not be supposed that a plot <i>always</i> comes first in the +constructing of a novel. Very often the characters <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>suggest themselves +long before the story is even vaguely outlined. Nor is there any reason +why such a story should be any worse because it did not originate in the +usual way. In fact, the probabilities are that it will be all the +better, on account of its stress upon character, and the reaction of +various characters on each other. I imagine "Jude the Obscure" grew in +this fashion. There is no very striking plot in the book; at any rate +not the plot we have in mind when we think of "The Moonstone." But if +plot means the inevitable evolution of certain men and women in given +circumstances, then there is plot of a high order. In the usual +acceptation of the term, however, "Jude the Obscure" is a novel of +character; and most probably Jude existed as a creature of imagination +months before it was ever thought he would go to Oxford, or have an +adventure with Sue. To many men, doubtless, there is far more +fascination in conceiving a group of characters in which there are two +or three supreme figures, and then setting to work to discover a +narrative which will give them the freest action, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>than in toiling over +the bare idea, the subsequent plot, followed by a series of actors and +actresses who work out the <i>dénouement</i>. Should you belong to this +number, do not hesitate to act accordingly. Nothing wooden in style or +method finds a place in these pages, and since some of the finest +creations have arisen in the order indicated at the head of this +section, perhaps you are to be congratulated that the work before you +will be a living growth rather than a mechanical contrivance.</p> + + +<h4>The Natural Background</h4> + +<p>Since your story will presumably be located somewhere on this planet, +the next thing to do is to obtain a thorough knowledge of the places +where your characters will display themselves. If the scenes are laid in +a district which you know by heart, you are not likely to go astray; but +more often than not, the scenes are largely imaginative, especially in +reference to smaller items such as <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>roads, rivers, trees, and woods. The +best plan is to follow the example of Thomas Hardy, and draw a map—both +geographical and topographical—of the country and the towns in which +your hero and heroine, and subordinate characters, will appear for the +interest of the reader. That individual does not care to be puzzled with +semi-miraculous transmittances through space. I read a novel some time +ago, where on one page the heroine was busy shopping in London, and on +the next page was—an hour afterwards—quietly having tea with her +beloved somewhere in the Midlands. But the drawing of a map, and using +it closely, will not merely render such negative assistance as to avoid +mistakes of this kind, it will act positively as a stimulus to creative +suggestion. You can follow the lover's jealous rival along the road that +leads to the meeting-place with increased imaginative power. That +measure of realism which makes the ideal both possible and interesting +will come all the more easily, because the map aids you in following the +movements of your characters; in fact, if you take this <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>second step +with serious resolution, it will go far to add that piquant something +which renders your story a series of life-like happenings. The result +will be equally beneficial to the reader. It may be a moot question as +to how far the map in Stevenson's "Treasure Island" deepens the interest +of those who read this exciting story, but in my humble opinion it adds +an actuality to the events which is most convincing. Mr Maurice Hewlett +has followed suit in his "Forest Lovers." I do not say <i>publish</i> your +map, but <i>draw</i> one and use it. A poor story accompanied by a good map +would be too ridiculous; so you had better give all your attention to +the narrative, and leave the publication of maps until later days.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33:A_6" id="Footnote_33:A_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33:A_6"><span class="label">[33:A]</span></a> "Hints to Novelists," in <i>To-Day</i>, May 8, 1897.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35:A_7" id="Footnote_35:A_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35:A_7"><span class="label">[35:A]</span></a> <i>Fortnightly Review</i>, vol. lvii. N.S. p. 187.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43:A_8" id="Footnote_43:A_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43:A_8"><span class="label">[43:A]</span></a> Besant, "On the Writing of Novels," <i>Atalanta</i>, vol i. +p. 372.</p></div> + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERISATION</h3> + + +<h4>The Chief Character</h4> + +<p>In the plot previously outlined, which figure is supreme? It depends. In +some senses the supremacy is not a matter of choice, but is decided by +the nature of the story. If the man is making the greater sacrifice, it +means that, whether you like it or not, his is the struggle that calls +for a larger measure of sympathy; and you must assign him the chief +place. Still, there are circumstances which would justify a departure +from this law—something after the fashion of respecting the rights of a +minority. But in our projected narrative, the woman is undoubtedly the +supreme character; for the man's battle is mainly one of religious +scruple, and only secondarily a question of race; whereas, the Jewess +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>has a vigorous conflict with both race and religion.</p> + +<p>Well, what do you know about women? Anything? Do you know how their +minds work? how they talk? what they wear? and the thousand and one +trivialities that go to make up character portrayal? If you do not know +these things, it is a poor look-out for the success of your novel, and +you might as well start another story at once. It may be a disputed +question as to whether women understand women better than men: the point +is, do <i>you</i> understand them? Perhaps you know enough for the purposes +of a secondary character, but this Jewess is to be supreme; you must +know enough to meet the highest demands.</p> + +<p>Where to obtain this knowledge? Ah! Where! Only by studying human lives, +human manners, human weaknesses—everything human. The life of the world +must become your text-book; as for temperaments, you should know them by +heart; social influences in their effect on action and outlook, ought to +be within easy comprehension; and even then, you will still cry +"Mystery!"</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> +<h4>How to Portray Character</h4> + +<p>The first thing is to <i>realise</i> your characters—<i>i.e.</i> make them real +persons to yourself, and then you will be more likely to persuade the +reader that they are real people. Unless this is done, your hero and +heroine will be described as "puppets" or "abstractions." I am not +saying the task is easy—in fact, it is one of the most difficult that +the novelist has to face. But there is no profit in shirking it, and the +sooner it is dealt with the better. The history of character +representation in drama is full of luminous teaching, and a study of it +cannot be other than highly instructive. In the early <i>Mystery</i> and +<i>Morality</i> plays, virtues and vices were each apportioned their +respective actors—that is to say, one man set forth Good Counsel, +another Repentance, another Gluttony, and another Pride. Even so late as +Philip Massinger's "A New Way to Pay Old Debts," we have Wellborn, +Justice, Greedy, Tapwell, Froth, and Furnace. Now this seems very +elementary to us, but it has one <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>great merit: the audience knew what +each character stood for, and could form an intelligent idea of his +place in the piece. In these days we have become more +subtle—necessarily so. Following the lead of the Shakespearean +dramatists, we have not described our characters by giving them +names—virtuous or otherwise—we let them describe themselves by their +speech and action. The essential thing is that we should know our +characters intimately, so intimately that, although they exist in +imagination alone, they are as real to us as the members of our own +family. Falstaff never had flesh and blood, but as Shakespeare portrayed +him, you feel that you have only to prick him and he will bleed. The +historical Hamlet is a mist; the Hamlet of the play is a reality.</p> + +<p>This power of realisation depends on two things: <i>Observation with +insight, and Sympathy with imagination</i>. Observation is a most valuable +gift, but without insight it is likely to work mischief by creating a +tendency to write down just what you see and hear. Zola's novels too +often suggest the note-book. Avoid <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>photographing life as you would +avoid a dangerous foe. The newspaper reporter can "beat you hollow," for +that is his special subject: life as it is. Observe what goes on around +you, but get behind the scenes; study selfishness and "otherness," and +the inter-play of motives, the conflict of interests which causes this +tangle of human affairs—in other words, obtain an insight into them by +asking the "why" and "wherefore."</p> + +<p>Above all, learn to see with other people's eyes, and to feel with other +people's hearts. For instance, you may find it needful to attend +synagogue-worship in order to obtain a first-hand knowledge of the +religion of your Jewish heroine. When you see the men in silk hats, and +praying-shawls over their shoulders, you may be tempted to despise +Judaism; the result being that you determine not to cumber your novel +with a description of such "nonsense." Well, you will lose one of the +most picturesque features of your story; you will fail to see the part +which the synagogue plays in your heroine's mental struggle, and the +portrayal of her character will be <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>sadly defective in consequence. No; +a novelist, as such, should have no religion, no politics, no social +creed; whatever he believes as a private individual should not interfere +with the outgoing of sympathy in constructing the characters he intends +to set forth. Human nature is a compound of the virtuous and the +vicious, or, to change the figure, a perpetual oscillation between flesh +and spirit. Life is half tragedy and half comedy: men and women are +sometimes wise and often foolish. From this maze of mystery you are to +develop new creations, and actual people are your <i>starting-point</i>, +never your <i>models</i>.</p> + + +<h4>Methods of Characterisation</h4> + +<p>By characterisation is meant the power to make your ideal persons appear +real. It is one thing to make them real to yourself, and quite another +thing to make them real to other people. Characterisation needs a union +of imaginative and artistic gifts. In this respect, as in all others, +Shakespeare is pre-eminent. His characters <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>are alike clear in +conception and expression, and their human quality is just as wonderful +as the large scale on which they move, covering, as they do, the entire +field of human nature.</p> + +<p>There are certain well-known methods of characterisation, and to these I +propose to devote the remainder of this chapter. The first and most +obvious is for the author to describe the character. This is generally +recognised as bad art. To say "She was a very wicked woman," is like the +boy who drew a four-legged animal and wrote underneath, "This is a cow." +If that boy had succeeded in drawing a cow there would have been no need +to label it; and, in the same way, if you succeed in realising and +drawing your characters there will be no need to talk about them. The +best characterisation never <i>says</i> what a person is; it shows what he or +she is by what they do and say. I do not mean that you must say nothing +at all about your creations; the novels of Hardy and Meredith contain a +good deal of indirect comment of this kind; but it is a notable fact +that Hardy's weakest work, "A Laodicean," contains more comment <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>than +any of the others he has written. Stevenson aptly said, "Readers cannot +fail to have remarked that what an author tells us of the beauty or the +charm of his creatures goes for nought; that we know instantly better; +that the heroine cannot open her mouth but what, all in a moment, the +fine phrases of preparation fall from her like the robes of Cinderella, +and she stands before us as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps a +strapping market-woman."</p> + +<p>There is another point to be remembered. If you label a character at the +outset as a very humorous person, the reader prepares himself for a good +laugh now and then, and if you disappoint him—well, you have lost a +reader and gained an adverse critic. To announce beforehand what you are +going to do, and then fail, is to put a weapon into the hands of those +who honour you with a reading. "Often a single significant detail will +throw more light on a character than pages of comment. An example in +perfection is the phrase in which Thackeray tells how Becky Crawley, +amid all her guilt and terror, when her husband had Lord Steyne by <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>the +throat, felt a sudden thrill of admiration for Rawdon's splendid +strength. It is like a flash of lightning which shows the deeps of the +selfish, sensual woman's nature. It is no wonder that Thackeray threw +down his pen, as he confessed that he did, and cried, 'That is a stroke +of genius.'"</p> + +<p>The lesson is plain. Don't say what your hero and heroine <i>are</i>: make +them tell their own characters by words and deeds.</p> + + +<h4>The Trick of "Idiosyncrasies"</h4> + +<p>Young writers, who fail to mark off the individuality of one character +from another, by the strong lines of difference which are found in real +life, endeavour to atone for their incompetency by emphasising physical +and mental oddities. This is a mere literary "trick." To invest your +hero with a squint, or an irritating habit of blowing his nose +continually; or to make your heroine guilty of using a few funny phrases +every time she speaks, is certainly to distinguish them from the other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>characters in the book who cannot boast of such excellences, but it must +not be called characterisation. It is a bastard attempt to economise the +labour that is necessary to discover individuality of soul and to bring +it out in skilful dialogues and carefully chosen situations.</p> + +<p>Another form of the trick of idiosyncrasy is the bald realism of the +sensationalist. He persuades himself that he is character-drawing. He is +doing nothing of the kind. He takes snap-shots with a literary camera +and reproduces direct from the negative. The art of re-touching nature +so that it becomes ideal, is not in his line at all: the commercial +instinct in him is stronger than the artistic, and he sees more business +in realism than in idealism. And what is more, there is less +labour—characters exist ready for use. It is easy to listen to a lively +altercation between cabbies in a London street, when language passes +that makes one hesitate to strike a match, and then go home and draw a +city driver. You have no need to search for contrasts, for colour, for +sound, for passion: you saw and heard everything at once. But the truth +still remains—the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>seeing of things, and the hearing of things, are but +the raw material: where are your new creations?</p> + +<p>The trick of selecting oddities as a method of characterisation is +superficial, simply because oddities lie upon the surface. You can, +without much difficulty, construct a dialogue between a blacksmith and a +student, showing how the unlettered man exhibits his ignorance and the +scholar his taste. But such a distinction is quite external; at heart +the men may be very much alike. It is one thing to paint the type, and +another to paint the individual. Take Sir Willoughby Patterne. He is a +man who belongs to the type "selfish"; but he is much more than a +typically selfish man; he is an <i>individual</i>. There is a turn in his +remarks, a way of speaking in dialogue, and a style of doing things +which show him to be self-centred, not in a general way, but in the +particular way of Sir Willoughby Patterne.</p> + +<p>There is one fact in characterisation for which a due margin should +always be made. Wilkie Collins, you will remember, says of his Fosco: +"The making him fat was an afterthought; his canaries and his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>white +mice were found next; and the most valuable discovery of all, his +admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a conviction that he would +not be true to nature unless there was some weak point somewhere in his +character." You must provide for these "afterthoughts" by not being too +ready to cast your characters in the final mould. Let every personality +be in a state of <i>becoming</i> until he has actually <i>come</i>—in all the +completeness of appearance, manner, speech, and action. Your first +conception of the Jewess may be that of one who possesses the usual +physique of her class—short and stout; but afterwards it may suit your +purpose better to make her fairer, taller, and slighter, than the rest +of her race. If so, do not hesitate to undo the work of laborious hours +by effecting such an improvement. It will go against the grain, no +doubt; but novel-writing is a serious business, and much depends on +trifles in accomplishing success; so do not begrudge the extra toil +involved.</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>Characterisation is the finest feature of the novelist's art. Here you +will have <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>your greatest difficulties, but, if you overcome them, you +will have your greatest triumphs. Here, too, the crying need is a +knowledge of human nature. Acquire a mastership of this subtle quantity, +and then you may hope for genuine results. Of course, knowledge is not +<i>all</i>; it is in artistic appreciation that true character-drawing +consists.</p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE</h3> + + +<h4>Narrative Art</h4> + +<p>David Pryde has summed up the whole matter in a few well-chosen +sentences: "Keeping the beginning and the end in view, we set out from +the right starting-place, and go straight towards the destination; we +introduce no event that does not spring from the first cause and tend to +the great effect; we make each detail a link joined to the one going +before and the one coming after; we make, in fact, all the details into +one entire chain, which we can take up as a whole, carry about with us, +and retain as long as we please."<a name="FNanchor_63:A_9" id="FNanchor_63:A_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_63:A_9" class="fnanchor">[63:A]</a> How many elements are here +referred to? There are plot, movement, unity, proportion, purpose, and +climax. I have already <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>dealt with some of these, and now propose to +devote a few paragraphs to the rest.</p> + +<p>Unity means unity of effect, and is first a matter of literary +architecture—afterwards a matter of impression. It has been said of +Macbeth that "the play moves forward with an absolute regularity; it is +almost architectural in its rise and fall, in the balance of its parts. +The plot is a complex one; it has an ebb and flow, a complication and a +resolution, to use technical terms. That is to say, the fortunes of +Macbeth swoop up to a crisis or turning-point, and thence down again to +a catastrophe. The catastrophe, of course, closes the play; the crisis, +as so often with Shakespeare, comes in its exact centre, in the middle +of the middle act, with the Escape of Fleance. Hitherto Macbeth's path +has been gilded with success; now the epoch of failure begins. And the +parallelisms and correspondences throughout are remarkable. Each act has +a definite subject: The Temptation; The First, Second, and Third Crimes; +The Retribution. Three accidents, if we may so call <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>them, help Macbeth +in the first part of the play: the visit of Duncan to Inverness, his own +impulsive murder of the grooms, the flight of Malcolm and Donalbain. And +in the second half three accidents help to bring about his ruin: the +escape of Fleance, the false prophecy of the witches, the escape of +Macduff. Malcolm and Macduff at the end answer to Duncan and Banquo at +the beginning. A meeting with the witches heralds both rise and fall. +Finally, each of the crimes is represented in the Retribution. Malcolm, +the son of Duncan, and Macduff, whose wife and child he slew, conquer +Macbeth; Fleance begets a race that shall reign in his stead."<a name="FNanchor_65:A_10" id="FNanchor_65:A_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_65:A_10" class="fnanchor">[65:A]</a></p> + +<p>From a construction point of view, a novel and a play have many points +in common; and although the parallelism of events and characters is not +necessary for either, the account of Macbeth just given is a good +illustration of unity of effect and impression. Stevenson's "Kidnapped" +and "David Balfour" are good examples of unity of structure.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> +<h4>Movement</h4> + +<p>How many times have you put a novel away with the remark: "It <i>drags</i> +awfully!" The narrative that drags is not worthy of the name. There are +a few writers who can go into byways and take the reader with them—Mr +Le Gallienne, for instance—but, as a rule, the digressive novelist is +the one whose book is thrown on to the table with the remark just +quoted. A story should be <i>progressive</i>, not <i>digressive</i> and +episodical. Hence the importance of movement and suspense. Keep your +narrative in motion, and do not let it sleep for a while unless it is of +deliberate intention. There is a definite law to be observed—namely, +that as feeling rises higher, sentences become crisp and shorter; +witness Acts i. and ii. in <i>Macbeth</i>. Suspense, too, is an agent in +accelerating the forward march of a story. There is no music in a pause, +but it renders great service in giving proper emphasis to music that +goes before and comes after it. Notice how Stevenson employs suspense +and contrast <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>in "Kidnapped." "The sea had gone down, and the wind was +steady and kept the sails quiet, so that there was a great stillness in +the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of muttering voices. A +little after, and there came a clash of steel upon the deck, by which I +knew they were dealing out the cutlasses, and one had been let fall; and +after that silence again." These little touches are capable of affecting +the entire interest of the whole story, and should receive careful +attention.</p> + + +<h4>Aids to Description</h4> + + +<h5>THE POINT OF VIEW</h5> + +<p>So much has been said in praise of descriptive power, that it will not +be amiss if I repeat one or two opinions which, seemingly, point the +other way. Gray, in a letter to West, speaks of describing as "an ill +habit that will wear off"; and Disraeli said description was "always a +bore both to the describer and the describee." To some, these +authorities <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>may not be of sufficient weight. Will they listen to Robert +Louis Stevenson? He says that "no human being ever spoke of scenery for +above two minutes at a time, which makes one suspect we hear too much of +it in literature." These remarks will save us from that +description-worship which is a sort of literary influenza.</p> + +<p>The first thing to be determined in descriptive art is <i>the point of +view</i>. Suppose you are standing on an eminence commanding a wide stretch +of plain with a river winding through it. What does the river look like? +A silver thread; and so you would describe it. But if you stood close to +the brink and looked back to the eminence on which you stood previously, +you would no longer speak of a silver thread, simply because now your +point of view is changed. The principle is elementary enough, and there +is no need to dwell upon it further, except to quote an illustration +from Blackmore:</p> + +<p>"For she stood at the head of a deep green valley, carved from out the +mountains in a perfect oval, with a fence of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>sheer rock standing round +it, eighty feet or a hundred high, from whose brink black wooded hills +swept up to the skyline. By her side a little river glided out from +underground with a soft, dark babble, unawares of daylight; then growing +brighter, lapsed away, and fell into the valley. Then, as it ran down +the meadow, alders stood on either marge, and grass was blading out of +it, and yellow tufts of rushes gathered, looking at the hurry. But +further down, on either bank, were covered houses built of stone, +square, and roughly covered, set as if the brook were meant to be the +street between them. Only one room high they were, and not placed +opposite each other, but in and out as skittles are; only that the first +of all, which proved to be the captain's was a sort of double house, or +rather two houses joined together by a plank-bridge over the +river."<a name="FNanchor_69:A_11" id="FNanchor_69:A_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_69:A_11" class="fnanchor">[69:A]</a></p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> +<h5>SELECTING THE MAIN FEATURES</h5> + +<p>The fundamental principle of all art is selection, and nowhere is it +seen to better advantage than in description. A battle, a landscape, or +a mental agony, can only be described artistically, in so far as the +writer chooses the most characteristic features for presentation. In the +following passage George Eliot states the law and keeps it. "She had +time to remark that he was a peculiar-looking person, but not +insignificant, which was the quality that most hopelessly consigned a +man to perdition. He was massively built. The striking points in his +face were large, clear, grey eyes, and full lips." Suppose for a moment +that the reader were told about the pattern and "hang" of the hero's +trousers, his waistcoat and his coat, and that information was given +respecting the number of links in his watch-chain, and the exact depth +of his double chin—what would have been the effect from an artistic +point of view? Failure—for instead of getting a description alive with +interest, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>we should get a catalogue wearisome in its multiplicity of +detail. A certain author once thought Homer was niggardly in describing +Helen's charms, so he endeavoured to atone for the great poet's +shortcomings in the following manner:—"She was a woman right beautiful, +with fine eyebrows, of clearest complexion, beautiful cheeks; comely, +with large, full eyes, with snow-white skin, quick glancing, graceful; a +grove filled with graces, fair-armed, voluptuous, breathing beauty +undisguised. The complexion fair, the cheek rosy, the countenance +pleasing, the eye blooming, a beauty unartificial, untinted, of its +natural colour, adding brightness to the brightest cherry, as if one +should dye ivory with resplendent purple. Her neck long, of dazzling +whiteness, whence she was called the swan-born, beautiful Helen."</p> + +<p>After reading this can you form a distinct idea of Helen's beauty? We +think not. The details are too many, the language too exuberant, and the +whole too much in the form of a catalogue. It would have been better to +select a few of what George Eliot calls <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>the "striking points," and +present them with taste and skill. As it is, the attempt to improve on +Homer has resulted in a description which, for detail and minuteness, is +like the enumeration of the parts of a new motor-car—indeed, that is +the true sphere of description by detail, where, as in all matters +mechanical, fulness and accuracy are demanded. In "Mariana," Tennyson +refers to no more facts than are necessary to emphasise her great +loneliness:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"With blackest moss the flower-pots<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Were thickly crusted, one and all;<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">The rusted nails fell from the knots<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">That held the pear to the gable wall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">The broken sheds looked sad and strange:<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Unlifted was the clinking latch;<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Weeded and worn the ancient thatch<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Upon the lonely moated grange."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In ordering such details as may be chosen to represent an event, idea, +or person, it is the rule to proceed from "the near to the remote, and +from the obvious to the obscure." Homer thus describes a shield as +smooth, beautiful, brazen, and well-hammered—that is, he gives the +particulars in the order in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>which they would naturally be observed. +Homer's method is also one of epithet: "the far-darting Apollo," +"swift-footed Achilles," "wide-ruling Agamemnon," "white-armed Hera," +and "bright-eyed Athene." Now it is but a step from this giving of +epithets to what is called</p> + + +<h5>DESCRIPTION BY SUGGESTION</h5> + +<p>When Hawthorne speaks of the "black, moody brow of Septimus Felton," it +is really suggestion by the use of epithet. Dickens took the trouble to +enumerate the characteristics of Mrs Gamp one by one; but he succeeded +in presenting Mrs Fezziwig by simply saying, "In came Mrs Fezziwig, one +vast substantial smile." This latter method differs from the former in +almost every possible way. The enumeration of details becomes wearisome +unless very cleverly handled, whereas the suggestive method unifies the +writer's impressions, thereby saving the reader's mental exertions and +heightening his pleasures. He tells us how things and persons impress +him, and prefers to <i>indicate</i> rather <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>than describe. Thus Dickens +refers to "a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman in a blue +coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very +red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body had been +squeezed into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the +appearance of being rather cold about the heart." Lowell says of +Chaucer, "Sometimes he describes amply by the merest hint, as where the +Friar, before sitting himself down, drives away the cat. We know without +need of more words that he has chosen the snuggest corner."</p> + +<p>Notice how succinctly Blackmore delineates a natural fact, "And so in a +sorry plight I came to an opening in the bushes where a great black pool +lay in front of me, whitened with snow (as I thought) at the sides, till +I saw it was only foam-froth, . . . and the look of this black pit was +enough to stop one from diving into it, even on a hot summer's day, with +sunshine on the water; I mean if the sun ever shone there. As it was, I +shuddered and drew back; not alone at the pool itself, and the black air +there was about <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>it, but also at the whirling manner, and wisping of +white threads upon it in stripy circles round and round; and the centre +still as jet."<a name="FNanchor_75:A_12" id="FNanchor_75:A_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_75:A_12" class="fnanchor">[75:A]</a></p> + +<p>Hardy's description of Egdon Heath is too well known to need remark; it +is a classic of its kind.</p> + +<p>Robert Louis Stevenson possessed the power of suggestion to a high +degree. "An ivory-faced and silver-haired old woman opened the door. She +had an evil face, smoothed with hypocrisy, but her manners were +excellent." To advise a young writer to imitate Stevenson would be +absurd, but perhaps I may be permitted to say: study Stevenson's method, +from the blind man in "Treasure Island," to Kirstie in "The Weir of +Hermiston."</p> + + +<h5>FACTS TO REMEMBER</h5> + +<p>"It is a peculiarity of Walter Scott," says Goethe, "that his great +talent in representing details often leads him into <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>faults. Thus in +'Ivanhoe' there is a scene where they are seated at a table in a +castle-hall, at night, and a stranger enters. Now he is quite right in +describing the stranger's appearance and dress, but it is a fault that +he goes to the length of describing his feet, shoes and stockings. When +we sit down in the evening and someone comes in, we notice only the +upper part of his body. If I describe the feet, daylight enters at once +and the scene loses its nocturnal character." And yet Scott in some +respects was a master of description—witness his picture of Norham +Castle and of the ravine of Greeta between Rokeby and Mortham. But +Goethe's criticism is justified notwithstanding. Never write more than +can be said of a man or a scene when regarded from the surrounding +circumstances of light and being. Ruskin is never tired of saying, "Draw +what you see." In the "Fighting Téméraire," Turner paints the old +warship as if it had no rigging. It was there in its proper place, but +the artist could not see it, and he refused to put it in his picture if, +at the distance, it was not visible. "When you see birds fly, you <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>do +not see any <i>feathers</i>," says Mr W. M. Hunt. "You are not to draw +<i>reality</i>, but reality as it <i>appears</i> to you."</p> + +<p>Avoid the <i>pathetic fallacy</i>. Kingsley, in "Alton Locke," says:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"They rowed her in across the rolling foam—<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">The cruel crawling foam,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>on which Ruskin remarks, "The foam is not cruel, neither does it crawl. +The state of mind which attributes to it these characteristics of a +living creature is one in which the reason is unhinged by grief. All +violent feelings have the same effect. They produce in us a falseness in +all our impressions of external things."</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>Perhaps the secret of all accurate description is a trained eye. Do you +know how a cab-driver mounts on to the box, or the shape of a +coal-heaver's mouth when he cries "Coal!"? Do you know how a wood looks +in early spring as distinct from its precise appearance in summer, or +how a man uses his eyes when concealing feelings of jealousy? or <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>a +woman when hiding feelings of love? Observation with insight, and +Imagination with sympathy; these are the great necessities in every +department of novel-writing.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_63:A_9" id="Footnote_63:A_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_63:A_9"><span class="label">[63:A]</span></a> "Studies in Composition," p. 26.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_65:A_10" id="Footnote_65:A_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_65:A_10"><span class="label">[65:A]</span></a> E. K. Chambers' <i>Macbeth</i>, pp. 25, 26. "The Warwick +Shakespeare."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_69:A_11" id="Footnote_69:A_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_69:A_11"><span class="label">[69:A]</span></a> "Lorna Doone."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_75:A_12" id="Footnote_75:A_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_75:A_12"><span class="label">[75:A]</span></a> "Lorna Doone."</p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE</h3> + + +<h4>Colour: Local and Otherwise</h4> + +<p>One morning you opened your paper and found that Mr Simon St Clair had +gone into Wales in search of local colour. What does local colour mean? +The appearance of the country, the dress and language of the people, all +that distinguishes the particular locality from others near and +remote—is local colour. Take Kipling's "Mandalay" as an illustration. +He speaks of the ringing temple bell, of the garlic smells, and the dawn +that comes up like thunder; there are elephants piling teak, and all the +special details of the particular locality find a characteristic +expression. For what reason? Well, local colour renders two services to +literature; it makes very often a pleasing or a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>striking picture in +itself; and it is used by the author to bring out special features in +his story. Kipling's underlying idea comes to the surface when he says +that a man who has lived in the East always hears the East "a-callin'" +him back again. There is deep pathos in the idea alone; but when it is +set in the external characteristics of Eastern life, one locality chosen +to set forth the rest, and stated in language that few can equal, the +entire effect is very striking.</p> + +<p>Whenever local colour is of picturesque quality there is a temptation to +substitute "word-painting" for the story. The desire for novelty is at +the bottom of a good deal of modern extravagance in this direction, but +the truth still remains that local colour has an important function to +discharge—namely, to increase the artistic value of good narrative by +suggesting the environment of the <i>dramatis personæ</i>. You must have +noticed the opening chapters of "The Scarlet Letter." Why all this +careful detailing of the Customs House, the manners and the talk of the +people? For no other reason than that just given.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>But there is another use of colour in literary composition. Perhaps I +can best illustrate my purpose by quoting from an interview with James +Lane Allen, who certainly ought to know what he is talking about. The +author of "The Choir Invisible," and "Summer in Arcady," occupies a +position in Fiction which makes his words worth considering.</p> + +<p>Said Mr Allen to the interviewer:<a name="FNanchor_81:A_13" id="FNanchor_81:A_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_81:A_13" class="fnanchor">[81:A]</a> "A friend of mine—a +painter—had just finished reading some little thing that I had +succeeded in having published in the <i>Century</i>. 'What do you think of +it?' I asked him. 'Tell me frankly what you like and what you don't +like.'</p> + +<p>"'It's interestingly told, dramatic, polished, and all that, Allen,' was +his reply, 'but why in the world did you neglect such an opportunity to +drop in some colour here, and at this point, and there?'</p> + +<p>"It came over me like that," said the Kentuckian, snapping his fingers, +"that words indicating colours can be manipulated by the writer just as +pigments are by the painter. I never forgot the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>lesson. And now when I +describe a landscape, or a house, or a costume, I try to put it into +such words that an artist can paint the scene from my words."</p> + +<p>Evidently Mr Allen learned his lesson long ago, but it is one every +writer should study carefully. Mr Baring Gould also gives his +experience. "In one of my stories I sketched a girl in a white frock +leaning against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses. I had some +burnished gold-green flies on the old wall, preening in the sun; so, to +complete the scene, I put her on gold-green leather shoes, and made the +girl's eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had a picture where the colour +was carried through, and, if painted, would have been artistic and +satisfying. A red sash would have spoiled all, so I gave her one that +was green. So we had the white dress, the guelder-rose-balls +greeny-white, and through the ranges of green-gold were led up to her +hair, which was red-gold. I lay some stress on this formation of picture +in tones of colour, because it pleases myself when writing—it satisfies +my artistic sense. A thousand readers may not observe it; but those who +have any art in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>them will at once receive therefrom a pleasing +impression."<a name="FNanchor_83:A_14" id="FNanchor_83:A_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_83:A_14" class="fnanchor">[83:A]</a></p> + +<p>These two testimonies make the matter very plain. If anything is needed +it is a more practical illustration taken direct from a book. For this +purpose I have chosen a choice piece from George Du Maurier's "Peter +Ibbetson," a book that was half-killed by the Trilby boom.</p> + +<p>"Before us lies a sea of fern, gone a russet-brown from decay, in which +are isles of dark green gorse, and little trees with scarlet and orange +and lemon-coloured leaflets fluttering down, and running after each +other on the bright grass, under the brisk west wind which makes the +willows rustle, and turn up the whites of their leaves in pious +resignation to the coming change.</p> + +<p>"Harrow-on-the-Hill, with its pointed spire, rises blue in the distance; +and distant ridges, like the receding waves, rise into blueness, one +after the other, out of the low-lying mist; the last ridge bluely +melting into space. In the midst of it all, gleams the Welsh Harp Lake, +like a piece <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>of sky that has become unstuck and tumbled into the +landscape with its shiny side up."</p> + + +<h4>What About Dialect?</h4> + +<p>Dialect is local colour individualised. Ian Maclaren, in "The Bonnie +Brier Bush," following in the wake of Crockett and Barrie, has given us +the dialect of Scotland: Baring Gould and a host of others have provided +us with dialect stories of English counties; Jane Barlow and several +Irish writers deal with the sister island; Wales has not been forgotten; +and the American novelists have their big territory mapped out into +convenient sections. Soon the acreage of locality literature will have +been completely "written up"; I do not say its yielding powers will have +been exhausted, for, as with other species of local colour, dialect has +had to suffer at the hands of the imitator who dragged dialect into his +paltry narrative for its own sake, and to give him the opportunity of +providing the reader with a glossary.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>The reason why dialect-stories were so popular some time ago is twofold. +First, dialect imparts a flavour to a narrative, especially when it is +in contrast to educated utterances on the part of other characters. But +the chief reason is that dialect people have more character than other +people—as a rule. They afford greater scope for literary artistry than +can be found in life a stage or two higher, with its correctness and +artificiality. St Beuve said, "All peasants have style." Yes; that is +the truth exactly. There is an individuality about the peasant that is +absent from the town-dweller, and this fact explains the piquancy of +many novels that owe their popularity to the representations of the +rustic population. The dialect story, or novel, cannot hope for +permanency unless it contains elements of universal interest. The +emphasis laid on a certain type of speech stamps such a literary +production with the brand of narrowness. I understand that Ian Maclaren +has been translated into French. Can you imagine Drumsheugh in Gallic? +or Jamie Soutar? Never. Only that which is literature in the highest +sense can be translated into <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>another language; hence the life of +corners in Scotland, or elsewhere, has no special interest for the world +in general.</p> + +<p>The rule as to dealing with dialect is quite simple. Never use the +letters of the alphabet to reproduce the sound of such language in a +literal manner. <i>Suggest dialect</i>; that is all. Have nothing to do with +glossaries. People hate dictionaries, however brief, when they read +fiction. George Eliot and Thomas Hardy are good models of the wise use +of county speech.</p> + + +<h4>On Dialogue</h4> + +<p>In making your characters talk, it should be your aim not to <i>reproduce</i> +their conversation, but to <i>indicate</i> it. Here, as elsewhere, the first +principle of all art is selection, and from the many words which you +have heard your characters use, you must choose those that are typical +in view of the purpose you have in hand. I once had a letter from a +youthful novelist, in which he said: "It's splendid to write a story. I +make my characters say what I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>like—swear, if necessary—and all that." +Now you can't make your characters say what you like; you are obliged to +make them say what is in keeping with their known dispositions, and with +the circumstances in which they are placed at the time of speaking. If +you know your characters intimately, you will not put wise words into +the mouth of a clown, unless you have suitably provided for such a +surprise; neither will you write long speeches for the sullen villain +who is to be the human devil of the narrative. Remember, therefore, that +the key to propriety and effectiveness in writing is the knowledge of +those ideal people whom you are going to use in your pages.</p> + +<p>"Windiness" and irrelevancy are the twin evils of conversations in +fiction. Trollope says, "It is so easy to make two persons talk on any +casual subject with which the writer presumes himself to be conversant! +Literature, philosophy, politics, or sport may be handled in a loosely +discursive style; and the writer, while indulging himself, is apt to +think he is pleasing the reader. I think he can make no greater mistake. +The dialogue <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>is generally the most agreeable part of a novel; but it is +only so as long as it tends in some way to the telling of the main +story. It need not be confined to this, but it should always have a +tendency in that direction. The unconscious critical acumen of a reader +is both just and severe. When a long dialogue on extraneous matter +reaches his mind, he at once feels that he is being cheated into taking +something that he did not bargain to accept when he took up the novel. +He does not at that moment require politics or philosophy, but he wants +a story. He will not, perhaps, be able to say in so many words that at +some point the dialogue has deviated from the story; but when it does, +he will feel it."<a name="FNanchor_88:A_15" id="FNanchor_88:A_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_88:A_15" class="fnanchor">[88:A]</a></p> + +<p>A word or two as to what kind of dialogue assists in telling the main +story may not be amiss. Return to the suggested plot of the Jewess and +the Roman Catholic. What are they to talk about? Anything that will +assist their growing intimacy, that will bring out the peculiar +personalities of both, and contribute to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>the development of the +narrative. In a previous section I said that the <i>dénouement</i> decided +the selection of your characters; in some respects it will also decide +the topics of their conversation. Certain events have to be provided +for, in order that they may be both natural and inevitable, and it +becomes your duty to create incidents and introduce dialogue which will +lead up to these events.</p> + +<p>With reference to models for study, advice is difficult to give. Quite a +gallery of masters would be needed for the purpose, as there are so many +points in one which are lacking in another. Besides, a great novelist +may have eccentricities in dialogue, and be quite normal in other +respects. George Meredith is as artificial in dialogue as he is in the +use of phrases pure and simple, and yet he succeeds, <i>in spite of</i> +defects, not <i>by</i> them. Here is a sample from "The Egoist":</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Have you walked far to-day?"</p> + +<p>"Nine and a half hours. My Flibbertigibbet is too much for me +at times, and I had to walk off my temper."</p> + +<p>"All those hours were required?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>"Not quite so long."</p> + +<p>"You are training for your Alpine tour?"</p> + +<p>"It's doubtful whether I shall get to the Alps this year. I +leave the Hall, and shall probably be in London with a pen to +sell."</p> + +<p>"Willoughby knows that you leave him?"</p> + +<p>"As much as Mont Blanc knows that he is going to be climbed by +a party below. He sees a speck or two in the valley."</p> + +<p>"He has spoken of it."</p> + +<p>"He would attribute it to changes."</p></div> + +<p>I need not discuss how far this advances the novelist's narrative, but +it is plain that it is not a model for the beginner. For smartness and +"point" nothing could be better than Anthony Hope's "Dolly Dialogues," +although the style is not necessarily that of a novel.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> +<h4>Points in Conversation</h4> + +<p>Never allow the reader to be in doubt as to who is speaking. When he has +to turn back to discover the speaker's identity, you may be sure there +is something wrong with your construction. You need not quote the +speaker's name in order to make it plain that he is speaking: all that +is needed is a little attention to the "said James" and "replied Susan" +of your dialogues. When once these two have commenced to talk, they can +go on in catechism form for a considerable period. But if a third party +chimes in, a more careful disposition of names is called for.</p> + +<p>Beginners very often have a good deal of trouble with their "saids," +"replieds," and "answereds."</p> + +<p>Here, again, a little skilful manœvring will obviate the difficulty. +This is a specimen of third-class style.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>"I'm off on Monday," <i>said</i> he.</p> + +<p>"Not really," <i>said</i> she.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>"Yes, I have only come to say goodbye," <i>said</i> he.</p> + +<p>"Shall you be gone long?" <i>asked</i> she.</p> + +<p>"That depends," <i>said</i> he.</p> + +<p>"I should like to know what takes you away," <i>said</i> she.</p> + +<p>"I daresay," <i>said</i> he, smiling.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't wonder if I know," <i>said</i> she.</p> + +<p>"I daresay you might guess," <i>said</i> he.</p> +</div> + +<p>Could anything be more wooden than this perpetual "said he, said she," +which I have accentuated by putting into italics? Now, observe the +difference when you read the following:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>Observed</i> Silver.</p> + +<p><i>Cried</i> the Cook.</p> + +<p><i>Returned</i> Morgan.</p> + +<p><i>Said</i> Another.</p> + +<p><i>Agreed</i> Silver.</p> + +<p><i>Said</i> the fellow with the bandage.</p> +</div> + +<p>There is no lack of suitable verbs for dialogue purposes—remarked, +retorted, inquired, demanded, murmured, grumbled, growled, sneered, +explained, and a host <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>more. Without a ready command of such a +vocabulary you cannot hope to give variety to your +character-conversations, and, what is of graver importance, you will not +be able to bring out the essential qualities of such remarks as you +introduce. For instance, to put a sarcastic utterance into a man's +mouth, and then to write down that he "replied" with those words is not +half so effective as to say he "sneered" them.<a name="FNanchor_93:A_16" id="FNanchor_93:A_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_93:A_16" class="fnanchor">[93:A]</a></p> + +<p>Probably you will be tempted to comment on your dialogue as you write by +insinuating remarks as to actions, looks, gestures, and the like. This +is a good temptation, so far, but it has its dangers. The ancient Hebrew +writer, in telling the story of Hezekiah, said that Isaiah went to the +king with these words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>"Set thine house in order: for thou shalt die and not live."</p> + +<p><i>And Hezekiah turned his face to the wall—and prayed.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>If you can make a comment as dramatic and forceful as that, <i>make it</i>. +But avoid useless and uncalled-for remarks, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>remember that you +really want nothing, not even a fine epigram, which fails to contribute +to the main purpose.</p> + + +<h4>"Atmosphere"</h4> + +<p>It will not be inappropriate to close this chapter with a few words on +what is called "atmosphere." The word is often met with in the +vocabulary of the reviewer; he is marvellously keen in scenting +atmospheres. Perhaps an illustration may be the best means of +exposition. The reviewer is speaking of Maeterlinck's "Alladine and +Palomides," "Interior," and "The Death of Tintagiles." He says, "We find +in them the same strange atmosphere to which we had grown accustomed in +'Pelleas' and 'L'Intruse.' We are in a region of no fixed plane—a +region that this world never saw. It is a region such as Arnold Böcklin, +perhaps, might paint, and many a child describe. A castle stands upon a +cliff. Endless galleries and corridors and winding stairs run through +it. Beneath lie vast grottoes <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>where subterranean waters throw up +unearthly light from depths where seaweed grows." This is very true, and +put into bald language it means that Maeterlinck has succeeded in +creating an artistic environment for his weird characters; it is the +<i>setting</i> in which he has placed them. In the first scene of <i>Hamlet</i>, +Shakespeare creates the necessary atmosphere to introduce the events +that are to follow. The soldiers on guard are concerned and afraid; the +reader is thereby prepared, step by step, for the reception of the whole +situation; everything that will strengthen the impression of a coming +fatality is seized by a master hand, and made to do service in creating +an atmosphere of such expectant quality. An artist by nature will select +intuitively the persons and facts he needs; but there is no reason why a +study of these necessities, a slow and careful pondering, should not at +last succeed in alighting upon the precise and inevitable details which +delicately and subtly produce the desired result. In this sense the +matter can hardly be called a minor detail, but the expression has been +sufficiently guarded.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_81:A_13" id="Footnote_81:A_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_81:A_13"><span class="label">[81:A]</span></a> Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 201.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_83:A_14" id="Footnote_83:A_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_83:A_14"><span class="label">[83:A]</span></a> "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 40.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_88:A_15" id="Footnote_88:A_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_88:A_15"><span class="label">[88:A]</span></a> "Autobiography," vol. ii. p. 58.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_93:A_16" id="Footnote_93:A_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_93:A_16"><span class="label">[93:A]</span></a> See Bates' "Talks on Writing English." An excellent +manual, to which I am indebted for ideas and suggestions.</p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>PITFALLS</h3> + + +<h4>Items of General Knowledge</h4> + +<p>I propose to show in this chapter that a literary artist can never +afford to despise details. He may have genius enough to write a +first-rate novel, and sell it rapidly in spite of real blemishes, but if +a work of art is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well. No writer +is any the better for slovenly inaccuracy. Take the details of everyday +life. Do you suppose you are infallible in these commonplace things? If +so, be undeceived at once. It is simply marvellous with what ease a +mistake will creep into your narrative. Even Mr Zangwill once made a +hansom cab door to open with a handle from the inside, and the mistake +appeared in six editions, escaping the reviewers, and was quietly +altered by the author in the seventh. There is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>nothing particularly +serious about an error of this kind; but at the same time, where truth +to fact is so simple a matter, why not give the fact as it is? +Trivialities may not interfere with the power of the story, but they +often attach an ugliness, or a smack of the ridiculous, which cannot but +hinder, to some extent, the beauty of otherwise good work. Mistakes such +as that just referred to, arise, in most instances, out of the passion +and feeling in which the novelist advances his narrative. The detail +connected with the opening of the hansom door (doors) was nothing to Mr +Zangwill, compared to the person who opened it. I should advise you, +therefore, to master all the necessary <i>minutiae</i> of travelling, if your +hero and heroine are going abroad; of city life if you take them to the +theatre for amusement—in fact, of every environment in which +imagination may place them. Then, when all your work is done, read what +has been written with the microscopic eyes of a Flaubert.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p> +<h4>Specific Subjects</h4> + +<p>For instance, the plot suggested in the previous chapters deals with +Judaism. Now, if you don't know Jewish life through and through, it is +the height of foolishness to attempt to write a novel about it. (The +same remark applies to Roman Catholicism.) You will find it necessary to +study the Bible and Hebrew history; and when you have mastered the +literature of the subject and caught its spirit, you will turn your +attention to the sacred people as they exist to-day—their isolation, +their wealth, their synagogues, and their psychological peculiarities. +Does this seem to be too big a programme? Well, if you are to present a +living and truthful picture of the Jewess and her surroundings, you can +only succeed by going through such a programme; whereas, if you skip the +hard preparatory work you will bungle in the use of Hebrew terms, and +when you make the Rabbi drop the scroll through absent-mindedness, you +will very likely say that "the congregation looked on <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>half-amused and +half-wondering." Just visit a synagogue when the Rabbi happens to drop +the scroll. The congregation would be "horribly shocked." The same law +applies whatever be your subject. If you intend to follow a prevailing +fashion and depict slum life, you will have to spend a good deal of time +in those unpleasant regions, not only to know them in their outward +aspects, but to know them in their inward and human features. Even then +something important may escape you, with the result that you fall into +error, and the expert enjoys a quiet giggle at your expense; but you +will have some consolation in the thought that you spared no pains in +the diligent work of preparation.</p> + +<p>Perhaps your novel will take the reader into aristocratic circles. Pray +do not make the attempt if you are not thoroughly acquainted with the +manners and customs of such circles. Ignorance will surely betray you, +and in describing a dinner, or an "At Home," you will raise derisive +laughter by suggesting the details of a most impossible meal, or spoil +your heroine by making her guilty of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>atrocious etiquette. The remedy is +close at hand: <i>know your subject</i>.</p> + + +<h4>Topography and Geography</h4> + +<p>Watch your topography and geography. Have you never read novels where +the characters are made to walk miles of country in as many minutes? In +fairy tales we rather like these extraordinary creatures—their +startling performances have a charm we should be sorry to part with. But +in the higher world of fiction, where ideal things should appear as real +as possible, we decidedly object to miraculous journeys, especially, as +in most instances, it is plainly a mistake in calculation on the part of +the writer. Of course the writer is occasionally placed in an awkward +position. A dramatic episode is about to take place, or, more correctly, +the author wishes it to take place, but the characters have been +dispersed about the map, and time and distance conspire against the +author's purpose. It is madness to "blur" the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>positions and "risk" the +reader's acuteness, but it is almost equally unfortunate to fail in +observing the difficulty, and write on in blissful ignorance of the fact +that nature's laws have been set at defiance. The drawing of a map, as +before suggested, will obviate all these troubles.</p> + +<p>Should you depict a lover's scene in India, take care not to describe it +as occurring in "beautiful twilight." It is quite possible to know that +darkness follows sunset, and yet to forget it in the moment of writing; +but a good writer is never caught "napping" in these matters. If you +don't know India, choose Cairo, about which, after half-a-dozen +lengthened visits, you can speak with certainty.</p> + + +<h4>Scientific Facts</h4> + +<p>What a nuisance the weather is to many novelists. Some triumph over +their difficulties; a few contribute to our amusement. The meteorology +of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>fiction would be a fascinating study. In second-rate productions, it +is astonishing to witness the ease with which the weather is ordered +about. The writer makes it rain when he thinks the incidents of a +downpour will enliven the narrative, forgetting that the movement of the +story, as previously stated, requires a blue sky and a shining sun; or +he contrives to have the wind blowing in two or three directions at +once. The sun and the moon require careful manipulation. At the +beginning of a novel, the room of an invalid is said to have a window +looking directly towards the east; but at the end of the book when the +invalid dies, the author, wishing to make him depart this life in a +flood of glory, suffuses this eastern-windowed room with "the red glare +of the setting sun." The detail may appear unimportant, but it is not +so, and a few hours devoted to notes on these minor points would save +all the unpleasantness and ridicule which such mistakes too frequently +bring. The reviewer loves to descant on the "peculiar cosmology and +physical science of the volume before us."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>The moon is most unfortunate. Mrs Humphry Ward confesses that she never +knows when to make the moon rise, and obtains Miss Ward's assistance in +all astronomical references. This is, of course, a pleasant +exaggeration, but it shows that no venture should be made in science +without being perfectly sure of your ground.</p> + + +<h4>Grammar</h4> + +<p>Grammar is the most dangerous of all pitfalls. Suppose you read your +novel through, and check each sentence. After weary toil you are ready +to offer a prize of one guinea to the man who can show you a mistake. +When the full list of errors is drawn up by an expert grammarian, you +are glad that offer was not made, for your guineas would have been going +too quickly. In everyday conversation you speak as other people +do—having a special hatred of painful accuracy, otherwise called +pedantry; and as you frequently hear the phrase: "Those sort of people +are never nice," <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>it does not strike you as being incorrect when you +read it in your proof-sheets. Or somebody refers to a theatrical +performance, and regretting his inability to be present, says, "I should +like to have gone, but could not." So often is the phrase used in daily +speech, that its sound (when you read your book aloud) does not suggest +anything erroneous. And yet if you wish your reader to know that you are +a good grammarian, you will not be ashamed to revise your grammar and +say, "I should have liked to go, but could not." These are simple +instances: there are hundreds more.</p> + +<p>Reviewing all that has been said in this chapter, the one conclusion is +that the novelist must be a man of knowledge; he must know the English +language from base to summit; and whatever references he makes to +science, art, history, theology, or any other subject, he should have +what is expected of writers in these specific departments—accuracy.</p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>THE SECRET OF STYLE</h3> + + +<h4>Communicable Elements</h4> + +<p>One can readily sympathise with the melancholy of a man who, after +reading De Quincey, Macaulay, Addison, Lamb, Pater, and Stevenson, found +that literary style was still a mystery to him. He was obliged to +confess that the secret of style is with them that have it. His main +difficulty, however, was to reconcile this conviction with the advice of +a learned friend who urged him to study the best models if he would +attain a good style. Was style communicable? or was it not? Now of all +questions relating to this subject, this is the most pertinent, and, if +I may say so, the only real question. It is the easiest thing in the +world to tell a student about Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant, about +Tolstoi and Turgenieff, but <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>no quantity of advice as to reading is of +much avail unless the preliminary question just referred to is +intelligently answered. The so-called stylists of all ages may be +carefully read from beginning to end, and yet style will not disclose +its secret. Such a course of reading could not but be beneficial; to +live among the lovely things of literature would develop the taste and +educate appreciation; the reader would be quick to discern beauty when +he saw it, but the art of producing it other than by deliberate +imitation of known models would be still a mystery.</p> + +<p><i>Is</i> style communicable? The answer is <i>Yes</i> and <i>No</i>; in some senses it +is, in others it is not. Let us deal with the affirmative side first. +This concerns all points of grammar and composition without which the +story would not be clear and forcible. No writer can make a "corner" in +the facts of grammar and composition; it is impossible to appropriate +them individually to the exclusion of everybody else; and since style +depends to some extent on a knowledge of those rules which govern the +use of language, it follows that there are certain elements which are +open to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>all who are willing to learn them. For instance, there is the +study of words. How often do we hear it said of a certain novelist that +he uses the right word with unerring accuracy. And this is regarded as +an important feature in his style; therefore words and their uses should +have a prominent place in your programme. In "The Silverado Squatters," +Stevenson represents himself as carrying a pail of water up a hill: "the +water <i>lipping</i> over the side, and a <i>quivering</i> sunbeam in the midst." +The words in italics are the exact words wanted; no others could +possibly set forth the facts with greater accuracy. Stevenson was a +diligent word-student, and had a certain knowledge of their dynamic and +suggestive qualities.</p> + +<p>The right word! How shall we find it? Sometimes it will come with the +thought; more often we must seek it. Landor says: "I hate false words, +and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the +thing." What could be stronger than the language of Guy de Maupassant? +"Whatever the thing we wish to say there is but one word to express it, +but one verb to give it <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>movement, but one adjective to qualify it. We +must seek till we find this noun, this verb, this adjective, and never +allow ourselves to play tricks, even happy ones, or have recourse to +sleights of language to avoid a difficulty. The subtlest things may be +rendered and suggested by applying the hint conveyed in Boileau's line, +'He taught the power of a word in the right place.'" In similar vein, +Professor Raleigh remarks, "Let the truth be said outright: there are no +synonyms, and the same statement can never be repeated in a changed form +of words."</p> + +<p>The number of words used is another consideration. When Phil May has +drawn a picture he proceeds to make erasures here and there with a view +to retaining wholeness of effect by the least possible number of lines. +There is a similar excellence in literature, the literature where "there +is not a superfluous word." Oh, the "gasiness" of many a modern +novel—pages and pages of so-called "style," "word-painting," and +"description."</p> + +<p>The conclusion of the matter is this: the right number of words, and +each word in its place. Frederic Schlegel used to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>say that in good +prose every word should be underlined; as if he had said that the +interpretation of a sentence should not depend on the manner in which it +is read.</p> + +<p>It is also highly necessary that the would-be stylist should be a +student of sentences and paragraphs. Surprising as it may seem, it is +nevertheless true that many aspirants after literary success never give +these matters a thought; they expect that proficiency will "come." +Proficiency is not an angel who visits us unsolicited; it is a power +that must be paid for with a price, and the price is laborious study of +such practical technique as the following:—"In a series of sentences +the stress should be varied continually so as to come in the beginning +of some sentences, and at the end of others, regard being had for the +two considerations, variation of rhythm, and grouping of similar ideas +together." And this, "Every paragraph is subject to the general laws of +unity, selection, proportion, sequence, and variety which govern all +good composition." The observance of these rules (and they are specimens +of hundreds more) and the discovery of apt illustrations in literature +are <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>matters of time and labour. But the time and labour are well +spent—nay, they are absolutely necessary if the literary man would know +his craft thoroughly. For the ordinary man, something equivalent to a +text-book course in rhetoric is indispensable. True, many writers have +learned insensibly from other writers, but too severe a devotion to the +masterpieces of literature may beget the master's weaknesses without +imparting his strength.</p> + + +<h4>Incommunicable Elements</h4> + +<p>The incommunicable element in style is that personal impress which a +writer sets upon his work. What is a personal impress? I am asked. Can +it be defined? Scarcely. Personality itself is a mysterious thing. We +know what it means when it is used to distinguish a remarkable man from +those who are not remarkable. "He has a unique personality," we say. Now +that personality—if the man be a writer—will show itself in his +literary offspring. It will be in evidence over and above rule, +regulation, canons of art, and the like. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>If there be such a thing as a +mystic presence, then style is that mystic presence of the writer's +personality which permeates the ideas and language in such a way as to +give them a distinction and individuality all their own. I will employ +comparison as a means of illustration by supposing that the three +following passages appeared in the same book in separate paragraphs and +without the authors' names:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Each material thing has its celestial side, has its +translation into the spiritual and necessary sphere, where it +plays a part as indestructible as any other, and to these ends +all things continually ascend. The gases gather to the solid +firmament; the chemic lump arrives at the plant and grows; +arrives at the quadruped and walks; arrives at the man and +thinks."</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>"He [Daniel Webster] is a magnificent specimen; you might say +to all the world, 'This is your Yankee Englishman; such limbs +we make in Yankeeland! The tanned complexion; the amorphous +crag-like face; the dull black eyes under their precipice of +brows, like dull anthracite <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>furnaces, needing only to be +blown; the mastiff mouth, accurately closed:—I have not +traced so much silent Bersekir rage that I remember of in any +man.'"</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>"In the edifices of Man there should be found reverent worship +and following, not only of the Spirit which rounds the form of +the forest, and arches the vault of the avenue,—which gives +veining to the leaf and polish to the shell, and grace to +every pulse that agitates animal organisation—but of that +also which reproves the pillars of the earth and builds up her +barren precipices into the coldness of the clouds, and lifts +her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the pale arch of the +sky."</p></div> + +<p>Now, an experienced writer, or reader, would identify these quotations +at once; in some measure from a knowledge of the books from which they +are taken, but mostly from a recognition of style pure and simple. The +merest tyro can see that the passages are not the work of one author; +there is, apart from <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>subject-matter, a subtle something that lies +hidden beneath the language, informing each paragraph with a style +peculiar to itself. What is it? Ah! <i>The style is the man.</i> It is +composition charged with personality. Emerson, Carlyle, and Ruskin used +the English language with due regard for the rules of grammar, and such +principles of literary art as they felt to be necessary. And yet when +Emerson philosophises he does it in a way quite different to everybody +else; when Carlyle analyses a character, you know without the Sage's +signature that the work is his; and when Ruskin describes natural +beauties by speaking of "shadowy cones of mountain purple" being lifted +"into the pale arch of the sky"—well, that is Ruskin—it could be no +other. In each case language is made the bearer of the writer's +personality. Style in literature is the breathing forth of soul and +spirit; as is the soul, and as is the spirit in depth, sympathy, and +power, so will the style be rich, distinctive, and memorable. Professor +Raleigh says that "All style is gesture—the gesture of the mind and of +the soul. Mind we have in common, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>inasmuch as the laws of right reason +are not different for different minds. Therefore clearness and +arrangement can be taught, sheer incompetence in the art of expression +can be partly remedied. But who shall impose laws on the soul? . . . Write, +and after you have attained to some control over the instrument, you +write yourself down whether you will or no. There is no vice, however +unconscious, no virtue, however shy, no touch of meanness or of +generosity in your character that will not pass on to paper." Hence the +oft-repeated call for sincerity on the part of writers. If you try to +imitate Hardy it is a literary hypocrisy, and your sin will find you +out. If you are Meredith-minded, and play the sedulous ape to him, you +must expect a similar catastrophe.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>If the style is the man, how can you hope to equal that style +if you can never come near the man?</i></p></div> + +<p>Be true to all you know, and see, and feel; live with the masters, and +catch their spirit. You will then get your own <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>style—it may not be as +good as those you have so long admired, but it will be <i>yours</i>; and, +truth to tell, that is all you can hope for.</p> + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>HOW AUTHORS WORK</h3> + + +<h4>Quick and Slow</h4> + +<p>The public has shown a deep interest in all details respecting the way +in which writers produce their books; the food they eat, the clothes +they wear, their weaknesses and their hobbies, what pens they use, and +whether they prefer the typewriter or not—all these are items which a +greedy public expects to know. So much is this the case to-day that an +acrid critic recently offered the tart suggestion that a novelist was a +man who wrote a great book, and spent the rest of his time—very +profitably—in telling the world how he came to write it. I do not +intend to pander to the literary news-monger in these pages, but to +reproduce as much as I know of the way in which novelists work, in order +to throw out hints as to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>how a beginner may perchance better his own +methods. A word of warning, however, is necessary. Do not, for Heaven's +sake, <i>ape</i> anybody. Because Zola darkens his rooms when he writes, that +is no reason why you should go and do likewise; and if John Fiske likes +to sit in a draught, pray save yourself the expense of a doctor's bill +by imitating him. An author's methods are only of service to a novice +when they enable him to improve his own; and it is with this object in +view that I reproduce the following personal notes.</p> + +<p>The relative speeds of the writing fraternity are little short of +amazing. Hawthorne was slow in composing. Sometimes he wrote only what +amounted to half-a-dozen pages a week, often only a few lines in the +same space of time, and, alas! he frequently went to his chamber and +took up his pen only to find himself wholly unable to perform any +literary work. Bret Harte has been known to pass days and weeks on a +short story or poem before he was ready to deliver it into the hands of +the printer. Thomas Hardy is said to have spent seven <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>years in writing +"Jude the Obscure." On the other hand, Victor Hugo wrote his "Cromwell" +in three months, and his "Notre Dame de Paris" in four months and a +half. Wilkie Collins, prince among the plotters, was accustomed to +compose at white heat. Speaking of "Heart and Science," he says: "Rest +was impossible. I made a desperate effort, rushed to the sea, went +sailing and fishing, and was writing my book all the time 'in my head,' +as the children say. The one wise course to take was to go back to my +desk and empty my head, and then rest. My nerves are too much shaken for +travelling. An arm-chair and a cigar, and a hundred and fiftieth reading +of the glorious Walter Scott—King, Emperor, and President of +Novelists—there is the regimen that is doing me good." An enterprising +editor, not very long ago, sent out circulars to prominent authors +asking them how much they can do in a day. The reply in most cases was +that the rate of production varied; sometimes the pen or the typewriter +could not keep pace with thought; at other times it was just the +opposite.</p> + +<p>It is very necessary at this point to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>draw a distinction between the +execution of a work, and its development in the mind from birth to full +perfection. When we read that Mr Crockett, or somebody else, produced so +many books in so many years, it does not always mean—if ever—that the +idea and its expression have been a matter of weeks or months. To +<i>write</i> a novel in six weeks is not an impossibility—even a passable +novel; but to sit down and think out a plot, with all its details of +character and event, and to write it out so that in six weeks, or two or +three months, the MS. is on the publisher's desk—well, don't believe +it. No novel worthy of the name was ever produced at that rate.</p> + + +<h4>How many Words a Day?</h4> + +<p>In nothing do authors differ so much as on the eternal problem of +whether it is right to produce a certain quantity of matter every +day—inspiration or no inspiration. Thomas Hardy has no definite hours +for working, and, although he often uses the night-time for this +purpose, he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>has a preference for the day-time. Charlotte Brontë had to +choose favourable seasons for literary work—"weeks, sometimes months, +elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion of +her story which was already written; then some morning she would wake up +and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before her in distinct +vision, and she set to work to write out what was more present to her +mind at such times than actual life was."<a name="FNanchor_120:A_17" id="FNanchor_120:A_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_120:A_17" class="fnanchor">[120:A]</a> When writing "Jane +Eyre," and little Jane had been brought to Thornfield, the author's +enthusiasm had grown so great that she could not stop. She went on +incessantly for weeks.</p> + +<p>Miss Jane Barlow confesses that she is "a very slow worker; indeed, when +I consider the amount of work which the majority of writers turn out in +a year, I feel that I must be dreadfully lazy. Even in my quiet life +here I find it difficult to get a long, clear space of time for my work, +and the slightest interruption will upset me for hours. It is difficult +to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>make people understand that it is not so much the time they take up, +as causing me to break the line of thought. It may be that somebody only +comes into the study to speak to me for a minute, but it is quite +enough. I suppose it is very silly to be so sensitive to interruptions, +but I cannot help it. I sometimes say it is as though a box of beads had +been upset, and I had to gather them together again; that is just the +effect of anyone speaking to me when I am at work. I write everything by +hand, and it takes a long time. I am sure I could not use a typewriter, +or dictate; indeed, I never let anybody see what I have written until it +is in print. Sometimes I write a passage over a dozen times before it +comes right, and I always make a second copy of everything, but the +corrections are not very numerous."</p> + +<p>Mr William Black was also a slow producer: "I am building up a book +months before I write the first chapter; before I can put pen to paper I +have to realise all the chief incidents and characters. I have to live +with my characters, so to speak; otherwise, I am <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>afraid they would +never appear living people to my readers. This is my work during the +summer; the only time I am free from the novel that-is-to-be is when I +am grouse-shooting or salmon-fishing. At other times I am haunted by the +characters and the scenes in which they take part, so that, for the sake +of his peace of mind, my method is not to be recommended to the young +novelist. When I come to the writing, I have to immure myself in perfect +quietude; my study is at the top of the house, and on the two or three +days a week I am writing, Mrs Black guards me from interruption. . . . Of +course, now and again, I have had to read a good deal preparatory to +writing. Before beginning 'Sunrise,' for instance, I went through the +history of secret societies in Europe."</p> + + +<h4>Charles Reade and Anthony Trollope</h4> + +<p>"Charles Reade's habit of working was unique. When he had decided on a +new work, he plotted out the scheme, situations, facts, and characters +on three large <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>sheets of pasteboard. Then he set to work, using very +large foolscap to write on, working rapidly, but with frequent +references to his storehouse of facts in the scrap-books which were +ready at his hand. The genial novelist was a great reader of newspapers. +Anything that struck him as interesting, or any fact which tended to +support one of his humanitarian theories, was cut out, pasted in a large +folio scrap-book, and carefully indexed. Facts of any sort were his +hobby. From the scrap-books thus collected with great care, he used to +'elaborate' the questions treated of in his novels."</p> + +<p>Anthony Trollope is one of the few men who have taken their readers into +their full confidence about book production. The quotation I am about to +make is rather long, but it is too detailed to be shortened:</p> + +<p>"When I have commenced a new book I have always prepared a diary, +divided into weeks, and carried it on for the period which I have +allowed myself for the completion of the work. In this I have entered +day by day the number of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>pages I have written, so that if at any time I +have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of that idleness +has been there staring me in the face, and demanding of me increased +labour, so that the deficiency might be supplied. According to the +circumstances of the time, whether any other business might be then +heavy or light, or whether the book which I was writing was, or was not, +wanted with speed, I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The +average number has been about forty. It has been placed as low as +twenty, and has risen to one hundred and twelve. And as a page is an +ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain two hundred and fifty +words, and as words, if not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I +have had every word counted as I went."<a name="FNanchor_124:A_18" id="FNanchor_124:A_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_124:A_18" class="fnanchor">[124:A]</a></p> + +<p>Under the title of "A Walk in the Wood," Trollope thus describes his +method of plot-making, and the difficulty the novelist experiences in +making the "tricksy Ariel" of the imagination do <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>his bidding. "I have +to confess that my incidents are fabricated to fit my story as it goes +on, and not my story to fit my incidents. I wrote a novel once in which +a lady forged a will, but I had not myself decided that she had forged +it till the chapter before that in which she confesses her guilt. In +another, a lady is made to steal her own diamonds, a grand <i>tour de +force</i>, as I thought, but the brilliant idea struck me only when I was +writing the page in which the theft is described. I once heard an +unknown critic abuse my workmanship because a certain lady had been made +to appear too frequently in my pages. I went home and killed her +immediately. I say this to show that the process of thinking to which I +am alluding has not generally been applied to any great effort of +construction. It has expended itself on the minute ramifications of +tale-telling: how this young lady should be made to behave herself with +that young gentleman; how this mother or that father would be affected +by the ill conduct or the good of a son or a daughter; how these words +or those <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>other would be most appropriate or true to nature if used on +some special occasion. Such plottings as these with a fabricator of +fiction are infinite in number, but not one of them can be done fitly +without thinking. My little effort will miss its wished-for result +unless I be true to nature; and to be true to nature, I must think what +nature would produce. Where shall I go to find my thoughts with the +greatest ease and most perfect freedom?</p> + +<p>"I have found that I can best command my thoughts on foot, and can do so +with the most perfect mastery when wandering through a wood. To be alone +is, of course, essential. Companionship requires conversation, for +which, indeed, the spot is most fit; but conversation is not now the +object in view. I have found it best even to reject the society of a +dog, who, if he be a dog of manners, will make some attempt at talking; +and, though he should be silent, the sight of him provokes words and +caresses and sport. It is best to be away from cottages, away from +children, away as far as may be from chance wanderers. So much easier +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>is it to speak than to think, that any slightest temptation suffices to +carry away the idler from the harder to the lighter work. An old woman +with a bundle of sticks becomes an agreeable companion, or a little girl +picking wild fruit. Even when quite alone, when all the surroundings +seem to be fitted for thought, the thinker will still find a difficulty +in thinking. It is easy to lose an hour in maundering over the past, and +to waste the good things which have been provided, in remembering +instead of creating!"</p> + + +<h4>The Mission of Fancy</h4> + +<p>"It is not for rules of construction that the writer is seeking, as he +roams listlessly or walks rapidly through the trees. These have come to +him from much observation, from the writings of others, from that which +we call study, in which imagination has but little immediate concern. It +is the fitting of the rules to the characters which he has created, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>the +filling in with living touches and true colours those daubs and blotches +on his canvas which have been easily scribbled with a rough hand, that +the true work consists. It is here that he requires that his fancy +should be undisturbed, that the trees should overshadow him, that the +birds should comfort him, that the green and yellow mosses should be in +unison with him, that the very air should be good to him. The rules are +there fixed—fixed as far as his judgment can fix them—and are no +longer a difficulty to him. The first coarse outlines of his story he +has found to be a matter almost indifferent to him. It is with these +little plottings that he has to contend. It is for them that he must +catch his Ariel and bind him fast, and yet so bind him that not a thread +shall touch the easy action of his wings. Every little scene must be +arranged so that—if it may be possible—the proper words may be spoken, +and the fitting effect produced."</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> +<h4>Fancies of another Type</h4> + +<p>Most authors indulge in little eccentricities when working, and, if the +time should ever come that your name is brought before the public +notice, it would be advisable to develop some whimsical habit so as to +be prepared for the interviewer, who is sure to ask whether you have +one. To push your pen through your hair during creative moments would be +a good plan; it would reveal a line of baldness where you had furrowed +the hair off, and afford ocular proof to all and sundry that you +possessed a genuine eccentricity. Or if you prefer a habit still more +<i>bizarre</i>, you might put a hammock in a tree, and always write your most +exciting scenes during a rain-storm, and under the shelter of a dripping +umbrella.</p> + +<p>The fact is, every penman has his little peculiarities when at work, but +they should be kept as private property. Of course, there are authors +who revel in publicity, and others again have intimate details wormed +out of them. The fact <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>remains, however, that these details are +interesting, because they are personal; and they are occasionally +helpful, because they enable one writer to compare notes with others. We +have all heard of the methodical habits of Kant. When thinking out his +deep thoughts, he always placed himself so that his eyes might fall on a +certain old tower. This old tower became so necessary to his thoughts, +that when some poplar trees grew up and hid it from his sight, he found +himself unable to think at all, until, at his earnest request, the trees +were cropped and the tower was brought into sight again.</p> + +<p>George Eliot was very susceptible as to her surroundings. When about to +write, she dressed herself with great care, and arranged her +harmoniously-furnished room in perfect order.<a name="FNanchor_130:A_19" id="FNanchor_130:A_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_130:A_19" class="fnanchor">[130:A]</a> Hawthorne had a +habit of cutting some article while composing. He is said to have taken +a garment from his wife's sewing-basket, and cut it into pieces without +being conscious of the act. Thus an entire table <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>and the arms of a +rocking-chair were whittled away in this manner.</p> + +<p>Upon Ibsen's writing-table is a small tray containing a number of +grotesque figures—a wooden bear, a tiny devil, two or three cats (one +of them playing a fiddle), and some rabbits. Ibsen has said: "I never +write a single line of any of my dramas without having that tray and its +occupants before me on my table. I could not write without them. But why +I use them is my own secret."</p> + +<p>Ouida writes in the early morning. She gets up at five o'clock, and +before she begins, works herself up into a sort of literary trance. +Maurice Jokai always uses violet ink, to which he is so accustomed that +he becomes perplexed when compelled, outside of his own house, to resort +to ink of another colour. He claims that thoughts are not forthcoming +when he writes with any other ink. One of the corners of his +writing-desk holds a miniature library, consisting of neatly-bound +note-books which contain the outline of his novels as they originated in +his mind. When he has once begun a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>romance, he keeps right on until it +is completed.</p> + + +<h4>Some of our Younger Writers</h4> + +<p>Mr Zangwill has no particular method of working; he works in spasms. +Regular hours, he says, may be possible to a writer of pure romance, but +if you are writing of the life about you, such regularity is +impossible.<a name="FNanchor_132:A_20" id="FNanchor_132:A_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_132:A_20" class="fnanchor">[132:A]</a> Coulson Kernahan works in the morning and in the +evening, but never in the afternoon. He always reserves the afternoon +for walking, cycling, and exercise generally. He is unable to work +regularly; some days indeed pass without doing a stroke.<a name="FNanchor_132:B_21" id="FNanchor_132:B_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_132:B_21" class="fnanchor">[132:B]</a> Anthony +Hope is found at his desk every morning, but if the inspiration does not +come, he never forces himself to write. Sometimes it will come after +waiting several hours, and sometimes it will seem to have come when it +hasn't, which means that next morning he has to tear up what was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>written the day before and start afresh.<a name="FNanchor_133:A_22" id="FNanchor_133:A_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_133:A_22" class="fnanchor">[133:A]</a> Before Robert Barr +publishes a novel he spends years in thinking the thing out. In this way +ten years were spent over "The Mutable Many," and two more years in +writing it.<a name="FNanchor_133:B_23" id="FNanchor_133:B_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_133:B_23" class="fnanchor">[133:B]</a> When Max Pemberton has a book in the making he just +sits down and writes away at it when in the mood. "I find," he says, +"that I can always work best in the morning. One's brain is fresher and +one's ideas come more readily. If I work at night I find that I have to +undo a great deal of it in the morning. In working late at night I have +done so under the impression that I have accomplished some really fine +work, only to rise in the morning and, after looking at it, feel that +one ought to shed tears over such stuff."<a name="FNanchor_133:C_24" id="FNanchor_133:C_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_133:C_24" class="fnanchor">[133:C]</a> H. G. Wells, as might +be expected, has a way of his own. "In the morning I merely revise +proofs and type-written copy, and write letters, and, in fact, any work +that does not require the exercise of much imagination. If it is fine, I +either have <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>a walk or a ride on the cycle. We also have a tandem, and +sometimes my wife and I take the double machine out; and then after +lunch we have tea about half-past three in the afternoon. It is after +this cup of tea that I do my work. The afternoon is the best time of the +day for me, and I nearly always work on until eight o'clock, when we +have dinner. If I am working at something in which I feel keenly +interested, I work on from nine o'clock until after midnight, but it is +on the afternoon work that my output mainly depends."<a name="FNanchor_134:A_25" id="FNanchor_134:A_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_134:A_25" class="fnanchor">[134:A]</a></p> + + +<h4>Curious Methods</h4> + +<p>In another interview Mr Wells said, "I write and re-write. If you want +to get an effect, it seems to me that the first thing you have to do is +to write the thing down as it comes into your mind" ("slush," Mr Wells +calls it), "and so get some idea of the shape of it. In this preliminary +process, no doubt, one can write a good <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>many thousand words a day, +perhaps seven or eight thousand. But when all that is finished, it will +take you seven or eight solid days to pick it to pieces again, and knock +it straight.</p> + +<p>"The 'slush' effort of 'The Invisible Man' came to more than 100,000 +words; the final outcome of it amounts to 55,000. My first tendency was +to make it much shorter still.</p> + +<p>"I used to feel a great deal ashamed of this method. I thought it simply +showed incapacity, and inability to hit the right nail on the head. The +process is like this:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="hang">"(1) Worry and confusion.</p> + +<p class="hang">"(2) Testing the idea, and trying to settle the question. Is +the idea any good?</p> + +<p class="hang">"(3) Throwing the idea away; getting another; finally +returning, perhaps, to the first.</p> + +<p class="hang">"(4) The next thing is possibly a bad start.</p> + +<p class="hang">"(5) Grappling with the idea with the feeling that it has to +be done.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>"(6) Then the slush work, which I've already described.</p> + +<p class="hang">"(7) Reading this over, and taking out what you think is +essential, and re-writing the essential part of it.</p> + +<p class="hang">"(8) After it has been type-written, you cut it about, so that +it has to be re-typed.</p> + +<p class="hang">"(9) The result of your labour finds its way into print, and +you take hold of the first opportunity to go over the whole +thing again."<a name="FNanchor_136:A_26" id="FNanchor_136:A_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_136:A_26" class="fnanchor">[136:A]</a></p> +</div> + +<p>Contrasted with the pleasant humour of the above is the gravity of Ian +Maclaren. "Although the stories I have written may seem very simple, +they are very laboriously done. This kind of short story cannot be done +quickly. There is no plot, no incident, and one has to depend entirely +upon character and slight touches, curiously arranged and bound +together, to produce the effect. . . . Each of the 'Bonnie Brier Bush' +stories went through these processes:—(1) Slowly drafted arrangement; +(2) draft revised before writing; <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>(3) written; (4) manuscript revised; +(5) first proof corrected; (6) revise corrected; (7) having been +published in a periodical, revised for book; (8) first proof corrected; +(9) second proof corrected."<a name="FNanchor_137:A_27" id="FNanchor_137:A_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_137:A_27" class="fnanchor">[137:A]</a></p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>Enough. These personal notes will teach the novice that every man must +make and follow his own plan of work. Experience is the best guide and +the wisest teacher.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_120:A_17" id="Footnote_120:A_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_120:A_17"><span class="label">[120:A]</span></a> Erichsen: "Methods of Authors."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_124:A_18" id="Footnote_124:A_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_124:A_18"><span class="label">[124:A]</span></a> "Autobiography," vol. ii.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_130:A_19" id="Footnote_130:A_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_130:A_19"><span class="label">[130:A]</span></a> Erichsen: "Methods of Authors."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_132:A_20" id="Footnote_132:A_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_132:A_20"><span class="label">[132:A]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Young Man</i>, by Percy L. Parker.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_132:B_21" id="Footnote_132:B_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_132:B_21"><span class="label">[132:B]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Young Man</i>, by A. H. Lawrence.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_133:A_22" id="Footnote_133:A_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_133:A_22"><span class="label">[133:A]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Young Man</i>, by Sarah A. Tooley.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_133:B_23" id="Footnote_133:B_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_133:B_23"><span class="label">[133:B]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_133:C_24" id="Footnote_133:C_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_133:C_24"><span class="label">[133:C]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Young Man</i>, by A. H. Lawrence.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_134:A_25" id="Footnote_134:A_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_134:A_25"><span class="label">[134:A]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Young Man</i>, by A. H. Lawrence.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_136:A_26" id="Footnote_136:A_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_136:A_26"><span class="label">[136:A]</span></a> Interview in <i>To-Day</i>, for September 11th, 1897, by A. +H. Lawrence.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_137:A_27" id="Footnote_137:A_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_137:A_27"><span class="label">[137:A]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Christian Commonwealth</i> for September +24th, 1896.</p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>IS THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF NOVELS EXHAUSTED?</h3> + + +<h4>The Question Stated</h4> + +<p>This is the way in which the question is most often stated, but the real +question is more intelligently expressed by asking: Has the novel, as a +form of literature, become obsolete? or is it likely to be obsolete in +the near future? To many people the matter is dismissed with a +contemptuous <i>Pshaw!</i>; others think it worthy of serious inquiry, and a +few with practical minds say they don't care whether it is or not. Seven +years ago Mr Frederic Harrison delivered himself of very pessimistic +views as to the present position and prospects of the novelist, and not +long ago Mr A. J. Balfour asserted that in his opinion the art of +fiction had reached its zenith, and was now in its <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>decline. These +critics may be prejudiced in their views, but it is worth while +considering the remarks of the one who has the greater claim to respect +for literary judgment. After exclaiming that we have now no novelist of +the first rank, and substantiating this statement to the best of his +ability, Mr Harrison goes on to inquire into the causes of this decay. +In the first place, we have too high a standard of taste and criticism. +"A highly organised code of culture may give us good manners, but it is +the death of genius." We have lost the true sense of the romantic, and +if "Jane Eyre" were produced to-day it "would not rise above a common +shocker." Secondly, we are too disturbed in political affairs to allow +for the rest that is necessary for literary productiveness. Thirdly, +life is not so dramatic as it was—character is being driven inwards, +and we have lost the picturesque qualities of earlier days.</p> + +<p>I am not at present concerned with the truth or error of these +arguments; my object just now is to state the case, and before +proceeding to an examination of its merits I wish to take the testimony +of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>another writer and thinker, one who is a philosopher quite as much +as the author of "The Foundations of Belief" or the author of "The +Meaning of History," and who has a claim upon our attention as an +investigator of moving causes.</p> + +<p>Mr C. H. Pearson, in his notable book, "National Life and Character," +has made some confident statements on the subject of the exhaustion of +literary products. He is of opinion that "a change in social relations +has made the drama impossible by dwarfing the immediate agency of the +individual," and that "a change in manners has robbed the drama of a +great deal of effect." He goes on to say that "Human nature, various as +it is, is only capable after all of a certain number of emotions and +acts, and these as the topics of an incessant literature are bound after +a time to be exhausted. We may say with absolute certainty that certain +subjects are never to be taken again. The tale of Troy, the wanderings +of Odysseus, the vision of Heaven and Hell as Dante saw it, the theme of +'Paradise Lost,' and the story of Faust are familiar instances. . . . +Effective adaptations of an old subject may <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>still be possible; but it +is not writers of the highest capacity who will attempt them, and the +reading world, which remembers what has been done before, will never +accord more than a secondary recognition to the adaptation" (p. 299).</p> + +<p>There is a curious atmosphere of logical conclusiveness about these +arguments. They carry with them, apparently, an air of certainty which +it is useless to question. We know that the novelist has already +exploited Politics, Socialism, History, Theology, Marriage, Education, +and a host of other subjects; indeed, a perusal of Dixon's "Index to +Fiction" is calculated to provoke the inquiry: "Is there anything left +to write about?" We know that everywhere is springing up the "literature +of locality," and it would seem as if the resources of this world's +experience had been exhausted when writers like Mr H. G. Wells and the +late George Du Maurier invade the planet Mars for fresh material. The +heavens above, the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth have +all been "written up." Is there anything new?</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> +<h4>"Change" not "Exhaustion"</h4> + +<p>There can be no doubt that fiction has undergone great changes during +recent years. These changes are the result of deeper changes in our +common life. Consider for a moment the position of the drama. What is +the significance of the problem play on the one hand, and the cry for a +"Static Theatre" on the other hand? It means that life has changed, and +is still changing; that the national character is not so emphatically +external or spontaneous as in those days when Ben Jonson killed two men, +and Marlowe himself was killed in a brawl. We have lost the passion, the +force, and the brutality of those times, and have become more +contemplative and analytical. The simple law is this: that literature +and the drama are a reflex of life; hence, when character has a tendency +to be driven inwards, as is the case to-day, Maeterlinck pleads on +behalf of a drama without action; and Paul Bourget in France and Henry +James in England <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>embody the spirit of the age in the fiction of +psychological minutiæ. Now there may be symptoms of decay in these +manifestations of literary impulse, but the impulse is part of that new +experience which the facts of an increasingly complex civilisation foist +upon us. And, further, <i>change</i> is not necessarily <i>exhaustion</i>; in +fact, it is more than surprising that anyone can believe all the stories +possible have been told already, or have been told in the most +interesting way. It is a very ancient cry—this cry about exhaustion. +The old Hebrew writer wailed something about wanting to meet with a man +who could show him a new thing. A new thing? "There is no new thing +under the Sun." But we have found a few since those days, and the future +will give birth to as many more.</p> + +<p>Men and women have written about love from time immemorial, but have we +finished with the theme? Is it exhausted? Did Homer satisfy our love of +recorded adventure once and for all? There is only one answer—namely, +that human experience is infinite in its possibilities and its capacity +for renewal. If human <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>experience—these vague and subtle emotions, +these violently real but inscrutable feelings, these tremulous +questionings of existence encompassed with mystery—if human experience +were no more than a hard and dry scientific fact, well, our novelists +would have a poor time of it. But life knows no finality; its stream +flows on in perennial flood. Human nature is said to be much the same +the world over, and yet every personality is absolutely a new thing. +Goethe might attempt a rough classification by saying we are either +Platonists or Aristotelians, but actually a great many of us are neither +one nor the other, and there are infinities of degrees amongst us even +then. New character is a necessary outcome of the advancing centuries, +and new personalities are being born every day.</p> + +<p>No; the world still loves a story, and there are stories which have +never been told. It is, perhaps, true, that the story-tellers have not +found them yet. Why?</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> +<h4>Why we talk about Exhaustion</h4> + +<p>The answer is: We are becoming too artificial; we are losing +spontaneity, and are getting too far away from the soil. Have we not +noticed over and over again that the first book of a novelist is his +best? Those which followed are called "good," but they sell because the +author is the author of the first book which created a sensation.</p> + +<p>Speaking of the first work of a young writer, Anthony Trollope says: "He +sits down and tells his story because he has a story to tell; as you, my +friend, when you have heard something which has at once tickled your +fancy or moved your pathos, will hurry to tell it to the first person +you meet. But when that first novel has been received graciously by the +public, and has made for itself a success, then the writer, naturally +feeling that the writing of novels is within his grasp, looks about for +something to tell in another. He cudgels his brains, not always +successfully, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>and sits down to write, not because he has something +which he burns to tell, but because he feels it to be incumbent on him +to be telling something. . . . So it has been with many novelists, who, +after some good work, perhaps after much good work, have distressed +their audience because they have gone on with their work till their work +has become simply a trade with them."<a name="FNanchor_146:A_28" id="FNanchor_146:A_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_146:A_28" class="fnanchor">[146:A]</a> There is often a good +reason for such a change. The first book was written in a place near to +Nature's heart; the writer was free from the obligations of society as +found in city life; he was thrown back on his own resources, and +fortunately could not spoil his individual view of things by +multitudinous references to books and authorities. Do we not selfishly +wish that Miss Olive Schreiner had never left the veldt, in the +loneliness of which she produced "The Story of an African Farm"? Nearer +contact with civilisation has failed to induce an impulse the result of +which is at all comparable with this genuine story. It may or may not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>be of significance that Mr Wells, the creator of a distinct type of +romance, dislikes what is called "Society," but I fancy that a few of +those who lament too frequently that "everything has been said" spend +more time in "Society" and clubs than is possible for good work. Mr C. +H. Pearson, in a notable chapter on "Dangers of Political Development," +says: "The world at large is just as reverent of greatness, as observant +of a Browning, a Newman, or a Mill, as it ever was; but the world of +Society prefers the small change of available and ephemeral talent to +the wealth of great thoughts, which must always be kept more or less in +reserve. The result seems to be that men, anxious to do great work, find +city life less congenial than they did, and either live away from the +Metropolis, as Darwin and Newman did, or restrict their intercourse, as +Carlyle and George Eliot practically did, to a circle of chosen +friends."</p> + +<p>In further confirmation of the position I have taken up, let me quote +the testimony of Thomas Hardy as given in an interview. Said the +interviewer—"In <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>reading 'A Group of Noble Dames,' I was struck with +the waste of good material."</p> + +<p>"Yes," replied Mr Hardy, "I suppose I was wasteful. But, there! it +doesn't matter, for I have far more material now than I shall ever be +able to use."</p> + +<p>"In your note-books?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and in my head. I don't believe in that idea of man's imaginative +powers becoming naturally exhausted; I believe that, if he liked, a man +could go on writing till his physical strength gave out. Most men +exhaust themselves prematurely by something artificial—their manner of +living—Scott and Dickens for example. Victor Hugo, on the other hand, +who was so long in exile, and who necessarily lived a very simple life +during much of his time, was writing as well as ever when he died at a +good old age. So, too, was Carlyle, if we except his philosophy, the +least interesting part of him. The great secret is perhaps for the +writer to be content with the life he was living when he made his first +success. I can do more work here [in Dorsetshire] in six months than in +twelve months in London."<a name="FNanchor_148:A_29" id="FNanchor_148:A_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_148:A_29" class="fnanchor">[148:A]</a></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>These are the convictions of a strong man, one who stands at the head of +English writers of fiction, and therefore one to whom the beginner +especially should listen with respect. A reader of MSS. told me quite +recently that there was a pitiable narrowness of experience in the +productions which were handed to him for valuation; nearly all were cast +in the "city" mould, and showed signs of having been written to say +something rather than because the writers had something to say. Mr Hardy +has put his finger on the weak spot: more stories "come" in the country +stillness than in the city's bustle. Of course, a man can be as much of +a hermit in the heart of London as in the heart of a forest, but how few +can resist the attractions of Society and the temptation to multiply +literary friendships! Besides, it is always a risk to make a permanent +change in that environment which assisted in producing the first +success. Follow Mr Hardy's advice and stay where you are. Stories will +then not be slow to "come" and ideas to "occur"; and the pessimists will +be less ready to utter their laments over the decadence of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>fiction and +philosophers to argue that the novel will soon become extinct. I cannot +do better than close with the following tempered statement from Mr +Edmund Gosse: "A question which constantly recurs to my mind is this: +Having secured the practical monopoly of literature, what do the +novelists propose to do next? To what use will they put the +unprecedented opportunity thrown in their way? It is quite plain that to +a certain extent the material out of which the English novel has been +constructed is in danger of becoming exhausted. Why do the American +novelists inveigh against plots? Not, we may be sure, through any +inherent tenderness of conscience, as they would have us believe; but +because their eminently sane and somewhat timid natures revolt against +the effort of inventing what is extravagant. But all the obvious plots, +all the stories that are not in some degree extravagant, seem to have +been told already, and for a writer of the temperament of Mr Howells, +there is nothing left but the portraiture of a small portion of the +limitless field of ordinary humdrum existence. So long as this is fresh, +this also may <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>amuse and please; to the practitioners of this kind of +work it seems as though the infinite prairie of life might be surveyed +thus for centuries acre by acre. But that is not possible. A very little +while suffices to show that in this direction also the material is +promptly exhausted. Novelty, freshness, and excitement are to be sought +for at all hazards, and where can they be found? The novelists hope many +things from that happy system of nature which supplies them year by year +with fresh generations of the ingenuous young." In this, however, Mr +Gosse is very doubtful of good results: the fact is, he is too +pessimistic. But in making suggestions as to what kind of novels might +be written he almost gives the lie to his previous opinions. He asks for +novels addressed especially to middle-aged persons, and not to the +ingenuous young, ever interested in love. "It is supposed that to +describe one of the positive employments of life—a business or a +profession for example—would alienate the tender reader, and check that +circulation about which novelists talk as if they were delicate +invalids. But what evidence is there to show that <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>an attention to real +things does frighten away the novel reader. The experiments which have +been made in this country to widen the field of fiction in one +direction, that of religious and moral speculation, have not proved +unfortunate. What was the source of the great popular success of 'John +Inglesant,' and then of 'Robert Elsmere,' if not the intense delight of +readers in being admitted, in a story, to a wider analysis of the +interior workings of the mind than is compatible with the mere record of +billing and cooing of the callow young? . . . All I ask for is a larger +study of life. Have the stress and turmoil of a political career no +charm? Why, if novels of the shop and counting-house be considered +sordid, can our novels not describe the life of a sailor, of a +game-keeper, of a railway porter, of a civil engineer? What capital +central figures for a story would be the whip of a leading hunt, the +foreman of a colliery, the master of a fishing-smack, or a speculator on +the Stock Exchange?"<a name="FNanchor_152:A_30" id="FNanchor_152:A_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_152:A_30" class="fnanchor">[152:A]</a></p> + +<p>Since these words were written, the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>novel of politics, for example, has +come to the fore; but does that mean that the subject is exhausted? It +has only been touched upon as yet. There were plenty of dramas before +Shakespeare but there were no Shakespeares; and to-day there are +thousands of novels but how many real novelists? Once again let it be +said that "exhausted subject-matter" is a misnomer; what we wait for is +creative genius.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_146:A_28" id="Footnote_146:A_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_146:A_28"><span class="label">[146:A]</span></a> "Autobiography," vol. ii. pp. 45-6. There is no harm in +telling stories as a trade provided the stories are good.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_148:A_29" id="Footnote_148:A_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_148:A_29"><span class="label">[148:A]</span></a> Interview in <i>The Young Man</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_152:A_30" id="Footnote_152:A_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_152:A_30"><span class="label">[152:A]</span></a> "Questions at Issue," <i>The Tyranny of the Novel</i>.</p></div> + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>THE NOVEL <i>v.</i> THE SHORT STORY</h3> + + +<h4>Practise the Short Story</h4> + +<p>The beginner in fiction often asks: Is it not best to prepare for +novel-writing by writing short stories? The question is much to the +point, and merits a careful answer.</p> + +<p>First of all, what is the difference between a novel and a short story? +The difference lies in the point of view. The short story generally +deals with one event in one particular life; the novel deals with many +events in several lives, where both characters and action are dominated +by one progressive purpose. To put it another way: the short story is +like a miniature in painting, whilst the novel demands a much larger +canvas. A suggestive paragraph from a review sets forth clearly the +difference referred <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>to: "The smaller your object of artistry, the nicer +should be your touch, the more careful your attention to minutiæ. That, +surely, would seem an axiom. You don't paint a miniature in the broad +strokes that answer for a drop curtain, nor does the weaver of a +pocket-handkerchief give to that fabric the texture of a carpet. But the +usual writer of fiction, when it occurs to him to utilise one of his +second best ideas in the manufacture of a short story, will commonly +bring to his undertaking exactly the same slap-dash methods which he has +found to serve in the construction of his novels. . . . Where he should +have brought a finer method, he has brought a coarser; where he should +have worked goldsmithwise, with tiny chisel, finishing exquisitely, he +has worked blacksmithwise, with sledge hammer and anvil; where, because +the thing is little, every detail counts, he has been slovenly in +detail."<a name="FNanchor_155:A_31" id="FNanchor_155:A_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_155:A_31" class="fnanchor">[155:A]</a></p> + +<p>It has been said that the novel deals with life from the inside, and +short stories with life from the outside; but this is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>not so. Guy de +Maupassant's "The Necklace" opens out to us a state of soul just as much +as "Tess" does, even though it may be but a glimpse as compared with the +prolonged exhibition of Mr Hardy's "pure woman."</p> + +<p>Returning to the question previously referred to, one may well hesitate +to advise a novice to commence writing short stories which demand such +infinite care in conception and execution. The tendency of young writers +is to verbosity—longwindedness in dialogues, in descriptions, and in +delineations of character,—whereas the chief excellence of the story is +the extent and depth of its suggestions as compared with its brevity in +words. Should not a man perfect himself in the less minute and less +delicate methods of the novel before he attempts the finer art of the +short story?</p> + +<p>There is a sound of good logic about all this, but it is not conclusive. +Some men have a natural predilection for the larger canvas and some for +the smaller, so that the final decision cannot be forced upon anyone on +purely abstract grounds; we must first know a writer's native <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>capacity +before advising him what to do. If you feel that literary art on a +minute scale is your <i>forte</i>, then follow it enthusiastically, and work +hard; if otherwise, act accordingly.</p> + +<p>But, after all, there are certain abstract considerations which lead me +to say that the short story should be practised before the novel. Take +the very material fact of <i>size</i>. Have those who object to this +recommendation ever thought of what practising novel-writing means? How +long does it take to make a couple of experiments of 80,000 words each? +A good deal, no doubt, depends on the man himself, but a quick writer +would not do much to satisfy others at the rate of 160,000 words in +twelve months. No, time is too precious for practising works of such +length as these, and since the general principles of fiction apply to +both novel and short story alike, the student cannot do better than +practise his art in the briefer form. Moreover, if he is wise, he will +seek the advice of experts, and (a further base consideration) it will +be cheaper to have 4000 words criticised than a MS. containing 80,000.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>Further, the foundation principles of the art of fiction cannot be +learned more effectively, even for the purpose of writing novels, than +in practising short stories. All the points brought forward in the +preceding pages relating to plot, dialogue, proportion, climax, and so +forth, are elements of the latter as well as of the former. If, as has +been said, "windiness" is the chief fault of the beginner, where can he +learn to correct that error more quickly? The art of knowing what to +leave out is important to a novelist; it is more important to the short +story writer; hence, if it be studied on the smaller canvas, it will be +of excellent service when attempting the larger. "The attention to +detail, the obliteration of the unessential, the concentration in +expression, which the form of the short story demands, tends to a +beneficent influence on the style of fiction. No one doubts that many of +the great novelists of the past are somewhat tedious and prolix. The +style of Richardson, Scott, Dumas, Balzac, and Dickens, when they are +not at their strongest and highest, is often slipshod and slovenly; and +such <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>carelessly-worded passages as are everywhere in their works will +scarcely be found in the novels of the future. The writers of short +stories have made clear that the highest literary art knows neither +synonyms, episodes, nor parentheses."<a name="FNanchor_159:A_32" id="FNanchor_159:A_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_159:A_32" class="fnanchor">[159:A]</a></p> + + +<h4>Short Story Writers on their Art</h4> + +<p>I cannot pretend to give more than a few hints as to the best way of +following out the advice laid down in the foregoing paragraphs, and +prefer to let some writers speak for themselves. Of course, it does not +follow that Mr Wedmore can instruct a novice in literary art, simply +because he can write exquisite short stories himself; indeed, it often +happens that such men do not really know how they produce their work; +but Mr Wedmore's article on <i>The Short Story</i> in his volume called +"Books and Arts" is most profitable reading.</p> + +<p>Some time ago a symposium appeared <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>in a popular journal,<a name="FNanchor_160:A_33" id="FNanchor_160:A_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_160:A_33" class="fnanchor">[160:A]</a> on the +subject <i>How to Write a Short Story</i>. Mr Robert Barr could be no other +than pithy in his recipe. He says: "It seems to me that a short story +writer should act, metaphorically, like this—he should put his idea for +a story into one cup of a pair of balances, then into the other he +should deal out words—five hundred, a thousand, two thousand, three +thousand, as the case may be—and when the number of words thus paid in +causes the beam to rise on which his idea hangs, then his story is +finished. If he puts a word more or less he is doing false work. . . . My +model is Euclid, whose justly celebrated book of short stories entitled +'The Elements of Geometry' will live when most of us who are scribbling +to-day are forgotten. Euclid lays down his plot, sets instantly to work +at its development, letting no incident creep in that does not bear +relation to the climax, using no unnecessary word, always keeping his +one end in view, and the moment he reaches <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>the culmination he stops." +Mr Walter Raymond is apologetic. He fences a good deal, and pleads that +the mention of "short story" is dangerous to his mental sequence, so +much and so painfully has he tried to solve the problem of how one is +written. Finally, however, he delivers himself of these pregnant +sentences: "Show us the psychological moment; give us a sniff of the +earth below; a glimpse of the sky above; and you will have produced a +fine story. It need not exceed two thousand words."</p> + +<p>The author of "Tales of Mean Streets" says: "The command of form is the +first thing to be cultivated. Let the pupil take a story by a writer +distinguished by the perfection of his workmanship—none could be better +than Guy de Maupassant—and let him consider that story apart from the +book as something happening before his eyes. Let him review mentally +<i>everything</i> that happens—the things that are not written in the story +as well as those that are—and let him review them, not necessarily in +the order in which the story presents them, but in that in which they +would come before an observer <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>in real life. In short, from the fiction +let him construct ordinary, natural, detailed, unselected, unarranged +fact, making notes, if necessary, as he goes. Then let him compare his +raw fact with the words of the master. He will see where the unessential +is rejected; he will see how everything is given its just proportion in +the design; he will perceive that every incident, every sentence, and +every word has its value, its meaning, and its part in the whole."</p> + +<p>Mr Morrison's ideas are endorsed by Miss Jane Barlow, Mr G. B. Burgin, +Mr G. M. Fenn, and Mrs L. T. Meade. Mr Joseph Hocking does not seem to +care for the brevity of short story methods. He cites eight lines which +he heard some children sing:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Little boy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Pair of skates,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Broken ice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Heaven's gates.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0i">Little girl<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Stole a plum,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Cholera bad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Kingdom come,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>and remarks: "Many of our short stories are constructed on the principle +of these verses. So few words are used, that the reader does not feel he +is reading a story, but an outline." Mr Hocking has the British Public +on his side, no doubt, but the great British Public is not always right, +as he appears to believe.</p> + +<p>I think if the reader will study the short stories of Guy de Maupassant +and Mr Frederic Wedmore, and digest the advice given above, he will know +enough to begin his work. Each experiment will enlarge his vision and +discipline his pen, so that when he has accomplished something like +tolerable success, he may safely attempt the larger canvas on the lines +laid down in the preceding chapters.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_155:A_31" id="Footnote_155:A_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_155:A_31"><span class="label">[155:A]</span></a> <i>Daily Chronicle</i>, June 22, 1899.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_159:A_32" id="Footnote_159:A_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_159:A_32"><span class="label">[159:A]</span></a> <i>The International Monthly</i>, vol. i.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_160:A_33" id="Footnote_160:A_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_160:A_33"><span class="label">[160:A]</span></a> <i>The Young Man.</i></p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3>SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS</h3> + + +<h4>The Truth about Success</h4> + +<p>There are two kinds of success in fiction—commercial and literary; and +sometimes a writer is able to combine the two. Thomas Hardy is an +example of the writer who produces literature and has large sales. On +the other hand, there are many writers who succeed in one direction, but +not in the other. The works of Marie Corelli have an amazing +circulation, but they are not regarded as literature; whereas such +genuine work as that of Mr Quiller Couch has to be content with sales +far less extensive.</p> + +<p>Now Thomas Hardy, Marie Corelli, and Quiller Couch have all succeeded, +but in different ways. No doubt the reader would prefer to succeed in +the manner of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>Hardy, but if he can't do it, he must be content to +succeed in the best way he can. It is easy to talk about Miss Corelli's +"rot" and "bosh" and "high falutin," but long columns of figures in a +publisher's ledger mean something after all. They do not necessarily +mean literary merit, delicate insight, or beautiful characterisation; +they probably mean a keen sense of what the public likes, and a power to +tickle its palate in an agreeable manner. Still, not every man or woman +is able to do this, and although such a success may not rank as one of +the first order, it <i>is</i> a success which nobody can gainsay. Literary +journals have been instituting "inquiries" into the cases of men like Mr +Silas Hocking and the Rev. E. P. Roe: why have they a circulation +numbered by the million? No "inquiry" is needed. They are literary +merchantmen who have studied the book-market thoroughly, and as a result +they know what is wanted and supply it. Let them have their reward +without mean and angry demur.</p> + +<p>However one may try to explain the fact, it is none the less true that +genuine <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>literature often fails to pay the expenses of publication; at +any rate, if it accomplishes more than that, it is infinitesimal as +compared with the huge sales of inferior work. I do not know the +circulation of Mr Henry Harland's "Comedies and Errors"—possibly it has +been moderate—but I would rather be the author of this volume of +beautiful workmanship than of all the works of Marie Corelli—the bags +of gold notwithstanding. Of course, this is merely a personal preference +with which the reader may have no sympathy; but the fact remains that, +if a writer produces real literature and it does not sell, he has not +therefore failed in his purpose; he may not receive many cheques from +his publisher, but it is real compensation to have an audience, "fit +though few."</p> + +<p>On the general question of literary success, George Henry Lewes says: +"We may lay it down, as a rule, that no work ever succeeded, even for a +day, but it deserved that success; no work ever failed but under +conditions which made failure inevitable. This will seem hard to men who +feel that, in their case, neglect arises from prejudice or stupidity. +Yet it is true even <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>in extreme cases; true even when the work once +neglected has since been acknowledged superior to the works which for a +time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, is the measure of the +relation, temporary or enduring, which exists between a work and the +public mind."<a name="FNanchor_167:A_34" id="FNanchor_167:A_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_167:A_34" class="fnanchor">[167:A]</a></p> + +<p>Failure has a still more fruitful cause—namely, the misdirection of +talent. "Men are constantly attempting, without special aptitude, work +for which special aptitude is indispensable.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'On peut être honnête homme et faire mal des vers.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A man may be variously accomplished and yet be a feeble poet. He may be +a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist. He may have dramatic faculty, yet +be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow +thinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of work, +it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this +seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check a +mistaken <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certain +susceptibility to the graces and refinements of literature, which has +been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power; +and these men being destitute of native power are forced to imitate what +others have created. They can understand how a man may have musical +sensibility, and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to understand, +at least in their own case, how a man may have literary sensibility, yet +not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist."<a name="FNanchor_168:A_35" id="FNanchor_168:A_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_168:A_35" class="fnanchor">[168:A]</a></p> + +<p>The conclusion of the whole matter is this: determine what your +projected work is to do; if you are going to offer it in a popular +market, give the public plenty for its money, and spice it well; if you +are going to offer a sacrifice to the Goddess of Art, be content if you +receive no more applause than that which comes from the few worshippers +who surround the sacred shrine.</p> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_167:A_34" id="Footnote_167:A_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_167:A_34"><span class="label">[167:A]</span></a> "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 10.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_168:A_35" id="Footnote_168:A_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_168:A_35"><span class="label">[168:A]</span></a> "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 7.</p></div> + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> +<h2>SUCCESS</h2> + + +<h4>Minor Conditions of Success</h4> + +<p>1. Good literature has the same value in manuscript as in typescript, +but from the standpoint of author and publisher, it can hardly be said +to have the same chances. Penmanship does not tend to improve, and some +of the scrawly MSS. sent in to publishers are enough to create dismay in +the stoutest heart. It is pure affectation to pretend to be above such +small matters. Just as a dinner is all the more appetising because it is +neatly and daintily served, so a <i>MS.</i> has better chances of being read +and appreciated when set out in type-written characters.</p> + +<p>2. Be sure that you are sending your <i>MS.</i> to the right publisher. +Novels with a strongly developed moral purpose are not exactly the kind +of thing wanted by Mr Heinemann; and if you have anything like "The +Woman Who Did," don't send it to a Sunday School Publishing Company. +These suppositions are no doubt absurd in the extreme, but they will +serve my purpose in pointing out the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>careless way in which many +beginners dispose of their wares. Nearly all publishers specialise in +some kind of literature, and it is the novelist's duty to study these +types from publishers' catalogues, providing, of course, he does not +know them already. The commercial instinct is proverbially lacking in +authors; if it were not we should witness less frequently the spectacle +of portly MSS. being sent out haphazard to publisher after publisher.</p> + +<p>3. Perhaps my third point ought to have come first. It relates to the +obtaining of an expert's views on the matter and form of your story. +This will cost you a guinea, perhaps more, but it will save your time +and hasten the possibilities of success. You can easily spend a guinea +in postage and two or three more in having the MS. re-typed,—and yet +the tale be ever the same—"Declined with thanks." Spare yourself many +disappointments by putting your literary efforts before a competent +critic, and let him point out the crudities, the digressions, and those +weaknesses which betray the 'prentice hand. It will not be pleasant to +see a pen line through your "glorious" passages, or two <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>blue pencil +marks across a favourite piece of dialogue, but it is better to know +your defects at once than to discover them by painful and constant +rejections.</p> + +<p>4. Be willing to learn; have no fear of hard work; do the best, and +write the best that is in you; and never ape anybody, but be yourself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p class="smallgap"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> </p> +<h2>APPENDICES</h2> +<p class="smallgap"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> </p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="APPENDIX_I" id="APPENDIX_I"></a>APPENDIX I</h2> + +<h3>THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION<a name="FNanchor_175:1_36" id="FNanchor_175:1_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_175:1_36" class="fnanchor" style="font-size: 70%;">[175:1]</a></h3> + +<h4>By <span class="smcap">Edgar Allan Poe</span></h4> + + +<p>Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an +examination I once made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says—"By +the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb Williams' backwards? +He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second +volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of +accounting for what had been done."</p> + +<p>I cannot think this the <i>precise</i> mode of procedure on the part of +Godwin—and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in +accordance with Mr. Dickens' idea—but the author of "Caleb Williams" +was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at +least a somewhat <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every +plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its <i>dénouement</i> before +anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the <i>dénouement</i> +constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of +consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the +tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.</p> + +<p>There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a +story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an +incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the +combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his +narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, +or authorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from +page to page, render themselves apparent.</p> + +<p>I prefer commencing with the consideration of an <i>effect</i>. Keeping +originality <i>always</i> in view—for he is false to himself who ventures to +dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of +interest—I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable +effects, or impressions, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>of which the heart, the intellect, or (more +generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present +occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid +effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or +tone—whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, +or by peculiarity both of incident and tone—afterward looking about me +(or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall +best aid me in the construction of the effect.</p> + +<p>I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written +by any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail, step by +step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its +ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to +the world, I am much at a loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial +vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. +Most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they +compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would +positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, +at the elaborate and vacillating crudities <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>of thought—at the true +purposes seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses of +idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully matured +fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable—at the cautious selections +and rejections—at the painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, +at the wheels and pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the +stepladders, and demon-traps—the cock's feathers, the red paint and the +black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, +constitute the properties of the literary <i>histrio</i>.</p> + +<p>I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in +which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his +conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen +pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.</p> + +<p>For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, +nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the +progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of +an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a +<i>desideratum</i>, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in +the thing analysed, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on +my part to show the <i>modus operandi</i> by which some one of my own works +was put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my +design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is +referable either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded, step +by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a +mathematical problem.</p> + +<p>Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, <i>per se</i>, the +circumstance—or say the necessity—which, in the first place, gave rise +to the intention of composing <i>a</i> poem that should suit at once the +popular and the critical taste.</p> + +<p>We commence, then, with this intention.</p> + +<p>The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is +too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with +the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression—for, +if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and +everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, <i>cæteris +paribus</i>, no poet can afford to dispense with <i>anything</i> that may +advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends +it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely +a succession of brief ones—that is to say, of brief poetical effects. +It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it +intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements +are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one +half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose—a succession of +poetical excitements interspersed, <i>inevitably</i>, with corresponding +depressions—the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its +length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of +effect.</p> + +<p>It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards +length, to all works of literary art—the limit of a single sitting—and +that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as +"Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously +overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this +limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to +its merit—in other words, to the excitement or elevation—again, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>in +other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is +capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct +ratio of the intensity of the intended effect:—this, with one +proviso—that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for +the production of any effect at all.</p> + +<p>Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of +excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the +critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper <i>length</i> +for my intended poem—a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in +fact, a hundred and eight.</p> + +<p>My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be +conveyed; and here I may as well observe that, throughout the +construction I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work +<i>universally</i> appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my +immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have +repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the +slightest need of demonstration—the point, I mean, that Beauty is the +sole legitimate province of the poem. A <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>few words, however, in +elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a +disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most +intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in +the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, +they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect—they +refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of +<i>soul</i>—<i>not</i> of intellect, or of heart—upon which I have commented, +and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the +beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely +because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to +spring from direct causes—that objects should be attained through means +best adapted for their attainment—no one as yet having been weak enough +to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is <i>most readily</i> +attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the +intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, +although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily +attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a +<i>homeliness</i> (the truly <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>passionate will comprehend me) which are +absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the +excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means +follows from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be +introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem—for they may +serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in +music, by contrast—but the true artist will always contrive, first, to +tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim; and, +secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is +the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.</p> + +<p>Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the +<i>tone</i> of its highest manifestation—and all experience has shown that +this tone is one of <i>sadness</i>. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme +development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy +is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.</p> + +<p>The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook +myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic +piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the +poem—some pivot upon <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>which the whole structure might turn. In +carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects—or more properly +<i>points</i>, in the theatrical sense—I did not fail to perceive +immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the +<i>refrain</i>. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of +its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to +analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of +improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly +used, the <i>refrain</i>, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but +depends for its impression upon the force of monotone—both in sound and +thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity—of +repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by +adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually +varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce +continuously novel effects, by the variation <i>of the application</i> of the +<i>refrain</i>—the <i>refrain</i> itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.</p> + +<p>These points being settled, I next bethought me of the <i>nature</i> of my +<i>refrain</i>. Since its <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>application was to be repeatedly varied, it was +clear that the <i>refrain</i> itself must be brief, for there would have been +an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in +any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, +would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once +to a single word as the best <i>refrain</i>.</p> + +<p>The question now arose as to the <i>character</i> of the word. Having made up +my mind to a <i>refrain</i>, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of +course, a corollary: the <i>refrain</i> forming the close to each stanza. +That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of +protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations +inevitably led me to the long <i>o</i> as the most sonorous vowel, in +connection with <i>r</i> as the most producible consonant.</p> + +<p>The sound of the <i>refrain</i> being thus determined, it became necessary to +select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest +possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the +tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely +impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>fact, it was the very +first which presented itself.</p> + +<p>The next <i>desideratum</i> was a pretext for the continuous use of the one +word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in +inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, +I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the +pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously +spoken by <i>a human</i> being—I did not fail to perceive, in short, that +the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the +exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, +then, immediately arose the idea of a <i>non</i>-reasoning creature capable +of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, +suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally +capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended +<i>tone</i>.</p> + +<p>I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven—the bird of ill +omen—monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore," at the +conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length +about one hundred lines. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>Now, never losing sight of the object +<i>supremeness</i>, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself—"Of all +melancholy topics, what, according to the <i>universal</i> understanding of +mankind, is the <i>most</i> melancholy?" Death—was the obvious reply. "And +when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From +what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is +obvious—"When it most closely allies itself to <i>Beauty</i>: the death, +then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic +in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited +for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."</p> + +<p>I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased +mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore."—I had +to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, +the <i>application</i> of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode +of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in +answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once +the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been +depending—that is to say, the effect of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>the <i>variation of +application</i>. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the +lover—the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"—that +I could make this first query a commonplace one—the second less so—the +third still less, and so on—until at length the lover, startled from +his original <i>nonchalance</i> by the melancholy character of the word +itself—by its frequent repetition—and by a consideration of the +ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it—is at length excited to +superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different +character—queries whose solution he has passionately at +heart—propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of +despair which delights in self-torture—propounds them not altogether +because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird +(which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by +rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling +his question as to receive from the <i>expected</i> "Nevermore" the most +delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the +opportunity thus afforded me—or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in +the progress of the construction—I first <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>established in mind the +climax, or concluding query—that query to which "Nevermore" should be +in the last place an answer—that query in reply to which this word +"Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and +despair.</p> + +<p>Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning—at the end, where +all works of art should begin—for it was here, at this point of my +pre-considerations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of +the stanza:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?'<br /></span> +<span class="i6h">Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the +climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness +and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>importance, the preceding queries of the lover—and, secondly, that +I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and +general arrangement of the stanza—as well as graduate the stanzas which +were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical +effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct +more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely +enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.</p> + +<p>And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first +object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been +neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in +the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere +<i>rhythm</i>, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and +stanza are absolutely infinite—and yet, <i>for centuries, no man, in +verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original +thing</i>. The fact is, that originality (unless in minds of very unusual +force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or +intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and +although a positive merit of the highest class, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>demands in its +attainment less of invention than negation.</p> + +<p>Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of +the "Raven." The former is trochaic—the latter is octameter +acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the +<i>refrain</i> of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter +catalectic. Less pedantically—the feet employed throughout (trochees) +consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the +stanza consists of eight of these feet—the second of seven and a half +(in effect two-thirds)—the third of eight—the fourth of seven and a +half—the fifth the same—the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these +lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what +originality the "Raven" has, is in their <i>combination into stanza</i>; +nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been +attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by +other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an +extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and +alliteration.</p> + +<p>The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the +lover and the Raven—and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>the first branch of this consideration was the +<i>locale</i>. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a +forest, or the fields—but it has always appeared to me that a close +<i>circumscription of space</i> is absolutely necessary to the effect of +insulated incident:—it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an +indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of +course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.</p> + +<p>I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber—in a chamber +rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The +room is represented as richly furnished—this in mere pursuance of the +ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole +true poetical thesis.</p> + +<p>The <i>locale</i> being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird—and +the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The +idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the +flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at +the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's +curiosity, and in a desire to admit <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>the incidental effect arising from +the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence +adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that +knocked.</p> + +<p>I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven's seeking +admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) +serenity within the chamber.</p> + +<p>I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of +contrast between the marble and the plumage—it being understood that +the bust was absolutely <i>suggested</i> by the bird—the bust of <i>Pallas</i> +being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the +lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.</p> + +<p>About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force +of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For +example, an air of the fantastic—approaching as nearly to the ludicrous +as was admissible—is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with +many a flirt and flutter."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Not the <i>least obeisance made he</i>—not a moment stopped or stayed he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span><i>But, with mien of lord or lady</i>, perched above my chamber door."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried +out:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">By the <i>grace and stern decorum of the countenance it wore</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">'Though thy <i>crest be shorn and shaven</i>, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?'<br /></span> +<span class="i6h">Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0i">Much I marvelled <i>this ungainly fowl</i> to hear discourse so plainly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being<br /></span> +<span class="i0i"><i>Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0i"><i>Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i6h">With such name as 'Nevermore.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>The effect of the <i>dénouement</i> being thus provided for, I immediately +drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:—this +tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, +with the line,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only," etc.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>From this epoch the lover no longer jests—no longer sees any thing even +of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanour. He speaks of him as a "grim, +ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the +"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of +thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar +one on the part of the reader—to bring the mind into a proper frame for +the <i>dénouement</i>—which is now brought about as rapidly and as +<i>directly</i> as possible.</p> + +<p>With the <i>dénouement</i> proper—with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to +the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another +world—the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may +be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits +of the accountable—of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>the real. A raven, having learned by rote the +single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its +owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek +admission at a window from which a light still gleams—the +chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half +in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown +open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on +the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, +amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanour, +demands of it, in jest, and without looking for a reply, its name. The +raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"—a word +which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, +giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is +again startled by the fowl's repetition of "Nevermore." The student now +guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before +explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by +superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, +the lover, the most of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated +answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this +self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious +phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no +overstepping of the limits of the real.</p> + +<p>But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an +array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, +which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably +required—first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, +adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness—some +under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in +especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that <i>richness</i> (to +borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of +confounding with <i>the ideal</i>. It is the <i>excess</i> of the suggested +meaning—it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current +of the theme—which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest +kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists.</p> + +<p>Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the +poem—their suggestiveness <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>being thus made to pervade all the narrative +which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first +apparent in the lines—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Take thy beak from out <i>my heart</i>, and take thy form from off my door!'<br /></span> +<span class="i6h">Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore!'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the +first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer +"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been +previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as +emblematical—but it is not until the very last line of the very last +stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of <i>Mournful and +Never-ending Remembrance</i> is permitted distinctly to be seen:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0i"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br /></span> +<span class="i0i">And my soul <i>from out that shadow</i> that lies floating on the floor<br /></span> +<span class="i6h">Shall be lifted—nevermore!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr class="footnotes" /> +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_175:1_36" id="Footnote_175:1_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_175:1_36"><span class="label">[175:1]</span></a> I do not hold myself responsible for Poe's literary +judgments: my purpose in reproducing this essay is to reveal Poe's +<i>methods</i>.</p></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> +<h2>APPENDIX II</h2> + +<h3>BOOKS WORTH READING</h3> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang">1. "The Art of Fiction." By Sir Walter Besant. Lecture +delivered at the Royal Institution, April 25th, 1884.</p> + +<p class="hang">2. "Le Roman Naturaliste." By F. Brunetiére. Paris, 1883.</p> + +<p class="hang">3. "The Novel: What it is." By F. Marion Crawford. New York, +1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">4. "The Development of the English Novel." By W. L. Cross. +London, 1899.</p> + +<p class="hang">5. "Style." By T. de Quincey. "Works." Edinburgh, 1890.</p> + +<p class="hang">6. "The Limits of Realism in Fiction," and "The Tyranny of the +Novel" (in "Questions at Issue"). By Edmund Gosse.</p> + +<p class="hang">7. "The House of Seven Gables." By N. Hawthorne. See Preface.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>8. "Confessions and Criticisms." By Julian Hawthorne.</p> + +<p class="hang">9. "Criticism and Fiction." By W. D. Howells. New York, 1891.</p> + +<p class="hang">10. "The Art of Fiction" (in "Partial Portraits"). By Henry +James. London, 1888.</p> + +<p class="hang">11. "The Art of Thomas Hardy." By Lionel Johnson.</p> + +<p class="hang">12. "The Principles of Success in Literature." By G. H. Lewes. +London, 1898.</p> + +<p class="hang">13. "The English Novel and the Principles of its Development." +New York, 1883.</p> + +<p class="hang">14. "The Philosophy of the Short Story" (in <i>Pen and Ink</i>). By +Brander Matthews. New York, 1888.</p> + +<p class="hang">15. "Pierre and Jean." By Guy de Maupassant. See Preface.</p> + +<p class="hang">16. "Four Years of Novel Reading." By Professor Moulton. +London, 1895.</p> + +<p class="hang">17. "The British Novelists and their Styles." By David Masson. +London, 1859.</p> + +<p class="hang">18. "Appreciations, with an Essay on Style." By Walter Pater. +London, 1890.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>19. "The English Novel." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">20. "Style." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">21. "The Logic of Style." By W. Renton. London, 1874.</p> + +<p class="hang">22. "The Philosophy of Fiction." By D. G. Thompson. New York, +1890.</p> + +<p class="hang">23. "A Humble Remonstrance," and "A Gossip on Romance" (in +"Memories and Portraits"). By R. L. Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="hang">24. "The Present State of the English Novel" (in +"Miscellaneous Essays"). By George Saintsbury. London, 1892.</p> + +<p class="hang">25. "Notes on Style" (in "Essays: Speculative and +Suggestive"). By J. A. Symonds. London, 1890.</p> + +<p class="hang">26. "The Philosophy of Style." By Herbert Spencer. London, +1872.</p> + +<p class="hang">27. "Introduction to the Study of English Fiction." By W. E. +Simonds. Boston, U.S.A., 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">28. "Le Roman Experimental." Paris, 1881.</p> + +<p class="hang">29. "How to Write Fiction." Published by George Redway.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>30. "The Art of Writing Fiction." Published by Wells Gardner.</p> + +<p class="hang">31. "On Novels and the Art of Writing Them." By Anthony +Trollope. In his "Autobiography," vol. ii.</p></div> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> +<h2>APPENDIX III</h2> + +<h3>MAGAZINE ARTICLES ON WRITING FICTION</h3> + + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="hang">"One Way to Write a Novel." By Julian Hawthorne. +<i>Cosmopolitan</i>, vol. ii p. 96.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Names in Novels." <i>Blackwood</i>, vol cl. p. 230.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Naming of Novels." <i>Macmillan</i>, vol. lxi. p. 372.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Fiction as a Literary Form." By H. W. Mabie. <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i>, vol. v. p. 620.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Candour in English Fiction." By W. Besant, Mrs Lynn Linton, +and Thomas Hardy. <i>New Review</i>, vol. ii. p. 6.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Future of Fiction." By James Sully. <i>Forum</i>, vol. ix. p. +644.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Names in Fiction." By G. Saintsbury. <i>Macmillan</i>, vol. lix. +p. 115.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Real People in Fiction." By W. S. Walsh. <i>Lippincott</i>, vol. +xlviii. p. 309.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>"The Relation of Art to Truth." By W. H. Mallock. <i>Forum</i>, +vol. ix p. 36.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Success in Fiction." By M. O. W. Oliphant. <i>Forum</i>, vol vii. +p. 314.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Great Writers and their Art." <i>Chambers's Journal</i>, vol. lxv. +p. 465.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Jews in English Fiction." <i>London Quarterly Review</i>, vol. +xxviii. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Heroines in Modern Fiction." <i>National Review</i>, vol. xxix. +1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"A Claim for the Art of Fiction." By E. G. Wheelwright. +<i>Westminster Review</i>, vol. cxlvi. 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Speculations of a Story-Teller." By G. W. Cable. +<i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, vol. lxxviii. 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang">"A Novelist's Views of Novel Writing." By E. S. Phelps. +<i>M'Clure's Magazine</i>, vol. viii. 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Hints to Young Authors of Fiction." By Grant Allen. <i>Great +Thoughts</i>, vol. vii. 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Novels Without a Purpose." <i>North American Review</i>, vol. +clxiii. 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Fiction of the Future." Symposium. <i>Ludgate Monthly</i>, +vol. ii. 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>"The Place of Realism in Fiction." <i>Humanitarian</i>, vol. vii. +1895. By Dr W. Barry, A. Daudet, Miss E. Dixon, Sir G. +Douglas, G. Gissing, W. H. Mallock, Richard Pryce, Miss A. +Sergeant, F. Wedmore, and W. H. Wilkins.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Influence of Idealism in Fiction." By Ingrad Harting. +<i>Humanitarian</i>, vol. vi. 1895.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Novelists on their Works." <i>Ludgate Monthly</i>, vol. i. 1895.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Novel Writing and Novel Reading." Interview with Baring +Gould. <i>Cassell's Family Magazine</i>, vol. xxii. 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Women Characters of Fiction." By H. Schutz Wilson. +<i>Gentleman's Magazine</i>, vol. cclxxvii. 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">"School of Fiction Series." In <i>Atalanta</i>, vol. vii. 1894:</p> + +<div class="blockquot2"><p class="hang">1. "The Picturesque Novel, as represented by R. D. Blackmore." +By K. Macquoid.</p> + +<p class="hang">2. "The Autobiographical Novel, as represented by C. Brontë." +By Dr A. H. Japp.</p> + +<p class="hang">3. "The Historical Novel, as represented by Sir Walter Scott." +By E. L. Arnold.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>4. "The Ethical Novel, as represented by George Eliot." By J. +A. Noble.</p> + +<p class="hang">5. "The Satirical Novel, as represented by W. M. Thackeray." +By H. A. Page.</p> + +<p class="hang">6. "The Human Novel, as represented by Mrs Gaskell." By +Maxwell Gray.</p> + +<p class="hang">7. "The Sensational Novel, as represented by Mrs Henry Wood." +By E. C. Grey.</p> + +<p class="hang">8. "The Humorous Novel, as represented by Oliver Goldsmith." +By Dr A. H. Japp.</p></div> + +<p class="hang">"The Shudder in Literature." By Jules Claretie. <i>North American Review</i>, +vol. clv. 1892.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Profitable Reading of Fiction." By Thomas Hardy. <i>Forum</i>, vol. v. +p. 57.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Picturesque in Novels." <i>Chambers's Journal</i>, vol. lxii. 1892.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Realism in Fiction." By E. F. Benson. <i>Nineteenth Century</i>, vol. xxxiv. +1893.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Great Characters in Novels." <i>Spectator</i>, vol. lxxi. 1893.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Modern Novel." By A. E. Barr. <i>North American Review</i>, vol. clix. +1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Novels of Adventure and Manners." <i>Quarterly Review</i>, vol. clxxix. +1894.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>"The Women of Fiction." By H. S. Wilson. <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i>, new +series, vol. liii. 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Why do Certain Works of Fiction Succeed?" By M. Wilcox. <i>New Scientific +Review</i>, vol. i. 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Magazine Fiction, and How not to Write It." By F. M. Bird. +<i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>, vol. liv. 1894.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Picaresque Novel." By J. F. Kelly. <i>New Review</i>, vol. xiii. p. 59.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Irresponsible Novelist." <i>Macmillan's Magazine</i>, vol. lxxii. p. 73.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Great Realists and Empty Story Tellers." By H. H. Boyesen. <i>Forum</i>, +vol. xviii. p. 724.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Motion and Emotion in Fiction." By R. M. Doggett. <i>Overland Monthly</i>, +new series, vol. xxvi. p. 614.</p> + +<p class="hang">"'Tendencies' in Fiction." By A. Lang. <i>North American Review</i>, vol. +clxi. p. 153.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Two Eternal Types in Fiction." By H. W. Mabie. <i>Forum</i>, vol. xix. +p. 41.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Problem of the Novel." By A. N. Meyer. <i>Arena</i>, vol xvii. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>"My Favourite Novel and Novelist." <i>The Munsey Magazine</i>, vols. +xvii.-xviii. 1897. By W. D. Howells, B. Matthews, F. B. Stockton, Mrs B. +Harrison, S. R. Crockett, P. Bourget, W. C. Russell, and A. Hope +Hawkins.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Hard Times among the Heroines of Novels." By E. A. Madden. +<i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>, vol. lxix. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"On the Theory and Practice of Local Colour." By W. P. James. +<i>Macmillan's Magazine</i>, vol. lxxvi. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Writing of Fiction." By F. M. Bird. <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>, vol. +lx. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Novelists' Estimates of their own Work." <i>National Magazine</i> (Boston, +U.S.A.), vol. x. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Fundamentals of Fiction." By B. Burton. <i>Forum</i>, vol. xxviii. 1899.</p> + +<p class="hang">"On the Future of Novel Writing." By Sir Walter Besant. <i>The Idler</i>, +vol. xiii. 1898.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Short Story." By F. Wedmore. <i>Nineteenth Century</i>, vol. xliii. +1898.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>"The Complete Novelist." By James Payn. <i>Strand</i>, vol. xiv. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"What is a Realist?" By A. Morrison. <i>New Review</i>, vol. xvi. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Historical Novel." By B. Matthews. <i>Forum</i>, vol. xxiv. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Limits of Realism in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. <i>New Review</i>, vol. +viii. p. 201.</p> + +<p class="hang">"New Watchwords in Fiction." By Hall Caine. <i>Contemporary Review</i>, vol. +lvii. p. 479.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Science of Fiction." By Paul Bourget, Walter Besant, and Thomas +Hardy. <i>New Review</i>, vol. iv. p. 304.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Dangers of the Analytic Spirit in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. <i>New +Review</i>, vol. vi. p. 48.</p> + +<p class="hang">"Cervantes, Zola, Kipling, and Coy." By Brander Matthews. +<i>Cosmopolitan</i>, vol. xiv. p. 609.</p> + +<p class="hang">"On Style in Literature." By R. L. Stevenson. <i>Contemporary Review</i>, +vol. xlvii. p. 458.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Apotheosis of the Novel." By Herbert Paul. <i>Contemporary Review</i>, +vol. xli. 1897.</p> + +<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>"Vacant Places in Literature." By W. Robertson Nicoll. <i>British Weekly</i>, +March 20, 1895.</p> + +<p class="hang">"What Makes a Novel Successful?" By W. Robertson Nicoll. <i>British +Weekly</i>, June 16, 1896.</p> + +<p class="hang">"The Use of Dialect in Fiction." By F. H. French. <i>Atalanta</i>, vol. viii. +p. 125.</p></div> + + +<p class="sectctr">THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH</p> + + + + +<hr class="newchapter" /> +<h2><a name="TN" id="TN"></a>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</h2> + + +<p>Pages iv, vi, xii, 172, 174, and 200 are blank in the orginal.</p> + +<p>The following corrections have been made to the text:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Page 77: says Mr W. M. Hunt.[original has comma]</p> + +<p>Page 87: If you know your characters[original has +chararacters]</p> + +<p>Page 101: and "risk" the reader's acuteness,[original has +cuteness]</p> + +<p>Page 113: in a way quite different to[illegible in the +original] everybody else</p> + +<p>Page 126: for which, indeed, the spot[illegible in the +original—confirmed in other sources] is most fit</p> + +<p>Page 202: 9. "Criticism and Fiction."[quotation mark missing +in original] By W. D. Howells.</p> + +<p>[120:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors.[period missing in +original]"</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of How to Write a Novel, by Anonymous + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL *** + +***** This file should be named 38887-h.htm or 38887-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/8/8/38887/ + +Produced by David Starner, Lisa Reigel, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: How to Write a Novel + A Practical Guide to the Art of Fiction + +Author: Anonymous + +Release Date: February 15, 2012 [EBook #38887] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Lisa Reigel, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been +left as in the original. Words in italics in the original are surrounded +by _underscores_. Ellipses match the original. + +A few typographical errors have been corrected. A complete list follows +the text. + + + The "how to" Series + + + + + HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL + + + + + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + | The "how to" Series | + | | + | | + | I. HOW TO DEAL WITH | + | YOUR BANKER | + | | + | BY HENRY WARREN | + | | + | Author of "Banks and their Customers" | + | | + | _Third Edition._ | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 5s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | II. WHERE AND HOW TO | + | DINE IN PARIS | + | | + | BY ROWLAND STRONG | + | | + | _Fcap. 8vo, Cloth, Cover Designed, 2s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | III. HOW TO WRITE FOR | + | THE MAGAZINES | + | | + | BY "L600 A YEAR FROM IT" | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 2s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | IV. HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR | + | BANKER | + | | + | BY HENRY WARREN | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | V. HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL: | + | | + | A Practical Guide to the Art | + | of Fiction. | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d._ | + | | + | | + | VI. HOW TO INVEST AND | + | HOW TO SPECULATE | + | | + | BY C. H. THORPE | + | | + | _Crown 8vo, Cloth, 5s._ | + | | + | | + | LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS | + | 9 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. | + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + The "how to" Series + + + + + HOW TO WRITE A + NOVEL + + A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE ART + OF FICTION + + + LONDON + GRANT RICHARDS + 9 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. + 1901 + + + + +PREFACE + + +This little book is one which so well explains itself that no +introductory word is needed; and I only venture to intrude a sentence or +two here with a view to explain the style in which I have conveyed my +ideas. I desired to be plain and practical, and therefore chose the +direct and epistolary form as being most suitable for the purpose in +hand. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER I + + THE OBJECT IN VIEW + PAGE + An Inevitable Comparison 3 + + A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing 5 + + The Teachable and the Unteachable 9 + + + CHAPTER II + + A GOOD STORY TO TELL + + Where do Novelists get their Stories from? 12 + + Is there a Deeper Question? 14 + + What about the Newspapers? 17 + + + CHAPTER III + + HOW TO BEGIN + + Formation of the Plot 25 + + The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction" 28 + + Care in the Use of Actual Events 31 + + The Natural History of a Plot 35 + + Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot 40 + + Plot-Formation in Earnest 43 + + Characters first: Plot afterwards 45 + + The Natural Background 47 + + + CHAPTER IV + + CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERISATION + + The Chief Character 50 + + How to Portray Character 52 + + Methods of Characterisation 55 + + The Trick of "Idiosyncrasies" 58 + + + CHAPTER V + + STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE + + Narrative Art 63 + + Movement 66 + + Aids to Description: The Point of View 67 + + Selecting the Main Features 70 + + Description by Suggestion 73 + + Facts to Remember 75 + + + CHAPTER VI + + STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE--CONTINUED + + Colour: Local and Otherwise 79 + + What about Dialect? 84 + + On Dialogue 86 + + Points in Conversation 91 + + "Atmosphere" 94 + + + CHAPTER VII + + PITFALLS + + Items of General Knowledge 96 + + Specific Subjects 98 + + Topography and Geography 100 + + Scientific Facts 101 + + Grammar 103 + + + CHAPTER VIII + + THE SECRET OF STYLE + + Communicable Elements 105 + + Incommunicable Elements 110 + + + CHAPTER IX + + HOW AUTHORS WORK + + Quick and Slow 116 + + How many Words a Day? 119 + + Charles Reade and Anthony Trollope 122 + + The Mission of Fancy 127 + + Fancies of another Type 129 + + Some of our Younger Writers: Mr Zangwill, Mr Coulson + Kernahan, Mr Robert Barr, Mr H. G. Wells 132 + + Curious Methods 134 + + + CHAPTER X + + IS THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF NOVELS EXHAUSTED? + + The Question Stated 138 + + "Change" not "Exhaustion" 142 + + Why we talk about Exhaustion 145 + + + CHAPTER XI + + THE NOVEL _v._ THE SHORT STORY + + Practise the Short Story 154 + + Short Story Writers on their Art 159 + + + CHAPTER XII + + SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS + + The Truth about Success 164 + + Minor Conditions of Success 169 + + + APPENDIX I + + THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. By Edgar Allan Poe 175 + + + APPENDIX II + + BOOKS WORTH READING 201 + + + APPENDIX III + + MAGAZINE ARTICLE ON WRITING FICTION 205 + + + + +HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE OBJECT IN VIEW + + +I am setting myself a task which some people would call very ambitious; +others would call it by a name not quite so polite; and a considerable +number would say it was positively absurd, accompanying their criticism +with derisive laughter. Having discussed the possibility of teaching the +art of writing fiction with a good many different kinds of people, I +know quite intimately the opinions which are likely to be expressed +about this little book; and although I do not intend to burden the +reader with an account of their respective merits, I do intend to make +my own position as clear as possible. First of all, I will examine the +results of a recent symposium on the general question.[1:A] When asked +as to the practicability of a School of Fiction, Messrs Robert Barr, G. +Manville Fenn, M. Betham Edwards, Arthur Morrison, G. B. Burgin, C. J. +C. Hyne, and "Mr" John Oliver Hobbes declared against it; Miss Mary L. +Pendered and Miss Clementina Black--with certain reservations--spoke in +favour of such an institution. True, these names do not include all +representatives of the high places in Fiction, but they are quite +respectable enough for my purpose. It will be seen that the vote is +adverse to the object I have in view. Why? Well, here are a few reasons. +Mr Morrison affirms that writing as a trade is far too pleasant an idea; +John Oliver Hobbes is of opinion that it is impossible to teach anyone +how to produce a work of imagination; and Mr G. B. Burgin asserts that +genius is its own teacher--a remark characterised by unwitting modesty. +Now, with the spirit of these convictions I am not disposed to quarrel. +This is an age which imagines that everything can be crammed into the +limits of an academical curriculum; and there are actually some people +who would not hesitate to endow a chair of "Ideas and Imagination." We +need to be reminded occasionally that there are incommunicable elements +in all art. + + +An Inevitable Comparison + +But the question arises: If there be an art of literature, why cannot +its principles be taught and practised as well as those of any other +art? We have schools of Painting, Sculpture, and Music--why not a school +of Fiction? Let it be supposed that a would-be artist has conceived a +brilliant idea which he is anxious to embody in literature or put on a +canvas. In order to do so, he must observe certain well-established +rules which we may call the grammar of art: for just as in literature a +man may express beautiful ideas in ungrammatical language, and without +any sense of relationship or development, so may the same ideas be put +in a picture, and yet the art be of the crudest. Now, in what way will +our would-be artist become acquainted with those rules? The answer is +simple. If his genius had been of the first order he would have known +them intuitively: the society of men and women, of great books and fine +pictures, would have provided sufficient stimuli to bring forth the best +productions of his mind. Thus Shakespeare was never taught the +principles of dramatic art; Bach had an instinctive appreciation of the +laws of harmony; and Turner had the same insight into laws of painting. +These were artists of the front rank: they simply looked--and +understood. + +But if his powers belonged to the order which is called _talent_, he +would have to do one of two things: either stumble upon these rules one +by one and learn them by experience--or be taught them in their true +order by others, in which case an Institute of Literary Art would +already exist in an embryonic stage. Why should it not be developed into +a matured school? Is it that the dignity of genius forbids it, or that +pupilage is half a disgrace? True genius never shuns the marks of the +learner. Even Shakespeare grew in the understanding of art and in his +power of handling its elements. Professor Dowden says: "In the 'Two +Gentlemen of Verona,' Porteus, the fickle, is set over against +Valentine the faithful; Sylvia, the bright and intellectual, is set over +against Julia, the ardent and tender; Launce, the humorist, is set over +against Speed, the wit. This indicates a certain want of confidence on +the part of the poet; he fears the weight of too much liberty. He cannot +yet feel that his structure is secure without a mechanism to support the +structure. He endeavours to attain unity of effect less by the +inspiration of a common life than by the disposition of parts. In the +early plays structure determines function; in the later plays +organisation is preceded by life."[5:A] + + +A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing + +When certain grumpy folk ask: "How do you propose to draw up your +lessons on 'The way to find Local Colour'; 'Plotting'; 'How to manage a +Love-Scene,' and so forth?" it is expected that a writer like myself +will be greatly disconcerted. Not at all. It so happens that a +distinguished critic, now deceased, once delivered himself on the +possibility of teaching literary art, and I propose to quote a paragraph +or two from his article. "The morning finds the master in his working +arm-chair; and seated about the room which is generally the study, but +is now the studio, are some half-dozen pupils. The subject for the hour +is narrative-construction, and the master holds in his hand a small MS. +which, as he slowly reads it aloud, proves to be a somewhat elaborate +synopsis of the story of one of his own published or projected novels. +The reading over, students are free to state objections, or to ask +questions. One remarks that the _denouement_ is brought about by a mere +accident, and therefore seems to lack the inevitableness which, the +master has always taught, is essential to organic unity. The criticism +is recognised as intelligent, but the master shows that the accident has +not the purely fortuitous character which renders it obnoxious to the +general objection. While it is technically an accident, it is in reality +hardly accidental, but an occurrence which fits naturally into an +opening provided by a given set of circumstances, the circumstances +having been brought about by a course of action which is vitally +characteristic of the person whose fate is involved. Then the master +himself will ask a question. 'The students,' he says, 'will have noticed +that a character who takes no important part in the action until the +story is more than half told, makes an insignificant and unnoticeable +appearance in a very early chapter, where he seems a purposeless and +irrelevant intrusion.' They have paper before them, and he gives them +twenty minutes in which to state their opinion as to whether this +premature appearance is, or is not, justified by the canons of narrative +art, giving, of course, the reasons upon which that opinion has been +formed. The papers are handed in to be reported upon next morning, and +the lesson is at an end."[7:A] + +This is James Ashcroft Noble's idea of handling a theme in fiction; one +of a large and varied number. To me it is a feasible plan emanating from +a man who was the sanest of literary advisers. If it be objected that Mr +Noble was only a critic and not a novelist, perhaps a word from Sir +Walter Besant may add the needful element of authority. "I can conceive +of a lecturer dissecting a work, or a series of works, showing how the +thing sprang first from a central figure in a central group; how there +arose about this group, scenery, the setting of the fable; how the +atmosphere became presently charged with the presence of mankind, other +characters attaching themselves to the group; how situations, scenes, +conversations, led up little by little to the full development of this +central idea. I can also conceive of a School of Fiction in which the +students should be made to practise observation, description, dialogue, +and dramatic effects. The student, in fact, would be taught how to use +his tools." A reading-class for the artistic study of great writers +could not be other than helpful. One lesson might be devoted to the way +in which the best authors foreshadowed crises and important turns in +events. An example may be found in "Julius Caesar," where, in the second +scene, the soothsayer says: + + "Beware the Ides of March!" + +--a solitary voice in strange contrast with those by whom he is +surrounded, and preparing us for the dark deed upon which the play is +based. Or the text-book might be a modern novel--Hardy's "Well-Beloved" +for instance--a work full of delicate literary craftsmanship. The storm +which overtook Pierston and Miss Bencomb is prepared for--first by the +conversation of two men who pass them on the road, and one of whom +casually remarks that the weather seems likely to change; then Pierston +himself observes "the evening--louring"; finally, and most suddenly, the +rain descends in perfect fury. + + +The Teachable and the Unteachable + +I hope my position is now beginning to be tolerably clear to the reader. +I address myself to the man or woman of talent--those people who have +writing ability, but who need instruction in the manipulation of +characters, the formation of plots, and a host of other points with +which I shall deal hereafter. As to what is teachable, and not +teachable, in writing novels, perhaps I may be permitted to use a close +analogy. Style, _per se_, is absolutely unteachable simply because it is +the man himself; you cannot teach _personality_. Can Dickens, Thackeray, +and George Meredith be reduced to an academic schedule? Never. Every +soul of man is an individual entity and cannot be reproduced. But +although style is incommunicable, the writing of easy, graceful English +can be taught in any class-room--that is to say, the structure of +sentences and paragraphs, the logical sequence of thought, and the +secret of forceful expression are capable of exact scientific treatment. + +In like manner, although no school could turn out novelists to order--a +supply of Stevensons annually, and a brace of Hardys every two +years--there is yet enough common material in all art-work to be mapped +out in a course of lessons. I shall show that the two great requisites +of novel-writing are (1) a good story to tell, and (2) ability to tell +it effectively. Briefly stated, my position is this: no teaching can +produce "good stories to tell," but it can increase the power of "the +telling," and change it from crude and ineffective methods to those +which reach the apex of developed art. Of course there are dangers to +be avoided, and the chief of them is that mechanical correctness, "so +praiseworthy and so intolerable," as Lowell says in his essay on +Lessing. But this need not be an insurmountable difficulty. A truly +educated man never labours to speak correctly; being educated, +grammatical language follows as a necessary consequence. The same is +true of the artist: when he has learned the secrets of literature, he +puts away all thoughts of rule and law--nay, in time, his very ideas +assume artistic form. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1:A] _The New Century Review_, vol. i. + +[5:A] "Shakespeare: His Mind and Art," p. 61. + +[7:A] Article in _The New Age_. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +A GOOD STORY TO TELL + + +Where do Novelists get their Stories from? + +I said a moment ago that no teaching could impart a story. If you cannot +invent one for yourself, by observation of life and sympathetic insight +into human nature, you may depend upon it that you are not called to be +a writer of novels. Then where, it may be asked, do novelists get their +stories? Well, they hardly know themselves; they say the ideas "come." +For instance, here is the way Mr Baring Gould describes the advent of +"Mehalah." "One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in the coastguard, +invited me to accompany him on a cruise among the creeks in the estuary +of the Maldon river--the Blackwater. I went out, and we spent the day +running among mud flats and low holms, covered with coarse grass and +wild lavender, and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a ruined farm +built on arches above this marsh to eat some lunch; no glass was in the +windows, and the raw wind howled in and swept around us. That night I +was laid up with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed and was in the marshes in +imagination, listening to the wind and the lap of the tide; and +'Mehalah' naturally rose out of it all, a tragic gloomy tale."[13:A] + +Exactly. "Mehalah" _rose_; that is enough! If ideas, plots of stories, +and new groupings of character do not "rise" in _your_ mind, it is +simply because you lack the power to originate them spontaneously. Take +the somewhat fabulous story of Newton and the apple. Many a man before +Sir Isaac had seen an apple fall, but not one of them used that +observation as he did. In the same way there are scores of men who have +the same experiences and live the same kind of life, but it occurs to +only one among their number to gather up these experiences into an +interesting narrative. Why should it "occur" to one and not the others? +Because the one has literary gifts and literary impetus, and the +others--haven't. + + +Is there a Deeper Question? + +Having dealt with that side of the subject, I should like to say that +all novelists have their own methods of obtaining raw material for +stories. By raw material I mean those facts of life which give birth to +narrative ideas. It is said of Thomas Hardy that he never rides in an +omnibus or railway carriage without mentally inventing the history of +every traveller. One has to beware of fables in writing of such men, but +I have no reason to doubt the statement just made. I do not make it with +the intention of advocating anybody to go and do likewise, but as +illustrating one way of studying human nature and developing the +imaginative faculty. + +It will be necessary to speak of _observation_ a good many times in the +course of these remarks, and one might as well say what the word really +means. Does it mean "seeing things"? A great deal more than that. It is +very easy to "see things" and yet not observe at all. If you want ideas +for stories, or characters with which to form a longer narrative, you +must not only use your _eyes_ but your _mind_. What is wanted is +_observation_ with _inference_; or, to be more correct, with +_imagination_. Make sure that you know the traits of character that are +typically human; those which are the same in a Boer, a Hindu, or a +Chinaman. It is not difficult to mark the special points of each of +these as distinct from the Englishman; but your first duty is to know +human nature _per se_. How is that knowledge to be obtained? do you say! +Well, begin with yourself; there is ample scope in that direction. And +when you are tired of looking within--look without. Enter a tram-car and +listen to the people talking. Who talks the loudest? What kind of woman +is it who always gives the conductor most trouble? The man who sits at +the far end of the car in a shabby coat, and who is regarding his boots +with a fixed, anxious stare--what is he thinking about? and what is his +history? Then a baby begins to yell, and its mother cannot soothe it. +One old man smiles benignly on the struggling infant, but the old man +next to him looks "daggers." And why? + +To see character in action there is no finer vantage-point than the top +of a London omnibus. Watch the way in which people walk; notice their +forms of salutation when they meet; and study the expressions on their +faces. Tragedy and comedy are everywhere, and you have not to go beneath +the surface of life in order to find them. It sounds prosaic enough to +speak of studying human nature at a railway station, but such places are +brimful of event. I know more than one novelist who has found his +"motif" by quietly watching the crowd on a platform from behind a +waiting-room window. Wherever humanity congregates there should the +student be. Not that he should restrict his observations to men and +women in groups or masses--he must cover all the ground by including +individuals who are to be specially considered. The logician's terms +come in handy at this point: _extensive_ and _intensive_--such must be +the methods of a beginner's analysis of his fellow-creatures. + + +What about the Newspapers? + +The daily press is the great mirror of human events. When we open the +paper at our breakfast table we find a literal record of the previous +day's joy and sorrow--marriages and murders, failures and successes, +news from afar and news from the next street--they all find a place. The +would-be novel writer should be a diligent student of the newspaper. In +no other sphere will he discover such a plenitude of raw material. Some +of the cases tried at the Courts contain elements of dramatic quality +far beyond those he has ever imagined; and here and there may be found +in miniature the outlines of a splendid plot. Of course everything +depends on the reader's mind. If you cannot read between the lines--that +is the end of the matter, and your novel will remain unwritten; but if +you can--some day you may expect to succeed. + +I once came across a practical illustration of the manner in which a +newspaper paragraph was treated imaginatively. The result is rather +crude and unfinished, but most likely it was never intended to stand as +a finished production, occurring as it does, in an American book on +American journalism.[18:A] + +Here is the paragraph: + + "John Simpson and Michael Flannagan, two railroad labourers, + quarrelled yesterday morning, and Flannagan killed Simpson + with a coupling-pin. The murderer is in jail. He says Simpson + provoked him and dared him to strike." + +Now the question arises: What was the quarrel about? We don't know; so +an originating cause must be invented. The inventor whose illustration I +am about to give conceived the story thus: + + "'Taint none o' yer business how often I go to see the girl." + + "Ef Oi ketch yez around my Nora's house agin, Oi'll break a + hole in yer shneakin' head, d'ye moind thot!" + + "You braggin' Irish coward, you haint got sand enough in you + to come down off'n that car and say that to my face." + + It was John Simpson, a yard switchman who spoke this taunt to + a section hand. A moment more and Michael Flannagan stood on + the ground beside him. There was a murderous fire in the + Irishman's eyes, and in his hand he held a heavy coupling-pin. + + "Tut! tut! Mike. Throw away the iron and play fair. You can + wallup him!" cried the rest of the gang. + + "He's a coward; he dassn't hit me," came the wasp-like taunt + of the switchman. "Let him alone, fellers; his girl's give him + the shake, and----" + + Those were the last words Simpson spoke. The murderous + coupling-pin had descended like a scimitar and crushed his + skull. + + An awed silence fell upon the little group as they raised the + fallen man and saw that he was dead. + + "Ye'll be hangin' fur this, Mikey, me bye," whispered one of + his horrified companions as the police dragged off the + unresisting murderer. + + "Oi don't care," came the sullen reply, with a dry sob that + belied it. Then, with a look of unutterable hatred, and a nod + towards the white, upturned face of his enemy, he added under + his breath, "He'll niver git her now." + +This is enough to give the beginner an idea of the way in which stories +and plots sometimes "occur" to writers of fiction. It is, however, only +one of a thousand ways, and my advice to the novice is this: Keep your +eyes and ears open; observe and inquire, read and reflect; look at life +and the things of life from your own point of view; and just as a +financier manipulates events for the sake of money, so ought you to turn +all your experiences into the mould of fiction. If, after this, you +don't succeed, it is evident you have made a mistake. Be courageous +enough to acknowledge the fact, and leave the writing of novels to +others. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[13:A] "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 43. + +[18:A] Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 208. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +HOW TO BEGIN + + +You have now obtained your story--in its bare outlines, at least. The +next question is, How are you to make a start? Well, that is an +important question, and it cannot be evaded. + +Clarence Rook, in a waggish moment, said two things were necessary in +order to write a novel: + + (1) _Writing Materials_, + (2) _A Month_; + +but he seems to have thought that the month should be a month's +imprisonment for attempting such an indiscretion. In these pages, +however, we are serious folk, and having thanked Mr Rook for his +pleasantry, we return to the point before us. + +First of all, What kind of a novel is yours to be? Historical? If so, +have you read all the authorities? Do you feel the throb of the life of +that period about which you are going to write? Are its chief personages +living beings in your imagination? and have you learned all the details +respecting customs, manners, language, and dress? If not, you are very +far from being ready to make a start, even though the "story" itself is +quite clear to you. + +Our great historical novelists devour libraries before they sit down to +write. One would like to know how many books Dr Conan Doyle digested +before he published "The Refugees," and Stanley Weyman before he brought +out his "A Gentleman of France." Do not be carried away with the +alluring idea that it is easy to take up historical subjects because the +characters are there to hand, and the "story" practically "made." +Directly you make the attempt, you will find out your mistake. Write +about the life you know best--the life of the present day. You will then +avoid the necessity of keeping everything in chronological +perspective--a necessity which an open-air preacher, whom I heard last +week, quite forgot when he said that the sailors shouted down the +hatchway to the sleeping Prophet of Nineveh: "Jonah! We're sinking! Come +and help us with the pumps!" + +No; before you begin, have a clear idea of what you are going to do. The +type of your story will in many cases decide the kind of treatment +required; but it may be well, nevertheless, to say a few words about the +various kinds of novels that are written nowadays, and the differences +that separate them one from another. + +There is the _Realistic_ novel, of which Mr Maugham's "Liza of Lambeth" +and Mr Morrison's "A Child of the Jago" may be taken as recent examples. +These authors attempt to picture life as it is; they sink their own +personalities, and endeavour to write a literal account of the +"personalities" of other people. Very often they succeed, but absolute +realism is impossible unless a man has no objection to appearing in a +Police Court. In this type of fiction, plot, action, and inter-play of +characters are not important: the main purpose is a sort of literary +biograph; life in action, without comment or underlying philosophy, and +minus the pre-eminent factor of art. + +Then there is the novel of _Manners_. The customs of life, the social +peculiarities of certain groups of men and women, the humours and moral +qualities of life--these are the chief features in the novel of manners. +As a form of fiction it is earlier than the realistic novel, but both +are alike in having little or no concern with plot and character +development. + +Next comes the novel of _Incident_. Here the stress is placed upon +particular events--what led up to them and the consequences that +followed--hence the structure of the narrative, and the powers of +movement and suspense are important factors in achieving success. + +A _Romance_ is in a very important sense a novel of incident, but the +"incident" is specialised in character, and usually deals with the +passionate and fundamental powers of man--hate, jealousy, revenge, and +scenes of violence. Or it may be "incident" which has to do with life in +other worlds as imagined by the writer, and occasionally takes on the +style of the supernatural. + +Lastly, there is the _Dramatic_ novel, where the chief feature is the +influence of event on character, and of characters on each other. + +Now, to which class is your projected novel to belong? In fiction you +must walk by sight and not by faith. Never sit down to write believing +that although you can't see the finish of your story, it will come out +all right "in the end." It won't. You should know at the outset to which +type of fiction you are to devote your energies; how, otherwise, can you +observe the laws of art which govern its ideal being? + + +Formation of the Plot + +In one sense your plot is formed already--that is to say, the very idea +of your story involves a plot more or less distinct. As yet, however, +you do not see clearly how things are going to work out, and it is now +your business to settle the matter so far as it lies in your power to +do so. Now, a plot is not _made_; it is _a structural growth_. Suppose +you wish to present a domestic scene in which the folly of high temper +is to be proved. Is not the plot concealed in the idea? Certainly. Hence +you perhaps place a man and his wife at breakfast. They begin to talk +amiably, then become quarrelsome, and finally fall into loving +agreement. Or you light upon a more original plan of bringing out your +point; but in any case, the plot evolves itself step by step. Wilkie +Collins has left some interesting gossip behind him with reference to +"The Woman in White": "My first proceeding is to get my central +idea--the pivot on which the story turns. The central idea in 'The Woman +in White' is the idea of a conspiracy in private life, in which +circumstances are so handled as to rob a woman of her identity, by +confounding her with another woman sufficiently like her in personal +appearance to answer the wicked purpose. The destruction of her identity +represents a first division of her story; the recovery of her identity +marks a second division. My central idea next suggests some of my chief +characters. + +"A clever devil must conduct the conspiracy. Male devil or female devil? +The sort of wickedness wanted seems to be a man's wickedness. Perhaps a +foreign man. Count Fosco faintly shows himself to me before I know his +name. I let him wait, and begin to think about the two women. They must +be both innocent, and both interesting. Lady Glyde dawns on me as one of +the innocent victims. I try to discover the other--and fail. I try what +a walk will do for me--and fail. I devote the evening to a new +effort--and fail. Experience tells me to take no more trouble about it, +and leave that other woman to come of her own accord. The next morning +before I have been awake in my bed for more than ten minutes, my +perverse brains set to work without consulting me. Poor Anne Catherick +comes into the room, and says 'Try me.' + +"I have now got an idea, and three of my characters. What is there to do +now? My next proceeding is to begin building up the story. Here my +favourite three efforts must be encountered. First effort: To begin at +the beginning. Second effort: To keep the story always advancing, +without paying the smallest attention to the serial division in parts, +or to the book publications in volumes. Third effort: To decide on the +end. All this is done as my father used to paint his skies in his famous +sea-pictures--at one heat. As yet I do not enter into details; I merely +set up my landmarks. In doing this, the main situations of the story +present themselves in all sorts of new aspects. These discoveries lead +me nearer and nearer to finding the right end. The end being decided on, +I go back again to the beginning, and look at it with a new eye, and +fail to be satisfied with it." + + +The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction" + +"I have yielded to the worst temptation that besets a novelist--the +temptation to begin with a striking incident without counting the cost +in the shape of explanations that must and will follow. These pests of +fiction, to reader and writer alike, can only be eradicated in one way. +I have already mentioned the way--to begin at the beginning. In the case +of 'The Woman in White,' I get back, as I vainly believe, to the true +starting-point of the story. I am now at liberty to set the new novel +going, having, let me repeat, no more than an outline of story and +characters before me, and leaving the details in each case to the spur +of the moment. For a week, as well as I can remember, I work for the +best part of every day, but not as happily as usual. An unpleasant sense +of something wrong worries me. At the beginning of the second week a +disheartening discovery reveals itself. I have not found the right +beginning of 'The Woman in White' yet. The scene of my opening chapters +is in Cumberland. Miss Fairlie (afterwards Lady Glyde); Mr Fairlie, with +his irritable nerves and his art treasures; Miss Halcombe (discovered +suddenly, like Anne Catherick), are all waiting the arrival of the young +drawing-master, Walter Hartwright. No; this won't do. The person to be +first introduced is Anne Catherick. She must already be a familiar +figure to the reader when the reader accompanies me to Cumberland. This +is what must be done, but I don't see how to do it; no new idea comes to +me; I and my MS. have quarrelled, and don't speak to each other. One +evening I happen to read of a lunatic who has escaped from an asylum--a +paragraph of a few lines only in a newspaper. Instantly the idea comes +to me of Walter Hartwright's midnight meeting with Anne Catherick +escaped from the asylum. 'The Woman in White' begins again, and nobody +will ever be half as much interested in it now as I am. From that moment +I have done with my miseries. For the next six months the pen goes on. +It is work, hard work; but the harder the better, for this excellent +reason: the work is its own exceeding great reward. As an example of the +gradual manner in which I reached the development of character, I may +return for a moment to Fosco. The making him fat was an afterthought; +his canaries and his white mice were found next; and, the most valuable +discovery of all, his admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a +conviction that he would not be true to nature unless there was some +weak point somewhere in his character." + + +Care in the Use of Actual Events + +I do not apologise for the lengthiness of this quotation--it is so much +to the point, and is replete with instructive ideas. The beginner must +beware of following actual events too closely. There is a danger of +accepting actuality instead of literary possibility as the measure of +value. _Picturesque_ means fit to be put in a picture, and +_literatesque_ means fit to be put in a book. In making your plot, +therefore, be quite sure you have a subject with these said +possibilities in it, and that in developing them by an ordered and +cumulative series of events, you are following the wise rule laid down +by Aristotle: "Prefer an impossibility which seems probable, to a +probability which seems impossible." + +Remember always that truth is stranger than fiction. Let facts, +newspaper items, things seen and heard, suggest as much as you please, +but never follow literally the literal event. + +Then your plot must be original. I was amused some time ago by reading +the editorial notice to correspondents in an American paper. That editor +meant to save the time of his contributors as well as his own, and he +gave a list of the plots he did not want. The paper was one which +catered for young people. Here is a selection from the list: + + 1. A lost purse where the finder is tempted to keep it, but + finally rises to the emergency and returns it. + + 2. Heaping coals of fire(!) + + 3. Saving one's enemy from drowning. + + 4. Stories of cruel step-mothers. + + 5. Children praying, and having their prayers answered through + being overheard, etc., etc. + +Mr Clarence Rook, to whom I have previously referred, says: "There are +several plots, four or five, at least. Here are some of the recipes for +them. You may rely on them to give thorough satisfaction. Thousands use +them daily, and having tried them once, use no other. Take a heroine. +The age of heroes is past, and this is the age of heroines. She must be +noble, high-souled. (Souls have been worn very high for the past few +seasons.) Her soul is too high for conventional morality. Mix her up +with some disgraceful situations, taking care to add the purest of +motives. Let her poison her mother and run away with a thoughtful +scavenger. When you are tired of her you can pitch her over Waterloo +Bridge."[33:A] + +Over against this style of criticism I should like to place another +which comes from an academical source. Speaking of the plots of Hall +Caine's novels, Professor Saintsbury says that, "with the exception of +'The Scapegoat,' there is an extraordinary and almost heroic monotony of +plot. One might almost throw Mr Caine's plots into the form which is +used by comparative students of folk-lore to tabulate the various +versions of the same legends. Two close relations (if not brothers, at +least cousins) the relationship being sometimes legal, sometimes only +natural, fall in love with the same girl ('Shadow,' 'Hagar,' 'Bondman,' +'Manxman'); in 'The Deemster' the situation is slightly but not really +very different, the brother being jealous of the cousin's affection. In +almost all cases there is renunciation by one; in all, including 'The +Deemster,' one has, if both have not, to pay more or less heavy +penalties for the intended or unintended rivalry. Sometimes, as in 'The +Shadow of a Crime,' 'A Son of Hagar,' and 'The Bondman,' filial +relations are brought in to augment the strife of sentiment in the +individual. Sometimes ('Shadow,' 'Bondman,' and to some extent +'Manxman') the worsted and renouncing party is self-sacrificing more or +less all through; sometimes ('Hagar,' 'Deemster,') he is violent for a +time, and only at last repents. In two cases ('Deemster,' 'Manxman,') +the injured one, or the one who thinks he is injured, has a rival at his +mercy in sleep or disease, is tempted to take his life and forbears. +This might be worked out still further."[35:A] + +No; you must be original or nothing at all. Of course your originality +may not be striking, but, at any rate, make your own plot, and let +others judge it. It is far better to do that than to copy others weakly. +Originality and sincerity are pretty much the same thing, as Carlyle +observed; and if you want a stimulating essay on the subject, read +Lewes' "Principles of Success in Literature," a book, by the way, which +you ought to master thoroughly. + + +The Natural History of a Plot + +I have quoted already from Wilkie Collins as to the growth of plot from +its embryo stages, but that need not deter us from taking an imaginary +example. Let us suppose that you have been possessed for some time with +the idea of treating the great facts of race and religion as a theme for +a novel. After casting about for a suitable illustration, you finally +decide that a Jewish girl, with strictly orthodox parentage, shall fall +in love with a youth of Gentile blood, and Roman Catholic in religion. +That is the bare idea. You can see at once how many dramatic +possibilities it presents; for the passion of love in each case is +pitted against the forces of religious prejudice; and all the powers of +racial exclusiveness are brought into full play. Now, what is the first +thing to do? Well, for you as a beginner, it is to decide _how the story +shall end_. Why? Because everything depends on that. If you intend them +to have a short flirtation, your course of procedure will be very +different to that which must inevitably follow if you intend to make +them marry. In the first case, you will have to provide for the stern +and unalterable facts of race and religion; in the second, for the +possibility of their being overcome. To illustrate further, let me +suppose that the Jewess and the Gentile youth are ultimately to marry. +How will this affect your choice of characters? It will compel you to +choose a Jewess who, although brought up in the orthodox fashion, has +enough ability and education to appreciate life and thought outside her +own immediate circle, and you must invent facts to account for these +things, even though she still worships at the synagogue. On the other +hand, the Gentile Catholic must be a man of liberal tendencies, or he +would never think twice about the Jewess with the possibility of +marrying her. He may persuade himself that he is a good Catholic, but +you are bound to prepare your readers for actions which, to say the +least, are not normal in men of such religious profession. + +The choice of your secondary characters is also determined by the end in +view. Because your story has to do with Jews and Catholics, that is no +reason why your pages should be full of Jews and priests. You want just +as many other people, in addition to your hero and heroine, as are +necessary to bring about the _denouement_: not one more, not one less. +Now, the end in view is to make these young people triumph over their +race and their religion; and over and above the difficulties they have +between themselves, there are difficulties placed by other people. By +whom? Here is a chance for your inventiveness. I would suggest as a +beginning that you create parents for the girl and for the man--orthodox +in each case, and unyielding to the last degree. Give them a name, and +put them down on your list. Money is likely to figure in a narrative of +this kind, and you might arrange for the opportune entrance of an uncle +on the girl's side, who threatens to alter his will (at present made in +her interest) if she encourages the advances of her Gentile lover. On +the man's side, the priest, of course, will have something to say, and +you will be compelled to make a place for him. + +In this way your characters will grow to their complete number, and I +should advise you to draw up a list of them, and opposite each one write +a few notes describing the part they will have to play. One word on +nomenclature. There is a mystic suitability--at any rate in +novels--between a name and a character. To call your marvellous heroine +"Annie" is to hoist a signal of distress, unless you have a unique power +of characterisation; and to speak of your hero as "William" is to +handicap his movements from the start. I am not pleading for fancy +names, but just for that distinctiveness in choice which the artistic +sense decides is fitting. + +To return. The end in view will also shape the course of _events_. +Instead of arranging that these are to be a series of psychological +skirmishes between two people the poles asunder (as would be the case if +their relations were superficial), you have to arrange for events where +the characters are in dead earnest. Then, too, in order to relieve the +tense nature of the narrative, it will be necessary to provide for +happenings which, though not exactly humorous, are still light enough to +distract the attention from the severer aspects of the story. Further, +the natural background should be selected with an eye to the main issue, +and each event should have that cumulative effect which ultimately leads +the reader on to the climax. + +Of course, it is possible to take a quite different _denouement_ to the +one here considered. You might make the pair desperately in love, but +foiled by some disaster near the end. In this case, as in the other, +the narrative will, or ought to, change its perspective accordingly. + + +Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot + +In order to illustrate the subject still further, I quote the +following:-- + +"Consider--say, a diamond robbery. Very well: then, first of all, it +must be a robbery committed under exceptional and mysterious conditions, +otherwise there would be no interest in it. Also, you will perceive that +the robbery must be a big and important thing--no little shoplifting +business. Next, the person robbed must not be a mere diamond merchant, +but a person whose loss will interest the reader, say, one to whom the +robbery is all-important. She shall be, say, a vulgar woman with an +overweening pride in her jewels, and, of course, without the money to +replace them if they are lost. They must be so valuable as to be worn +only on extraordinary occasions, and too valuable to be kept at home. +They must be consigned to the care of a jeweller who has strong rooms. +You observe that the story is now growing. You have got the preliminary +germ. How can the strong room be entered and robbed? Well, it cannot. +That expedient will not do. Can the diamonds be taken from the lady +while she is wearing them? That would have done in the days of the +gallant Claude Duval, but it will not do now. Might the house be broken +into by a burglar on a night when a lady had worn them and returned? But +she would not rest with such a great property in the house unprotected. +They must be taken back to their guardian the same night. Thus the only +vulnerable point in the care of the diamonds seems their carriage to and +from their guardian. They must be stolen between the jeweller's and the +owner's house. Then by whom? The robbery must somehow be connected with +the hero of the love story--that is indispensable; he must be innocent +of all complicity in it--that is equally indispensable; he must +preserve our respect; he will have to be somehow a victim: how is that +to be managed? + +"The story is getting on in earnest. . . . The only way--or the best +way--seems, on consideration, to make the lover be the person who is +entrusted with the carriage of this precious package of jewels to and +from their owner's house. This, however, is not a very distinguished +_role_ to play; it wants a very skilled hand to interest us in a +jeweller's assistant. . . . We must therefore give this young man an +exceptional position. Force of circumstances, perhaps, has compelled him +to accept the situation which he holds. He need not, again, be a +shopman; he may be a confidential _employe_, holding a position of great +trust; and he may be a young man with ambitions outside the narrow +circle of his work. + +"The girl to whom he is engaged must be lovable to begin with; she must +be of the same station in life as her lover--that is to say, of the +middle class, and preferably of the professional class. As to her home +circle, that must be distinctive and interesting."[43:A] + +I need not quote any further for my present purpose, which is to show +mental procedure in plot-formation; but the whole article is full of +sound teaching on this and other points. + + +Plot-Formation in Earnest + +You have now obtained your characters, and a general outline of the +events their actions will compass. What comes next? A carefully +written-out statement of the story from the beginning to the end; that +is the next step. This story should contain just as much as you would +give in outlining the plot to a friend in the course of conversation. It +would briefly detail the characters and circumstances of the hero and +heroine, and the events which led to their first meeting each other. You +would then describe the ripening of their friendship, and the gradual +growth of social hostility to the idea of a projected union. The +psychological transformations, the domestic infelicities, the racial +animosities--these will find suitable expression in word and action. At +last the season of cruel suspense is over, and the pair have arrived at +their great decision. Elaborate preventive plans are arranged to +frustrate their purpose, and there is much excitement lest they should +succeed; but when all have done their best, the two are happily wedded +and the story is ended. + +The exercise of writing out a plain, unvarnished statement of what you +are going to do is one that will enable you to see whether your story +has balance or not, and it will most certainly test its power to +interest; for if in its bald form there is real _story_ in it, you may +well believe that when properly written it will possess the true +fascination of fiction. + +Now, a plot is much like a drama, and should have a beginning, a middle, +and an end; answering roughly to premiss, argument, and conclusion. +There is no better training in plot-study than the reading of such a +book as Professor Moulton's "Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist," in +which the author, with rare critical skill, exhibits the construction of +plots that are an object of never-ceasing wonder. I will dare to +reiterate what I have said before. Take your stand at the end of the +story, and work it out backwards. For an excellent illustration see +Edgar Allan Poe's account of how he came to write "The Raven" (Appendix +I.). Perhaps you object to this kind of literary dissection? You think +it spoils the effect of a work of art to be too familiar with its +physiology? I do not grant these points; but even if they are true, that +is no reason why you yourself should be offended by the sight of ropes +and pulleys behind the scenes. No; work out the details from the end, +and not from the beginning. No character and no action should find a +place if it contributes nothing towards the _denouement_. + + +Characters first: Plot afterwards + +It must not be supposed that a plot _always_ comes first in the +constructing of a novel. Very often the characters suggest themselves +long before the story is even vaguely outlined. Nor is there any reason +why such a story should be any worse because it did not originate in the +usual way. In fact, the probabilities are that it will be all the +better, on account of its stress upon character, and the reaction of +various characters on each other. I imagine "Jude the Obscure" grew in +this fashion. There is no very striking plot in the book; at any rate +not the plot we have in mind when we think of "The Moonstone." But if +plot means the inevitable evolution of certain men and women in given +circumstances, then there is plot of a high order. In the usual +acceptation of the term, however, "Jude the Obscure" is a novel of +character; and most probably Jude existed as a creature of imagination +months before it was ever thought he would go to Oxford, or have an +adventure with Sue. To many men, doubtless, there is far more +fascination in conceiving a group of characters in which there are two +or three supreme figures, and then setting to work to discover a +narrative which will give them the freest action, than in toiling over +the bare idea, the subsequent plot, followed by a series of actors and +actresses who work out the _denouement_. Should you belong to this +number, do not hesitate to act accordingly. Nothing wooden in style or +method finds a place in these pages, and since some of the finest +creations have arisen in the order indicated at the head of this +section, perhaps you are to be congratulated that the work before you +will be a living growth rather than a mechanical contrivance. + + +The Natural Background + +Since your story will presumably be located somewhere on this planet, +the next thing to do is to obtain a thorough knowledge of the places +where your characters will display themselves. If the scenes are laid in +a district which you know by heart, you are not likely to go astray; but +more often than not, the scenes are largely imaginative, especially in +reference to smaller items such as roads, rivers, trees, and woods. The +best plan is to follow the example of Thomas Hardy, and draw a map--both +geographical and topographical--of the country and the towns in which +your hero and heroine, and subordinate characters, will appear for the +interest of the reader. That individual does not care to be puzzled with +semi-miraculous transmittances through space. I read a novel some time +ago, where on one page the heroine was busy shopping in London, and on +the next page was--an hour afterwards--quietly having tea with her +beloved somewhere in the Midlands. But the drawing of a map, and using +it closely, will not merely render such negative assistance as to avoid +mistakes of this kind, it will act positively as a stimulus to creative +suggestion. You can follow the lover's jealous rival along the road that +leads to the meeting-place with increased imaginative power. That +measure of realism which makes the ideal both possible and interesting +will come all the more easily, because the map aids you in following the +movements of your characters; in fact, if you take this second step +with serious resolution, it will go far to add that piquant something +which renders your story a series of life-like happenings. The result +will be equally beneficial to the reader. It may be a moot question as +to how far the map in Stevenson's "Treasure Island" deepens the interest +of those who read this exciting story, but in my humble opinion it adds +an actuality to the events which is most convincing. Mr Maurice Hewlett +has followed suit in his "Forest Lovers." I do not say _publish_ your +map, but _draw_ one and use it. A poor story accompanied by a good map +would be too ridiculous; so you had better give all your attention to +the narrative, and leave the publication of maps until later days. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[33:A] "Hints to Novelists," in _To-Day_, May 8, 1897. + +[35:A] _Fortnightly Review_, vol. lvii. N.S. p. 187. + +[43:A] Besant, "On the Writing of Novels," _Atalanta_, vol i. p. 372. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERISATION + + +The Chief Character + +In the plot previously outlined, which figure is supreme? It depends. In +some senses the supremacy is not a matter of choice, but is decided by +the nature of the story. If the man is making the greater sacrifice, it +means that, whether you like it or not, his is the struggle that calls +for a larger measure of sympathy; and you must assign him the chief +place. Still, there are circumstances which would justify a departure +from this law--something after the fashion of respecting the rights of a +minority. But in our projected narrative, the woman is undoubtedly the +supreme character; for the man's battle is mainly one of religious +scruple, and only secondarily a question of race; whereas, the Jewess +has a vigorous conflict with both race and religion. + +Well, what do you know about women? Anything? Do you know how their +minds work? how they talk? what they wear? and the thousand and one +trivialities that go to make up character portrayal? If you do not know +these things, it is a poor look-out for the success of your novel, and +you might as well start another story at once. It may be a disputed +question as to whether women understand women better than men: the point +is, do _you_ understand them? Perhaps you know enough for the purposes +of a secondary character, but this Jewess is to be supreme; you must +know enough to meet the highest demands. + +Where to obtain this knowledge? Ah! Where! Only by studying human lives, +human manners, human weaknesses--everything human. The life of the world +must become your text-book; as for temperaments, you should know them by +heart; social influences in their effect on action and outlook, ought to +be within easy comprehension; and even then, you will still cry +"Mystery!" + + +How to Portray Character + +The first thing is to _realise_ your characters--_i.e._ make them real +persons to yourself, and then you will be more likely to persuade the +reader that they are real people. Unless this is done, your hero and +heroine will be described as "puppets" or "abstractions." I am not +saying the task is easy--in fact, it is one of the most difficult that +the novelist has to face. But there is no profit in shirking it, and the +sooner it is dealt with the better. The history of character +representation in drama is full of luminous teaching, and a study of it +cannot be other than highly instructive. In the early _Mystery_ and +_Morality_ plays, virtues and vices were each apportioned their +respective actors--that is to say, one man set forth Good Counsel, +another Repentance, another Gluttony, and another Pride. Even so late as +Philip Massinger's "A New Way to Pay Old Debts," we have Wellborn, +Justice, Greedy, Tapwell, Froth, and Furnace. Now this seems very +elementary to us, but it has one great merit: the audience knew +what each character stood for, and could form an intelligent idea +of his place in the piece. In these days we have become more +subtle--necessarily so. Following the lead of the Shakespearean +dramatists, we have not described our characters by giving them +names--virtuous or otherwise--we let them describe themselves by their +speech and action. The essential thing is that we should know our +characters intimately, so intimately that, although they exist in +imagination alone, they are as real to us as the members of our own +family. Falstaff never had flesh and blood, but as Shakespeare portrayed +him, you feel that you have only to prick him and he will bleed. The +historical Hamlet is a mist; the Hamlet of the play is a reality. + +This power of realisation depends on two things: _Observation with +insight, and Sympathy with imagination_. Observation is a most valuable +gift, but without insight it is likely to work mischief by creating a +tendency to write down just what you see and hear. Zola's novels too +often suggest the note-book. Avoid photographing life as you would +avoid a dangerous foe. The newspaper reporter can "beat you hollow," for +that is his special subject: life as it is. Observe what goes on around +you, but get behind the scenes; study selfishness and "otherness," and +the inter-play of motives, the conflict of interests which causes this +tangle of human affairs--in other words, obtain an insight into them by +asking the "why" and "wherefore." + +Above all, learn to see with other people's eyes, and to feel with other +people's hearts. For instance, you may find it needful to attend +synagogue-worship in order to obtain a first-hand knowledge of the +religion of your Jewish heroine. When you see the men in silk hats, and +praying-shawls over their shoulders, you may be tempted to despise +Judaism; the result being that you determine not to cumber your novel +with a description of such "nonsense." Well, you will lose one of the +most picturesque features of your story; you will fail to see the part +which the synagogue plays in your heroine's mental struggle, and the +portrayal of her character will be sadly defective in consequence. No; +a novelist, as such, should have no religion, no politics, no social +creed; whatever he believes as a private individual should not interfere +with the outgoing of sympathy in constructing the characters he intends +to set forth. Human nature is a compound of the virtuous and the +vicious, or, to change the figure, a perpetual oscillation between flesh +and spirit. Life is half tragedy and half comedy: men and women are +sometimes wise and often foolish. From this maze of mystery you are to +develop new creations, and actual people are your _starting-point_, +never your _models_. + + +Methods of Characterisation + +By characterisation is meant the power to make your ideal persons appear +real. It is one thing to make them real to yourself, and quite another +thing to make them real to other people. Characterisation needs a union +of imaginative and artistic gifts. In this respect, as in all others, +Shakespeare is pre-eminent. His characters are alike clear in +conception and expression, and their human quality is just as wonderful +as the large scale on which they move, covering, as they do, the entire +field of human nature. + +There are certain well-known methods of characterisation, and to these I +propose to devote the remainder of this chapter. The first and most +obvious is for the author to describe the character. This is generally +recognised as bad art. To say "She was a very wicked woman," is like the +boy who drew a four-legged animal and wrote underneath, "This is a cow." +If that boy had succeeded in drawing a cow there would have been no need +to label it; and, in the same way, if you succeed in realising and +drawing your characters there will be no need to talk about them. The +best characterisation never _says_ what a person is; it shows what he or +she is by what they do and say. I do not mean that you must say nothing +at all about your creations; the novels of Hardy and Meredith contain a +good deal of indirect comment of this kind; but it is a notable fact +that Hardy's weakest work, "A Laodicean," contains more comment than +any of the others he has written. Stevenson aptly said, "Readers cannot +fail to have remarked that what an author tells us of the beauty or the +charm of his creatures goes for nought; that we know instantly better; +that the heroine cannot open her mouth but what, all in a moment, the +fine phrases of preparation fall from her like the robes of Cinderella, +and she stands before us as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps a +strapping market-woman." + +There is another point to be remembered. If you label a character at the +outset as a very humorous person, the reader prepares himself for a good +laugh now and then, and if you disappoint him--well, you have lost a +reader and gained an adverse critic. To announce beforehand what you are +going to do, and then fail, is to put a weapon into the hands of those +who honour you with a reading. "Often a single significant detail will +throw more light on a character than pages of comment. An example in +perfection is the phrase in which Thackeray tells how Becky Crawley, +amid all her guilt and terror, when her husband had Lord Steyne by the +throat, felt a sudden thrill of admiration for Rawdon's splendid +strength. It is like a flash of lightning which shows the deeps of the +selfish, sensual woman's nature. It is no wonder that Thackeray threw +down his pen, as he confessed that he did, and cried, 'That is a stroke +of genius.'" + +The lesson is plain. Don't say what your hero and heroine _are_: make +them tell their own characters by words and deeds. + + +The Trick of "Idiosyncrasies" + +Young writers, who fail to mark off the individuality of one character +from another, by the strong lines of difference which are found in real +life, endeavour to atone for their incompetency by emphasising physical +and mental oddities. This is a mere literary "trick." To invest your +hero with a squint, or an irritating habit of blowing his nose +continually; or to make your heroine guilty of using a few funny phrases +every time she speaks, is certainly to distinguish them from the other +characters in the book who cannot boast of such excellences, but it must +not be called characterisation. It is a bastard attempt to economise the +labour that is necessary to discover individuality of soul and to bring +it out in skilful dialogues and carefully chosen situations. + +Another form of the trick of idiosyncrasy is the bald realism of the +sensationalist. He persuades himself that he is character-drawing. He is +doing nothing of the kind. He takes snap-shots with a literary camera +and reproduces direct from the negative. The art of re-touching nature +so that it becomes ideal, is not in his line at all: the commercial +instinct in him is stronger than the artistic, and he sees more business +in realism than in idealism. And what is more, there is less +labour--characters exist ready for use. It is easy to listen to a lively +altercation between cabbies in a London street, when language passes +that makes one hesitate to strike a match, and then go home and draw a +city driver. You have no need to search for contrasts, for colour, for +sound, for passion: you saw and heard everything at once. But the truth +still remains--the seeing of things, and the hearing of things, are but +the raw material: where are your new creations? + +The trick of selecting oddities as a method of characterisation is +superficial, simply because oddities lie upon the surface. You can, +without much difficulty, construct a dialogue between a blacksmith and a +student, showing how the unlettered man exhibits his ignorance and the +scholar his taste. But such a distinction is quite external; at heart +the men may be very much alike. It is one thing to paint the type, and +another to paint the individual. Take Sir Willoughby Patterne. He is a +man who belongs to the type "selfish"; but he is much more than a +typically selfish man; he is an _individual_. There is a turn in his +remarks, a way of speaking in dialogue, and a style of doing things +which show him to be self-centred, not in a general way, but in the +particular way of Sir Willoughby Patterne. + +There is one fact in characterisation for which a due margin should +always be made. Wilkie Collins, you will remember, says of his Fosco: +"The making him fat was an afterthought; his canaries and his white +mice were found next; and the most valuable discovery of all, his +admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a conviction that he would +not be true to nature unless there was some weak point somewhere in his +character." You must provide for these "afterthoughts" by not being too +ready to cast your characters in the final mould. Let every personality +be in a state of _becoming_ until he has actually _come_--in all the +completeness of appearance, manner, speech, and action. Your first +conception of the Jewess may be that of one who possesses the usual +physique of her class--short and stout; but afterwards it may suit your +purpose better to make her fairer, taller, and slighter, than the rest +of her race. If so, do not hesitate to undo the work of laborious hours +by effecting such an improvement. It will go against the grain, no +doubt; but novel-writing is a serious business, and much depends on +trifles in accomplishing success; so do not begrudge the extra toil +involved. + + * * * * * + +Characterisation is the finest feature of the novelist's art. Here you +will have your greatest difficulties, but, if you overcome them, you +will have your greatest triumphs. Here, too, the crying need is a +knowledge of human nature. Acquire a mastership of this subtle quantity, +and then you may hope for genuine results. Of course, knowledge is not +_all_; it is in artistic appreciation that true character-drawing +consists. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE + + +Narrative Art + +David Pryde has summed up the whole matter in a few well-chosen +sentences: "Keeping the beginning and the end in view, we set out from +the right starting-place, and go straight towards the destination; we +introduce no event that does not spring from the first cause and tend to +the great effect; we make each detail a link joined to the one going +before and the one coming after; we make, in fact, all the details into +one entire chain, which we can take up as a whole, carry about with us, +and retain as long as we please."[63:A] How many elements are here +referred to? There are plot, movement, unity, proportion, purpose, and +climax. I have already dealt with some of these, and now propose to +devote a few paragraphs to the rest. + +Unity means unity of effect, and is first a matter of literary +architecture--afterwards a matter of impression. It has been said of +Macbeth that "the play moves forward with an absolute regularity; it is +almost architectural in its rise and fall, in the balance of its parts. +The plot is a complex one; it has an ebb and flow, a complication and a +resolution, to use technical terms. That is to say, the fortunes of +Macbeth swoop up to a crisis or turning-point, and thence down again to +a catastrophe. The catastrophe, of course, closes the play; the crisis, +as so often with Shakespeare, comes in its exact centre, in the middle +of the middle act, with the Escape of Fleance. Hitherto Macbeth's path +has been gilded with success; now the epoch of failure begins. And the +parallelisms and correspondences throughout are remarkable. Each act has +a definite subject: The Temptation; The First, Second, and Third Crimes; +The Retribution. Three accidents, if we may so call them, help Macbeth +in the first part of the play: the visit of Duncan to Inverness, his own +impulsive murder of the grooms, the flight of Malcolm and Donalbain. And +in the second half three accidents help to bring about his ruin: the +escape of Fleance, the false prophecy of the witches, the escape of +Macduff. Malcolm and Macduff at the end answer to Duncan and Banquo at +the beginning. A meeting with the witches heralds both rise and fall. +Finally, each of the crimes is represented in the Retribution. Malcolm, +the son of Duncan, and Macduff, whose wife and child he slew, conquer +Macbeth; Fleance begets a race that shall reign in his stead."[65:A] + +From a construction point of view, a novel and a play have many points +in common; and although the parallelism of events and characters is not +necessary for either, the account of Macbeth just given is a good +illustration of unity of effect and impression. Stevenson's "Kidnapped" +and "David Balfour" are good examples of unity of structure. + + +Movement + +How many times have you put a novel away with the remark: "It _drags_ +awfully!" The narrative that drags is not worthy of the name. There are +a few writers who can go into byways and take the reader with them--Mr +Le Gallienne, for instance--but, as a rule, the digressive novelist is +the one whose book is thrown on to the table with the remark just +quoted. A story should be _progressive_, not _digressive_ and +episodical. Hence the importance of movement and suspense. Keep your +narrative in motion, and do not let it sleep for a while unless it is of +deliberate intention. There is a definite law to be observed--namely, +that as feeling rises higher, sentences become crisp and shorter; +witness Acts i. and ii. in _Macbeth_. Suspense, too, is an agent in +accelerating the forward march of a story. There is no music in a pause, +but it renders great service in giving proper emphasis to music that +goes before and comes after it. Notice how Stevenson employs suspense +and contrast in "Kidnapped." "The sea had gone down, and the wind was +steady and kept the sails quiet, so that there was a great stillness in +the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of muttering voices. A +little after, and there came a clash of steel upon the deck, by which I +knew they were dealing out the cutlasses, and one had been let fall; and +after that silence again." These little touches are capable of affecting +the entire interest of the whole story, and should receive careful +attention. + + +Aids to Description + +THE POINT OF VIEW + +So much has been said in praise of descriptive power, that it will not +be amiss if I repeat one or two opinions which, seemingly, point the +other way. Gray, in a letter to West, speaks of describing as "an ill +habit that will wear off"; and Disraeli said description was "always a +bore both to the describer and the describee." To some, these +authorities may not be of sufficient weight. Will they listen to Robert +Louis Stevenson? He says that "no human being ever spoke of scenery for +above two minutes at a time, which makes one suspect we hear too much of +it in literature." These remarks will save us from that +description-worship which is a sort of literary influenza. + +The first thing to be determined in descriptive art is _the point of +view_. Suppose you are standing on an eminence commanding a wide stretch +of plain with a river winding through it. What does the river look like? +A silver thread; and so you would describe it. But if you stood close to +the brink and looked back to the eminence on which you stood previously, +you would no longer speak of a silver thread, simply because now your +point of view is changed. The principle is elementary enough, and there +is no need to dwell upon it further, except to quote an illustration +from Blackmore: + +"For she stood at the head of a deep green valley, carved from out the +mountains in a perfect oval, with a fence of sheer rock standing round +it, eighty feet or a hundred high, from whose brink black wooded hills +swept up to the skyline. By her side a little river glided out from +underground with a soft, dark babble, unawares of daylight; then growing +brighter, lapsed away, and fell into the valley. Then, as it ran down +the meadow, alders stood on either marge, and grass was blading out of +it, and yellow tufts of rushes gathered, looking at the hurry. But +further down, on either bank, were covered houses built of stone, +square, and roughly covered, set as if the brook were meant to be the +street between them. Only one room high they were, and not placed +opposite each other, but in and out as skittles are; only that the first +of all, which proved to be the captain's was a sort of double house, or +rather two houses joined together by a plank-bridge over the +river."[69:A] + +SELECTING THE MAIN FEATURES + +The fundamental principle of all art is selection, and nowhere is it +seen to better advantage than in description. A battle, a landscape, or +a mental agony, can only be described artistically, in so far as the +writer chooses the most characteristic features for presentation. In the +following passage George Eliot states the law and keeps it. "She had +time to remark that he was a peculiar-looking person, but not +insignificant, which was the quality that most hopelessly consigned a +man to perdition. He was massively built. The striking points in his +face were large, clear, grey eyes, and full lips." Suppose for a moment +that the reader were told about the pattern and "hang" of the hero's +trousers, his waistcoat and his coat, and that information was given +respecting the number of links in his watch-chain, and the exact depth +of his double chin--what would have been the effect from an artistic +point of view? Failure--for instead of getting a description alive with +interest, we should get a catalogue wearisome in its multiplicity of +detail. A certain author once thought Homer was niggardly in describing +Helen's charms, so he endeavoured to atone for the great poet's +shortcomings in the following manner:--"She was a woman right beautiful, +with fine eyebrows, of clearest complexion, beautiful cheeks; comely, +with large, full eyes, with snow-white skin, quick glancing, graceful; a +grove filled with graces, fair-armed, voluptuous, breathing beauty +undisguised. The complexion fair, the cheek rosy, the countenance +pleasing, the eye blooming, a beauty unartificial, untinted, of its +natural colour, adding brightness to the brightest cherry, as if one +should dye ivory with resplendent purple. Her neck long, of dazzling +whiteness, whence she was called the swan-born, beautiful Helen." + +After reading this can you form a distinct idea of Helen's beauty? We +think not. The details are too many, the language too exuberant, and the +whole too much in the form of a catalogue. It would have been better to +select a few of what George Eliot calls the "striking points," and +present them with taste and skill. As it is, the attempt to improve on +Homer has resulted in a description which, for detail and minuteness, is +like the enumeration of the parts of a new motor-car--indeed, that is +the true sphere of description by detail, where, as in all matters +mechanical, fulness and accuracy are demanded. In "Mariana," Tennyson +refers to no more facts than are necessary to emphasise her great +loneliness: + + "With blackest moss the flower-pots + Were thickly crusted, one and all; + The rusted nails fell from the knots + That held the pear to the gable wall. + The broken sheds looked sad and strange: + Unlifted was the clinking latch; + Weeded and worn the ancient thatch + Upon the lonely moated grange." + +In ordering such details as may be chosen to represent an event, idea, +or person, it is the rule to proceed from "the near to the remote, and +from the obvious to the obscure." Homer thus describes a shield as +smooth, beautiful, brazen, and well-hammered--that is, he gives the +particulars in the order in which they would naturally be observed. +Homer's method is also one of epithet: "the far-darting Apollo," +"swift-footed Achilles," "wide-ruling Agamemnon," "white-armed Hera," +and "bright-eyed Athene." Now it is but a step from this giving of +epithets to what is called + +DESCRIPTION BY SUGGESTION + +When Hawthorne speaks of the "black, moody brow of Septimus Felton," it +is really suggestion by the use of epithet. Dickens took the trouble to +enumerate the characteristics of Mrs Gamp one by one; but he succeeded +in presenting Mrs Fezziwig by simply saying, "In came Mrs Fezziwig, one +vast substantial smile." This latter method differs from the former in +almost every possible way. The enumeration of details becomes wearisome +unless very cleverly handled, whereas the suggestive method unifies the +writer's impressions, thereby saving the reader's mental exertions and +heightening his pleasures. He tells us how things and persons impress +him, and prefers to _indicate_ rather than describe. Thus Dickens +refers to "a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman in a blue +coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very +red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body had been +squeezed into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the +appearance of being rather cold about the heart." Lowell says of +Chaucer, "Sometimes he describes amply by the merest hint, as where the +Friar, before sitting himself down, drives away the cat. We know without +need of more words that he has chosen the snuggest corner." + +Notice how succinctly Blackmore delineates a natural fact, "And so in a +sorry plight I came to an opening in the bushes where a great black pool +lay in front of me, whitened with snow (as I thought) at the sides, till +I saw it was only foam-froth, . . . and the look of this black pit was +enough to stop one from diving into it, even on a hot summer's day, with +sunshine on the water; I mean if the sun ever shone there. As it was, I +shuddered and drew back; not alone at the pool itself, and the black air +there was about it, but also at the whirling manner, and wisping of +white threads upon it in stripy circles round and round; and the centre +still as jet."[75:A] + +Hardy's description of Egdon Heath is too well known to need remark; it +is a classic of its kind. + +Robert Louis Stevenson possessed the power of suggestion to a high +degree. "An ivory-faced and silver-haired old woman opened the door. She +had an evil face, smoothed with hypocrisy, but her manners were +excellent." To advise a young writer to imitate Stevenson would be +absurd, but perhaps I may be permitted to say: study Stevenson's method, +from the blind man in "Treasure Island," to Kirstie in "The Weir of +Hermiston." + +FACTS TO REMEMBER + +"It is a peculiarity of Walter Scott," says Goethe, "that his great +talent in representing details often leads him into faults. Thus in +'Ivanhoe' there is a scene where they are seated at a table in a +castle-hall, at night, and a stranger enters. Now he is quite right in +describing the stranger's appearance and dress, but it is a fault that +he goes to the length of describing his feet, shoes and stockings. When +we sit down in the evening and someone comes in, we notice only the +upper part of his body. If I describe the feet, daylight enters at once +and the scene loses its nocturnal character." And yet Scott in some +respects was a master of description--witness his picture of Norham +Castle and of the ravine of Greeta between Rokeby and Mortham. But +Goethe's criticism is justified notwithstanding. Never write more than +can be said of a man or a scene when regarded from the surrounding +circumstances of light and being. Ruskin is never tired of saying, "Draw +what you see." In the "Fighting Temeraire," Turner paints the old +warship as if it had no rigging. It was there in its proper place, but +the artist could not see it, and he refused to put it in his picture if, +at the distance, it was not visible. "When you see birds fly, you do +not see any _feathers_," says Mr W. M. Hunt. "You are not to draw +_reality_, but reality as it _appears_ to you." + +Avoid the _pathetic fallacy_. Kingsley, in "Alton Locke," says: + + "They rowed her in across the rolling foam-- + The cruel crawling foam," + +on which Ruskin remarks, "The foam is not cruel, neither does it crawl. +The state of mind which attributes to it these characteristics of a +living creature is one in which the reason is unhinged by grief. All +violent feelings have the same effect. They produce in us a falseness in +all our impressions of external things." + + * * * * * + +Perhaps the secret of all accurate description is a trained eye. Do you +know how a cab-driver mounts on to the box, or the shape of a +coal-heaver's mouth when he cries "Coal!"? Do you know how a wood looks +in early spring as distinct from its precise appearance in summer, or +how a man uses his eyes when concealing feelings of jealousy? or a +woman when hiding feelings of love? Observation with insight, and +Imagination with sympathy; these are the great necessities in every +department of novel-writing. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[63:A] "Studies in Composition," p. 26. + +[65:A] E. K. Chambers' _Macbeth_, pp. 25, 26. "The Warwick Shakespeare." + +[69:A] "Lorna Doone." + +[75:A] "Lorna Doone." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE + + +Colour: Local and Otherwise + +One morning you opened your paper and found that Mr Simon St Clair had +gone into Wales in search of local colour. What does local colour mean? +The appearance of the country, the dress and language of the people, all +that distinguishes the particular locality from others near and +remote--is local colour. Take Kipling's "Mandalay" as an illustration. +He speaks of the ringing temple bell, of the garlic smells, and the dawn +that comes up like thunder; there are elephants piling teak, and all the +special details of the particular locality find a characteristic +expression. For what reason? Well, local colour renders two services to +literature; it makes very often a pleasing or a striking picture in +itself; and it is used by the author to bring out special features in +his story. Kipling's underlying idea comes to the surface when he says +that a man who has lived in the East always hears the East "a-callin'" +him back again. There is deep pathos in the idea alone; but when it is +set in the external characteristics of Eastern life, one locality chosen +to set forth the rest, and stated in language that few can equal, the +entire effect is very striking. + +Whenever local colour is of picturesque quality there is a temptation to +substitute "word-painting" for the story. The desire for novelty is at +the bottom of a good deal of modern extravagance in this direction, but +the truth still remains that local colour has an important function to +discharge--namely, to increase the artistic value of good narrative by +suggesting the environment of the _dramatis personae_. You must have +noticed the opening chapters of "The Scarlet Letter." Why all this +careful detailing of the Customs House, the manners and the talk of the +people? For no other reason than that just given. + +But there is another use of colour in literary composition. Perhaps I +can best illustrate my purpose by quoting from an interview with James +Lane Allen, who certainly ought to know what he is talking about. The +author of "The Choir Invisible," and "Summer in Arcady," occupies a +position in Fiction which makes his words worth considering. + +Said Mr Allen to the interviewer:[81:A] "A friend of mine--a +painter--had just finished reading some little thing that I had +succeeded in having published in the _Century_. 'What do you think of +it?' I asked him. 'Tell me frankly what you like and what you don't +like.' + +"'It's interestingly told, dramatic, polished, and all that, Allen,' was +his reply, 'but why in the world did you neglect such an opportunity to +drop in some colour here, and at this point, and there?' + +"It came over me like that," said the Kentuckian, snapping his fingers, +"that words indicating colours can be manipulated by the writer just as +pigments are by the painter. I never forgot the lesson. And now when I +describe a landscape, or a house, or a costume, I try to put it into +such words that an artist can paint the scene from my words." + +Evidently Mr Allen learned his lesson long ago, but it is one every +writer should study carefully. Mr Baring Gould also gives his +experience. "In one of my stories I sketched a girl in a white frock +leaning against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses. I had some +burnished gold-green flies on the old wall, preening in the sun; so, to +complete the scene, I put her on gold-green leather shoes, and made the +girl's eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had a picture where the colour +was carried through, and, if painted, would have been artistic and +satisfying. A red sash would have spoiled all, so I gave her one that +was green. So we had the white dress, the guelder-rose-balls +greeny-white, and through the ranges of green-gold were led up to her +hair, which was red-gold. I lay some stress on this formation of picture +in tones of colour, because it pleases myself when writing--it satisfies +my artistic sense. A thousand readers may not observe it; but those who +have any art in them will at once receive therefrom a pleasing +impression."[83:A] + +These two testimonies make the matter very plain. If anything is needed +it is a more practical illustration taken direct from a book. For this +purpose I have chosen a choice piece from George Du Maurier's "Peter +Ibbetson," a book that was half-killed by the Trilby boom. + +"Before us lies a sea of fern, gone a russet-brown from decay, in which +are isles of dark green gorse, and little trees with scarlet and orange +and lemon-coloured leaflets fluttering down, and running after each +other on the bright grass, under the brisk west wind which makes the +willows rustle, and turn up the whites of their leaves in pious +resignation to the coming change. + +"Harrow-on-the-Hill, with its pointed spire, rises blue in the distance; +and distant ridges, like the receding waves, rise into blueness, one +after the other, out of the low-lying mist; the last ridge bluely +melting into space. In the midst of it all, gleams the Welsh Harp Lake, +like a piece of sky that has become unstuck and tumbled into the +landscape with its shiny side up." + + +What About Dialect? + +Dialect is local colour individualised. Ian Maclaren, in "The Bonnie +Brier Bush," following in the wake of Crockett and Barrie, has given us +the dialect of Scotland: Baring Gould and a host of others have provided +us with dialect stories of English counties; Jane Barlow and several +Irish writers deal with the sister island; Wales has not been forgotten; +and the American novelists have their big territory mapped out into +convenient sections. Soon the acreage of locality literature will have +been completely "written up"; I do not say its yielding powers will have +been exhausted, for, as with other species of local colour, dialect has +had to suffer at the hands of the imitator who dragged dialect into his +paltry narrative for its own sake, and to give him the opportunity of +providing the reader with a glossary. + +The reason why dialect-stories were so popular some time ago is twofold. +First, dialect imparts a flavour to a narrative, especially when it is +in contrast to educated utterances on the part of other characters. But +the chief reason is that dialect people have more character than other +people--as a rule. They afford greater scope for literary artistry than +can be found in life a stage or two higher, with its correctness and +artificiality. St Beuve said, "All peasants have style." Yes; that is +the truth exactly. There is an individuality about the peasant that is +absent from the town-dweller, and this fact explains the piquancy of +many novels that owe their popularity to the representations of the +rustic population. The dialect story, or novel, cannot hope for +permanency unless it contains elements of universal interest. The +emphasis laid on a certain type of speech stamps such a literary +production with the brand of narrowness. I understand that Ian Maclaren +has been translated into French. Can you imagine Drumsheugh in Gallic? +or Jamie Soutar? Never. Only that which is literature in the highest +sense can be translated into another language; hence the life of +corners in Scotland, or elsewhere, has no special interest for the world +in general. + +The rule as to dealing with dialect is quite simple. Never use the +letters of the alphabet to reproduce the sound of such language in a +literal manner. _Suggest dialect_; that is all. Have nothing to do with +glossaries. People hate dictionaries, however brief, when they read +fiction. George Eliot and Thomas Hardy are good models of the wise use +of county speech. + + +On Dialogue + +In making your characters talk, it should be your aim not to _reproduce_ +their conversation, but to _indicate_ it. Here, as elsewhere, the first +principle of all art is selection, and from the many words which you +have heard your characters use, you must choose those that are typical +in view of the purpose you have in hand. I once had a letter from a +youthful novelist, in which he said: "It's splendid to write a story. I +make my characters say what I like--swear, if necessary--and all that." +Now you can't make your characters say what you like; you are obliged to +make them say what is in keeping with their known dispositions, and with +the circumstances in which they are placed at the time of speaking. If +you know your characters intimately, you will not put wise words into +the mouth of a clown, unless you have suitably provided for such a +surprise; neither will you write long speeches for the sullen villain +who is to be the human devil of the narrative. Remember, therefore, that +the key to propriety and effectiveness in writing is the knowledge of +those ideal people whom you are going to use in your pages. + +"Windiness" and irrelevancy are the twin evils of conversations in +fiction. Trollope says, "It is so easy to make two persons talk on any +casual subject with which the writer presumes himself to be conversant! +Literature, philosophy, politics, or sport may be handled in a loosely +discursive style; and the writer, while indulging himself, is apt to +think he is pleasing the reader. I think he can make no greater mistake. +The dialogue is generally the most agreeable part of a novel; but it is +only so as long as it tends in some way to the telling of the main +story. It need not be confined to this, but it should always have a +tendency in that direction. The unconscious critical acumen of a reader +is both just and severe. When a long dialogue on extraneous matter +reaches his mind, he at once feels that he is being cheated into taking +something that he did not bargain to accept when he took up the novel. +He does not at that moment require politics or philosophy, but he wants +a story. He will not, perhaps, be able to say in so many words that at +some point the dialogue has deviated from the story; but when it does, +he will feel it."[88:A] + +A word or two as to what kind of dialogue assists in telling the main +story may not be amiss. Return to the suggested plot of the Jewess and +the Roman Catholic. What are they to talk about? Anything that will +assist their growing intimacy, that will bring out the peculiar +personalities of both, and contribute to the development of the +narrative. In a previous section I said that the _denouement_ decided +the selection of your characters; in some respects it will also decide +the topics of their conversation. Certain events have to be provided +for, in order that they may be both natural and inevitable, and it +becomes your duty to create incidents and introduce dialogue which will +lead up to these events. + +With reference to models for study, advice is difficult to give. Quite a +gallery of masters would be needed for the purpose, as there are so many +points in one which are lacking in another. Besides, a great novelist +may have eccentricities in dialogue, and be quite normal in other +respects. George Meredith is as artificial in dialogue as he is in the +use of phrases pure and simple, and yet he succeeds, _in spite of_ +defects, not _by_ them. Here is a sample from "The Egoist": + + "Have you walked far to-day?" + + "Nine and a half hours. My Flibbertigibbet is too much for me + at times, and I had to walk off my temper." + + "All those hours were required?" + + "Not quite so long." + + "You are training for your Alpine tour?" + + "It's doubtful whether I shall get to the Alps this year. I + leave the Hall, and shall probably be in London with a pen to + sell." + + "Willoughby knows that you leave him?" + + "As much as Mont Blanc knows that he is going to be climbed by + a party below. He sees a speck or two in the valley." + + "He has spoken of it." + + "He would attribute it to changes." + +I need not discuss how far this advances the novelist's narrative, but +it is plain that it is not a model for the beginner. For smartness and +"point" nothing could be better than Anthony Hope's "Dolly Dialogues," +although the style is not necessarily that of a novel. + + +Points in Conversation + +Never allow the reader to be in doubt as to who is speaking. When he has +to turn back to discover the speaker's identity, you may be sure there +is something wrong with your construction. You need not quote the +speaker's name in order to make it plain that he is speaking: all that +is needed is a little attention to the "said James" and "replied Susan" +of your dialogues. When once these two have commenced to talk, they can +go on in catechism form for a considerable period. But if a third party +chimes in, a more careful disposition of names is called for. + +Beginners very often have a good deal of trouble with their "saids," +"replieds," and "answereds." + +Here, again, a little skilful manoevring will obviate the difficulty. +This is a specimen of third-class style. + + "I'm off on Monday," _said_ he. + + "Not really," _said_ she. + + "Yes, I have only come to say goodbye," _said_ he. + + "Shall you be gone long?" _asked_ she. + + "That depends," _said_ he. + + "I should like to know what takes you away," _said_ she. + + "I daresay," _said_ he, smiling. + + "I shouldn't wonder if I know," _said_ she. + + "I daresay you might guess," _said_ he. + +Could anything be more wooden than this perpetual "said he, said she," +which I have accentuated by putting into italics? Now, observe the +difference when you read the following:-- + + _Observed_ Silver. + + _Cried_ the Cook. + + _Returned_ Morgan. + + _Said_ Another. + + _Agreed_ Silver. + + _Said_ the fellow with the bandage. + +There is no lack of suitable verbs for dialogue purposes--remarked, +retorted, inquired, demanded, murmured, grumbled, growled, +sneered, explained, and a host more. Without a ready command +of such a vocabulary you cannot hope to give variety to your +character-conversations, and, what is of graver importance, you will not +be able to bring out the essential qualities of such remarks as you +introduce. For instance, to put a sarcastic utterance into a man's +mouth, and then to write down that he "replied" with those words is not +half so effective as to say he "sneered" them.[93:A] + +Probably you will be tempted to comment on your dialogue as you write by +insinuating remarks as to actions, looks, gestures, and the like. This +is a good temptation, so far, but it has its dangers. The ancient Hebrew +writer, in telling the story of Hezekiah, said that Isaiah went to the +king with these words: + + "Set thine house in order: for thou shalt die and not live." + + _And Hezekiah turned his face to the wall--and prayed._ + +If you can make a comment as dramatic and forceful as that, _make it_. +But avoid useless and uncalled-for remarks, and remember that you +really want nothing, not even a fine epigram, which fails to contribute +to the main purpose. + + +"Atmosphere" + +It will not be inappropriate to close this chapter with a few words on +what is called "atmosphere." The word is often met with in the +vocabulary of the reviewer; he is marvellously keen in scenting +atmospheres. Perhaps an illustration may be the best means of +exposition. The reviewer is speaking of Maeterlinck's "Alladine and +Palomides," "Interior," and "The Death of Tintagiles." He says, "We find +in them the same strange atmosphere to which we had grown accustomed in +'Pelleas' and 'L'Intruse.' We are in a region of no fixed plane--a +region that this world never saw. It is a region such as Arnold Boecklin, +perhaps, might paint, and many a child describe. A castle stands upon a +cliff. Endless galleries and corridors and winding stairs run through +it. Beneath lie vast grottoes where subterranean waters throw up +unearthly light from depths where seaweed grows." This is very true, and +put into bald language it means that Maeterlinck has succeeded in +creating an artistic environment for his weird characters; it is the +_setting_ in which he has placed them. In the first scene of _Hamlet_, +Shakespeare creates the necessary atmosphere to introduce the events +that are to follow. The soldiers on guard are concerned and afraid; the +reader is thereby prepared, step by step, for the reception of the whole +situation; everything that will strengthen the impression of a coming +fatality is seized by a master hand, and made to do service in creating +an atmosphere of such expectant quality. An artist by nature will select +intuitively the persons and facts he needs; but there is no reason why a +study of these necessities, a slow and careful pondering, should not at +last succeed in alighting upon the precise and inevitable details which +delicately and subtly produce the desired result. In this sense the +matter can hardly be called a minor detail, but the expression has been +sufficiently guarded. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[81:A] Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 201. + +[83:A] "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 40. + +[88:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. p. 58. + +[93:A] See Bates' "Talks on Writing English." An excellent manual, to +which I am indebted for ideas and suggestions. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +PITFALLS + + +Items of General Knowledge + +I propose to show in this chapter that a literary artist can never +afford to despise details. He may have genius enough to write a +first-rate novel, and sell it rapidly in spite of real blemishes, but if +a work of art is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well. No writer +is any the better for slovenly inaccuracy. Take the details of everyday +life. Do you suppose you are infallible in these commonplace things? If +so, be undeceived at once. It is simply marvellous with what ease a +mistake will creep into your narrative. Even Mr Zangwill once made a +hansom cab door to open with a handle from the inside, and the mistake +appeared in six editions, escaping the reviewers, and was quietly +altered by the author in the seventh. There is nothing particularly +serious about an error of this kind; but at the same time, where truth +to fact is so simple a matter, why not give the fact as it is? +Trivialities may not interfere with the power of the story, but they +often attach an ugliness, or a smack of the ridiculous, which cannot but +hinder, to some extent, the beauty of otherwise good work. Mistakes such +as that just referred to, arise, in most instances, out of the passion +and feeling in which the novelist advances his narrative. The detail +connected with the opening of the hansom door (doors) was nothing to Mr +Zangwill, compared to the person who opened it. I should advise you, +therefore, to master all the necessary _minutiae_ of travelling, if your +hero and heroine are going abroad; of city life if you take them to +the theatre for amusement--in fact, of every environment in which +imagination may place them. Then, when all your work is done, read what +has been written with the microscopic eyes of a Flaubert. + + +Specific Subjects + +For instance, the plot suggested in the previous chapters deals with +Judaism. Now, if you don't know Jewish life through and through, it is +the height of foolishness to attempt to write a novel about it. (The +same remark applies to Roman Catholicism.) You will find it necessary to +study the Bible and Hebrew history; and when you have mastered the +literature of the subject and caught its spirit, you will turn your +attention to the sacred people as they exist to-day--their isolation, +their wealth, their synagogues, and their psychological peculiarities. +Does this seem to be too big a programme? Well, if you are to present a +living and truthful picture of the Jewess and her surroundings, you can +only succeed by going through such a programme; whereas, if you skip the +hard preparatory work you will bungle in the use of Hebrew terms, and +when you make the Rabbi drop the scroll through absent-mindedness, you +will very likely say that "the congregation looked on half-amused and +half-wondering." Just visit a synagogue when the Rabbi happens to drop +the scroll. The congregation would be "horribly shocked." The same law +applies whatever be your subject. If you intend to follow a prevailing +fashion and depict slum life, you will have to spend a good deal of time +in those unpleasant regions, not only to know them in their outward +aspects, but to know them in their inward and human features. Even then +something important may escape you, with the result that you fall into +error, and the expert enjoys a quiet giggle at your expense; but you +will have some consolation in the thought that you spared no pains in +the diligent work of preparation. + +Perhaps your novel will take the reader into aristocratic circles. Pray +do not make the attempt if you are not thoroughly acquainted with the +manners and customs of such circles. Ignorance will surely betray you, +and in describing a dinner, or an "At Home," you will raise derisive +laughter by suggesting the details of a most impossible meal, or spoil +your heroine by making her guilty of atrocious etiquette. The remedy is +close at hand: _know your subject_. + + +Topography and Geography + +Watch your topography and geography. Have you never read novels where +the characters are made to walk miles of country in as many minutes? In +fairy tales we rather like these extraordinary creatures--their +startling performances have a charm we should be sorry to part with. But +in the higher world of fiction, where ideal things should appear as real +as possible, we decidedly object to miraculous journeys, especially, as +in most instances, it is plainly a mistake in calculation on the part of +the writer. Of course the writer is occasionally placed in an awkward +position. A dramatic episode is about to take place, or, more correctly, +the author wishes it to take place, but the characters have been +dispersed about the map, and time and distance conspire against the +author's purpose. It is madness to "blur" the positions and "risk" the +reader's acuteness, but it is almost equally unfortunate to fail in +observing the difficulty, and write on in blissful ignorance of the fact +that nature's laws have been set at defiance. The drawing of a map, as +before suggested, will obviate all these troubles. + +Should you depict a lover's scene in India, take care not to describe it +as occurring in "beautiful twilight." It is quite possible to know that +darkness follows sunset, and yet to forget it in the moment of writing; +but a good writer is never caught "napping" in these matters. If you +don't know India, choose Cairo, about which, after half-a-dozen +lengthened visits, you can speak with certainty. + + +Scientific Facts + +What a nuisance the weather is to many novelists. Some triumph over +their difficulties; a few contribute to our amusement. The meteorology +of fiction would be a fascinating study. In second-rate productions, it +is astonishing to witness the ease with which the weather is ordered +about. The writer makes it rain when he thinks the incidents of a +downpour will enliven the narrative, forgetting that the movement of the +story, as previously stated, requires a blue sky and a shining sun; or +he contrives to have the wind blowing in two or three directions at +once. The sun and the moon require careful manipulation. At the +beginning of a novel, the room of an invalid is said to have a window +looking directly towards the east; but at the end of the book when the +invalid dies, the author, wishing to make him depart this life in a +flood of glory, suffuses this eastern-windowed room with "the red glare +of the setting sun." The detail may appear unimportant, but it is not +so, and a few hours devoted to notes on these minor points would save +all the unpleasantness and ridicule which such mistakes too frequently +bring. The reviewer loves to descant on the "peculiar cosmology and +physical science of the volume before us." + +The moon is most unfortunate. Mrs Humphry Ward confesses that she never +knows when to make the moon rise, and obtains Miss Ward's assistance in +all astronomical references. This is, of course, a pleasant +exaggeration, but it shows that no venture should be made in science +without being perfectly sure of your ground. + + +Grammar + +Grammar is the most dangerous of all pitfalls. Suppose you read your +novel through, and check each sentence. After weary toil you are ready +to offer a prize of one guinea to the man who can show you a mistake. +When the full list of errors is drawn up by an expert grammarian, you +are glad that offer was not made, for your guineas would have been going +too quickly. In everyday conversation you speak as other people +do--having a special hatred of painful accuracy, otherwise called +pedantry; and as you frequently hear the phrase: "Those sort of people +are never nice," it does not strike you as being incorrect when you +read it in your proof-sheets. Or somebody refers to a theatrical +performance, and regretting his inability to be present, says, "I should +like to have gone, but could not." So often is the phrase used in daily +speech, that its sound (when you read your book aloud) does not suggest +anything erroneous. And yet if you wish your reader to know that you are +a good grammarian, you will not be ashamed to revise your grammar and +say, "I should have liked to go, but could not." These are simple +instances: there are hundreds more. + +Reviewing all that has been said in this chapter, the one conclusion is +that the novelist must be a man of knowledge; he must know the English +language from base to summit; and whatever references he makes to +science, art, history, theology, or any other subject, he should have +what is expected of writers in these specific departments--accuracy. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE SECRET OF STYLE + + +Communicable Elements + +One can readily sympathise with the melancholy of a man who, after +reading De Quincey, Macaulay, Addison, Lamb, Pater, and Stevenson, found +that literary style was still a mystery to him. He was obliged to +confess that the secret of style is with them that have it. His main +difficulty, however, was to reconcile this conviction with the advice of +a learned friend who urged him to study the best models if he would +attain a good style. Was style communicable? or was it not? Now of all +questions relating to this subject, this is the most pertinent, and, if +I may say so, the only real question. It is the easiest thing in the +world to tell a student about Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant, about +Tolstoi and Turgenieff, but no quantity of advice as to reading is of +much avail unless the preliminary question just referred to is +intelligently answered. The so-called stylists of all ages may be +carefully read from beginning to end, and yet style will not disclose +its secret. Such a course of reading could not but be beneficial; to +live among the lovely things of literature would develop the taste and +educate appreciation; the reader would be quick to discern beauty when +he saw it, but the art of producing it other than by deliberate +imitation of known models would be still a mystery. + +_Is_ style communicable? The answer is _Yes_ and _No_; in some senses it +is, in others it is not. Let us deal with the affirmative side first. +This concerns all points of grammar and composition without which the +story would not be clear and forcible. No writer can make a "corner" in +the facts of grammar and composition; it is impossible to appropriate +them individually to the exclusion of everybody else; and since style +depends to some extent on a knowledge of those rules which govern the +use of language, it follows that there are certain elements which are +open to all who are willing to learn them. For instance, there is the +study of words. How often do we hear it said of a certain novelist that +he uses the right word with unerring accuracy. And this is regarded as +an important feature in his style; therefore words and their uses should +have a prominent place in your programme. In "The Silverado Squatters," +Stevenson represents himself as carrying a pail of water up a hill: "the +water _lipping_ over the side, and a _quivering_ sunbeam in the midst." +The words in italics are the exact words wanted; no others could +possibly set forth the facts with greater accuracy. Stevenson was a +diligent word-student, and had a certain knowledge of their dynamic and +suggestive qualities. + +The right word! How shall we find it? Sometimes it will come with the +thought; more often we must seek it. Landor says: "I hate false words, +and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the +thing." What could be stronger than the language of Guy de Maupassant? +"Whatever the thing we wish to say there is but one word to express it, +but one verb to give it movement, but one adjective to qualify it. We +must seek till we find this noun, this verb, this adjective, and never +allow ourselves to play tricks, even happy ones, or have recourse to +sleights of language to avoid a difficulty. The subtlest things may be +rendered and suggested by applying the hint conveyed in Boileau's line, +'He taught the power of a word in the right place.'" In similar vein, +Professor Raleigh remarks, "Let the truth be said outright: there are no +synonyms, and the same statement can never be repeated in a changed form +of words." + +The number of words used is another consideration. When Phil May has +drawn a picture he proceeds to make erasures here and there with a view +to retaining wholeness of effect by the least possible number of lines. +There is a similar excellence in literature, the literature where "there +is not a superfluous word." Oh, the "gasiness" of many a modern +novel--pages and pages of so-called "style," "word-painting," and +"description." + +The conclusion of the matter is this: the right number of words, and +each word in its place. Frederic Schlegel used to say that in good +prose every word should be underlined; as if he had said that the +interpretation of a sentence should not depend on the manner in which it +is read. + +It is also highly necessary that the would-be stylist should be a +student of sentences and paragraphs. Surprising as it may seem, it is +nevertheless true that many aspirants after literary success never give +these matters a thought; they expect that proficiency will "come." +Proficiency is not an angel who visits us unsolicited; it is a power +that must be paid for with a price, and the price is laborious study of +such practical technique as the following:--"In a series of sentences +the stress should be varied continually so as to come in the beginning +of some sentences, and at the end of others, regard being had for the +two considerations, variation of rhythm, and grouping of similar ideas +together." And this, "Every paragraph is subject to the general laws of +unity, selection, proportion, sequence, and variety which govern all +good composition." The observance of these rules (and they are specimens +of hundreds more) and the discovery of apt illustrations in literature +are matters of time and labour. But the time and labour are well +spent--nay, they are absolutely necessary if the literary man would know +his craft thoroughly. For the ordinary man, something equivalent to a +text-book course in rhetoric is indispensable. True, many writers have +learned insensibly from other writers, but too severe a devotion to the +masterpieces of literature may beget the master's weaknesses without +imparting his strength. + + +Incommunicable Elements + +The incommunicable element in style is that personal impress which a +writer sets upon his work. What is a personal impress? I am asked. Can +it be defined? Scarcely. Personality itself is a mysterious thing. We +know what it means when it is used to distinguish a remarkable man from +those who are not remarkable. "He has a unique personality," we say. Now +that personality--if the man be a writer--will show itself in his +literary offspring. It will be in evidence over and above rule, +regulation, canons of art, and the like. If there be such a thing as a +mystic presence, then style is that mystic presence of the writer's +personality which permeates the ideas and language in such a way as to +give them a distinction and individuality all their own. I will employ +comparison as a means of illustration by supposing that the three +following passages appeared in the same book in separate paragraphs and +without the authors' names:-- + + "Each material thing has its celestial side, has its + translation into the spiritual and necessary sphere, where it + plays a part as indestructible as any other, and to these ends + all things continually ascend. The gases gather to the solid + firmament; the chemic lump arrives at the plant and grows; + arrives at the quadruped and walks; arrives at the man and + thinks." + + * * * * * + + "He [Daniel Webster] is a magnificent specimen; you might say + to all the world, 'This is your Yankee Englishman; such limbs + we make in Yankeeland! The tanned complexion; the amorphous + crag-like face; the dull black eyes under their precipice of + brows, like dull anthracite furnaces, needing only to be + blown; the mastiff mouth, accurately closed:--I have not + traced so much silent Bersekir rage that I remember of in any + man.'" + + * * * * * + + "In the edifices of Man there should be found reverent worship + and following, not only of the Spirit which rounds the form of + the forest, and arches the vault of the avenue,--which gives + veining to the leaf and polish to the shell, and grace to + every pulse that agitates animal organisation--but of that + also which reproves the pillars of the earth and builds up her + barren precipices into the coldness of the clouds, and lifts + her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the pale arch of the + sky." + +Now, an experienced writer, or reader, would identify these quotations +at once; in some measure from a knowledge of the books from which they +are taken, but mostly from a recognition of style pure and simple. The +merest tyro can see that the passages are not the work of one author; +there is, apart from subject-matter, a subtle something that lies +hidden beneath the language, informing each paragraph with a style +peculiar to itself. What is it? Ah! _The style is the man._ It is +composition charged with personality. Emerson, Carlyle, and Ruskin used +the English language with due regard for the rules of grammar, and such +principles of literary art as they felt to be necessary. And yet when +Emerson philosophises he does it in a way quite different to everybody +else; when Carlyle analyses a character, you know without the Sage's +signature that the work is his; and when Ruskin describes natural +beauties by speaking of "shadowy cones of mountain purple" being lifted +"into the pale arch of the sky"--well, that is Ruskin--it could be no +other. In each case language is made the bearer of the writer's +personality. Style in literature is the breathing forth of soul and +spirit; as is the soul, and as is the spirit in depth, sympathy, and +power, so will the style be rich, distinctive, and memorable. Professor +Raleigh says that "All style is gesture--the gesture of the mind and of +the soul. Mind we have in common, inasmuch as the laws of right reason +are not different for different minds. Therefore clearness and +arrangement can be taught, sheer incompetence in the art of expression +can be partly remedied. But who shall impose laws on the soul? . . . +Write, and after you have attained to some control over the instrument, +you write yourself down whether you will or no. There is no vice, +however unconscious, no virtue, however shy, no touch of meanness or of +generosity in your character that will not pass on to paper." Hence the +oft-repeated call for sincerity on the part of writers. If you try to +imitate Hardy it is a literary hypocrisy, and your sin will find you +out. If you are Meredith-minded, and play the sedulous ape to him, you +must expect a similar catastrophe. + + _If the style is the man, how can you hope to equal that + style if you can never come near the man?_ + +Be true to all you know, and see, and feel; live with the masters, and +catch their spirit. You will then get your own style--it may not be as +good as those you have so long admired, but it will be _yours_; and, +truth to tell, that is all you can hope for. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +HOW AUTHORS WORK + + +Quick and Slow + +The public has shown a deep interest in all details respecting the way +in which writers produce their books; the food they eat, the clothes +they wear, their weaknesses and their hobbies, what pens they use, and +whether they prefer the typewriter or not--all these are items which a +greedy public expects to know. So much is this the case to-day that an +acrid critic recently offered the tart suggestion that a novelist was a +man who wrote a great book, and spent the rest of his time--very +profitably--in telling the world how he came to write it. I do not +intend to pander to the literary news-monger in these pages, but to +reproduce as much as I know of the way in which novelists work, in order +to throw out hints as to how a beginner may perchance better his own +methods. A word of warning, however, is necessary. Do not, for Heaven's +sake, _ape_ anybody. Because Zola darkens his rooms when he writes, that +is no reason why you should go and do likewise; and if John Fiske likes +to sit in a draught, pray save yourself the expense of a doctor's bill +by imitating him. An author's methods are only of service to a novice +when they enable him to improve his own; and it is with this object in +view that I reproduce the following personal notes. + +The relative speeds of the writing fraternity are little short of +amazing. Hawthorne was slow in composing. Sometimes he wrote only what +amounted to half-a-dozen pages a week, often only a few lines in the +same space of time, and, alas! he frequently went to his chamber and +took up his pen only to find himself wholly unable to perform any +literary work. Bret Harte has been known to pass days and weeks on a +short story or poem before he was ready to deliver it into the hands of +the printer. Thomas Hardy is said to have spent seven years in writing +"Jude the Obscure." On the other hand, Victor Hugo wrote his "Cromwell" +in three months, and his "Notre Dame de Paris" in four months and a +half. Wilkie Collins, prince among the plotters, was accustomed to +compose at white heat. Speaking of "Heart and Science," he says: "Rest +was impossible. I made a desperate effort, rushed to the sea, went +sailing and fishing, and was writing my book all the time 'in my head,' +as the children say. The one wise course to take was to go back to my +desk and empty my head, and then rest. My nerves are too much shaken for +travelling. An arm-chair and a cigar, and a hundred and fiftieth reading +of the glorious Walter Scott--King, Emperor, and President of +Novelists--there is the regimen that is doing me good." An enterprising +editor, not very long ago, sent out circulars to prominent authors +asking them how much they can do in a day. The reply in most cases was +that the rate of production varied; sometimes the pen or the typewriter +could not keep pace with thought; at other times it was just the +opposite. + +It is very necessary at this point to draw a distinction between the +execution of a work, and its development in the mind from birth to full +perfection. When we read that Mr Crockett, or somebody else, produced so +many books in so many years, it does not always mean--if ever--that the +idea and its expression have been a matter of weeks or months. To +_write_ a novel in six weeks is not an impossibility--even a passable +novel; but to sit down and think out a plot, with all its details of +character and event, and to write it out so that in six weeks, or two or +three months, the MS. is on the publisher's desk--well, don't believe +it. No novel worthy of the name was ever produced at that rate. + + +How many Words a Day? + +In nothing do authors differ so much as on the eternal problem of +whether it is right to produce a certain quantity of matter every +day--inspiration or no inspiration. Thomas Hardy has no definite hours +for working, and, although he often uses the night-time for this +purpose, he has a preference for the day-time. Charlotte Bronte had to +choose favourable seasons for literary work--"weeks, sometimes months, +elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion of +her story which was already written; then some morning she would wake up +and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before her in distinct +vision, and she set to work to write out what was more present to her +mind at such times than actual life was."[120:A] When writing "Jane +Eyre," and little Jane had been brought to Thornfield, the author's +enthusiasm had grown so great that she could not stop. She went on +incessantly for weeks. + +Miss Jane Barlow confesses that she is "a very slow worker; indeed, when +I consider the amount of work which the majority of writers turn out in +a year, I feel that I must be dreadfully lazy. Even in my quiet life +here I find it difficult to get a long, clear space of time for my work, +and the slightest interruption will upset me for hours. It is difficult +to make people understand that it is not so much the time they take up, +as causing me to break the line of thought. It may be that somebody only +comes into the study to speak to me for a minute, but it is quite +enough. I suppose it is very silly to be so sensitive to interruptions, +but I cannot help it. I sometimes say it is as though a box of beads had +been upset, and I had to gather them together again; that is just the +effect of anyone speaking to me when I am at work. I write everything by +hand, and it takes a long time. I am sure I could not use a typewriter, +or dictate; indeed, I never let anybody see what I have written until it +is in print. Sometimes I write a passage over a dozen times before it +comes right, and I always make a second copy of everything, but the +corrections are not very numerous." + +Mr William Black was also a slow producer: "I am building up a book +months before I write the first chapter; before I can put pen to paper I +have to realise all the chief incidents and characters. I have to live +with my characters, so to speak; otherwise, I am afraid they would +never appear living people to my readers. This is my work during the +summer; the only time I am free from the novel that-is-to-be is when I +am grouse-shooting or salmon-fishing. At other times I am haunted by the +characters and the scenes in which they take part, so that, for the sake +of his peace of mind, my method is not to be recommended to the young +novelist. When I come to the writing, I have to immure myself in perfect +quietude; my study is at the top of the house, and on the two or three +days a week I am writing, Mrs Black guards me from interruption. . . . +Of course, now and again, I have had to read a good deal preparatory to +writing. Before beginning 'Sunrise,' for instance, I went through the +history of secret societies in Europe." + + +Charles Reade and Anthony Trollope + +"Charles Reade's habit of working was unique. When he had decided on a +new work, he plotted out the scheme, situations, facts, and characters +on three large sheets of pasteboard. Then he set to work, using very +large foolscap to write on, working rapidly, but with frequent +references to his storehouse of facts in the scrap-books which were +ready at his hand. The genial novelist was a great reader of newspapers. +Anything that struck him as interesting, or any fact which tended to +support one of his humanitarian theories, was cut out, pasted in a large +folio scrap-book, and carefully indexed. Facts of any sort were his +hobby. From the scrap-books thus collected with great care, he used to +'elaborate' the questions treated of in his novels." + +Anthony Trollope is one of the few men who have taken their readers into +their full confidence about book production. The quotation I am about to +make is rather long, but it is too detailed to be shortened: + +"When I have commenced a new book I have always prepared a diary, +divided into weeks, and carried it on for the period which I have +allowed myself for the completion of the work. In this I have entered +day by day the number of pages I have written, so that if at any time I +have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of that idleness +has been there staring me in the face, and demanding of me increased +labour, so that the deficiency might be supplied. According to the +circumstances of the time, whether any other business might be then +heavy or light, or whether the book which I was writing was, or was not, +wanted with speed, I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The +average number has been about forty. It has been placed as low as +twenty, and has risen to one hundred and twelve. And as a page is an +ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain two hundred and fifty +words, and as words, if not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I +have had every word counted as I went."[124:A] + +Under the title of "A Walk in the Wood," Trollope thus describes his +method of plot-making, and the difficulty the novelist experiences in +making the "tricksy Ariel" of the imagination do his bidding. "I have +to confess that my incidents are fabricated to fit my story as it goes +on, and not my story to fit my incidents. I wrote a novel once in which +a lady forged a will, but I had not myself decided that she had forged +it till the chapter before that in which she confesses her guilt. In +another, a lady is made to steal her own diamonds, a grand _tour de +force_, as I thought, but the brilliant idea struck me only when I was +writing the page in which the theft is described. I once heard an +unknown critic abuse my workmanship because a certain lady had been made +to appear too frequently in my pages. I went home and killed her +immediately. I say this to show that the process of thinking to which I +am alluding has not generally been applied to any great effort of +construction. It has expended itself on the minute ramifications of +tale-telling: how this young lady should be made to behave herself with +that young gentleman; how this mother or that father would be affected +by the ill conduct or the good of a son or a daughter; how these words +or those other would be most appropriate or true to nature if used on +some special occasion. Such plottings as these with a fabricator of +fiction are infinite in number, but not one of them can be done fitly +without thinking. My little effort will miss its wished-for result +unless I be true to nature; and to be true to nature, I must think what +nature would produce. Where shall I go to find my thoughts with the +greatest ease and most perfect freedom? + +"I have found that I can best command my thoughts on foot, and can do so +with the most perfect mastery when wandering through a wood. To be alone +is, of course, essential. Companionship requires conversation, for +which, indeed, the spot is most fit; but conversation is not now the +object in view. I have found it best even to reject the society of a +dog, who, if he be a dog of manners, will make some attempt at talking; +and, though he should be silent, the sight of him provokes words and +caresses and sport. It is best to be away from cottages, away from +children, away as far as may be from chance wanderers. So much easier +is it to speak than to think, that any slightest temptation suffices to +carry away the idler from the harder to the lighter work. An old woman +with a bundle of sticks becomes an agreeable companion, or a little girl +picking wild fruit. Even when quite alone, when all the surroundings +seem to be fitted for thought, the thinker will still find a difficulty +in thinking. It is easy to lose an hour in maundering over the past, and +to waste the good things which have been provided, in remembering +instead of creating!" + + +The Mission of Fancy + +"It is not for rules of construction that the writer is seeking, as he +roams listlessly or walks rapidly through the trees. These have come to +him from much observation, from the writings of others, from that which +we call study, in which imagination has but little immediate concern. It +is the fitting of the rules to the characters which he has created, the +filling in with living touches and true colours those daubs and blotches +on his canvas which have been easily scribbled with a rough hand, that +the true work consists. It is here that he requires that his fancy +should be undisturbed, that the trees should overshadow him, that the +birds should comfort him, that the green and yellow mosses should be in +unison with him, that the very air should be good to him. The rules are +there fixed--fixed as far as his judgment can fix them--and are no +longer a difficulty to him. The first coarse outlines of his story he +has found to be a matter almost indifferent to him. It is with these +little plottings that he has to contend. It is for them that he must +catch his Ariel and bind him fast, and yet so bind him that not a thread +shall touch the easy action of his wings. Every little scene must be +arranged so that--if it may be possible--the proper words may be spoken, +and the fitting effect produced." + + +Fancies of another Type + +Most authors indulge in little eccentricities when working, and, if the +time should ever come that your name is brought before the public +notice, it would be advisable to develop some whimsical habit so as to +be prepared for the interviewer, who is sure to ask whether you have +one. To push your pen through your hair during creative moments would be +a good plan; it would reveal a line of baldness where you had furrowed +the hair off, and afford ocular proof to all and sundry that you +possessed a genuine eccentricity. Or if you prefer a habit still more +_bizarre_, you might put a hammock in a tree, and always write your most +exciting scenes during a rain-storm, and under the shelter of a dripping +umbrella. + +The fact is, every penman has his little peculiarities when at work, but +they should be kept as private property. Of course, there are authors +who revel in publicity, and others again have intimate details wormed +out of them. The fact remains, however, that these details are +interesting, because they are personal; and they are occasionally +helpful, because they enable one writer to compare notes with others. We +have all heard of the methodical habits of Kant. When thinking out his +deep thoughts, he always placed himself so that his eyes might fall on a +certain old tower. This old tower became so necessary to his thoughts, +that when some poplar trees grew up and hid it from his sight, he found +himself unable to think at all, until, at his earnest request, the trees +were cropped and the tower was brought into sight again. + +George Eliot was very susceptible as to her surroundings. When about to +write, she dressed herself with great care, and arranged her +harmoniously-furnished room in perfect order.[130:A] Hawthorne had a +habit of cutting some article while composing. He is said to have taken +a garment from his wife's sewing-basket, and cut it into pieces without +being conscious of the act. Thus an entire table and the arms of a +rocking-chair were whittled away in this manner. + +Upon Ibsen's writing-table is a small tray containing a number of +grotesque figures--a wooden bear, a tiny devil, two or three cats (one +of them playing a fiddle), and some rabbits. Ibsen has said: "I never +write a single line of any of my dramas without having that tray and its +occupants before me on my table. I could not write without them. But why +I use them is my own secret." + +Ouida writes in the early morning. She gets up at five o'clock, and +before she begins, works herself up into a sort of literary trance. +Maurice Jokai always uses violet ink, to which he is so accustomed that +he becomes perplexed when compelled, outside of his own house, to resort +to ink of another colour. He claims that thoughts are not forthcoming +when he writes with any other ink. One of the corners of his +writing-desk holds a miniature library, consisting of neatly-bound +note-books which contain the outline of his novels as they originated in +his mind. When he has once begun a romance, he keeps right on until it +is completed. + + +Some of our Younger Writers + +Mr Zangwill has no particular method of working; he works in spasms. +Regular hours, he says, may be possible to a writer of pure romance, but +if you are writing of the life about you, such regularity is +impossible.[132:A] Coulson Kernahan works in the morning and in the +evening, but never in the afternoon. He always reserves the afternoon +for walking, cycling, and exercise generally. He is unable to work +regularly; some days indeed pass without doing a stroke.[132:B] Anthony +Hope is found at his desk every morning, but if the inspiration does not +come, he never forces himself to write. Sometimes it will come after +waiting several hours, and sometimes it will seem to have come when it +hasn't, which means that next morning he has to tear up what was +written the day before and start afresh.[133:A] Before Robert Barr +publishes a novel he spends years in thinking the thing out. In this way +ten years were spent over "The Mutable Many," and two more years in +writing it.[133:B] When Max Pemberton has a book in the making he just +sits down and writes away at it when in the mood. "I find," he says, +"that I can always work best in the morning. One's brain is fresher and +one's ideas come more readily. If I work at night I find that I have to +undo a great deal of it in the morning. In working late at night I have +done so under the impression that I have accomplished some really fine +work, only to rise in the morning and, after looking at it, feel that +one ought to shed tears over such stuff."[133:C] H. G. Wells, as might +be expected, has a way of his own. "In the morning I merely revise +proofs and type-written copy, and write letters, and, in fact, any work +that does not require the exercise of much imagination. If it is fine, I +either have a walk or a ride on the cycle. We also have a tandem, and +sometimes my wife and I take the double machine out; and then after +lunch we have tea about half-past three in the afternoon. It is after +this cup of tea that I do my work. The afternoon is the best time of the +day for me, and I nearly always work on until eight o'clock, when we +have dinner. If I am working at something in which I feel keenly +interested, I work on from nine o'clock until after midnight, but it is +on the afternoon work that my output mainly depends."[134:A] + + +Curious Methods + +In another interview Mr Wells said, "I write and re-write. If you want +to get an effect, it seems to me that the first thing you have to do is +to write the thing down as it comes into your mind" ("slush," Mr Wells +calls it), "and so get some idea of the shape of it. In this preliminary +process, no doubt, one can write a good many thousand words a day, +perhaps seven or eight thousand. But when all that is finished, it will +take you seven or eight solid days to pick it to pieces again, and knock +it straight. + +"The 'slush' effort of 'The Invisible Man' came to more than 100,000 +words; the final outcome of it amounts to 55,000. My first tendency was +to make it much shorter still. + +"I used to feel a great deal ashamed of this method. I thought it simply +showed incapacity, and inability to hit the right nail on the head. The +process is like this: + + "(1) Worry and confusion. + + "(2) Testing the idea, and trying to settle the question. Is + the idea any good? + + "(3) Throwing the idea away; getting another; finally + returning, perhaps, to the first. + + "(4) The next thing is possibly a bad start. + + "(5) Grappling with the idea with the feeling that it has to + be done. + + "(6) Then the slush work, which I've already described. + + "(7) Reading this over, and taking out what you think is + essential, and re-writing the essential part of it. + + "(8) After it has been type-written, you cut it about, so that + it has to be re-typed. + + "(9) The result of your labour finds its way into print, and + you take hold of the first opportunity to go over the whole + thing again."[136:A] + +Contrasted with the pleasant humour of the above is the gravity of Ian +Maclaren. "Although the stories I have written may seem very simple, +they are very laboriously done. This kind of short story cannot be done +quickly. There is no plot, no incident, and one has to depend entirely +upon character and slight touches, curiously arranged and bound +together, to produce the effect. . . . Each of the 'Bonnie Brier Bush' +stories went through these processes:--(1) Slowly drafted arrangement; +(2) draft revised before writing; (3) written; (4) manuscript revised; +(5) first proof corrected; (6) revise corrected; (7) having been +published in a periodical, revised for book; (8) first proof corrected; +(9) second proof corrected."[137:A] + + * * * * * + +Enough. These personal notes will teach the novice that every man must +make and follow his own plan of work. Experience is the best guide and +the wisest teacher. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[120:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors." + +[124:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. + +[130:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors." + +[132:A] Interview in _The Young Man_, by Percy L. Parker. + +[132:B] Interview in _The Young Man_, by A. H. Lawrence. + +[133:A] Interview in _The Young Man_, by Sarah A. Tooley. + +[133:B] _Ibid._ + +[133:C] Interview in _The Young Man_, by A. H. Lawrence. + +[134:A] Interview in _The Young Man_, by A. H. Lawrence. + +[136:A] Interview in _To-Day_, for September 11th, 1897, by A. H. +Lawrence. + +[137:A] Interview in _The Christian Commonwealth_ for September 24th, +1896. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +IS THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF NOVELS EXHAUSTED? + + +The Question Stated + +This is the way in which the question is most often stated, but the real +question is more intelligently expressed by asking: Has the novel, as a +form of literature, become obsolete? or is it likely to be obsolete in +the near future? To many people the matter is dismissed with a +contemptuous _Pshaw!_; others think it worthy of serious inquiry, and a +few with practical minds say they don't care whether it is or not. Seven +years ago Mr Frederic Harrison delivered himself of very pessimistic +views as to the present position and prospects of the novelist, and not +long ago Mr A. J. Balfour asserted that in his opinion the art of +fiction had reached its zenith, and was now in its decline. These +critics may be prejudiced in their views, but it is worth while +considering the remarks of the one who has the greater claim to respect +for literary judgment. After exclaiming that we have now no novelist of +the first rank, and substantiating this statement to the best of his +ability, Mr Harrison goes on to inquire into the causes of this decay. +In the first place, we have too high a standard of taste and criticism. +"A highly organised code of culture may give us good manners, but it is +the death of genius." We have lost the true sense of the romantic, and +if "Jane Eyre" were produced to-day it "would not rise above a common +shocker." Secondly, we are too disturbed in political affairs to allow +for the rest that is necessary for literary productiveness. Thirdly, +life is not so dramatic as it was--character is being driven inwards, +and we have lost the picturesque qualities of earlier days. + +I am not at present concerned with the truth or error of these +arguments; my object just now is to state the case, and before +proceeding to an examination of its merits I wish to take the testimony +of another writer and thinker, one who is a philosopher quite as much +as the author of "The Foundations of Belief" or the author of "The +Meaning of History," and who has a claim upon our attention as an +investigator of moving causes. + +Mr C. H. Pearson, in his notable book, "National Life and Character," +has made some confident statements on the subject of the exhaustion of +literary products. He is of opinion that "a change in social relations +has made the drama impossible by dwarfing the immediate agency of the +individual," and that "a change in manners has robbed the drama of a +great deal of effect." He goes on to say that "Human nature, various as +it is, is only capable after all of a certain number of emotions and +acts, and these as the topics of an incessant literature are bound after +a time to be exhausted. We may say with absolute certainty that certain +subjects are never to be taken again. The tale of Troy, the wanderings +of Odysseus, the vision of Heaven and Hell as Dante saw it, the theme of +'Paradise Lost,' and the story of Faust are familiar instances. . . . +Effective adaptations of an old subject may still be possible; but it +is not writers of the highest capacity who will attempt them, and the +reading world, which remembers what has been done before, will never +accord more than a secondary recognition to the adaptation" (p. 299). + +There is a curious atmosphere of logical conclusiveness about these +arguments. They carry with them, apparently, an air of certainty which +it is useless to question. We know that the novelist has already +exploited Politics, Socialism, History, Theology, Marriage, Education, +and a host of other subjects; indeed, a perusal of Dixon's "Index to +Fiction" is calculated to provoke the inquiry: "Is there anything left +to write about?" We know that everywhere is springing up the "literature +of locality," and it would seem as if the resources of this world's +experience had been exhausted when writers like Mr H. G. Wells and the +late George Du Maurier invade the planet Mars for fresh material. The +heavens above, the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth have +all been "written up." Is there anything new? + + +"Change" not "Exhaustion" + +There can be no doubt that fiction has undergone great changes during +recent years. These changes are the result of deeper changes in our +common life. Consider for a moment the position of the drama. What is +the significance of the problem play on the one hand, and the cry for a +"Static Theatre" on the other hand? It means that life has changed, and +is still changing; that the national character is not so emphatically +external or spontaneous as in those days when Ben Jonson killed two men, +and Marlowe himself was killed in a brawl. We have lost the passion, the +force, and the brutality of those times, and have become more +contemplative and analytical. The simple law is this: that literature +and the drama are a reflex of life; hence, when character has a tendency +to be driven inwards, as is the case to-day, Maeterlinck pleads on +behalf of a drama without action; and Paul Bourget in France and Henry +James in England embody the spirit of the age in the fiction of +psychological minutiae. Now there may be symptoms of decay in these +manifestations of literary impulse, but the impulse is part of that new +experience which the facts of an increasingly complex civilisation foist +upon us. And, further, _change_ is not necessarily _exhaustion_; in +fact, it is more than surprising that anyone can believe all the stories +possible have been told already, or have been told in the most +interesting way. It is a very ancient cry--this cry about exhaustion. +The old Hebrew writer wailed something about wanting to meet with a man +who could show him a new thing. A new thing? "There is no new thing +under the Sun." But we have found a few since those days, and the future +will give birth to as many more. + +Men and women have written about love from time immemorial, but have we +finished with the theme? Is it exhausted? Did Homer satisfy our love of +recorded adventure once and for all? There is only one answer--namely, +that human experience is infinite in its possibilities and its capacity +for renewal. If human experience--these vague and subtle emotions, +these violently real but inscrutable feelings, these tremulous +questionings of existence encompassed with mystery--if human experience +were no more than a hard and dry scientific fact, well, our novelists +would have a poor time of it. But life knows no finality; its stream +flows on in perennial flood. Human nature is said to be much the same +the world over, and yet every personality is absolutely a new thing. +Goethe might attempt a rough classification by saying we are either +Platonists or Aristotelians, but actually a great many of us are neither +one nor the other, and there are infinities of degrees amongst us even +then. New character is a necessary outcome of the advancing centuries, +and new personalities are being born every day. + +No; the world still loves a story, and there are stories which have +never been told. It is, perhaps, true, that the story-tellers have not +found them yet. Why? + + +Why we talk about Exhaustion + +The answer is: We are becoming too artificial; we are losing +spontaneity, and are getting too far away from the soil. Have we not +noticed over and over again that the first book of a novelist is his +best? Those which followed are called "good," but they sell because the +author is the author of the first book which created a sensation. + +Speaking of the first work of a young writer, Anthony Trollope says: "He +sits down and tells his story because he has a story to tell; as you, my +friend, when you have heard something which has at once tickled your +fancy or moved your pathos, will hurry to tell it to the first person +you meet. But when that first novel has been received graciously by the +public, and has made for itself a success, then the writer, naturally +feeling that the writing of novels is within his grasp, looks about for +something to tell in another. He cudgels his brains, not always +successfully, and sits down to write, not because he has something +which he burns to tell, but because he feels it to be incumbent on him +to be telling something. . . . So it has been with many novelists, who, +after some good work, perhaps after much good work, have distressed +their audience because they have gone on with their work till their work +has become simply a trade with them."[146:A] There is often a good +reason for such a change. The first book was written in a place near to +Nature's heart; the writer was free from the obligations of society as +found in city life; he was thrown back on his own resources, and +fortunately could not spoil his individual view of things by +multitudinous references to books and authorities. Do we not selfishly +wish that Miss Olive Schreiner had never left the veldt, in the +loneliness of which she produced "The Story of an African Farm"? Nearer +contact with civilisation has failed to induce an impulse the result of +which is at all comparable with this genuine story. It may or may not +be of significance that Mr Wells, the creator of a distinct type of +romance, dislikes what is called "Society," but I fancy that a few of +those who lament too frequently that "everything has been said" spend +more time in "Society" and clubs than is possible for good work. Mr C. +H. Pearson, in a notable chapter on "Dangers of Political Development," +says: "The world at large is just as reverent of greatness, as observant +of a Browning, a Newman, or a Mill, as it ever was; but the world of +Society prefers the small change of available and ephemeral talent to +the wealth of great thoughts, which must always be kept more or less in +reserve. The result seems to be that men, anxious to do great work, find +city life less congenial than they did, and either live away from the +Metropolis, as Darwin and Newman did, or restrict their intercourse, as +Carlyle and George Eliot practically did, to a circle of chosen +friends." + +In further confirmation of the position I have taken up, let me quote +the testimony of Thomas Hardy as given in an interview. Said the +interviewer--"In reading 'A Group of Noble Dames,' I was struck with +the waste of good material." + +"Yes," replied Mr Hardy, "I suppose I was wasteful. But, there! it +doesn't matter, for I have far more material now than I shall ever be +able to use." + +"In your note-books?" + +"Yes, and in my head. I don't believe in that idea of man's imaginative +powers becoming naturally exhausted; I believe that, if he liked, a man +could go on writing till his physical strength gave out. Most men +exhaust themselves prematurely by something artificial--their manner of +living--Scott and Dickens for example. Victor Hugo, on the other hand, +who was so long in exile, and who necessarily lived a very simple life +during much of his time, was writing as well as ever when he died at a +good old age. So, too, was Carlyle, if we except his philosophy, the +least interesting part of him. The great secret is perhaps for the +writer to be content with the life he was living when he made his first +success. I can do more work here [in Dorsetshire] in six months than in +twelve months in London."[148:A] + +These are the convictions of a strong man, one who stands at the head of +English writers of fiction, and therefore one to whom the beginner +especially should listen with respect. A reader of MSS. told me quite +recently that there was a pitiable narrowness of experience in the +productions which were handed to him for valuation; nearly all were cast +in the "city" mould, and showed signs of having been written to say +something rather than because the writers had something to say. Mr Hardy +has put his finger on the weak spot: more stories "come" in the country +stillness than in the city's bustle. Of course, a man can be as much of +a hermit in the heart of London as in the heart of a forest, but how few +can resist the attractions of Society and the temptation to multiply +literary friendships! Besides, it is always a risk to make a permanent +change in that environment which assisted in producing the first +success. Follow Mr Hardy's advice and stay where you are. Stories will +then not be slow to "come" and ideas to "occur"; and the pessimists will +be less ready to utter their laments over the decadence of fiction and +philosophers to argue that the novel will soon become extinct. I cannot +do better than close with the following tempered statement from Mr +Edmund Gosse: "A question which constantly recurs to my mind is this: +Having secured the practical monopoly of literature, what do the +novelists propose to do next? To what use will they put the +unprecedented opportunity thrown in their way? It is quite plain that to +a certain extent the material out of which the English novel has been +constructed is in danger of becoming exhausted. Why do the American +novelists inveigh against plots? Not, we may be sure, through any +inherent tenderness of conscience, as they would have us believe; but +because their eminently sane and somewhat timid natures revolt against +the effort of inventing what is extravagant. But all the obvious plots, +all the stories that are not in some degree extravagant, seem to have +been told already, and for a writer of the temperament of Mr Howells, +there is nothing left but the portraiture of a small portion of the +limitless field of ordinary humdrum existence. So long as this is fresh, +this also may amuse and please; to the practitioners of this kind of +work it seems as though the infinite prairie of life might be surveyed +thus for centuries acre by acre. But that is not possible. A very little +while suffices to show that in this direction also the material is +promptly exhausted. Novelty, freshness, and excitement are to be sought +for at all hazards, and where can they be found? The novelists hope many +things from that happy system of nature which supplies them year by year +with fresh generations of the ingenuous young." In this, however, Mr +Gosse is very doubtful of good results: the fact is, he is too +pessimistic. But in making suggestions as to what kind of novels might +be written he almost gives the lie to his previous opinions. He asks for +novels addressed especially to middle-aged persons, and not to the +ingenuous young, ever interested in love. "It is supposed that to +describe one of the positive employments of life--a business or a +profession for example--would alienate the tender reader, and check that +circulation about which novelists talk as if they were delicate +invalids. But what evidence is there to show that an attention to real +things does frighten away the novel reader. The experiments which have +been made in this country to widen the field of fiction in one +direction, that of religious and moral speculation, have not proved +unfortunate. What was the source of the great popular success of 'John +Inglesant,' and then of 'Robert Elsmere,' if not the intense delight of +readers in being admitted, in a story, to a wider analysis of the +interior workings of the mind than is compatible with the mere record of +billing and cooing of the callow young? . . . All I ask for is a larger +study of life. Have the stress and turmoil of a political career no +charm? Why, if novels of the shop and counting-house be considered +sordid, can our novels not describe the life of a sailor, of a +game-keeper, of a railway porter, of a civil engineer? What capital +central figures for a story would be the whip of a leading hunt, the +foreman of a colliery, the master of a fishing-smack, or a speculator on +the Stock Exchange?"[152:A] + +Since these words were written, the novel of politics, for example, has +come to the fore; but does that mean that the subject is exhausted? It +has only been touched upon as yet. There were plenty of dramas before +Shakespeare but there were no Shakespeares; and to-day there are +thousands of novels but how many real novelists? Once again let it be +said that "exhausted subject-matter" is a misnomer; what we wait for is +creative genius. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[146:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. pp. 45-6. There is no harm in telling +stories as a trade provided the stories are good. + +[148:A] Interview in _The Young Man_. + +[152:A] "Questions at Issue," _The Tyranny of the Novel_. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE NOVEL _v._ THE SHORT STORY + + +Practise the Short Story + +The beginner in fiction often asks: Is it not best to prepare for +novel-writing by writing short stories? The question is much to the +point, and merits a careful answer. + +First of all, what is the difference between a novel and a short story? +The difference lies in the point of view. The short story generally +deals with one event in one particular life; the novel deals with many +events in several lives, where both characters and action are dominated +by one progressive purpose. To put it another way: the short story is +like a miniature in painting, whilst the novel demands a much larger +canvas. A suggestive paragraph from a review sets forth clearly the +difference referred to: "The smaller your object of artistry, the nicer +should be your touch, the more careful your attention to minutiae. That, +surely, would seem an axiom. You don't paint a miniature in the broad +strokes that answer for a drop curtain, nor does the weaver of a +pocket-handkerchief give to that fabric the texture of a carpet. But the +usual writer of fiction, when it occurs to him to utilise one of his +second best ideas in the manufacture of a short story, will commonly +bring to his undertaking exactly the same slap-dash methods which he has +found to serve in the construction of his novels. . . . Where he should +have brought a finer method, he has brought a coarser; where he should +have worked goldsmithwise, with tiny chisel, finishing exquisitely, he +has worked blacksmithwise, with sledge hammer and anvil; where, because +the thing is little, every detail counts, he has been slovenly in +detail."[155:A] + +It has been said that the novel deals with life from the inside, and +short stories with life from the outside; but this is not so. Guy de +Maupassant's "The Necklace" opens out to us a state of soul just as much +as "Tess" does, even though it may be but a glimpse as compared with the +prolonged exhibition of Mr Hardy's "pure woman." + +Returning to the question previously referred to, one may well hesitate +to advise a novice to commence writing short stories which demand such +infinite care in conception and execution. The tendency of young writers +is to verbosity--longwindedness in dialogues, in descriptions, and in +delineations of character,--whereas the chief excellence of the story is +the extent and depth of its suggestions as compared with its brevity in +words. Should not a man perfect himself in the less minute and less +delicate methods of the novel before he attempts the finer art of the +short story? + +There is a sound of good logic about all this, but it is not conclusive. +Some men have a natural predilection for the larger canvas and some for +the smaller, so that the final decision cannot be forced upon anyone on +purely abstract grounds; we must first know a writer's native capacity +before advising him what to do. If you feel that literary art on a +minute scale is your _forte_, then follow it enthusiastically, and work +hard; if otherwise, act accordingly. + +But, after all, there are certain abstract considerations which lead me +to say that the short story should be practised before the novel. Take +the very material fact of _size_. Have those who object to this +recommendation ever thought of what practising novel-writing means? How +long does it take to make a couple of experiments of 80,000 words each? +A good deal, no doubt, depends on the man himself, but a quick writer +would not do much to satisfy others at the rate of 160,000 words in +twelve months. No, time is too precious for practising works of such +length as these, and since the general principles of fiction apply to +both novel and short story alike, the student cannot do better than +practise his art in the briefer form. Moreover, if he is wise, he will +seek the advice of experts, and (a further base consideration) it will +be cheaper to have 4000 words criticised than a MS. containing 80,000. + +Further, the foundation principles of the art of fiction cannot be +learned more effectively, even for the purpose of writing novels, than +in practising short stories. All the points brought forward in the +preceding pages relating to plot, dialogue, proportion, climax, and so +forth, are elements of the latter as well as of the former. If, as has +been said, "windiness" is the chief fault of the beginner, where can he +learn to correct that error more quickly? The art of knowing what to +leave out is important to a novelist; it is more important to the short +story writer; hence, if it be studied on the smaller canvas, it will be +of excellent service when attempting the larger. "The attention to +detail, the obliteration of the unessential, the concentration in +expression, which the form of the short story demands, tends to a +beneficent influence on the style of fiction. No one doubts that many of +the great novelists of the past are somewhat tedious and prolix. The +style of Richardson, Scott, Dumas, Balzac, and Dickens, when they are +not at their strongest and highest, is often slipshod and slovenly; and +such carelessly-worded passages as are everywhere in their works will +scarcely be found in the novels of the future. The writers of short +stories have made clear that the highest literary art knows neither +synonyms, episodes, nor parentheses."[159:A] + + +Short Story Writers on their Art + +I cannot pretend to give more than a few hints as to the best way of +following out the advice laid down in the foregoing paragraphs, and +prefer to let some writers speak for themselves. Of course, it does not +follow that Mr Wedmore can instruct a novice in literary art, simply +because he can write exquisite short stories himself; indeed, it often +happens that such men do not really know how they produce their work; +but Mr Wedmore's article on _The Short Story_ in his volume called +"Books and Arts" is most profitable reading. + +Some time ago a symposium appeared in a popular journal,[160:A] on the +subject _How to Write a Short Story_. Mr Robert Barr could be no other +than pithy in his recipe. He says: "It seems to me that a short story +writer should act, metaphorically, like this--he should put his idea for +a story into one cup of a pair of balances, then into the other he +should deal out words--five hundred, a thousand, two thousand, three +thousand, as the case may be--and when the number of words thus paid in +causes the beam to rise on which his idea hangs, then his story is +finished. If he puts a word more or less he is doing false work. . . . +My model is Euclid, whose justly celebrated book of short stories +entitled 'The Elements of Geometry' will live when most of us who are +scribbling to-day are forgotten. Euclid lays down his plot, sets +instantly to work at its development, letting no incident creep in that +does not bear relation to the climax, using no unnecessary word, always +keeping his one end in view, and the moment he reaches the culmination +he stops." Mr Walter Raymond is apologetic. He fences a good deal, and +pleads that the mention of "short story" is dangerous to his mental +sequence, so much and so painfully has he tried to solve the problem of +how one is written. Finally, however, he delivers himself of these +pregnant sentences: "Show us the psychological moment; give us a sniff +of the earth below; a glimpse of the sky above; and you will have +produced a fine story. It need not exceed two thousand words." + +The author of "Tales of Mean Streets" says: "The command of form is the +first thing to be cultivated. Let the pupil take a story by a writer +distinguished by the perfection of his workmanship--none could be better +than Guy de Maupassant--and let him consider that story apart from the +book as something happening before his eyes. Let him review mentally +_everything_ that happens--the things that are not written in the story +as well as those that are--and let him review them, not necessarily in +the order in which the story presents them, but in that in which they +would come before an observer in real life. In short, from the fiction +let him construct ordinary, natural, detailed, unselected, unarranged +fact, making notes, if necessary, as he goes. Then let him compare his +raw fact with the words of the master. He will see where the unessential +is rejected; he will see how everything is given its just proportion in +the design; he will perceive that every incident, every sentence, and +every word has its value, its meaning, and its part in the whole." + +Mr Morrison's ideas are endorsed by Miss Jane Barlow, Mr G. B. Burgin, +Mr G. M. Fenn, and Mrs L. T. Meade. Mr Joseph Hocking does not seem to +care for the brevity of short story methods. He cites eight lines which +he heard some children sing: + + "Little boy, + Pair of skates, + Broken ice, + Heaven's gates. + + Little girl + Stole a plum, + Cholera bad, + Kingdom come," + +and remarks: "Many of our short stories are constructed on the principle +of these verses. So few words are used, that the reader does not feel he +is reading a story, but an outline." Mr Hocking has the British Public +on his side, no doubt, but the great British Public is not always right, +as he appears to believe. + +I think if the reader will study the short stories of Guy de Maupassant +and Mr Frederic Wedmore, and digest the advice given above, he will know +enough to begin his work. Each experiment will enlarge his vision and +discipline his pen, so that when he has accomplished something like +tolerable success, he may safely attempt the larger canvas on the lines +laid down in the preceding chapters. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[155:A] _Daily Chronicle_, June 22, 1899. + +[159:A] _The International Monthly_, vol. i. + +[160:A] _The Young Man._ + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS + + +The Truth about Success + +There are two kinds of success in fiction--commercial and literary; and +sometimes a writer is able to combine the two. Thomas Hardy is an +example of the writer who produces literature and has large sales. On +the other hand, there are many writers who succeed in one direction, +but not in the other. The works of Marie Corelli have an amazing +circulation, but they are not regarded as literature; whereas such +genuine work as that of Mr Quiller Couch has to be content with sales +far less extensive. + +Now Thomas Hardy, Marie Corelli, and Quiller Couch have all succeeded, +but in different ways. No doubt the reader would prefer to succeed in +the manner of Hardy, but if he can't do it, he must be content to +succeed in the best way he can. It is easy to talk about Miss Corelli's +"rot" and "bosh" and "high falutin," but long columns of figures in a +publisher's ledger mean something after all. They do not necessarily +mean literary merit, delicate insight, or beautiful characterisation; +they probably mean a keen sense of what the public likes, and a power to +tickle its palate in an agreeable manner. Still, not every man or woman +is able to do this, and although such a success may not rank as one of +the first order, it _is_ a success which nobody can gainsay. Literary +journals have been instituting "inquiries" into the cases of men like Mr +Silas Hocking and the Rev. E. P. Roe: why have they a circulation +numbered by the million? No "inquiry" is needed. They are literary +merchantmen who have studied the book-market thoroughly, and as a result +they know what is wanted and supply it. Let them have their reward +without mean and angry demur. + +However one may try to explain the fact, it is none the less true that +genuine literature often fails to pay the expenses of publication; at +any rate, if it accomplishes more than that, it is infinitesimal as +compared with the huge sales of inferior work. I do not know the +circulation of Mr Henry Harland's "Comedies and Errors"--possibly it has +been moderate--but I would rather be the author of this volume of +beautiful workmanship than of all the works of Marie Corelli--the bags +of gold notwithstanding. Of course, this is merely a personal preference +with which the reader may have no sympathy; but the fact remains that, +if a writer produces real literature and it does not sell, he has not +therefore failed in his purpose; he may not receive many cheques from +his publisher, but it is real compensation to have an audience, "fit +though few." + +On the general question of literary success, George Henry Lewes says: +"We may lay it down, as a rule, that no work ever succeeded, even for a +day, but it deserved that success; no work ever failed but under +conditions which made failure inevitable. This will seem hard to men who +feel that, in their case, neglect arises from prejudice or stupidity. +Yet it is true even in extreme cases; true even when the work once +neglected has since been acknowledged superior to the works which for a +time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, is the measure of the +relation, temporary or enduring, which exists between a work and the +public mind."[167:A] + +Failure has a still more fruitful cause--namely, the misdirection of +talent. "Men are constantly attempting, without special aptitude, work +for which special aptitude is indispensable. + + 'On peut etre honnete homme et faire mal des vers.' + +A man may be variously accomplished and yet be a feeble poet. He may be +a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist. He may have dramatic faculty, yet +be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow +thinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of work, +it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this +seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check a +mistaken presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certain +susceptibility to the graces and refinements of literature, which has +been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power; +and these men being destitute of native power are forced to imitate what +others have created. They can understand how a man may have musical +sensibility, and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to understand, +at least in their own case, how a man may have literary sensibility, yet +not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist."[168:A] + +The conclusion of the whole matter is this: determine what your +projected work is to do; if you are going to offer it in a popular +market, give the public plenty for its money, and spice it well; if you +are going to offer a sacrifice to the Goddess of Art, be content if you +receive no more applause than that which comes from the few worshippers +who surround the sacred shrine. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[167:A] "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 10. + +[168:A] "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 7. + + + + +SUCCESS + + +Minor Conditions of Success + +1. Good literature has the same value in manuscript as in typescript, +but from the standpoint of author and publisher, it can hardly be said +to have the same chances. Penmanship does not tend to improve, and some +of the scrawly MSS. sent in to publishers are enough to create dismay in +the stoutest heart. It is pure affectation to pretend to be above such +small matters. Just as a dinner is all the more appetising because it is +neatly and daintily served, so a _MS._ has better chances of being read +and appreciated when set out in type-written characters. + +2. Be sure that you are sending your _MS._ to the right publisher. +Novels with a strongly developed moral purpose are not exactly the kind +of thing wanted by Mr Heinemann; and if you have anything like "The +Woman Who Did," don't send it to a Sunday School Publishing Company. +These suppositions are no doubt absurd in the extreme, but they will +serve my purpose in pointing out the careless way in which many +beginners dispose of their wares. Nearly all publishers specialise in +some kind of literature, and it is the novelist's duty to study these +types from publishers' catalogues, providing, of course, he does not +know them already. The commercial instinct is proverbially lacking in +authors; if it were not we should witness less frequently the spectacle +of portly MSS. being sent out haphazard to publisher after publisher. + +3. Perhaps my third point ought to have come first. It relates to the +obtaining of an expert's views on the matter and form of your story. +This will cost you a guinea, perhaps more, but it will save your time +and hasten the possibilities of success. You can easily spend a guinea +in postage and two or three more in having the MS. re-typed,--and yet +the tale be ever the same--"Declined with thanks." Spare yourself many +disappointments by putting your literary efforts before a competent +critic, and let him point out the crudities, the digressions, and those +weaknesses which betray the 'prentice hand. It will not be pleasant to +see a pen line through your "glorious" passages, or two blue pencil +marks across a favourite piece of dialogue, but it is better to know +your defects at once than to discover them by painful and constant +rejections. + +4. Be willing to learn; have no fear of hard work; do the best, and +write the best that is in you; and never ape anybody, but be yourself. + + + + +APPENDICES + + + + +APPENDIX I + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION[175:1] + +By EDGAR ALLAN POE + + +Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an +examination I once made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says--"By +the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb Williams' backwards? +He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second +volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of +accounting for what had been done." + +I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of +Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in +accordance with Mr. Dickens' idea--but the author of "Caleb Williams" +was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at +least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every +plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _denouement_ before +anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _denouement_ +constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of +consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the +tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention. + +There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a +story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an +incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the +combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his +narrative--designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, +or authorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from +page to page, render themselves apparent. + +I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect_. Keeping +originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to +dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of +interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable +effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more +generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present +occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid +effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or +tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, +or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterward looking about me +(or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall +best aid me in the construction of the effect. + +I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written +by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by +step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its +ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to +the world, I am much at a loss to say--but, perhaps, the authorial +vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. +Most writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they +compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would +positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, +at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true +purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of +idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully matured +fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections +and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations--in a word, +at the wheels and pinions--the tackle for scene-shifting--the +stepladders, and demon-traps--the cock's feathers, the red paint and the +black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, +constitute the properties of the literary _histrio_. + +I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in +which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his +conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen +pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. + +For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, +nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the +progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of +an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a +_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in +the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on +my part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works +was put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my +design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is +referable either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded, step +by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a +mathematical problem. + +Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the +circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise +to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the +popular and the critical taste. + +We commence, then, with this intention. + +The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is +too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with +the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for, +if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and +everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _caeteris +paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may +advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in +extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends +it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely +a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects. +It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it +intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements +are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one +half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of +poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding +depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its +length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of +effect. + +It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards +length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and +that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as +"Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously +overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this +limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to +its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in +other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is +capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct +ratio of the intensity of the intended effect:--this, with one +proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for +the production of any effect at all. + +Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of +excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the +critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_ +for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in +fact, a hundred and eight. + +My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be +conveyed; and here I may as well observe that, throughout the +construction I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work +_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my +immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have +repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the +slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the +sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in +elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a +disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most +intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in +the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, +they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they +refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of +_soul_--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, +and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the +beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely +because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to +spring from direct causes--that objects should be attained through means +best adapted for their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough +to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is _most readily_ +attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the +intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, +although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily +attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a +_homeliness_ (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are +absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the +excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means +follows from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be +introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem--for they may +serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in +music, by contrast--but the true artist will always contrive, first, to +tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim; and, +secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is +the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. + +Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the +_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that +this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme +development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy +is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. + +The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook +myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic +piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the +poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In +carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly +_points_, in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive +immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the +_refrain_. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of +its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to +analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of +improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly +used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but +depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and +thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of +repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by +adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually +varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce +continuously novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the +_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried. + +These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my +_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was +clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been +an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in +any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, +would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once +to a single word as the best _refrain_. + +The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up +my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of +course, a corollary: the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. +That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of +protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations +inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel, in +connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant. + +The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to +select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest +possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the +tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely +impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very +first which presented itself. + +The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one +word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in +inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, +I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the +pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously +spoken by _a human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that +the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the +exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, +then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable +of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, +suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally +capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended +_tone_. + +I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven--the bird of ill +omen--monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore," at the +conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length +about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object +_supremeness_, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself--"Of all +melancholy topics, what, according to the _universal_ understanding of +mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death--was the obvious reply. "And +when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From +what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is +obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_: the death, +then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic +in the world--and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited +for such topic are those of a bereaved lover." + +I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased +mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore."--I had +to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, +the _application_ of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode +of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in +answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once +the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been +depending--that is to say, the effect of the _variation of +application_. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the +lover--the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that +I could make this first query a commonplace one--the second less so--the +third still less, and so on--until at length the lover, startled from +his original _nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word +itself--by its frequent repetition--and by a consideration of the +ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it--is at length excited to +superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different +character--queries whose solution he has passionately at +heart--propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of +despair which delights in self-torture--propounds them not altogether +because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird +(which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by +rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling +his question as to receive from the _expected_ "Nevermore" the most +delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the +opportunity thus afforded me--or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in +the progress of the construction--I first established in mind the +climax, or concluding query--that query to which "Nevermore" should be +in the last place an answer--that query in reply to which this word +"Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and +despair. + +Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning--at the end, where +all works of art should begin--for it was here, at this point of my +pre-considerations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of +the stanza: + + "'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or + devil! + By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore, + Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, + It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?' + Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'" + +I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the +climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness +and importance, the preceding queries of the lover--and, secondly, that +I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and +general arrangement of the stanza--as well as graduate the stanzas which +were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical +effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct +more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely +enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect. + +And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first +object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been +neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in +the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere +_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and +stanza are absolutely infinite--and yet, _for centuries, no man, in +verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original +thing_. The fact is, that originality (unless in minds of very unusual +force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or +intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and +although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its +attainment less of invention than negation. + +Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of +the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octameter +acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the +_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter +catalectic. Less pedantically--the feet employed throughout (trochees) +consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the +stanza consists of eight of these feet--the second of seven and a half +(in effect two-thirds)--the third of eight--the fourth of seven and a +half--the fifth the same--the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these +lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what +originality the "Raven" has, is in their _combination into stanza_; +nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been +attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by +other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an +extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and +alliteration. + +The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the +lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the +_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a +forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close +_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of +insulated incident:--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an +indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of +course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place. + +I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber +rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The +room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the +ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole +true poetical thesis. + +The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and +the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The +idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the +flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at +the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's +curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from +the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence +adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that +knocked. + +I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven's seeking +admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) +serenity within the chamber. + +I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of +contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that +the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_ +being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the +lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself. + +About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force +of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For +example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous +as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with +many a flirt and flutter." + + "Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed + he, + _But, with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door." + +In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried +out:-- + + "Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling + By the _grace and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_, + 'Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou,' I said, 'art sure + no craven, + Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?' + Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' + + Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_, + With such name as 'Nevermore.'" + +The effect of the _denouement_ being thus provided for, I immediately +drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:--this +tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, +with the line, + + "But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only," + etc. + +From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees any thing even +of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanour. He speaks of him as a "grim, +ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the +"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of +thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar +one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for +the _denouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as +_directly_ as possible. + +With the _denouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to +the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another +world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may +be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits +of the accountable--of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the +single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its +owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek +admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the +chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half +in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown +open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on +the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, +amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanour, +demands of it, in jest, and without looking for a reply, its name. The +raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"--a word +which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, +giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is +again startled by the fowl's repetition of "Nevermore." The student now +guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before +explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by +superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, +the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated +answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this +self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious +phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no +overstepping of the limits of the real. + +But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an +array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, +which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably +required--first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, +adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness--some +under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in +especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that _richness_ (to +borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of +confounding with _the ideal_. It is the _excess_ of the suggested +meaning--it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current +of the theme--which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest +kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists. + +Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the +poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative +which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first +apparent in the lines-- + + "'Take thy beak from out _my heart_, and take thy form from off my + door!' + Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore!'" + +It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the +first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer +"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been +previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as +emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last +stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and +Never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:-- + + "And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, + On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the + floor; + And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor + Shall be lifted--nevermore!" + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[175:1] I do not hold myself responsible for Poe's literary judgments: +my purpose in reproducing this essay is to reveal Poe's _methods_. + + + + +APPENDIX II + +BOOKS WORTH READING + + +1. "The Art of Fiction." By Sir Walter Besant. Lecture delivered at the +Royal Institution, April 25th, 1884. + +2. "Le Roman Naturaliste." By F. Brunetiere. Paris, 1883. + +3. "The Novel: What it is." By F. Marion Crawford. New York, 1894. + +4. "The Development of the English Novel." By W. L. Cross. London, 1899. + +5. "Style." By T. de Quincey. "Works." Edinburgh, 1890. + +6. "The Limits of Realism in Fiction," and "The Tyranny of the Novel" +(in "Questions at Issue"). By Edmund Gosse. + +7. "The House of Seven Gables." By N. Hawthorne. See Preface. + +8. "Confessions and Criticisms." By Julian Hawthorne. + +9. "Criticism and Fiction." By W. D. Howells. New York, 1891. + +10. "The Art of Fiction" (in "Partial Portraits"). By Henry James. +London, 1888. + +11. "The Art of Thomas Hardy." By Lionel Johnson. + +12. "The Principles of Success in Literature." By G. H. Lewes. London, +1898. + +13. "The English Novel and the Principles of its Development." New York, +1883. + +14. "The Philosophy of the Short Story" (in _Pen and Ink_). By Brander +Matthews. New York, 1888. + +15. "Pierre and Jean." By Guy de Maupassant. See Preface. + +16. "Four Years of Novel Reading." By Professor Moulton. London, 1895. + +17. "The British Novelists and their Styles." By David Masson. London, +1859. + +18. "Appreciations, with an Essay on Style." By Walter Pater. London, +1890. + +19. "The English Novel." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1894. + +20. "Style." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1897. + +21. "The Logic of Style." By W. Renton. London, 1874. + +22. "The Philosophy of Fiction." By D. G. Thompson. New York, 1890. + +23. "A Humble Remonstrance," and "A Gossip on Romance" (in "Memories and +Portraits"). By R. L. Stevenson. + +24. "The Present State of the English Novel" (in "Miscellaneous +Essays"). By George Saintsbury. London, 1892. + +25. "Notes on Style" (in "Essays: Speculative and Suggestive"). By J. A. +Symonds. London, 1890. + +26. "The Philosophy of Style." By Herbert Spencer. London, 1872. + +27. "Introduction to the Study of English Fiction." By W. E. Simonds. +Boston, U.S.A., 1894. + +28. "Le Roman Experimental." Paris, 1881. + +29. "How to Write Fiction." Published by George Redway. + +30. "The Art of Writing Fiction." Published by Wells Gardner. + +31. "On Novels and the Art of Writing Them." By Anthony Trollope. In his +"Autobiography," vol. ii. + + + + +APPENDIX III + +MAGAZINE ARTICLES ON WRITING FICTION + + +"One Way to Write a Novel." By Julian Hawthorne. _Cosmopolitan_, vol. ii +p. 96. + +"Names in Novels." _Blackwood_, vol cl. p. 230. + +"Naming of Novels." _Macmillan_, vol. lxi. p. 372. + +"Fiction as a Literary Form." By H. W. Mabie. _Scribner's Magazine_, +vol. v. p. 620. + +"Candour in English Fiction." By W. Besant, Mrs Lynn Linton, and Thomas +Hardy. _New Review_, vol. ii. p. 6. + +"The Future of Fiction." By James Sully. _Forum_, vol. ix. p. 644. + +"Names in Fiction." By G. Saintsbury. _Macmillan_, vol. lix. p. 115. + +"Real People in Fiction." By W. S. Walsh. _Lippincott_, vol. xlviii. p. +309. + +"The Relation of Art to Truth." By W. H. Mallock. _Forum_, vol. ix p. +36. + +"Success in Fiction." By M. O. W. Oliphant. _Forum_, vol vii. p. 314. + +"Great Writers and their Art." _Chambers's Journal_, vol. lxv. p. 465. + +"The Jews in English Fiction." _London Quarterly Review_, vol. xxviii. +1897. + +"Heroines in Modern Fiction." _National Review_, vol. xxix. 1897. + +"A Claim for the Art of Fiction." By E. G. Wheelwright. _Westminster +Review_, vol. cxlvi. 1896. + +"The Speculations of a Story-Teller." By G. W. Cable. _Atlantic +Monthly_, vol. lxxviii. 1896. + +"A Novelist's Views of Novel Writing." By E. S. Phelps. _M'Clure's +Magazine_, vol. viii. 1896. + +"Hints to Young Authors of Fiction." By Grant Allen. _Great Thoughts_, +vol. vii. 1896. + +"Novels Without a Purpose." _North American Review_, vol. clxiii. 1896. + +"The Fiction of the Future." Symposium. _Ludgate Monthly_, vol. ii. +1896. + +"The Place of Realism in Fiction." _Humanitarian_, vol. vii. 1895. By Dr +W. Barry, A. Daudet, Miss E. Dixon, Sir G. Douglas, G. Gissing, W. H. +Mallock, Richard Pryce, Miss A. Sergeant, F. Wedmore, and W. H. Wilkins. + +"The Influence of Idealism in Fiction." By Ingrad Harting. +_Humanitarian_, vol. vi. 1895. + +"Novelists on their Works." _Ludgate Monthly_, vol. i. 1895. + +"Novel Writing and Novel Reading." Interview with Baring Gould. +_Cassell's Family Magazine_, vol. xxii. 1894. + +"The Women Characters of Fiction." By H. Schutz Wilson. _Gentleman's +Magazine_, vol. cclxxvii. 1894. + +"School of Fiction Series." In _Atalanta_, vol. vii. 1894: + + 1. "The Picturesque Novel, as represented by R. D. Blackmore." + By K. Macquoid. + + 2. "The Autobiographical Novel, as represented by C. Bronte." + By Dr A. H. Japp. + + 3. "The Historical Novel, as represented by Sir Walter Scott." + By E. L. Arnold. + + 4. "The Ethical Novel, as represented by George Eliot." By J. + A. Noble. + + 5. "The Satirical Novel, as represented by W. M. Thackeray." + By H. A. Page. + + 6. "The Human Novel, as represented by Mrs Gaskell." By + Maxwell Gray. + + 7. "The Sensational Novel, as represented by Mrs Henry Wood." + By E. C. Grey. + + 8. "The Humorous Novel, as represented by Oliver Goldsmith." + By Dr A. H. Japp. + +"The Shudder in Literature." By Jules Claretie. _North American Review_, +vol. clv. 1892. + +"The Profitable Reading of Fiction." By Thomas Hardy. _Forum_, vol. v. +p. 57. + +"The Picturesque in Novels." _Chambers's Journal_, vol. lxii. 1892. + +"Realism in Fiction." By E. F. Benson. _Nineteenth Century_, vol. xxxiv. +1893. + +"Great Characters in Novels." _Spectator_, vol. lxxi. 1893. + +"The Modern Novel." By A. E. Barr. _North American Review_, vol. clix. +1894. + +"The Novels of Adventure and Manners." _Quarterly Review_, vol. clxxix. +1894. + +"The Women of Fiction." By H. S. Wilson. _Gentleman's Magazine_, new +series, vol. liii. 1894. + +"Why do Certain Works of Fiction Succeed?" By M. Wilcox. _New Scientific +Review_, vol. i. 1894. + +"Magazine Fiction, and How not to Write It." By F. M. Bird. +_Lippincott's Magazine_, vol. liv. 1894. + +"The Picaresque Novel." By J. F. Kelly. _New Review_, vol. xiii. p. 59. + +"The Irresponsible Novelist." _Macmillan's Magazine_, vol. lxxii. p. 73. + +"Great Realists and Empty Story Tellers." By H. H. Boyesen. _Forum_, +vol. xviii. p. 724. + +"Motion and Emotion in Fiction." By R. M. Doggett. _Overland Monthly_, +new series, vol. xxvi. p. 614. + +"'Tendencies' in Fiction." By A. Lang. _North American Review_, vol. +clxi. p. 153. + +"The Two Eternal Types in Fiction." By H. W. Mabie. _Forum_, vol. xix. +p. 41. + +"The Problem of the Novel." By A. N. Meyer. _Arena_, vol xvii. 1897. + +"My Favourite Novel and Novelist." _The Munsey Magazine_, vols. +xvii.-xviii. 1897. By W. D. Howells, B. Matthews, F. B. Stockton, Mrs B. +Harrison, S. R. Crockett, P. Bourget, W. C. Russell, and A. Hope +Hawkins. + +"Hard Times among the Heroines of Novels." By E. A. Madden. +_Lippincott's Magazine_, vol. lxix. 1897. + +"On the Theory and Practice of Local Colour." By W. P. James. +_Macmillan's Magazine_, vol. lxxvi. 1897. + +"The Writing of Fiction." By F. M. Bird. _Lippincott's Magazine_, vol. +lx. 1897. + +"Novelists' Estimates of their own Work." _National Magazine_ (Boston, +U.S.A.), vol. x. 1897. + +"Fundamentals of Fiction." By B. Burton. _Forum_, vol. xxviii. 1899. + +"On the Future of Novel Writing." By Sir Walter Besant. _The Idler_, +vol. xiii. 1898. + +"The Short Story." By F. Wedmore. _Nineteenth Century_, vol. xliii. +1898. + +"The Complete Novelist." By James Payn. _Strand_, vol. xiv. 1897. + +"What is a Realist?" By A. Morrison. _New Review_, vol. xvi. 1897. + +"The Historical Novel." By B. Matthews. _Forum_, vol. xxiv. 1897. + +"The Limits of Realism in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. _New Review_, vol. +viii. p. 201. + +"New Watchwords in Fiction." By Hall Caine. _Contemporary Review_, vol. +lvii. p. 479. + +"The Science of Fiction." By Paul Bourget, Walter Besant, and Thomas +Hardy. _New Review_, vol. iv. p. 304. + +"The Dangers of the Analytic Spirit in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. _New +Review_, vol. vi. p. 48. + +"Cervantes, Zola, Kipling, and Coy." By Brander Matthews. +_Cosmopolitan_, vol. xiv. p. 609. + +"On Style in Literature." By R. L. Stevenson. _Contemporary Review_, +vol. xlvii. p. 458. + +"The Apotheosis of the Novel." By Herbert Paul. _Contemporary Review_, +vol. xli. 1897. + +"Vacant Places in Literature." By W. Robertson Nicoll. _British Weekly_, +March 20, 1895. + +"What Makes a Novel Successful?" By W. Robertson Nicoll. _British +Weekly_, June 16, 1896. + +"The Use of Dialect in Fiction." By F. H. French. _Atalanta_, vol. viii. +p. 125. + + +THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES + + +The word "manoevring" has an oe ligature in the original. + +The following corrections have been made to the text: + + Page 77: says Mr W. M. Hunt.[original has comma] + + Page 87: If you know your characters[original has + chararacters] + + Page 101: and "risk" the reader's acuteness,[original has + cuteness] + + Page 113: in a way quite different to[illegible in the + original] everybody else + + Page 126: for which, indeed, the spot[illegible in the + original--confirmed in other sources] is most fit + + Page 202: 9. "Criticism and Fiction."[quotation mark missing + in original] By W. D. Howells. + + [120:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors.[period missing in + original]" + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of How to Write a Novel, by Anonymous + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL *** + +***** This file should be named 38887.txt or 38887.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/8/8/38887/ + +Produced by David Starner, Lisa Reigel, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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