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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f932aa --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #70492 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70492) diff --git a/old/70492-0.txt b/old/70492-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8418b4a..0000000 --- a/old/70492-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4812 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Aspects of the novel, by Edward Morgan -Forster - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Aspects of the novel - -Author: Edward Morgan Forster - -Release Date: April 7, 2023 [eBook #70492] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL *** - - - _ASPECTS_ - OF THE NOVEL - - - - - E. M. FORSTER - - - - - NEW YORK - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. - - - - -_By the same author_ - - A PASSAGE TO INDIA - HOWARDS END - A ROOM WITH A VIEW - THE LONGEST JOURNEY - WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD - THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS _and other stories_ - THE ETERNAL MOMENT _and other stories_ - ABINGER HARVEST - GOLDSWORTHY LOWES DICKINSON - VIRGINIA WOOLF (_The Rede Lecture_) - - - - - _To_ - CHARLES MAURON - - - - -NOTE - - -THESE are some lectures (the Clark lectures) which were delivered under -the auspices of Trinity College, Cambridge, in the spring of 1927. They -were informal, indeed talkative, in their tone, and it seemed safer when -presenting them in book form not to mitigate the talk, in case nothing -should be left at all. Words such as "I," "you," "one," "we," "curiously -enough," "so to speak," "only imagine," and "of course" will -consequently occur on every page and will rightly distress the sensitive -reader; but he is asked to remember that if these words were removed -others, perhaps more distinguished, might escape through the orifices -they left, and that since the novel is itself often colloquial it may -possibly withhold some of its secrets from the graver and grander -streams of criticism, and may reveal them to backwaters and shallows. - - - - -CONTENTS - -CHAPTER - -I INTRODUCTORY - -II THE STORY - -III PEOPLE - -IV PEOPLE (_continued_) - -V THE PLOT - -VI FANTASY - -VII PROPHECY - -VIII PATTERN AND RHYTHM - -IX CONCLUSION - -INDEX OF MAIN REFERENCES - - - - -ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL - - - - -I - -INTRODUCTORY - - -THIS lectureship is connected with the name of William George Clark, a -fellow of Trinity. It is through him we meet today, and through him we -shall approach our subject. - -Clark was, I believe, a Yorkshireman. He was born in 1821, was at school -at Sedbergh and Shrewsbury, entered Trinity as an undergraduate in 1840, -became fellow four years later, and made the college his home for nearly -thirty years, only leaving it when his health broke, shortly before his -death. He is best known as a Shakespearian scholar, but he published two -books on other subjects to which we must here refer. He went as a young -man to Spain and wrote a pleasant lively account of his holiday called -_Gazpacho_: Gazpacho being the name of a certain cold soup which he ate -and appears to have enjoyed among the peasants of Andalusia: indeed he -appears to have enjoyed everything. Eight years later, as a result of a -holiday in Greece, he published a second book, _Peloponnesus_. -_Peloponnesus_ is a graver work and a duller. Greece was a serious place -in those days, more serious than Spain, besides, Clark had by now not -only taken Orders but become Public Orator, and he was, above all, -travelling with Dr. Thompson, the then Master of the college, who was -not at all the sort of person to be involved in a cold soup. The jests -about mules and fleas are consequently few, and we are increasingly -confronted with the remains of Classical Antiquity and the sites of -battles. What survives in the book--apart from its learning--is its -feeling for Greek country-side. Clark also travelled in Italy and -Poland. - -To turn to his academic career. He planned the great _Cambridge -Shakespeare_, first with Glover, then with Aldis Wright (both librarians -of Trinity), and, helped by Aldis Wright, he issued the _Globe -Shakespeare_, a popular text. He collected much material for an edition -of Aristophanes. He also published some Sermons, but in 1869 he gave up -Holy Orders--which, by the way, will exempt us from excessive orthodoxy. -Like his friend and biographer Leslie Stephen, like Henry Sidgwick and -others of that generation, he did not find it possible to remain in the -Church, and he has explained his reasons in a pamphlet entitled _The -Present Dangers of the Church of England_. He resigned his post of -Public Orator in consequence, while retaining his college tutorship. He -died at the age of fifty-seven, esteemed by all who knew him as a -lovable, scholarly and honest man. You will have realized that he is a -Cambridge figure. Not a figure in the great world or even at Oxford, but -a spirit peculiar to these courts, which perhaps only you who tread them -after him can justly appreciate: the spirit of integrity. Out of a -bequest in his will, his old college has provided for a series of -lectures, to be delivered annually "on some period or periods of English -Literature not earlier than Chaucer," and that is why we meet here now. - -Invocations are out of fashion, yet I wanted to make this small one, for -two reasons. Firstly, may a little of Clark's integrity be with us -through this course; and secondly, may he accord us a little -inattention! For I am not keeping quite strictly to the terms laid -down--"Period or periods of English Literature." This condition, though -it sounds liberal and is liberal enough in spirit, happens verbally not -quite to suit our subject, and I shall occupy the introductory lecture -in explaining why this is. The points raised may seem trivial. But they -will lead us to a convenient vantage post from which we can begin our -main attack next week. - -We need a vantage post, for the novel is a formidable mass, and it is so -amorphous--no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even -a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of -literature--irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating -into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they -sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at -the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among -them. Perhaps we ought to define what a novel is before starting. This -will not take a second. M. Abel Chevalley has, in his brilliant little -manual,[1] provided a definition, and if a French critic cannot define -the English novel, who can? It is, he says, "a fiction in prose of a -certain extent" (une fiction en prose d'une certaine étendue). That is -quite good enough for us, and we may perhaps go so far as to add that -the extent should not be less than 50,000 words. Any fictitious prose -work over 50,000 words will be a novel for the purposes of these -lectures, and if this seems to you unphilosophic will you think of an -alternative definition, which will include _The Pilgrim's Progress_, -_Marius the Epicurean_, _The Adventures of a Younger Son_, _The Magic -Flute_, _The Journal of the Plague_, _Zuleika Dobson_, _Rasselas_, -_Ulysses_, and _Green Mansions_, or else will give reasons for their -exclusion? Parts of our spongy tract seem more fictitious than other -parts, it is true: near the middle, on a tump of grass, stand Miss -Austen with the figure of Emma by her side, and Thackeray holding up -Esmond. But no intelligent remark known to me will define the tract as a -whole. All we can say of it is that it is bounded by two chains of -mountains neither of which rises very abruptly--the opposing ranges of -Poetry and of History--and bounded on the third side by a sea--a sea -that we shall encounter when we come to _Moby Dick_. - -Let us begin by considering the proviso "English Literature." "English" -we shall of course interpret as written in English, not as published -south of the Tweed or east of the Atlantic, or north of the Equator: we -need not attend to geographical accidents, they can be left to the -politicians. Yet, even with this interpretation, are we as free as we -wish? Can we, while discussing English fiction, quite ignore fiction -written in other languages, particularly French and Russian? As far as -influence goes, we could ignore it, for our writers have never been much -influenced by the continentals. But--for reasons soon to be explained--I -want to talk as little as possible about influence during these -lectures. My subject is a particular kind of book and the aspects that -book has assumed in English. Can we ignore its collateral aspects on the -continent? Not entirely. An unpleasant and unpatriotic truth has here to -be faced. No English novelist is as great as Tolstoy--that is to say has -given so complete a picture of man's life, both on its domestic and -heroic side. No English novelist has explored man's soul as deeply as -Dostoevsky. And no novelist anywhere has analysed the modern -consciousness as successfully as Marcel Proust. Before these triumphs we -must pause. English poetry fears no one--excels in quality as well as -quantity. But English Action is less triumphant: it does not contain the -best stuff yet written, and if we deny this we become guilty of -provincialism. - -Now, provincialism does not signify in a writer, and may indeed be the -chief source of his strength: only a prig or a fool would complain that -Defoe is cockneyfied or Thomas Hardy countrified. But provincialism in a -critic is a serious fault. A critic has no right to the narrowness which -is the frequent prerogative of the creative artist. He has to have a -wide outlook or he has not anything at all. Although the novel exercises -the rights of a created object, criticism has not those rights, and too -many little mansions in English fiction have been acclaimed to their own -detriment as important edifices. Take four at random: _Cranford_, _The -Heart of Midlothian_, _Jane Eyre_, _Richard Feverel_. For various -personal and local reasons we may be attached to these four books. -_Cranford_ radiates the humour of the urban midlands, _Midlothian_ is a -handful out of Edinburgh, _Jane Eyre_ is the passionate dream of a fine -but still undeveloped woman. _Richard Feverel_ exudes farmhouse lyricism -and flickers with modish wit, but all four are little mansions, not -mighty edifices, and we shall see and respect them for what they are if -we stand them for an instant in the colonnades of _War and Peace_, or -the vaults of _The Brothers Karamazov_. - -I shall not often refer to foreign novels in these lectures, still less -would I pose as an expert on them who is debarred from discussing them -by his terms of reference. But I do want to emphasize their greatness -before we start; to cast, so to speak, this preliminary shadow over our -subject, so that when we look back on it at the end we may have the -better chance of seeing it in its true lights. - -So much for the proviso "English." Now for a more important proviso, -that of "period or periods." This idea of a period of a development in -time, with its consequent emphasis on influences and schools, happens to -be exactly what I am hoping to avoid during our brief survey, and I -believe that the author of _Gazpacho_ will be lenient. Time, all the way -through, is to be our enemy. We are to visualize the English novelists -not as floating down that stream which bears all its sons away unless -they are careful, but as seated together in a room, a circular room, a -sort of British Museum reading-room--all writing their novels -simultaneously. They do not, as they sit there, think "I live under -Queen Victoria, I under Anne, I carry on the tradition of Trollope, I am -reacting against Aldous Huxley." The fact that their pens are in their -hands is far more vivid to them. They are half mesmerized, their sorrows -and joys are pouring out through the ink, they are approximated by the -act of creation, and when Professor Oliver Elton says, as he does, that -"after 1847 the novel of passion was never to be the same again," none -of them understand what he means. That is to be our vision of them--an -imperfect vision, but it is suited to our powers, it will preserve us -from a serious danger, the danger of pseudo-scholarship. - -Genuine scholarship is one of the highest successes which our race can -achieve. No one is more triumphant than the man who chooses a worthy -subject and masters all its facts and the leading facts of the subjects -neighbouring. He can then do what he likes. He can, if his subject is -the novel, lecture on it chronologically if he wishes because he has -read all the important novels of the past four centuries, many of the -unimportant ones, and has adequate knowledge of any collateral facts -that bear upon English fiction. The late Sir Walter Raleigh (who once -held this lectureship) was such a scholar. Raleigh knew so many facts -that he was able to proceed to influences, and his monograph on the -English novel adopts the treatment by period which his unworthy -successor must avoid. The scholar, like the philosopher, can contemplate -the river of time. He contemplates it not as a whole, but he can see the -facts, the personalities, floating past him, and estimate the relations -between them, and if his conclusions could be as valuable to us as they -are to himself he would long ago have civilized the human race. As you -know, he has failed. True scholarship is incommunicable, true scholars -rare. There are a few scholars, actual or potential, in the audience -today, but only a few, and there is certainly none on the platform. Most -of us are pseudo-scholars, and I want to consider our characteristics -with sympathy and respect, for we are a very large and quite a powerful -class, eminent in Church and State, we control the education of the -Empire, we lend to the Press such distinction as it consents to receive, -and we are a welcome asset at dinner-parties. - -Pseudo-scholarship is, on its good side, the homage paid by ignorance to -learning. It also has an economic side, on which we need not be hard. -Most of us must get a job before thirty, or sponge on our relatives, and -many jobs can only be got by passing an exam. The pseudo-scholar often -does well in examination (real scholars are not much good), and even -when he fails he appreciates their innate majesty. They are gateways to -employment, they have power to ban and bless. A paper on _King Lear_ may -lead somewhere, unlike the rather far-fetched play of the same name. It -may be a stepping-stone to the Local Government Board. He does not often -put it to himself openly and say "That's the use of knowing things, they -help you to get on." The economic pressure he feels is more often -subconscious, and he goes to his exam, merely feeling that a paper on -King Lear is a very tempestuous and terrible experience but an intensely -real one. And whether he be cynical or naïf, he is not to be blamed. As -long as learning is connected with earning, as long as certain jobs can -only be reached through exams, so long must we take the examination -system seriously. If another ladder to employment was contrived, much -so-called education would disappear, and no one be a penny the stupider. - -It is when he comes to criticism--to a job like the present--that he can -be so pernicious, because he follows the method of a true scholar -without having his equipment. He classes books before he has understood -or read them; that is his first crime. Classification by chronology. -Books written before 1847, books written after it, books written after -or before 1848. The novel in the reign of Queen Anne, the pre-novel, the -ur-novel, the novel of the future. Classification by subject -matter--sillier still. The literature of Inns, beginning with _Tom -Jones_; the literature of the Women's Movement, beginning with -_Shirley_; the literature of Desert Islands, from _Robinson Crusoe_ to -_The Blue Lagoon_; the literature of Rogues--dreariest of all, though -the Open Road runs it pretty close; the literature of Sussex (perhaps -the most devoted of the Home Counties); improper books--a serious though -dreadful branch of enquiry, only to be pursued by pseudo-scholars of -riper years, novels relating to industrialism, aviation, chiropody, the -weather. I include the weather on the authority of the most amazing work -on the novel that I have met for many years. It came over the Atlantic -to me, nor shall I ever forget it. It was a literary manual entitled -_Materials and Methods of Fiction_. The writer's name shall be -concealed. He was a pseudo-scholar and a good one. He classified novels -by their dates, their length, their locality, their sex, their point of -view, till no more seemed possible. But he still had the weather up his -sleeve, and when he brought it out, it had nine heads. He gave an -example under each head, for he was anything but slovenly, and we will -run through his list. In the first place the weather can be -"decorative," as in Pierre Loti; then "utilitarian," as in _The Mill on -the Floss_ (no Floss, no Mill; no Mill, no Tullivers); "illustrative," -as in _The Egoist_; "planned in pre-established harmony," as by Fiona -MacLeod; "in emotional contrast," as in _The Master of Ballantrae_; -"determinative of action," as in a certain Kipling story, where a man -proposes to the wrong girl on account of a mud storm; "a controlling -influence," _Richard Feverel_; "itself a hero," like Vesuvius in _The -Days of Pompeii_; and ninethly, it can be "non-existent," as in a -nursery tale. I liked him flinging in non-existence. It made everything -so scientific and trim. But he himself remained a little dissatisfied, -and having finished his classification he said yes, of course there was -one more thing, and that was genius; it was useless for a novelist to -know that there are nine sorts of weather, unless he has genius also. -Cheered by this reflection, he classified novels by their tones. There -are only two tones, personal and impersonal, and having given examples -of each he grew pensive again and said, "Yes, but you must have genius -too, or neither tone will profit." - -This constant reference to genius is another characteristic of the -pseudo-scholar. He loves mentioning genius, because the sound of the -word exempts him from trying to discover its meaning. Literature is -written by geniuses. Novelists are geniuses. There we are; now let us -classify them. Which he does. Everything he says may be accurate but all -is useless because he is moving round books instead of through them, he -either has not read them or cannot read them properly. Books have to be -read (worse luck, for it takes a long time); it is the only way of -discovering what they contain. A few savage tribes eat them, but reading -is the only method of assimilation revealed to the west. The reader must -sit down alone and struggle with the writer, and this the pseudo-scholar -will not do. He would rather relate a book to the history of its time, -to events in the life of its author, to the events it describes, above -all to some tendency. As soon as he can use the word "tendency" his -spirits rise, and though those of his audience may sink, they often pull -out their pencils at this point and make a note, under the belief that a -tendency is portable. - -That is why, in the rather ramshackly course that lies ahead of us, we -cannot consider fiction by periods, we must not contemplate the stream -of time. Another image better suits our powers: that of all the -novelists writing their novels at once. They come from different ages -and ranks, they have different temperaments and aims, but they all hold -pens in their hands, and are in the process of creation. Let us look -over their shoulders for a moment and see what they are writing. It may -exorcise that demon of chronology which is at present our enemy and -which (we shall discover next week) is sometimes their enemy too. "Oh, -what quenchless feud is this, that Time hath with the sons of men," -cries Herman Melville, and the feud goes on not only in life and death -but in the by-ways of literary creation and criticism. Let us avoid it -by imagining that all the novelists are at work together in a circular -room. I shall not mention their names until we have heard their words, -because a name brings associations with it, dates, gossip, all the -furniture of the method we are discarding. - -They have been instructed to group themselves in pairs. We approach the -first pair, and read as follows:-- - - -i. I don't know what to do--not I. God forgive me, but I am very -impatient! I wish--but I don't know what to wish without a sin. Yet I -wish it would please God to take me to his mercy!--I can meet with none -here.--What a world is this!--What is there in it desirable? The good we -hope for so strangely mixed, that one knows not what to wish for! And -one half of mankind tormenting the other and being tormented themselves -in tormenting. - -ii. What I hate is myself--when I think that one has to take so much, to -be happy, out of the lives of others, and that one isn't happy even -then. One does it to cheat one's self and to stop one's mouth--but that -is only, at the best, for a little. The wretched self is always there, -always making us somehow a fresh anxiety. What it comes to is that it's -not, that it's never, a happiness, any happiness at all, to _take_. The -only safe thing is to give. It's what plays you least false. - - -It is obvious that here sit two novelists who are looking at life from -much the same angle, yet the first of them is Samuel Richardson, and the -second you will have already identified as Henry James. Each is an -anxious rather than an ardent psychologist. Each is sensitive to -suffering and appreciates self-sacrifice; each falls short of the -tragic, though a close approach is made. A sort of tremulous -nobility--that is the spirit that dominates them--and oh how well they -write!--not a word out of place in their copious flows. A hundred and -fifty years of time divide them, but are not they dose together in other -ways, and may not their neighbourliness profit us? Of course as I say -this I hear Henry James beginning to express his regret--no, not his -regret but his surprise--no, not even his surprise but his awareness -that neighbourliness is being postulated of him, and postulated, must he -add, in relation to a shopkeeper. And I hear Richardson, equally -cautious, wondering whether any writer born outside England can be -chaste. But these are surface differences, are indeed no differences at -all, but additional points of contact. We leave them sitting in harmony, -and proceed to our next pair. - - -i. All the preparations for the funeral ran easily and happily under -Mrs. Johnson's skilful hands. On the eve of the sad occasion she -produced a reserve of black sateen, the kitchen steps, and a box of -tintacks, and decorated the house with festoons and bows of black in the -best possible taste. She tied up the knocker with black crêpe, and put -a large bow over the corner of the steel engraving of Garibaldi, and -swathed the bust of Mr. Gladstone that had belonged to the deceased with -inky swathings. She turned the two vases that had views of Tivoli and -the Bay of Naples round, so that these rather brilliant landscapes were -hidden and only the plain blue enamel showed, and she anticipated the -long contemplated purchase of a tablecloth for the front room, and -substituted a violet purple cover for the now very worn and faded -raptures and roses in plushette that had hitherto done duty there. -Everything that loving consideration could do to impart a dignified -solemnity to her little home was done. - -ii. The air of the parlour being faint with the smell of sweet cake, I -looked about for the table of refreshments; it was scarcely visible -until one had got accustomed to the gloom, but there was a cut-up plum -cake upon it, and there were cut-up oranges, and sandwiches, and -biscuits, and two decanters that I knew very well as ornaments, but had -never seen used in all my life; one full of port, and one of sherry. -Standing at this table, I became conscious of the servile Pumblechook in -a black cloak and several yards of hat-band, who was alternately -stuffing himself, and making obsequious movements to catch my attention. -The moment he succeeded, he came over to me (breathing sherry and -crumbs) and said in a subdued voice, "May I, dear sir?" and did. - - -These two funerals did not by any means happen on the same day. One is -the funeral of Mr. Polly's father (1920), the other the funeral of Mrs. -Gargery in _Great Expectations_ (1860). Yet Wells and Dickens are -describing them from the same point of view and even using the same -tricks of style (cf. the two vases and the two decanters). They are, -both, humorists and visualizers who get an effect by cataloguing details -and whisking the page over irritably. They are generous-minded; they -hate shams and enjoy being indignant about them; they are valuable -social reformers; they have no notion of confining books to a library -shelf. Sometimes the lively surface of their prose scratches like a -cheap gramophone record, a certain poorness of quality appears, and the -face of the author draws rather too near to that of the reader. In other -words, neither of them has much taste: the world of beauty was largely -closed to Dickens, and is entirely closed to Wells. And there are other -parallels--for instance their method of drawing character, but that we -shall examine later on. And perhaps the great difference between them is -the difference of opportunity offered to an obscure boy of genius a -hundred years ago and to a similar boy forty years ago. The difference -is all in Wells' favour. He is far better educated than his predecessor; -in particular the addition of science has strengthened his mind out of -recognition and subdued his hysteria. He registers an improvement in -society: Dotheboys Hall has been superseded by the Polytechnic. But he -does not register any change in the novelist's art. - -What about our next pair? - - -i. But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was -made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that I might get -up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to -say for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it -happened. O dear me, the mystery of life! The inaccuracy of thought! The -ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our -possessions we have--what an accidental affair this living is after all -our civilization--let me just count over a few of the things lost on one -lifetime, beginning, for that always seems the most mysterious of -losses--what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble--three pale blue -canisters of bookbinding tools? Then there were the birdcages, the iron -hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the -bagatelle-board, the hand-organ--all gone, and jewels too. Opals and -emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring -affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, -that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one -wants to compare life to anything one must liken it to being blown -through the Tube at fifty miles an hour.... - -ii. Every day for at least ten years together did my father resolve to -have it mended; 'tis not mended yet. No family but ours would have borne -with it an hour, and what is most astonishing, there was not a subject -in the world upon which my father was so eloquent as upon that of -door-hinges. And yet, at the same time, he was certainly one of the -greatest bubbles to them, I think, that history can produce; his -rhetoric and conduct were at perpetual handy-cuffs. Never did the -parlour door open but his philosophy or his principles fell a victim to -it; three drops of oil with a feather, and a smart stroke of a hammer, -had saved his honour for ever. - -Inconsistent soul that man is; languishing under wounds which he has the -power to heal; his whole life a contradiction to his knowledge; his -reason, that precious gift of God to him (instead of pouring in oil), -serving but to sharpen his sensibilities, to multiply his pains, and -render him more melancholy and uneasy under them! Poor unhappy creature, -that he should do so! Are not the necessary causes of misery in this -life enough, but he must add voluntary ones to his stock of sorrow? -Struggle against evils which cannot be avoided, and submit to others -which a tenth part of the trouble they create him would remove from his -heart for ever. - -By all that is good and virtuous, if there are three drops of oil to be -got and a hammer to be found within ten miles of Shandy Hall, the -parlour door hinge shall be mended this reign. - - -The passage last quoted is, of course, out of _Tristram Shandy_. The -other passage was from Virginia Woolf. She and Sterne are both -fantasists. They start with a little object, take a flutter from it, and -settle on it again. They combine a humorous appreciation of the muddle -of life with a keen sense of its beauty. There is even the same tone in -their voices--a rather deliberate bewilderment, an announcement to all -and sundry that they do not know where they are going. No doubt their -scales of value are not the same. Sterne is a sentimentalist, Virginia -Woolf (except perhaps in her latest work, _To the Lighthouse_) is -extremely aloof. Nor are their achievements on the same scale. But their -medium is similar, the same odd effects are obtained by it, the parlour -door is never mended, the mark on the wall turns out to be a snail, life -is such a muddle, oh, dear, the will is so weak, the sensations -fidgety--philosophy--God--oh, dear, look at the mark--listen to the -door--existence is really too ... what were we saying? - -Does not chronology seem less important now that we have visualized six -novelists at their jobs? If the novel develops, is it not likely to -develop on different lines from the British Constitution, or even the -Women's Movement? I say "even the Women's Movement" because there -happened to be a close association between fiction in England and that -movement during the nineteenth century--a connection so close that it -has misled some critics into thinking it an organic connection. As women -bettered their position the novel, they asserted, became better too. -Quite wrong. A mirror does not develop because an historical pageant -passes in front of it. It only develops when it gets a fresh coat of -quicksilver--in other words, when it acquires new sensitiveness; and the -novel's success lies in its own sensitiveness, not in the success of its -subject matter. Empires fall, votes are accorded, but to those people -writing in the circular room it is the feel of the pen between their -fingers that matters most. They may decide to write a novel upon the -French or the Russian Revolution, but memories, associations, passions, -rise up and cloud their objectivity, so that at the close, when they -re-read, some one else seems to have been holding their pen and to have -relegated their theme to the background. That "some one else" is their -self no doubt, but not the self that is so active in time and lives -under George IV or V. All through history writers while writing have -felt more or less the same. They have entered a common state which it is -convenient to call inspiration,[2] and having regard to that state, we -may say that History develops, Art stands still. - -History develops, Art stands still, is a crude motto, indeed it is -almost a slogan, and though forced to adopt it we must not do so without -admitting it vulgarily. It contains only a partial truth. - -It debars us in the first place from considering whether the human mind -alters from generation to generation; whether, for instance, Thomas -Deloney, who wrote humorously about shops and pubs in the reign of Queen -Elizabeth, differs fundamentally from his modern representative--who -would be some one of the calibre of Neil Lyons or Pett Ridge. As a -matter of fact Deloney did not differ; differed as an individual, but -not fundamentally, not because he lived four hundred years ago. Four -thousand, fourteen thousand years might give us pause, but four hundred -years is nothing in the life of our race, and does not allow room for -any measurable change. So our slogan here is no practical hindrance. We -can chant it without shame. - -It is more serious when we turn to the development of tradition and see -what we lose through being debarred from examining that. Apart from -schools and influences and fashions, there has been a technique in -English fiction, and this does alter from generation to generation. The -technique of laughing at characters for instance: to smoke and to rag -are not identical; the Elizabethan humorist picks up his victim in a -different way from the modern, raises his laugh by other tricks. Or the -technique of fantasy: Virginia Woolf, though her aim and general effect -both resemble Sterne's, differs from him in execution; she belongs to -the same tradition but to a later phase of it. Or the technique of -conversation: in my pairs of examples I could not include a couple of -dialogues, though I wanted to, for the reason that the use of the "he -said" and "she said" varies so much through the centuries that it -colours its surroundings, and though the speakers may be similarly -conceived they will not seem so in an extract. Well, we cannot examine -questions like these, and must admit we are the poorer, though we can -abandon the development of subject matter and the development of the -human race without regret. Literary tradition is the borderland lying -between literature and history, and the well-equipped critic will spend -much time there and enrich his judgment accordingly. We cannot go there -because we have not read enough. We must pretend it belongs to history -and cut it off accordingly. We must refuse to have anything to do with -chronology. - -Let me quote here for our comfort from my immediate predecessor in this -lectureship, Mr. T. S. Eliot. Mr. Eliot enumerates, in the introduction -to _The Sacred Wood_, the duties of the critic. "It is part of his -business to preserve tradition--when a good tradition exists. It is part -of his business to see literature steadily and to see it whole; and this -is eminently to see it not as consecrated by time, but to see it beyond -time." The first duty we cannot perform, the second we must try to -perform. We can neither examine nor preserve tradition. But we can -visualize the novelists as sitting in one room, and force them, by our -very ignorance, from the limitations of date and place. I think that is -worth doing, or I should not have ventured to undertake this course. - -How then are we to attack the novel--that spongy tract, those fictions -in prose of a certain extent which extend so indeterminately? Not with -any elaborate apparatus. Principles and systems may suit other forms of -art, but they cannot be applicable here--or if applied their results -must be subjected to re-examination. And who is the re-examiner? Well, I -am afraid it will be the human heart, it will be this man-to-man -business, justly suspect in its cruder forms. The final test of a novel -will be our affection for it, as it is the test of our friends, and of -anything else which we cannot define. Sentimentality--to some a worse -demon than chronology--will lurk in the background saying, "Oh, but I -like that," "Oh, but that doesn't appeal to me," and all I can promise -is that sentimentality shall not speak too loudly or too soon. The -intensely, stiflingly human quality of the novel is not to be avoided; -the novel is sogged with humanity; there is no escaping the uplift or -the downpour, nor can they be kept out of criticism. We may hate -humanity, but if it is exorcised or even purified the novel wilts, -little is left but a bunch of words. - -And I have chosen the title "Aspects" because it is unscientific and -vague, because it leaves us the maximum of freedom, because it means -both the different ways we can look at a novel and the different ways a -novelist can look at his work. And the aspects selected for discussion -are seven in number: The Story; People; The Plot; Fantasy; Prophecy; -Pattern and Rhythm. - - -[Footnote 1: _Le Roman Anglais de Notre Temps_. By Abel Chevalley, -(Oxford University Press, New York.)] - -[Footnote 2: I have touched on this theory of inspiration in a short essay -called "Anonymity." (Hogarth Press, London.)] - - - - -II - -THE STORY - - -WE shall all agree that the fundamental aspect of the novel is its -story-telling aspect, but we shall voice our assent in different tones, -and it is on the precise tone of voice we employ now that our subsequent -conclusions will depend. - -Let us listen to three voices. If you ask one type of man, "What does a -novel do?" he will reply placidly: "Well--I don't know--it seems a funny -sort of question to ask--a novel's a novel--well, I don't know--I -suppose it kind of tells a story, so to speak." He is quite -good-tempered and vague, and probably driving a motor-bus at the same -time and paying no more attention to literature than it merits. Another -man, whom I visualize as on a golf-course, will be aggressive and brisk. -He will reply: "What does a novel do? Why, tell a story of course, and -I've no use for it if it didn't. I like a story. Very bad taste on my -part, no doubt, but I like a story. You can take your art, you can take -your literature, you can take your music, but give me a good story. And -I like a story to be a story, mind, and my wife's the same." And a third -man he says in a sort of drooping regretful voice, "Yes--oh, dear, -yes--the novel tells a story." I respect and admire the first speaker. I -detest and fear the second. And the third is myself. Yes--oh, dear, -yes—the novel tells a story. That is the fundamental aspect without -which it could not exist. That is the highest factor common to all -novels, and I wish that it was not so, that it could be something -different--melody, or perception of the truth, not this low atavistic -form. - -For the more we look at the story (the story that is a story, mind), the -more we disentangle it from the finer growths that it supports, the less -shall we find to admire. It runs like a backbone--or may I say a -tape-worm, for its beginning and end are arbitrary. It is immensely -old--goes back to neolithic times, perhaps to palæolithic. Neanderthal -man listened to stories, if one may judge by the shape of his skull. The -primitive audience was an audience of shock-heads, gaping round the -camp-fire, fatigued with contending against the mammoth or the woolly -rhinoceros, and only kept awake by suspense. What would happen next? The -novelist droned on, and as soon as the audience guessed what happened -next, they either fell asleep or killed him. We can estimate the dangers -incurred when we think of the career of Scheherazade in somewhat later -times. Scheherazade avoided her fate because she knew how to wield the -weapon of suspense--the only literary tool that has any effect upon -tyrants and savages. Great novelist though she was,--exquisite in her -descriptions, tolerant in her judgments, ingenious in her incidents, -advanced in her morality, vivid in her delineations of character, expert -in her knowledge of three Oriental capitals--it was yet on none of these -gifts that she relied when trying to save her life from her intolerable -husband. They were but incidental. She only survived because she managed -to keep the king wondering what would happen next. Each time she saw the -sun rising she stopped in the middle of a sentence, and left him gaping. -"At this moment Scheherazade saw the morning appearing and, discreet, -was silent." This uninteresting little phrase is the backbone of the -_One Thousand and One Nights_, the tape-worm by which they are tied -together and the life of a most accomplished princess was preserved. - -We are all like Scheherazade's husband, in that we want to know what -happens next. That is universal and that is why the backbone of a novels -has to be a story. Some of us want to know nothing else--there is -nothing in us but primeval curiosity, and consequently our other -literary judgments are ludicrous. And now the story can be defined. It -is a narrative of events arranged in their time sequence--dinner coming -after breakfast, Tuesday after Monday, decay after death, and so on. Qua -story, it can only have one merit: that of making the audience want to -know what happens next. And conversely it can only have one fault: that -of making the audience not want to know what happens next. These are the -only two criticisms that can be made on the story that is a story. It is -the lowest and simplest of literary organisms. Yet it is the highest -factor common to all the very complicated organisms known as novels. - -When we isolate the story like this from the nobler aspects through -which it moves, and hold it out on the forceps--wriggling and -interminable, the naked worm of time--it presents an appearance that is -both unlovely and dull. But we have much to learn from it. Let us begin -by considering it in connection with daily life. - -Daily life is also full of the time-sense. We think one event occurs -after or before another, the thought is often in our minds, and much of -our talk and action proceeds on the assumption. Much of our talk and -action, but not all; there seems something else in life besides time, -something which may conveniently be called "value," something which is -measured not by minutes or hours, but by intensity, so that when we look -at our past it does not stretch back evenly but piles up into a few -notable pinnacles, and when we look at the future it seems sometimes a -wall, sometimes a cloud, sometimes a sun, but never a chronological -chart. Neither memory nor anticipation is much interested in Father -Time, and all dreamers, artists and lovers are partially delivered from -his tyranny; he can kill them, but he cannot secure their attention, and -at the very moment of doom, when the dock collected in the tower its -strength and struck, they may be looking the other way. So daily life, -whatever it may be really, is practically composed of two lives--the -life in time and the life by values--and our conduct reveals a double -allegiance. "I only saw her for five minutes, but it was worth it." -There you have both allegiances in a single sentence. And what the story -does is to narrate the life in time. And what the entire novel does--if -it is a good novel--is to include the life by values as well; using -devices hereafter to be examined. It, also, pays a double allegiance. -But in it, in the novel, the allegiance to time is imperative: no novel -could be written without it. Whereas in daily life the allegiance may -not be necessary: we do not know, and the experience of certain mystics -suggests, indeed, that it is not necessary, and that we are quite -mistaken in supposing that Monday is followed by Tuesday, or death by -decay. It is always possible for you or me in daily life to deny that -time exists and act accordingly even if we become unintelligible and are -sent by our fellow citizens to what they choose to call a lunatic -asylum. But it is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the -fabric of his novel: he must cling however lightly to the thread of his -story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes -unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder. - -I am trying not to be philosophic about time, for it is (experts assure -us) a most dangerous hobby for an outsider, far more fatal than place; -and quite eminent metaphysicians have been dethroned through referring -to it improperly. I am only trying to explain that as I lecture now I -hear that clock ticking or do not hear it ticking, I retain or lose -the time sense; whereas in a novel there is always a clock. The author -may dislike his clock. Emily Brontë in _Wuthering Heights_ tried to -hide hers. Sterne, in _Tristram Shandy_, turned his upside down. Marcel -Proust, still more ingenious, kept altering the hands, so that his hero -was at the same period entertaining a mistress to supper and playing -ball with his nurse in the park. All these devices are legitimate, but -none of them contravene our thesis: the basis of a novel is a story, and -a story is a narrative of events arranged in time sequence. (A story, by -the way, is not the same as a plot. It may form the basis of one, but -the plot is an organism of a higher type, and will be defined and -discussed in a future lecture.) - -Who shall tell us a story? - -Sir Walter Scott of course. - -Scott is a novelist over whom we shall violently divide. For my own part -I do not care for him, and find it difficult to understand his continued -reputation. His reputation in his day--that is easy to understand. There -are important historical reasons for it, which we should discuss if our -scheme was chronological. But when we fish him out of the river of time -and set him to write in that circular room with the other novelists, he -presents a less impressive figure. He is seen to have a trivial mind and -a heavy style. He cannot construct. He has neither artistic detachment -nor passion, and how can a writer who is devoid of both, create -characters who will move us deeply? Artistic detachment--perhaps it is -priggish to ask for that. But passion--surely passion is low brow -enough, and think how all Scott's laborious mountains and scooped-out -glens and carefully ruined abbeys call out for passion, passion and how -it is never there! If he had passion he would be a great writer--no -amount of clumsiness or artificiality would matter then. But he only has -a temperate heart and gentlemanly feelings, and an intelligent affection -for the country-side: and this is not basis enough for great novels. And -his integrity--that is worse than nothing, for it was a purely moral and -commercial integrity. It satisfied his highest needs and he never dreamt -that another sort of loyalty exists. - -His fame is due to two causes. In the first place, many of the elder -generation had him read aloud to them when they were young; he is -entangled with happy sentimental memories, with holidays in or residence -in Scotland. They love him indeed for the same reason that I loved and -still love _The Swiss Family Robinson_. I could lecture to you now on -_The Swiss Family Robinson_ and it would be a glowing lecture, because -of the emotions felt in boyhood. When my brain decays entirely I shall -not bother any more over great literature. I shall go back to the -romantic shore where the "ship struck with a fearful shock," emitting -four demigods named Fritz, Ernest, Jack and little Franz, together with -their father, their mother, and a cushion, which contained all the -appliances necessary for a ten years' residence in the tropics. That is -my eternal summer, that is what _The Swiss Family Robinson_ means to me, -and is not it all that Sir Walter Scott means to some of you? Is he -really more than a reminder of early happiness? And until our brains do -decay, must not we put all this aside when we attempt to understand -books? - -In the second place, Scott's fame rests upon one genuine basis. He could -tell a story. He had the primitive power of keeping the reader in -suspense and playing on his curiosity. Let us paraphrase _The -Antiquary_--not analyze it, analysis is the wrong method, but -paraphrase. Then we shall see the story unrolling itself, and be able to -study its simple devices. - - -THE ANTIQUARY - -CHAPTER I - -It was early in a fine summer's day, near the end of the eighteenth -century, when a young man of genteel appearance, having occasion to go -towards the north-east of Scotland, provided himself with a ticket in -one of those public carriages which travel between Edinburgh and the -Queensferry, at which place, as the name implies, and as is well known -to all my northern readers, there is a passage-boat for crossing the -Frith of Forth. - - -That is the first sentence in _The Antiquary_--not an exciting sentence, -but it gives us the time, the place, and a young man,--it sets the -story-teller's scene. We feel a moderate interest in what the young man -will do next. His name is Lovel, and there is a mystery about him. He is -the hero or Scott would not call him genteel, and he is sure to make the -heroine happy. He meets the Antiquary, Jonathan Oldbuck. They get into -the coach, not too quickly, become acquainted, Lovel visits Oldbuck at -his house. Near it they meet a new character, Edie Ochiltree. Scott is -good at introducing fresh characters. He slides them very naturally, and -with a promising air. Edie Ochiltree promises a good deal. He is a -beggar--no ordinary beggar, a romantic and reliable rogue, and will he -not help to solve the mystery of which we saw the tip in Lovel? More -introductions: to Sir Arthur Wardour (old family, bad manager); to his -daughter Isabella (haughty), whom the hero loves unrequited; and to -Oldbuck's sister Miss Grizzle. Miss Grizzle is introduced with the same -air of promise. As a matter of fact she is just a comic turn--she leads -nowhere, and your story-teller is full of these turns. He need not -hammer away all the time at cause and effect. He keeps just as well -within the simple boundaries of his art if he says things that have no -bearing on the development. The audience thinks they will develop, but -the audience is shock-headed and tired and easily forgets. Unlike the -weaver of plots, the story-teller profits by ragged ends. Miss Grizzle -is a small example of a ragged end; for a big one I would refer to a -novel that professes to be lean and tragic: _The Bride of Lammermoor_. -Scott presents the Lord High Keeper in this book with great emphasis and -with endless suggestions that the defects of his character will lead to -the tragedy, while as a matter of fact the tragedy would occur in almost -the same form if he did not exist--the only necessary ingredients in it -being Edgar, Lucy, Lady Ashton and Bucklaw. Well, to return to _The -Antiquary_, then there is a dinner, Oldbuck and Sir Arthur quarrel, Sir -Arthur is offended and leaves early with his daughter, and they try to -walk back to their own house across the sands. Tides rise over sands. -The tide rises. Sir Arthur and Isabel are cut off, and are confronted in -their peril by Edie Ochiltree. This is the first serious moment in the -story and this is how the story-teller who is a story-teller handles it: - - -While they exchanged these words, they paused upon the highest ledge of -rock to which they could attain; for it seemed that any farther attempt -to move forward could only serve to anticipate their fate. Here then -they were to await the sure, though slow progress of the raging element, -something in the situation of the martyrs of the Early Church, who, -exposed by heathen tyrants to be slain by wild beasts, were compelled -for a time to witness the impatience and rage by which the animals were -agitated, while awaiting the signal for undoing their grates and letting -them loose upon the victims. - -Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella time to collect the powers of -a mind naturally strong and courageous, and which rallied itself at this -terrible juncture. "Must we yield life," she said, "without a struggle? -Is there no path, however dreadful, by which we could climb the crag, or -at least attain some height above the tide, where we could remain till -morning, or till help comes? They must be aware of our situation, and -will raise the country to relieve us." - - -Thus speaks the heroine, in accents which certainly chill the reader. -Yet we want to know what happens next. The rocks are of cardboard, like -those in my dear Swiss Family; the tempest is turned on with one hand -while Scott scribbles away about Early Christians with the other; there -is no sincerity, no sense of danger in the whole affair; it is all -passionless, perfunctory, yet we do just want to know what happens next. - -Why--Lovel rescues them. Yes; we ought to have thought of that; and what -then? - -Another ragged end. Lovel is put by the Antiquary to sleep in a haunted -room, where he has a dream or vision of his host's ancestor, who says to -him, "Kunst macht Gunst," words which he does not understand at the -time, owing to his ignorance of German, and learns afterwards that they -mean "Skill wins Favour": he must pursue the siege of Isabella's heart. -That is to say the supernatural contributes nothing to the story. It is -introduced with tapestries and storms, but only a copy-book maxim -results. The reader does not know this though. When he hears "Kunst -macht Gunst," his attention reawakens ... then his attention is diverted -to something else, and the time-sequence goes on. - -Picnic in the ruins of St. Ruth. Introduction of Dousterswivel, a wicked -foreigner, who has involved Sir Arthur in mining schemes and whose -superstitions are ridiculed because not of the genuine Border brand. -Arrival of Hector McIntyre, the Antiquary's nephew, who suspects Lovel -of being an impostor. The two fight a duel; Lovel, thinking he has -killed his opponent, flies with Edie Ochiltree, who has turned up as -usual. They hide in the ruins of St. Ruth, where they watch -Dousterswivel gulling Sir Arthur in a treasure-hunt. Lovel gets away on -a boat and--out of sight out of mind; we do not worry about him until he -turns up again. Second treasure-hunt at St. Ruth. Sir Arthur finds a -hoard of silver. Third treasure-hunt. Dousterswivel is soundly -cudgelled, and when he comes to himself sees the funeral rites of the -old Countess of Glenallan, who is being buried there at midnight and -with secrecy, that family being of the Romish persuasion. - -Now the Glenallans are very important in the story, yet how casually -they are introduced! They are hooked on to Dousterswivel in the most -artless way. His pair of eyes happened to be handy, so Scott had a peep -through them. And the reader by now is getting so docile under the -succession of episodes that he just gapes, like a primitive cave mam. -Now the Glenallan interest gets to work, the ruins of St. Ruth are -switched off, and we enter what may be called the "pre-story," where two -new characters intervene, and talk wildly and darkly about a sinful -past. Their names are: Elspeth Mucklebackit, a Sibyl of a fisherwoman, -and Lord Glenallan, son of the dead countess. Their dialogue is -interrupted by other events--by the arrest, trial and release of Edie -Ochiltree, by the death by drowning of another new character, and by the -humours of Hector McIntyre's convalescence at his uncle's house. But the -gist is that Lord Glenallan many years ago had married a lady called -Evelina Nevile, against his mother's wish, and had then been given to -understand that she was his half-sister. Maddened with horror, he had -left her before she gave birth to a child. Elspeth, formerly his -mother's servant, now explains to him that Evelina was no relation to -him, that she died in childbirth--Elspeth and another woman -attending--and that the child disappeared. Lord Glenallan then goes to -consult the Antiquary, who, as a Justice of the Peace, knew something of -the events of the time, and who had also loved Evelina. And what happens -next? Sir Arthur Wardour's goods are sold up, for Dousterswivel has -ruined him. And then? The French are reported to be landing. And then? -Lovel rides into the district leading the British troops. He calls -himself "Major Nevile" now. But even "Major Nevile" is not his right -name, for he is who but the lost child of Lord Glenallan, he is none -other than the legitimate heir to an earldom. Partly through Elspeth -Mucklebackit, partly through her fellow servant whom he meets as a nun -abroad, partly through an uncle who has died, partly through Edie -Ochiltree, the truth has come out. There are indeed plenty of reasons -for the dénouement, but Scott is not interested in reasons; he dumps -them down without bothering to elucidate them; to make one thing happen -after another is his only serious aim. And then? Isabella Wardour -relents and marries the hero. And then? That is the end of the story. We -must not ask "And then?" too often. If the time-sequence is pursued one -second too far it leads us into quite another country. - -_The Antiquary_ is a book in which the life in time is celebrated -instinctively by the novelist, and this must lead to slackening of -emotion and shallowness of judgment, and in particular to that idiotic -use of marriage as a finale. Time can be celebrated consciously also, -and we shall find an example of this in a very different sort of book, a -memorable book: Arnold Bennett's _The Old Wives' Tale_. Time is the real -hero of _The Old Wives' Tale_. He is installed as the lord of -creation--excepting indeed of Mr. Critchlow, whose bizarre exemption -only gives added force. Sophia and Constance are the children of Time -from the instant we see them romping with their mother's dresses; they -are doomed to decay with a completeness that is very rare in literature. -They are girls, Sophia runs away and marries, the mother dies, Constance -marries, her husband dies, Sophia's husband dies, Sophia dies, Constance -dies, their old rheumatic dog lumbers up to see whether anything remains -in the saucer. Our daily life in time is exactly this business of -getting old which clogs the arteries of Sophia and Constance, and the -story that is a story and sounded so healthy and stood no nonsense -cannot sincerely lead to any conclusion but the grave. It is an -unsatisfactory conclusion. Of course we grow old. But a great book must -rest on something more than an "of course," and _The Old Wives' Tale_ is -very strong, sincere and sad,--it misses greatness. - -What about _War and Peace_? that is certainly great, that likewise -emphasizes the effects of time and the waxing and waning of a -generation. Tolstoy, like Bennett, has the courage to show us people -getting old--the partial decay of Nicolay and Natasha is really more -sinister than the complete decay of Constance and Sophia: more of our -own youth seems to have perished in it. Then why is _War and Peace_ not -depressing? Probably because it has extended over space as well as over -time, and the sense of space until it terrifies us is exhilarating, and -leaves behind it an effect like music. After one has read _War and -Peace_ for a bit, great chords begin to sound, and we cannot say exactly -what struck them. They do not arise from the story, though Tolstoy is -quite as interested in what comes next as Scott, and quite as sincere as -Bennett. They do not come from the episodes nor yet from the characters. -They come from the immense area of Russia, over which episodes and -characters have been scattered, from the sum-total of bridges and frozen -rivers, forests, roads, gardens, fields, which accumulate grandeur and -sonority after we have passed them. Many novelists have the feeling for -place--Five Towns, Auld Reekie, and so on. Very few have the sense of -space, and the possession of it ranks high in Tolstoy's divine -equipment. Space is the lord of _War and Peace_, not time. - -A word in conclusion about the story as the repository of a voice. It is -the aspect of the novelist's work which asks to be read out loud, which -appeals not to the eye, like most prose, but to the ear; having indeed -this much in common with oratory. It does not offer melody or cadence. -For these, strange as it may seem, the eye is sufficient; the eye, -backed by a mind that transmutes, can easily gather up the sounds of a -paragraph or dialogue when they have æsthetic value, and refer them to -our enjoyment,--yes, can even telescope them up so that we get them -quicker than we should do if they were recited, just as some people can -look through a musical score quicker than it can be rapped out on the -piano. But the eye is not equally quick at catching a voice. That -opening sentence of _The Antiquary_ has no beauty of sound, yet we -should lose something if it was not read aloud. Our mind would commune -with Walter Scott's silently, and less profitably. The story, besides -saying one thing after another, adds something because of its connection -with a voice. - -It does not add much. It does not give us anything as important as the -author's personality. His personality--when he has one--is conveyed -through nobler agencies, such as the characters or the plot or his -comments on life. What the story does do in this particular capacity, -all it can do, is to transform us from readers into listeners, to whom -"a" voice speaks, the voice of the tribal narrator, squatting in the -middle of the cave, and saying one thing after another until the -audience falls asleep among their offal and bones. The story is -primitive, it reaches back to the origins of literature, before reading -was discovered, and it appeals to what is primitive in us. That is why -we are so unreasonable over the stories we like, and so ready to bully -those who like something else. For instance, I am annoyed when people -laugh at me for loving _The Swiss Family Robinson_, and I hope that I -have annoyed some of you over Scott! You see what I mean. Intolerance is -the atmosphere stories generate. The story is neither moral nor is it -favourable to the understanding of the novel in its other aspects. If we -want to do that we must come out of the cave. - -We shall not come out of it yet, but observe already how that other -life--the life by value--presses against the novel from all sides, how -it is ready to fill and indeed distort it, offering it people, plots, -fantasies, views of the universe, anything except this constant "and -then ... and then," which is the sole contribution of our present -inquiry. The life in time is so obviously base and inferior that the -question naturally occurs: cannot the novelist abolish it from his work, -even as the mystic asserts he has abolished it from his experience, and -install its radiant alternative alone? - -Well, there is one novelist who has tried to abolish time, and her -failure is instructive: Gertrude Stein. Going much further than Emily -Brontë, Sterne or Proust, Gertrude Stein has smashed up and pulverized -her clock and scattered its fragments over the world like the limbs of -Osiris, and she has done this not from naughtiness but from a noble -motive: she has hoped to emancipate fiction from the tyranny of time and -to express in it the life by values only. She fails, because as soon as -fiction is completely delivered from time it cannot express anything at -all, and in her later writing we can see the slope down which she is -slipping. She wants to abolish this whole aspect of the story, this -sequence in chronology, and my heart goes out to her. She cannot do it -without abolishing the sequence between the sentences. But this is not -effective unless the order of the words in the sentences is also -abolished, which in its turn entails the abolition of the order of the -letters or sounds in the words. And now she is over the precipice. There -is nothing to ridicule in such an experiment as hers. It is much more -important to play about like this than to rewrite the Waverley Novels. -Yet the experiment is doomed to failure. The time-sequence cannot be -destroyed without carrying in its ruin all that should have taken its -place; the novel that would express values only becomes unintelligible -and therefore valueless. - -That is why I must ask you to join me in repeating in exactly the right -tone of voice the words with which this lecture opened. Do not say them -vaguely and good-temperedly like a busman: you have not the right. Do -not say them briskly and aggressively like a golfer: you know better. -Say them a little sadly, and you will be correct. Yes--oh, dear, -yes--the novel tells a story. - - - - -III - -PEOPLE - - -HAVING discussed the story--that simple and fundamental aspect of the -novel--we can turn to a more interesting topic: the actors. We need not -ask what happened next, but to whom did it happen; the novelist will be -appealing to our intelligence and imagination, not merely to our -curiosity. A new emphasis enters his voice: emphasis upon value. - -Since the actors in a story are usually human, it seemed convenient to -entitle this aspect People. Other animals have been introduced, but with -limited success, for we know too little so far about their psychology. -There may be, probably will be, an alteration here in the future, -comparable to the alteration in the novelist's rendering of savages in -the past. The gulf that separates Man Friday from Batouala may be -paralleled by the gulf that will separate Kipling's wolves from their -literary descendants two hundred years hence, and we shall have animals -who are neither symbolic, nor little men disguised, nor as four-legged -tables moving, nor as painted scraps of paper that fly. It is one of the -ways where science may enlarge the novel, by giving it fresh subject -matter. But the help has not been given yet, and until it comes we may -say that the actors in a story are, or pretend to be, human beings. - -Since the novelist is himself a human being, there is an affinity -between him and his subject matter which is absent in many other forms -of art. The historian is also linked, though, as we shall see, less -intimately. The painter and sculptor need not be linked: that is to say -they need not represent human beings unless they wish, no more need the -poet, while the musician cannot represent them even if he wishes, -without the help of a programme. The novelist, unlike many of his -colleagues, makes up a number of word-masses roughly describing himself -(roughly: niceties shall come later), gives them names and sex, assigns -them plausible gestures, and causes them to speak by the use of inverted -commas, and perhaps to behave consistently. These word-masses are his -characters. They do not come thus coldly to his mind, they may be -created in delirious excitement, still, their nature is conditioned by -what he guesses about other people, and about himself, and is further -modified by the other aspects of his work. This last point--the relation -of characters to the other aspects of the novel--will form the subject -of a future enquiry. At present we are occupied with their relation to -actual life. What is the difference between people in a novel and people -like the novelist or like you, or like me, or Queen Victoria? - -There is bound to be a difference. If a character in a novel is exactly -like Queen Victoria--not rather like but exactly like--then it actually -is Queen Victoria, and the novel, or all of it that the character -touches, becomes a memoir. A memoir is history, it is based on evidence. -A novel is based on evidence + or — _x_, the unknown quantity being -the temperament of the novelist, and the unknown quantity always -modifies the effect of the evidence, and sometimes transforms it -entirely. - -The historian deals with actions, and with the characters of men only so -far as he can deduce them from their actions. He is quite as much -concerned with character as the novelist, but he can only know of its -existence when it shows on the surface. If Queen Victoria had not said, -"We are not amused," her neighbours at table would not have known she -was not amused, and her ennui could never have been announced to the -public. She might have frowned, so that they would have deduced her -state from that--looks and gestures are also historical evidence. But if -she remained impassive--what would any one know? The hidden life is, by -definition, hidden. The hidden life that appears in external signs is -hidden no longer, has entered the realm of action. And it is the -function of the novelist to reveal the hidden life at its source: to -tell us more about Queen Victoria than could be known, and thus to -produce a character who is not the Queen Victoria of history. - -The interesting and sensitive French critic, who writes under the name -of Alain, has some helpful if slightly fantastic remarks on this point. -He gets a little out of his depth, but not as much as I feel myself out -of mine, and perhaps together we may move toward the shore. Alain -examines in turn the various forms of æsthetic activity, and coming in -time to the novel (le roman) he asserts that each human being has two -sides, appropriate to history and fiction. All that is observable in a -man--that is to say his actions and such of his spiritual existence as -can be deduced from his actions--falls into the domain of history. But -his romanceful or romantic side (sa partie romanesque ou romantique) -includes "the pure passions, that is to say the dreams, joys, sorrows -and self-communings which politeness or shame prevent him from -mentioning"; and to express this side of human nature is one of the -chief functions of the novel. "What is fictitious in a novel is not so -much the story as the method by which thought develops into action, a -method which never occurs in daily life.... History, with its emphasis -on external causes, is dominated by the notion of fatality, whereas -there is no fatality in the novel; there, everything is founded on human -nature, and the dominating feeling is of an existence where everything -is intentional, even passions and crimes, even misery."[3] - -This is perhaps a roundabout way of saying what every British schoolboy -knew, that the historian records whereas the novelist must create. -Still, it is a profitable roundabout, for it brings out the fundamental -difference between people in daily life and people in books. In daily -life we never understand each other, neither complete clairvoyance nor -complete confessional exists. We know each other approximately, by -external signs, and these serve well enough as a basis for society and -even for intimacy. But people in a novel can be understood completely by -the reader, if the novelist wishes; their inner as well as their outer -life can be exposed. And this is why they often seem more definite than -characters in history, or even our own friends; we have been told all -about them that can be told; even if they are imperfect or unreal they -do not contain any secrets, whereas our friends do and must, mutual -secrecy being one of the conditions of life upon this globe. - -Now let us restate the problem in a more schoolboyish way. You and I are -people. Had not we better glance through the main facts in our own -lives--not in our individual careers but in our make-up as human beings? -Then we shall have something definite to start from. - -The main facts in human life are five: birth, food, sleep, love and -death. One could increase the number--add breathing for instance--but -these five are the most obvious. Let us briefly ask ourselves what part -they play in our lives, and what in novels. Does the novelist tend to -reproduce them accurately or does he tend to exaggerate, minimize, -ignore, and to exhibit his characters going through processes which are -not the same through which you and I go, though they bear the same -names? - -To consider the two strangest first: birth and death; strange because -they are at the same time experiences and not experiences. We only know -of them by report. We were all born, but we cannot remember what it was -like. And death is coming even as birth has come, but, similarly, we do -not know what it is like. Our final experience, like our first, is -conjectural. We move between two darknesses. Certain people pretend to -tell us what birth and death are like: a mother, for instance, has her -point of view about birth, a doctor, a religious, have their points of -view about both. But it is all from the outside, and the two entities -who might enlighten us, the baby and the corpse, cannot do so, because -their apparatus for communicating their experiences is not attuned to -our apparatus for reception. - -So let us think of people as starting life with an experience they -forget and ending it with one which they anticipate but cannot -understand. These are the creatures whom the novelist proposes to -introduce as characters into books; these, or creatures plausibly like -them. The novelist is allowed to remember and understand everything, if -it suits him. He knows all the hidden life. How soon will he pick up his -characters after birth, how close to the grave will he follow them? And -what will he say, or cause to be felt, about these two queer -experiences? - -Then food, the stoking up process, the keeping alive of an individual -flame, the process that begins before birth and is continued after it by -the mother, and finally taken over by the individual himself, who goes -on day after day putting an assortment of objects into a hole in his -face without becoming surprised or bored: food is a link between the -known and the forgotten; closely connected with birth, which none of us -remembers, and coming down to this morning's breakfast. Like -sleep--which in many ways it resembles--food does not merely restore our -strength, it has also an æsthetic side, it can taste good or bad. What -will happen to this double-faced commodity in books? - -And fourthly, sleep. On the average, about a third of our time is not -spent in society or civilization or even in what is usually called -solitude. We enter a world of which little is known and which seems to -us after leaving it to have been partly oblivion, partly a caricature of -this world and partly a revelation. "I dreamt of nothing" or "I dreamt -of a ladder" or "I dreamt of heaven" we say when we wake. I do not want -to discuss the nature of sleep and dreams--only to point out that they -occupy much time and that what is called "History" only busies itself -with about two-thirds of the human cycle, and theorizes accordingly. -Does fiction take up a similar attitude? - -And lastly, love. I am using this celebrated word in its widest and -dullest sense. Let me be very dry and brief about sex in the first -place. Some years after a human being is born, certain changes occur in -it, as in other animals, which changes often lead to union with another -human being, and to the production of more human beings. And our race -goes on. Sex begins before adolescence, and survives sterility; it is -indeed coeval with our lives, although at the mating age its effects are -more obvious to society. And besides sex, there are other emotions, also -strengthening towards maturity: the various upliftings of the spirit, -such as affection, friendship, patriotism, mysticism--and as soon as we -try to determine the relation between sex and these other emotions we -shall of course begin to quarrel as violently as we ever could about -Walter Scott, perhaps even more violently. Let me only tabulate the -various points of view. Some people say that sex is basic and underlies -all these other loves--love of friends, of God, of country. Others say -that it is connected with them, but laterally, it is not their root. -Others say that it is not connected at all. All I suggest is that we -call the whole bundle of emotions love, and regard them as the fifth -great experience through which human beings have to pass. When human -beings love they try to get something. They also try to give something, -and this double aim makes love more complicated than food or sleep. It -is selfish and altruistic at the same time, and no amount of -specialization in one direction quite atrophies the other. How much time -does love take? This question sounds gross but it must be asked because -it bears on our present enquiry. Sleep takes about eight hours out of -the twenty-four, food about two more. Shall we put down love for another -two? Surely that is a handsome allowance. Love may weave itself into our -other activities--so may drowsiness and hunger. Love may start various -secondary activities: for instance, a man's love for his family may -cause him to spend a good deal of time on the Stock Exchange, or his -love for God a good deal of time in church. But that he has emotional -communion with any beloved object for more than two hours a day may be -gravely doubted, and it is this emotional communion, this desire to give -and to get, this mixture of generosity and expectation, that -distinguishes love from the other experiences on our list. - -That is the human make-up--or part of it. Made up like this himself, the -novelist takes his pen in his hand, gets into the abnormal state which -it is convenient to call "inspiration," and tries to create characters. -Perhaps the characters have to fall in with something else in his novel: -this often happens (the books of Henry James are an extreme case), and -then the characters have, of course, to modify the make-up accordingly. -However, we are considering now the more simple case of the novelist -whose main passion is human beings and who will sacrifice a great deal -to their convenience--story, plot, form, incidental beauty. - -Well, in what senses do the nations of fiction differ from those of the -earth? One cannot generalize about them, because they have nothing in -common in the scientific sense; they need not have glands, for example, -whereas all human beings have glands. Nevertheless, though incapable of -strict definition, they tend to behave along the same lines. - -In the first place, they come into the world more like parcels than -human beings. When a baby arrives in a novel it usually has the air of -having been posted. It is delivered "off"; one of the elder characters -goes and picks it up and shows it to the reader, after which it is -usually laid in cold storage until it can talk or otherwise assist in -the action. There is both a good and a bad reason for this and for all -other deviations from earthly practice; these we will note in a minute, -but do just observe in what a very perfunctory way the population of -noveldom is recruited. Between Sterne and James Joyce, scarcely any -writer has tried either to use the facts of birth or to invent a new set -of facts, and no one, except in a sort of auntish wistful way, has tried -to work back towards the psychology of the baby's mind and to utilize -the literary wealth that must lie there. Perhaps it cannot be done. We -shall decide in a moment. - -Death. The treatment of death, on the other hand, is nourished much more -on observation, and has a variety about it which suggests that the -novelist finds it congenial. He does, for the reason that death ends a -book neatly, and for the less obvious reason that working as he does in -time he finds it easier to work from the known towards the darkness -rather than from the darkness of birth towards the known. By the time -his characters die, he understands them, he can be both appropriate and -imaginative about them--strongest of combinations. Take a little -death--the death of Mrs. Proudie in the _Last Chronicle of Barset_. All -is in keeping, yet the effect is terrifying, because Trollope has ambled -Mrs. Proudie down many a diocesan bypath, showing her paces, making her -snap, accustoming us, even to boredom, to her character and tricks, to -her "Bishop, consider the souls of the people," and then she has a heart -attack by the edge of her bed, she has ambled far enough,--end of Mrs. -Proudie. There is scarcely anything that the novelist cannot borrow from -"daily death"; scarcely anything he may not profitably invent. The doors -of that darkness lie open to him and he can even follow his characters -through it, provided he is shod with imagination and does not try to -bring us back scraps of séance information about the "life beyond." - -What of food, the third fact upon our list? Food in fiction is mainly -social. It draws characters together, but they seldom require it -physiologically, seldom enjoy it, and never digest it unless specially -asked to do so. They hunger for each other, as we do in life, but our -equally constant longing for breakfast and lunch does not get reflected. -Even poetry has made more of it--at least of its æsthetic side. Milton -and Keats have both come nearer to the sensuousness of swallowing than -George Meredith. - -Sleep. Also perfunctory. No attempt to indicate oblivion or the actual -dream world. Dreams are either logical or else mosaics made out of hard -little fragments of the past and future. They are introduced with a -purpose and that purpose is not the character's life as a whole, but -that part of it he lives while awake. He is never conceived as a -creature a third of whose time is spent in the darkness. It is the -limited daylight vision of the historian, which the novelist elsewhere -avoids. Why should he not understand or reconstruct sleep? For remember, -he has the right to invent, and we know when he is inventing truly, -because his passion floats us over improbabilities. Yet he has neither -copied sleep nor created it. It is just an amalgam. - -Love. You all know how enormously love bulks in novels, and will -probably agree with me that it has done them harm and made them -monotonous. Why has this particular experience, especially in its sex -form, been transplanted in such generous quantities? If you think of a -novel in the vague you think of a love interest--of a man and woman who -want to be united and perhaps succeed. If you think of your own life in -the vague, or of a group of lives, you are left with a very different -and a more complex impression. - -There would seem to be two reasons why love, even in good sincere -novels, is unduly prominent. - -Firstly, when the novelist ceases to design his characters and begins to -create them--"love" in any or all of its aspects becomes important in -his mind, and without intending to do so he makes his characters unduly -sensitive to it--unduly in the sense that they would not trouble so much -in life. The constant sensitiveness of characters for each other--even -in writers called robust like Fielding--is remarkable, and has no -parallel in life, except among people who have plenty of leisure. -Passion, intensity at moments--yes, but not this constant awareness, -this endless readjusting, this ceaseless hunger. I believe that these -are the reflections of the novelist's own state of mind while he -composes, and that the predominance of love in novels is partly because -of this. - -A second reason; which logically comes into another part of our enquiry, -but it shall be noted here. Love, like death, is congenial to a novelist -because it ends a book conveniently. He can make it a permanency, and -his readers easily acquiesce, because one of the illusions attached to -love is that it will be permanent. Not has been--will be. All history, -all our experience, teaches us that no human relationship is constant, -it is as unstable as the living beings who compose it, and they must -balance like jugglers if it is to remain; if it is constant it is no -longer a human relationship but a social habit, the emphasis in it has -passed from love to marriage. All this we know, yet we cannot bear to -apply our bitter knowledge to the future; the future is to be so -different; the perfect person is to come along, or the person we know -already is to become perfect. There are to be no changes, no necessity -for alertness. We are to be happy or even perhaps miserable for ever and -ever. Any strong emotion brings with it the illusion of permanence, and -the novelists have seized upon this. They usually end their books with -marriage, and we do not object because we lend them our dreams. - -Here we must conclude our comparison of those two allied species, Homo -Sapiens and Homo Fictus. Homo Fictus is more elusive than his cousin. He -is created in the minds of hundreds of different novelists, who have -conflicting methods of gestation, so one must not generalize. Still, one -can say a little about him. He is generally born off, he is capable of -dying on, he wants little food or sleep, he is tirelessly occupied with -human relationships. And--most important--we can know more about him -than we can know about any of our fellow creatures, because his creator -and narrator are one. Were we equipped for hyperbole we might exclaim at -this point: "If God could tell the story of the Universe, the Universe -would become fictitious." - -For this is the principle involved. - - -Let us, after these high speculations, take an easy character and study -it for a little. Moll Flanders will do. She fills the book that bears -her name, or rather stands alone in it, like a tree in a park, so that -we can see her from every aspect and are not bothered by rival growths. -Defoe is telling a story, like Scott, and we shall find stray threads -left about in much the same way, on the chance of the writer wanting to -pick them up afterwards: Moll's early batch of children for instance. -But the parallel between Scott and Defoe cannot be pressed. What -interested Defoe was the heroine, and the form of his book proceeds -naturally out of her character. Seduced by a younger brother and married -to an elder, she takes to husbands in the earlier and brighter part of -her career: not to prostitution, which she detests with all the force of -a decent and affectionate heart. She and most of the characters in -Defoe's underworld are kind to one another, they save each other's -feelings and run risks through personal loyalty. Their innate goodness -is always flourishing despite the author's better judgment, the reason -evidently being that the author had some great experience himself while -in Newgate. We do not know what it was, probably he himself did not know -afterwards, for he was a busy slipshod journalist and a keen politician. -But something occurred to him in prison, and out of its vague, powerful -emotion Moll and Roxana are born. Moll is a character physically, with -hard plump limbs that get into bed and pick pockets. She lays no stress -upon her appearance, yet she moves us as having height and weight, as -breathing and eating, and doing many of the things that are usually -missed out. Husbands were her earlier employ: she was trigamous if not -quadrigamous, and one of her husbands turned out to be a brother. She -was happy with all of them, they were nice to her, she nice to them. -Listen to the pleasant jaunt her draper husband took her--she never -cared for him much. - - -"Come, my dear," says he to me one day, "shall we go and take a turn -into the country for about a week?" "Ay, my dear," says I, "whither -would you go?" "I care not whither," says he, "but I have a mind to look -like quality for a week. We'll go to Oxford," says he. "How," says I, -"shall we go? I am no horse-woman, and 'tis too far for a coach." "Too -far!" says he; "no place is too far for a coach-and-six. If I carry you -out, you shall travel like a duchess." "Hum," says I, "my dear, 'tis a -frolic; but if you have a mind to it, I don't care." Well, the time was -appointed, we had a rich coach, very good horses, a coachman, postilion, -and two footmen in very good liveries; a gentleman on horseback, and a -page with a feather in his hat upon another horse. The servants all -called my lord, and the innkeepers, you may be sure, did the like, and I -was her honour the Countess, and thus we travelled to Oxford, and a very -pleasant journey we had; for, give him his due, not a beggar alive knew -better how to be a lord than my husband. We saw all the rarities at -Oxford, talked with two or three Fellows of Colleges about putting out a -young nephew, that was left to his lordship's care, to the University, -and of their being his tutors. We diverted ourselves with bantering -several other poor Scholars, with hopes of being at least his lordship's -chaplains, and putting on a scarf; and thus having lived like quality, -indeed, as to expense, we went away for Northampton, and, in a word, in -about twelve days' ramble came home again, to the tune of about £93 -expense. - - -Contrast with this the scene with her Lancashire husband, whom she -deeply loved. He is a high-wayman, and each by pretending to wealth has -trapped the other into marriage. After the ceremony, they are mutually -unmasked, and if Defoe were writing mechanically he would set them to -upbraid one another, like Mr. and Mrs. Lammle in _Our Mutual Friend_. -But he has given himself over to the humour and good sense of his -heroine. She guides him through. - - -"Truly," said I to him, "I found you would soon have conquered me; and -it is my affliction now, that I am not in a condition to let you see how -easily I should have been reconciled to you, and have passed by all the -tricks you had put upon me, in recompense of so much good-humour. But, -my dear," said I, "what can we do now? We are both undone, and what -better are we for our being reconciled together, seeing we have nothing -to live on?" - -We proposed a great many things, but nothing could offer where there was -nothing to begin with. He begged me at last to talk no more of it, for, -he said, I would break his heart; so we talked of other things a little, -till at last he took a husband's leave of me, and so we went to sleep. - - -Which is both truer to daily life and pleasanter to read than Dickens. -The couple are up against facts, not against the author's theory of -morality, and being sensible good-hearted rogues, they do not make a -fuss. In the later part of her career she turns from husbands to -thieving; she thinks this a change for the worse and a natural darkness -spreads over the scene. But she is as firm and amusing as ever. How just -are her reflections when she robs of her gold necklace the little girl -returning from the dancing-class. The deed is done in the little passage -leading to St. Bartholomew's, Smithfield (you can visit the place -today--Defoe haunts London) and her impulse is to kill the child as -well. She does not, the impulse is very feeble, but conscious of the -risk the child has run she becomes most indignant with the parents for -"leaving the poor little lamb to come home by itself, and it would teach -them to take more care of it another time." How heavily and -pretentiously a modern psychologist would labour to express this! It -just runs off Defoe's pen, and so in another passage, where Moll cheats -a man, and then tells him pleasantly afterwards that she has done so, -with the result that she slides still further into his good graces, and -cannot bear to cheat him any more. Whatever she does gives us a slight -shock--not the jolt of disillusionment, but the thrill that proceeds -from a living being. We laugh at her, but without bitterness or -superiority. She is neither hypocrite nor fool. - -Towards the end of the book she is caught in a draper's shop by two -young ladies from behind the counter: "I would have given them good -words but there was no room for it: two fiery dragons could not have -been more furious than they were"--they call for the police, she is -arrested and sentenced to death and then transported to Virginia -instead. The clouds of misfortune lift with indecent rapidity. The -voyage is a very pleasant one, owing to the kindness of the old woman -who had originally taught her to steal. And (better still) her -Lancashire husband happens to be transported also. They land at Virginia -where, much to her distress, her brother-husband proves to be in -residence. She conceals this, he dies, and the Lancashire husband only -blames her for concealing it from him: he has no other grievance, for -the reason that he and she are still in love. So the book closes -prosperously, and firm as at the opening sentence the heroine's voice -rings out: "We resolve to spend the remainder of our years in sincere -penitence for the wicked lives we have led." - -Her penitence is sincere, and only a superficial judge will condemn her -as a hypocrite. A nature such as hers cannot for long distinguish -between doing wrong and getting caught--for a sentence or two she -disentangles them but they insist on blending, and that is why her -outlook is so cockneyfied and natural, with "sich is life" for a -philosophy and Newgate in the place of Hell. If we were to press her or -her creator Defoe and say, "Come, be serious. Do you believe in -Infinity?" they would say (in the parlance of their modern descendants), -"Of course I believe in Infinity--what do you take me for?"--a -confession of faith that slams the door on Infinity more completely than -could any denial. - -_Moll Flanders_ then shall stand as our example of a novel, in which a -character is everything and is given freest play. Defoe makes a slight -attempt at a plot with the brother-husband as a centre, but he is quite -perfunctory, and her legal husband (the one who took her on the jaunt to -Oxford) just disappears and is heard of no more. Nothing matters but the -heroine; she stands in an open space like a tree, and having said that -she seems absolutely real from every point of view, we must ask -ourselves whether we should recognize her if we met her in daily life. -For that is the point we are still considering: the difference between -people in life and people in books. And the odd thing is, that even -though we take a character as natural and untheoretical as Moll who -would coincide with daily life in every detail, we should not find her -there as a whole. Suppose I suddenly altered my voice from a lecturing -voice into an ordinary one and said to you, "Look out--I can see Moll in -the audience--look out, Mr."--naming one of you by name--"she as near as -could be got your watch"--well, you would know at once that I was wrong, -that I was sinning not only against probabilities, which does not -signify, but against daily life and books and the gulf that divides -them. If I said, "Look out, there's some one like Moll in the audience," -you might not believe me but you would not be annoyed by my imbecile -lack of taste: I should only be sinning against probability. To suggest -that Moll is in Cambridge this afternoon or anywhere in England, or has -been anywhere in England is idiotic. Why? - -This particular question will be easy to answer next week, when we shall -deal with more complicated novels, where the character has to fit in -with other aspects of fiction. We shall then be able to make the usual -reply, which we find in all manuals of literature, and which should -always be given in an examination paper, the æsthetic reply, to the -effect that a novel is a work of art, with its own laws, which are not -those of daily life, and that a character in a novel is real when it -lives in accordance with such laws. Amelia or Emma, we shall then say, -cannot be at this lecture because they exist only in the books called -after them, only in worlds of Fielding or Jane Austen. The barrier of -art divides them from us. They are real not because they are like -ourselves (though they may be like us) but because they are convincing. - -It is a good answer, it will lead on to some sound conclusions. Yet it -is not satisfactory for a novel like _Moll Flanders_, where the -character is everything and can do what it likes. We want a reply that -is less aesthetic and more psychological. Why cannot she be here? What -separates her from us? Our answer has already been implied in that -quotation from Alain: she cannot be here because she belongs to a world -where the secret life is visible, to a world that is not and cannot be -ours, to a world where the narrator and the creator are one. And now we -can get a definition as to when a character in a book is real: it is -real when the novelist knows everything about it. He may not choose to -tell us all he knows--many of the facts, even of the kind we call -obvious, may be hidden. But he will give us the feeling that though the -character has not been explained, it is explicable, and we get from this -a reality of a kind we can never get in daily life. - -For human intercourse, as soon as we look at it for its own sake and not -as a social adjunct, is seen to be haunted by a spectre. We cannot -understand each other, except in a rough and ready way; we cannot reveal -ourselves, even when we want to; what we call intimacy is only a -makeshift; perfect knowledge is an illusion. But in the novel we can -know people perfectly, and, apart from the general pleasure of reading, -we can find here a compensation for their dimness in life. In this -direction fiction is truer than history, because it goes beyond the -evidence, and each of us knows from his own experience that there is -something beyond the evidence, and even if the novelist has not got it -correctly, well--he has tried. He can post his people in as babies, he -can cause them to go on without sleep or food, he can make them be in -love, love and nothing but love, provided he seems to know everything -about them, provided they are his creations. That is why Moll Flanders -cannot be here, that is one of the reasons why Amelia and Emma cannot be -here. They are people whose secret lives are visible or might be -visible: we are people whose secret lives are invisible. - -And that is why novels, even when they are about wicked people, can -solace us; they suggest a more comprehensible and thus a more manageable -human race, they give us the illusion of perspicacity and of power. - - -[Footnote 3: Paraphrased from _Système des Beaux Arts_, pp. 314-315. -I am indebted to M. André Maurois for introducing me to this -stimulating essay.] - - - - -IV - -PEOPLE (_continued_) - - -WE now turn from transplantation to acclimatization. We have discussed -whether people could be taken out of life and put into a book, and -conversely whether they could come out of books and sit down in this -room. The answer suggested was in the negative and led to a more vital -question: can we, in daily life, understand each other? Today our -problems are more academic. We are concerned with the characters in -their relation to other aspects of the novel; to a plot, a moral, their -fellow characters, atmosphere, etc. They will have to adapt themselves -to other requirements of their creator. - -It follows that we shall no longer expect them to coincide as a whole -with daily life, only to parallel it. When we say that a character in -Jane Austen, Miss Bates for instance, is "so like life" we mean that -each bit of her coincides with a bit of life, but that she as a whole -only parallels the chatty spinster we met at tea. Miss Bates is bound by -a hundred threads to Highbury. We cannot tear her away without bringing -her mother too, and Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, and the whole of -Box Hill; whereas we could tear Moll Flanders away, at least for the -purposes of experiment. A Jane Austen novel is more complicated than a -Defoe, because the characters are inter-dependent, and there is the -additional complication of a plot. The plot in _Emma_ is not prominent -and Miss Bates contributes little. Still it is there, she is connected -with the principals, and the result is a closely woven fabric from which -nothing can be removed. Miss Bates and Emma herself are like bushes in a -shrubbery--not isolated trees like Moll--and any one who has tried to -thin out a shrubbery knows how wretched the bushes look if they are -transplanted elsewhere, and how wretched is the look of the bushes that -remain. In most books the characters cannot spread themselves. They must -exercise a mutual restraint. - -The novelist, we are beginning to see, has a very mixed lot of -ingredients to handle. There is the story, with its time-sequence of -"and then ... and then ..."; there are ninepins about whom he might -tell the story, and tell a rattling good one, but no, he prefers to tell -his story about human beings; he takes over the life by values as well -as the life in time. The characters arrive when evoked, but full of the -spirit of mutiny. For they have these numerous parallels with people -like ourselves, they try to live their own lives and are consequently -often engaged in treason against the main scheme of the book. They "run -away," they "get out of hand": they are creations inside a creation, and -often inharmonious towards it; if they are given complete freedom they -kick the book to pieces, and if they are kept too sternly in check, they -revenge themselves by dying, and destroy it by intestinal decay. - -These trials beset the dramatist also, and he has yet another set of -ingredients to cope with--the actors and actresses--and they appear to -side sometimes with the characters they represent, sometimes with the -play as a whole, and more often to be the mortal enemies of both. The -weight they throw is incalculable, and how any work of art survives -their arrival I do not understand. Concerned with a lower form of art, -we need not worry--but, in passing, is it not extraordinary that plays -on the stage are often better than they are in the study, and that the -introduction of a bunch of rather ambitious and nervous men and women -should add anything to our understanding of Shakespeare and Tchekov? - -No, the novelist has difficulties enough, and today we shall examine two -of his devices for solving them--instinctive devices, for his methods -when working are seldom the same as the methods we use when examining -his work. The first device is the use of different kinds of characters. -The second is connected with the point of view. - -i. We may divide characters into flat and round. - -Flat characters were called "humours" in the seventeenth century, and -are sometimes called types, and sometimes caricatures. In their purest -form, they are constructed round a single idea or quality: when there is -more than one factor in them, we get the beginning of the curve towards -the round. The really flat character can be expressed in one sentence -such as "I never will desert Mr. Micawber." There is Mrs. Micawber--she -says she won't desert Mr. Micawber, she doesn't, and there she is. Or: -"I must conceal, even by subterfuges, the poverty of my master's house." -There is Caleb Balderstone in _The Bride of Lammermoor_. He does not use -the actual phrase, but it completely describes him; he has no existence -outside it, no pleasures, none of the private lusts and aches that must -complicate the most consistent of servitors. Whatever he does, wherever -he goes, whatever lies he tells or plates he breaks, it is to conceal -the poverty of his master's house. It is not his idée fixe, because -there is nothing in him into which the idea can be fixed. He is the -idea, and such life as he possesses radiates from its edges and from the -scintillations it strikes when other elements in the novel impinge. Or -take Proust. There are numerous flat characters in Proust, such as the -Princess of Parma, or Legrandin. Each can be expressed in a single -sentence, the Princess's sentence being, "I must be particularly careful -to be kind." She does nothing except to be particularly careful, and -those of the other characters who are more complex than herself easily -see through the kindness, since it is only a by-product of the -carefulness. - -One great advantage of flat characters is that they are easily -recognized whenever they come in--recognized by the reader's emotional -eye, not by the visual eye, which merely notes the recurrence of a -proper name. In Russian novels, where they so seldom occur, they would -be a decided help. It is a convenience for an author when he can strike -with his full force at once, and flat characters are very useful to him, -since they never need reintroducing, never run away, have not to be -watched for development, and provide their own atmosphere--little -luminous disks of a pre-arranged size, pushed hither and thither like -counters across the void or between the stars; most satisfactory. - -A second advantage is that they are easily remembered by the reader -afterwards. They remain in his mind as unalterable for the reason that -they were not changed by circumstances; they moved through -circumstances, which gives them in retrospect a comforting quality, and -preserves them when the book that produced them may decay. The Countess -in _Evan Harrington_ furnishes a good little example here. Let us -compare our memories of her with our memories of Becky Sharp. We do not -remember what the Countess did or what she passed through. What is clear -is her figure and the formula that surrounds it, namely, "Proud as we -are of dear papa, we must conceal his memory." All her rich humour -proceeds from this. She is a flat character. Becky is round. She, too, -is on the make, but she cannot be summed up in a single phrase, and we -remember her in connection with the great scenes through which she -passed and as modified by those scenes--that is to say, we do not -remember her so easily because she waxes and wanes and has facets like a -human being. All of us, even the sophisticated, yearn for permanence, -and to the unsophisticated permanence is the chief excuse for a work of -art. We all want books to endure, to be refuges, and their inhabitants -to be always the same, and flat characters tend to justify themselves on -this account. - -All the same, critics who have their eyes fixed severely upon daily -life--as were our eyes last week--have very little patience with such -renderings of human nature. Queen Victoria, they argue, cannot be summed -up in a single sentence, so what excuse remains for Mrs. Micawber? One -of our foremost writers, Mr. Norman Douglas, is a critic of this type, -and the passage from him which I will quote puts the case against flat -characters in a forcible fashion. The passage occurs in an open letter -to D. H. Lawrence, with whom he is quarrelling: a doughty pair of -combatants, the hardness of whose hitting makes the rest of us feel like -a lot of ladies up in a pavilion. He complains that Lawrence, in a -biography, has falsified the picture by employing "the novelist's -touch," and he goes on to define what this is: - - -It consists, I should say, in a failure to realize the complexities of -the ordinary human mind; it selects for literary purposes two or three -facets of a man or woman, generally the most spectacular, and therefore -useful ingredients of their character and disregards all the others. -Whatever fails to fit in with these specially chosen traits is -eliminated--must be eliminated, for otherwise the description would not -hold water. Such and such are the data: everything incompatible with -those data has to go by the board. It follows that the novelist's touch -argues, often logically, from a wrong premise: it takes what it likes -and leaves the rest. The facts may be correct as far as they go but -there are too few of them: what the author says may be true and yet by -no means the truth. That is the novelist's touch. It falsifies life. - - -Well, the novelist's touch as thus defined is, of course, bad in -biography, for no human being is simple. But in a novel it has its -place: a novel that is at all complex often requires flat people as well -as round, and the outcome of their collisions parallels life more -accurately than Mr. Douglas implies. The case of Dickens is significant. -Dickens' people are nearly all flat (Pip and David Copperfield attempt -roundness, but so diffidently that they seem more like bubbles than -solids). Nearly every one can be summed up in a sentence, and yet there -is this wonderful feeling of human depth. Probably the immense vitality -of Dickens causes his characters to vibrate a little, so that they -borrow his life and appear to lead one of their own. It is a conjuring -trick; at any moment we may look at Mr. Pickwick edgeways and find him -no thicker than a gramophone record. But we never get the sideway view. -Mr. Pickwick is far too adroit and well trained. He always has the air -of weighing something, and when he is put into the cupboard of the young -ladies' school he seems as heavy as Falstaff in the buck-basket at -Windsor. Part of the genius of Dickens is that he does use types and -caricatures, people whom we recognize the instant they re-enter, and yet -achieves effects that are not mechanical and a vision of humanity that -is not shallow. Those who dislike Dickens have an excellent case. He -ought to be bad. He is actually one of our big writers, and his immense -success with types suggests that there may be more in flatness than the -severer critics admit. - -Or take H. G. Wells. With the possible exceptions of Kipps and the -aunt in _Tono Bungay_, all Wells' characters are as flat as a photograph. -But the photographs are agitated with such vigour that we forget their -complexities lie on the surface and would disappear if it was scratched -or curled up. A Wells character cannot indeed be summed up in a single -phrase; he is tethered much more to observation, he does not create -types. Nevertheless his people seldom pulsate by their own strength. It -is the deft and powerful hands of their maker that shake them and trick -the reader into a sense of depth. Good but imperfect novelists, like -Wells and Dickens, are very clever at transmitting force. The part of -their novel that is alive galvanizes the part that is not, and causes -the characters to jump about and speak in a convincing way. They are -quite different from the perfect novelist who touches all his material -directly, who seems to pass the creative finger down every sentence and -into every word. Richardson, Defoe, Jane Austen, are perfect in this -particular way; their work may not be great but their hands are always -upon it; there is not the tiny interval between the touching of the -button and the sound of the bell which occurs in novels where the -characters are not under direct control. - -For we must admit that flat people are not in themselves as big -achievements as round ones, and also that they are best when they are -comic. A serious or tragic flat character is apt to be a bore. Each time -he enters crying "Revenge!" or "My heart bleeds for humanity!" or -whatever his formula is, our hearts sink. One of the romances of a -popular contemporary writer is constructed round a Sussex farmer who -says, "I'll plough up that bit of gorse." There is the farmer, there is -the gorse; he says he'll plough it up, he does plough it up, but it is -not like saying "I'll never desert Mr. Micawber," because we are so -bored by his consistency that we do not care whether he succeeds with -the gorse or fails. If his formula was analysed and connected up with -the rest of the human outfit, we should not be bored any longer, the -formula would cease to be the man and become an obsession in the man; -that is to say he would have turned from a flat farmer into a round one. -It is only round people who are fit to perform tragically for any length -of time and can move us to any feelings except humour and -appropriateness. - -So now let us desert these two-dimensional people, and by way of -transition to the round, let us go to _Mansfield Park_, and look at Lady -Bertram, sitting on her sofa with pug. Pug is flat, like most animals in -fiction. He is once represented as straying into a rose-bed in a -cardboard kind of way, but that is all, and during most of the book his -mistress seems to be cut out of the same simple material as her dog. -Lady Bertram's formula is, "I am kindly, but must not be fatigued," and -she functions out of it. But at the end there is a catastrophe. Her two -daughters come to grief--to the worst grief known to Miss Austen's -universe, far worse than the Napoleonic wars. Julia elopes Maria, who is -unhappily married, runs off with a lover. What is Lady Bertram's -reaction? The sentence describing it is significant: "Lady Bertram did -not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all -important points, and she saw therefore in all its enormity, what had -happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise -her, to think little of guilt and infamy." These are strong words, and -they used to worry me because I thought Jane Austen's moral sense was -getting out of hand. She may, and of course does, deprecate guilt and -infamy herself, and she duly causes all possible distress in the minds -of Edmund and Fanny, but has she any right to agitate calm, consistent -Lady Bertram? Is not it like giving pug three faces and setting him to -guard the gates of Hell? Ought not her ladyship to remain on the sofa -saying, "This is a dreadful and sadly exhausting business about Julia -and Maria, but where is Fanny gone? I have dropped another stitch"? - -I used to think this, through misunderstanding Jane Austen's -method--exactly as Scott misunderstood it when he congratulated her for -painting on a square of ivory. She is a miniaturist, but never -two-dimensional. All her characters are round, or capable of rotundity. -Even Miss Bates has a mind, even Elizabeth Eliot a heart, and Lady -Bertram's moral fervour ceases to vex us when we realize this: the disk -has suddenly extended and become a little globe. When the novel is -closed, Lady Bertram goes back to the flat, it is true; the dominant -impression she leaves can be summed up in a formula. But that is not how -Jane Austen conceived her, and the freshness of her reappearances are -due to this. Why do the characters in Jane Austen give us a slightly new -pleasure each time they come in, as opposed to the merely repetitive -pleasure that is caused by a character in Dickens? Why do they combine -so well in a conversation, and draw one another out without seeming to -do so, and never perform? The answer to this question can be put in -several ways: that, unlike Dickens, she was a real artist, that she -never stooped to caricature, etc. But the best reply is that her -characters though smaller than his are more highly organized. They -function all round, and even if her plot made greater demands on them -than it does, they would still be adequate. Suppose that Louisa Musgrove -had broken her neck on the Cobb. The description of her death would have -been feeble and ladylike--physical violence is quite beyond Miss -Austen's powers--but the survivors would have reacted properly as soon -as the corpse was carried away, they would have brought into view new -sides of their character, and though _Persuasion_ would have been -spoiled as a book, we should know more than we do about Captain -Wentworth and Anne. All the Jane Austen characters are ready for an -extended life, for a life which the scheme of her books seldom requires -them to lead, and that is why they lead their actual lives so -satisfactorily. Let us return to Lady Bertram and the crucial sentence. -See how subtly it modulates from her formula into an area where the -formula does not work. "Lady Bertram did not think deeply." Exactly: as -per formula. "But guided by Sir Thomas she thought justly on all -important points." Sir Thomas' guidance, which is part of the formula, -remains, but it pushes her ladyship towards an independent and undesired -morality. "She saw therefore in all its enormity what had happened." -This is the moral fortissimo--very strong but carefully introduced. And -then follows a most artful decrescendo, by means of negatives. "She -neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think -little of guilt or infamy." The formula is reappearing, because as a -rule she does try to minimize trouble, and does require Fanny to advise -her how to do this; indeed Fanny has done nothing else for the last ten -years. The words, though they are negatived, remind us of this, her -normal state is again in view, and she has in a single sentence been -inflated into a round character and collapsed back into a flat one. How -Jane Austen can write! In a few words she has extended Lady Bertram, and -by so doing she has increased the probability of the elopements of Maria -and Julia. I say probability because the elopements belong to the domain -of violent physical action, and here, as already indicated, Jane Austen -is feeble and ladylike. Except in her school-girl novels, she cannot -stage a crash. Everything violent has to take place "off"--Louisa's -accident and Marianne Dashwood's putrid throat are the nearest -exceptions--and consequently all the comments on the elopement must be -sincere and convincing, otherwise we should doubt whether it occurred. -Lady Bertram helps us to believe that her daughters have run away, and -they have to run away, or there would be no apotheosis for Fanny. It is -a little point, and a little sentence, yet it shows us how delicately a -great novelist can modulate into the round. - -All through her works we find these characters, apparently so simple and -flat, never needing reintroduction and yet never out of their -depth--Henry Tilney, Mr. Woodhouse, Charlotte Lucas. She may label her -characters "Sense," "Pride," "Sensibility," "Prejudice," but they are -not tethered to those qualities. - -As for the round characters proper, they have already been defined by -implication and no more need be said. All I need do is to give some -examples of people in books who seem to me round so that the definition -can be tested afterwards: - -All the principal characters in _War and Peace_, all the Dostoevsky -characters, and some of the Proust--for example, the old family servant, -the Duchess of Guermantes, M. de Charlus, and Saint Loup; Madame -Bovary--who, like Moll Flanders, has her book to herself, and can expand -and secrete unchecked; some people in Thackeray--for instance, Becky and -Beatrix; some in Fielding--Parson Adams, Tom Jones; and some in -Charlotte Brontë, most particularly Lucy Snowe. (And many more--this is -not a catalogue.) The test of a round character is whether it is capable -of surprising in a convincing way. If it never surprises, it is flat. If -it does not convince, it is a flat pretending to be round. It has the -incalculability of life about it--life within the pages of a book. And -by using it sometimes alone, more often in combination with the other -kind, the novelist achieves his task of acclimatization and harmonizes -the human race with the other aspects of his work. - -ii. Now for the second device: the point of view from which the story -may be told. - -To some critics this is the fundamental device of novel-writing. "The -whole intricate question of method, in the craft of fiction," says Mr. -Percy Lubbock, "I take to be governed by the question of the _point of -view_--the question of the relation in which the narrator stands to the -story." And his book _The Craft of Fiction_ examines various points of -view with genius and insight. The novelist, he says, can either describe -the characters from outside, as an impartial or partial onlooker; or he -can assume omniscience and describe them from within; or he can place -himself in the position of one of them and affect to be in the dark as -to the motives of the rest; or there are certain intermediate attitudes. - -Those who follow him will lay a sure foundation for the æsthetics of -fiction--a foundation which I cannot for a moment promise. This is a -ramshackly survey and for me the "whole intricate question of method" -resolves itself not into formulæ but into the power of the writer to -bounce the reader into accepting what he says--a power which Mr. Lubbock -admits and admires, but locates at the edge of the problem instead of at -the centre. I should put it plumb in the centre. Look how Dickens -bounces us in _Bleak House_. Chapter I of _Bleak House_ is omniscient. -Dickens takes us into the Court of Chancery and rapidly explains all the -people there. In Chapter II he is partially omniscient. We still use his -eyes, but for some unexplained reason they begin to grow weak: he can -explain Sir Leicester Dedlock to us, part of Lady Dedlock but not all, -and nothing of Mr. Tulkinghorn. In Chapter III he is even more -reprehensible: he goes straight across into the dramatic method and -inhabits a young lady, Esther Summerson. "I have a great deal of -difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for I know I -am not clever," pipes up Esther, and continues in this strain with -consistency and competence, so long as she is allowed to hold the pen. -At any moment the author of her being may snatch it from her, and run -about taking notes himself, leaving her seated goodness knows where, and -employed we do not care how. Logically, _Bleak House_ is all to pieces, -but Dickens bounces us, so that we do not mind the shiftings of the view -point. - -Critics are more apt to object than readers. Zealous for the novel's -eminence, they are a little too apt to look out for problems that shall -be peculiar to it, and differentiate it from the drama; they feel it -ought to have its own technical troubles before it can be accepted as an -independent art; and since the problem of a point of view certainly is -peculiar to the novel they have rather overstressed it. I do not myself -think it is so important as a proper mixture of characters--a problem -which the dramatist is up against also. And the novelist must bounce us; -that is imperative. - -Let us glance at two other examples of a shifting view point. - -The eminent French writer, André Gide, has published a novel called -_Les Faux Monnayeurs_[4]--for all its modernity, this novel of Gide's -has one aspect in common with _Bleak House_: it is all to pieces -logically. Sometimes the author is omniscient: he explains everything, -he stands back, "il juge ses personnages"; at other times his -omniscience is partial; yet again he is dramatic, and causes the story -to be told through the diary of one of the characters. There is the same -absence of view point, but whereas in Dickens it was instinctive, in -Gide it is sophisticated; he expatiates too much about the jolts. The -novelist who betrays too much interest in his own method can never be -more than interesting; he has given up the creation of character and -summoned us to help analyse his own mind, and a heavy drop in the -emotional thermometer results. _Les Faux Monnayeurs_ is among the more -interesting of recent works: not among the vital: and greatly as we -shall have to admire it as a fabric we cannot praise it unrestrictedly -now. - -For our second example we must again glance at _War and Peace_. Here the -result is vital: we are bounced up and down Russia--omniscient, -semi-omniscient, dramatized here or there as the moment dictates--and at -the end we have accepted it all. Mr. Lubbock does not, it is true: great -as he finds the book, he would find it greater if it had a view point; -he feels Tolstoy has not pulled his full weight. I feel that the rules -of the game of writing are not like this. A novelist can shift his view -point if it comes off, and it came off with Dickens and Tolstoy. Indeed -this power to expand and contract perception (of which the shifting view -point is a symptom), this right to intermittent knowledge:--I find it -one of the great advantages of the novel-form, and it has a parallel in -our perception of life. We are stupider at some times than others; we -can enter into people's minds occasionally but not always, because our -own minds get tired; and this intermittence lends in the long run -variety and colour to the experiences we receive. A quantity of -novelists, English novelists especially, have behaved like this to the -people in their books: played fast and loose with them, and I cannot see -why they should be censured. - -They must be censured if we catch them at it at the time. That is quite -true, and out of it arises another question: may the writer take the -reader into his confidence about his characters? Answer has already been -indicated: better not. It is dangerous, it generally leads to a drop in -the temperature, to intellectual and emotional laxity, and worse still -to facetiousness, and to a friendly invitation to see how the figures -hook up behind. "Doesn't A look nice--she always was my favourite." -"Let's think of why B does that--perhaps there's more in him than meets -the eye--yes, see--he has a heart of gold--having given you this peep at -it I'll pop it back--I don't think he's noticed." "And C--he always was -the mystery man." Intimacy is gained but at the expense of illusion and -nobility. It is like standing a man a drink so that he may not criticize -your opinions. With all respect to Fielding and Thackeray it is -devastating, it is bar-parlour chattiness, and nothing has been more -harmful to the novels of the past. To take your reader into your -confidence about the universe is a different thing. It is not dangerous -for a novelist to draw back from his characters, as Hardy and Conrad do, -and to generalize about the conditions under which he thinks life is -carried on. It is confidences about the individual people that do harm, -and beckon the reader away from the people to an examination of the -novelist's mind. Not much is ever found in it at such a moment, for it -is never in the creative state: the mere process of saying, "Come along, -let's have a chat," has cooled it down. - -Our comments on human beings must now come to an end. They may take -fuller shape when we come to discuss the plot. - - -[Footnote 4: Translated by Dorothy Bussy as _The Counterfeiters_ -(Knopf).] - - - - -V - -THE PLOT - - -"CHARACTER," says Aristotle, "gives us qualities, but it is in -actions--what we do--that we are happy or the reverse." We have already -decided that Aristotle is wrong and now we must face the consequences of -disagreeing with him. "All human happiness and misery," says Aristotle, -"take the form of action." We know better. We believe that happiness and -misery exist in the secret life, which each of us leads privately and to -which (in his characters) the novelist has access. And by the secret -life we mean the life for which there is no external evidence, not, as -is vulgarly supposed, that which is revealed by a chance word or a sigh. -A chance word or sigh are just as much evidence as a speech or a murder: -the life they reveal ceases to be secret and enters the realm of action. - -There is, however, no occasion to be hard on Aristotle. He had read few -novels and no modern ones--the _Odyssey_ but not _Ulysses_--he was by -temperament apathetic to secrecy, and indeed regarded the human mind as -a sort of tub from which everything can finally be extracted; and when -he wrote the words quoted above he had in view the drama, where no doubt -they hold true. In the drama all human happiness and misery does and -must take the form of action. Otherwise its existence remains unknown, -and this is the great difference between the drama and the novel. - -The speciality of the novel is that the writer can talk about his -characters as well as through them or can arrange for us to listen when -they talk to themselves. He has access to self-communings, and from that -level he can descend even deeper and peer into the subconscious. A man -does not talk to himself quite truly--not even to himself; the happiness -or misery that he secretly feels proceed from causes that he cannot -quite explain, because as soon as he raises them to the level of the -explicable they lose their native quality. The novelist has a real pull -here. He can show the subconscious short-circuiting straight into action -(the dramatist can do this too); he can also show it in its relation to -soliloquy. He commands all the secret life, and he must not be robbed of -this privilege. "How did the writer know that?" it is sometimes said. -"What's his standpoint? He is not being consistent, he's shifting his -point of view from the limited to the omniscient, and now he's edging -back again." Questions like these have too much the atmosphere of the -law courts about them. All that matters to the reader is whether the -shifting of attitude and the secret life are convincing, whether it is -_πιθανόν_ in fact, and with his favourite word ringing in his -ears Aristotle may retire. - -However, he leaves us in some confusion, for what, with this enlargement -of human nature, is going to become of the plot? In most literary works -there are two elements: human individuals, whom we have recently -discussed, and the element vaguely called art. Art we have also dallied -with, but with a very low form of it: the story: the chopped-off length -of the tapeworm of time. Now we arrive at a much higher aspect: the -plot, and the plot, instead of finding human beings more or less cut to -its requirements, as they are in the drama, finds them enormous, shadowy -and intractable, and three-quarters hidden like an iceberg. In vain it -points out to these unwieldy creatures the advantages of the triple -process of complication, crisis, and solution so persuasively expounded -by Aristotle. A few of them rise and comply, and a novel which ought to -have been a play is the result. But there is no general response. They -want to sit apart and brood or something, and the plot (whom I here -visualize as a sort of higher government official) is concerned at their -lack of public spirit: "This will not do," it seems to say. -"Individualism is a most valuable quality; indeed my own position -depends upon individuals; I have always admitted as much freely. -Nevertheless there are certain limits, and those limits are being -overstepped. Characters must not brood too long, they must not waste -time running up and down ladders in their own insides, they must -contribute, or higher interests will be jeopardised." How well one knows -that phrase, "a contribution to the plot"! It is accorded, and of -necessity, by the people in a drama: how necessary is it in a novel? - -Let us define a plot. We have defined a story as a narrative of events -arranged in their time-sequence. A plot is also a narrative of events, -the emphasis falling on causality. "The king died and then the queen -died," is a story. "The king died, and then the queen died of grief" is -a plot. The time-sequence is preserved, but the sense of causality -overshadows it. Or again: "The queen died, no one knew why, until it was -discovered that it was through grief at the death of the king." This is -a plot with a mystery in it, a form capable of high development. It -suspends the time-sequence, it moves as far away from the story as its -limitations will allow. Consider the death of the queen. If it is in a -story we say "and then?" If it is in a plot we ask "why?" That is the -fundamental difference between these two aspects of the novel. A plot -cannot be told to a gaping audience of cave men or to a tyrannical -sultan or to their modern descendant the movie-public. They can only be -kept awake by "and then--and then----" They can only supply curiosity. -But a plot demands intelligence and memory also. - -Curiosity is one of the lowest of the human faculties. You will have -noticed in daily life that when people are inquisitive they nearly -always have bad memories and are usually stupid at bottom. The man who -begins by asking you how many brothers and sisters you have, is never a -sympathetic character, and if you meet him in a year's time he will -probably ask you how many brothers and sisters you have, his mouth again -sagging open, his eyes still bulging from his head. It is difficult to -be friends with such a man, and for two inquisitive people to be friends -must be impossible. Curiosity by itself takes us a very little way, nor -does it take us far into the novel--only as far as the story. If we -would grasp the plot we must add intelligence and memory. - -Intelligence first. The intelligent novel-reader, unlike the inquisitive -one who just runs his eye over a new fact, mentally picks it up. He sees -it from two points of view: isolated, and related to the other facts -that he has read on previous pages. Probably he does not understand it, -but he does not expect to do so yet awhile. The facts in a highly -organized novel (like _The Egoist_) are often of the nature of -cross-correspondences and the ideal spectator cannot expect to view them -properly until he is sitting up on a hill at the end. This element of -surprise or mystery--the detective element as it is sometimes rather -emptily called--is of great importance in a plot. It occurs through a -suspension of the time-sequence; a mystery is a pocket in time, and it -occurs crudely, as in "Why did the queen die?" and more subtly in -half-explained gestures and words, the true meaning of which only dawns -pages ahead. Mystery is essential to a plot, and cannot be appreciated -without intelligence. To the curious it is just another "and then----" -To appreciate a mystery, part of the mind must be left behind, brooding, -while the other part goes marching on. - -That brings us to our second qualification: memory. - -Memory and intelligence are closely connected, for unless we remember we -cannot understand. If by the time the queen dies we have forgotten the -existence of the king we shall never make out what killed her. The -plot-maker expects us to remember, we expect him to leave no loose ends. -Every action or word ought to count; it ought to be economical and -spare; even when complicated it should be organic and free from dead -matter. It may be difficult or easy, it may and should contain -mysteries, but it ought not to mislead. And over it, as it unfolds, will -hover the memory of the reader (that dull glow of the mind of which -intelligence is the bright advancing edge) and will constantly rearrange -and reconsider, seeing new clues, new chains of cause and effect, and -the final sense (if the plot has been a fine one) will not be of clues -or chains, but of something æsthetically compact, something which might -have been shown by the novelist straight away, only if he had shown it -straight away it would never have become beautiful. We come up against -beauty here--for the first time in our enquiry: beauty at which a -novelist should never aim, though he fails if he does not achieve it. I -will conduct beauty to her proper place later on. Meanwhile please -accept her as part of a completed plot. She looks a little surprised at -being there, but beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the -emotion that best suits her face, as Botticelli knew when he painted her -risen from the waves, between the winds and the flowers. The beauty who -does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due--she -reminds us too much of a prima donna. - -But let us get back to the plot, and we will do so via George Meredith. - -Meredith is not the great name he was twenty or thirty years ago, when -much of the universe and all Cambridge trembled. I remember how -depressed I used to be by a line in one of his poems: "We live but to be -sword or block." I did not want to be either and I knew that I was not a -sword. It seems though that there was no real cause for depression, for -Meredith is himself now rather in the trough of a wave, and though -fashion will turn and raise him a bit, he will never be the spiritual -power he was about the year 1900. His philosophy has not worn well. His -heavy attacks on sentimentality--they bore the present generation, which -pursues the same quarry but with neater instruments, and is apt to -suspect any one carrying a blunderbuss of being a sentimentalist -himself. And his visions of Nature--they do not endure like Hardy's, -there is too much Surrey about them, they are fluffy and lush. He could -no more write the opening chapter of _The Return of the Native_ than Box -Hill could visit Salisbury Plain. What is really tragic and enduring in -the scenery of England was hidden from him, and so is what is really -tragic in life. When he gets serious and noble-minded there is a -strident overtone, a bullying that becomes distressing. I feel indeed -that he was like Tennyson in one respect: through not taking himself -quietly enough he strained his inside. And his novels: most of the -social values are faked. The tailors are not tailors, the cricket -matches are not cricket, the railway, trains do not even seem to be -trains, the county families give the air of having been only just that -moment unpacked, scarcely in position before the action starts, the -straw still clinging to their beards. It is surely very odd, the social -scene in which his characters are set: it is partly due to his fantasy, -which is legitimate, but partly a chilly fake, and wrong. What with the -faking, what with the preaching, which was never agreeable and is now -said to be hollow, and what with the home counties posing as the -universe, it is no wonder Meredith now lies in the trough. And yet he is -in one way a great novelist. He is the finest contriver that English -fiction has ever produced, and any lecture on plot must do homage to -him. - -Meredith's plots are not closely knit. We cannot describe the action of -_Harry Richmond_ in a phrase, as we can that of _Great Expectations_, -though both books turn on the mistake made by a young man as to the -sources of his fortune. A Meredithian plot is not a temple to the tragic -or even to the comic Muse, but rather resembles a series of kiosks most -artfully placed among wooded slopes, which his people reach by their own -impetus, and from which they emerge with altered aspect. Incident -springs out of character, and having occurred it alters that character. -People and events are closely connected, and he does it by means of -these contrivances. They are often delightful, sometimes touching, -always unexpected. This shock, followed by the feeling, "Oh, that's all -right," is a sign that all is well with the plot: characters, to be -real, ought to run smoothly, but a plot ought to cause surprise. The -horse-whipping of Dr. Shrapnel in _Beauchamp's Career_ is a surprise. We -know that Everard Romfrey must dislike Shrapnel, must hate and -misunderstand his radicalism, and be jealous of his influence over -Beauchamp: we watch too the growth of the misunderstanding over -Rosamund, we watch the intrigues of Cecil Baskelett. As far as -characters go, Meredith plays with his cards on the table, but when the -incident comes what a shock it gives us and the characters too! The -tragicomic business of one old man whipping another from the highest -motives--it reacts upon all their world, and transforms all the -personages of the book. It is not the centre of _Beauchamp's Career_, -which indeed has no centre. It is essentially a contrivance, a door -through which the book is made to pass, emerging in an altered form. -Towards the close, when Beauchamp is drowned and Shrapnel and Romfrey -are reconciled over his body, there is an attempt to elevate the plot to -Aristotelian symmetry, to turn the novel into a temple wherein dwells -interpretation and peace. Meredith fails here: _Beauchamp's Career_ -remains a series of contrivances (the visit to France is another of -them), but contrivances that spring from the characters and react upon -them. - -And now briefly to illustrate the mystery element in the plot: the -formula of "The queen died, it was afterwards discovered through grief." -I will take an example, not from Dickens (though _Great Expectations_ -provides a fine one), nor from Conan Doyle (whom my priggishness -prevents me from enjoying), but again from Meredith: an example of a -concealed emotion from the admirable plot of _The Egoist_: it occurs in -the character of Laetitia Dale. - -We are told, at first, all that passes in Laetitia's mind. Sir -Willoughby has twice jilted her, she is sad, resigned. Then, for -dramatic reasons, her mind is hidden from us, it develops naturally -enough, but does not re-emerge until the great midnight scene where he -asks her to marry him because he is not sure about Clara, and this time, -a changed woman, Laetitia says "No." Meredith has concealed the change. -It would have spoiled his high comedy if we had been kept in touch with -it throughout. Sir Willoughby has to have a series of crashes, to catch -at this and that, and find everything rickety. We should not enjoy the -fun, in fact it would be boorish, if we saw the author preparing the -booby traps beforehand, so Laetitia's apathy has been hidden from us. -This is one of the countless examples in which either plot or character -has to suffer, and Meredith with his unerring good sense here lets the -plot triumph. - -As an example of mistaken triumph, I think of a slip--it is no more than -a slip--which Charlotte Brontë makes in _Villette_. She allows Lucy -Snowe to conceal from the reader her discovery that Dr. John is the same -as her old playmate Graham. When it comes out, we do get a good plot -thrill, but too much at the expense of Lucy's character. She has seemed, -up to then, the spirit of integrity, and has, as it were, laid herself -under a moral obligation to narrate all that she knows. That she stoops -to suppress is a little distressing, though the incident is too trivial -to do her any permanent harm. - -Sometimes a plot triumphs too completely. The characters have to suspend -their natures at every turn, or else are so swept away by the course of -Fate that our sense of their reality is weakened. We shall find -instances of this in a writer who is far greater than Meredith, and yet -less successful as a novelist--Thomas Hardy. Hardy seems to me -essentially a poet, who conceives of his novels from an enormous height. -They are to be tragedies or tragi-comedies, they are to give out the -sound of hammer-strokes as they proceed; in other words Hardy arranges -events with emphasis on causality, the ground plan is a plot, and the -characters are ordered to acquiesce in its requirements. Except in the -person of Tess (who conveys the feeling that she is greater than -destiny) this aspect of his work is unsatisfactory. His characters are -involved in various snares, they are finally bound hand and foot, there -is ceaseless emphasis on fate, and yet, for all the sacrifices made to -it, we never see the action as a living thing as we see it in _Antigone_ -or _Berenice_ or _The Cherry Orchard_. The fate above us, not the fate -working through us--that is what is eminent and memorable in the Wessex -novels. Egdon Heath before Eustada Vye has set foot upon it. The woods -without the Woodlanders. The downs above Budmouth Regis with the royal -princesses, still asleep, driving across them through the dawn. Hardy's -success in _The Dynasts_ (where he uses another medium) is complete, -there the hammer-strokes are heard, cause and effect enchain the -characters despite their struggles, complete contact between the actors -and the plot is established. But in the novels, though the same superb -and terrible machine works, it never catches humanity in its teeth; -there is some vital problem that has not been answered, or even posed, -in the misfortunes of Jude the Obscure. In other words the characters -have been required to contribute too much to the plot; except in their -rustic humours, their vitality has been impoverished, they have gone dry -and thin. This, as far as I can make out, is the flaw running through -Hardy's novels: he has emphasized causality more strongly than his -medium permits. As a poet and prophet and visualizer George Meredith is -nothing by his side--just a suburban roarer--but Meredith did know what -the novel could stand, where the plot could dun the characters for a -contribution, where it must let them function as they liked. And the -moral--well, I see no moral, because the work of Hardy is my home and -that of Meredith cannot be: still the moral from the point of these -lectures is again unfavourable to Aristotle. In the novel, all human -happiness and misery does not take the form of action, it seeks means of -expression other than through the plot, it must not be rigidly -canalized. - -In the losing battle that the plot fights with the characters, it often -takes a cowardly revenge. Nearly all novels are feeble at the end. This -is because the plot requires to be wound up. Why is this necessary? Why -is there not a convention which allows a novelist to stop as soon as he -feels muddled or bored? Alas, he has to round things off, and usually -the characters go dead while he is at work, and our final impression of -them is through deadness. _The Vicar of Wakefield_ is in this way a -typical novel, so clever and fresh in the first half, up to the painting -of the family group with Mrs. Primrose as Venus, and then so wooden and -imbecile. Incidents and people that occurred at first for their own sake -now have to contribute to the dénouement. In the end even the author -feels he is being a little foolish. "Nor can I go on," he says, "without -a reflection on those accidental meetings which, though they happen -every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some extraordinary -occasion." Goldsmith is of course a light-weight, but most novels do -fail here--there is this disastrous standstill while logic takes over -the command from flesh and blood. If it was not for death and marriage -I do not know how the average novelist would conclude. Death and -marriage are almost his only connection between his characters and his -plot, and the reader is more ready to meet him here, and take a bookish -view of them, provided they occur later on in the book: the writer, poor -fellow, must be allowed to finish up somehow, he has his living to get -like any one else, so no wonder that nothing is heard but hammering and -screwing. - -This--as far as one can generalize--is the inherent defect of novels: -they go off at the end: and there are two explanations of it: firstly, -failure of pep, which threatens the novelist like all workers: and -secondly, the difficulty which we have been discussing. The characters -have been getting out of hand, laying foundations and declining to build -on them afterwards, and now the novelist has to labour personally, in -order that the job may be done to time. He pretends that the characters -are acting for him. He keeps mentioning their names and using inverted -commas. But the characters are gone or dead. - -The plot, then, is the novel in its logical intellectual aspect: it -requires mystery, but the mysteries are solved later on: the reader may -be moving about in worlds unrealized, but the novelist has no -misgivings. He is competent, poised above his work, throwing a beam of -light here, popping on a cap of invisibility there, and (qua plot-maker) -continually negotiating with himself qua character-monger as to the best -effect to be produced. He plans his book beforehand: or anyhow he stands -above it, his interest in cause and effect give him an air of -predetermination. - -And now we must ask ourselves whether the framework thus produced is the -best possible for a novel. After all, why has a novel to be planned? -Cannot it grow? Why need it close, as a play closes? Cannot it open out? -Instead of standing above his work and controlling it, cannot the -novelist throw himself into it and be carried along to some goal that he -does not foresee? The plot is exciting and may be beautiful, yet is it -not a fetich, borrowed from the drama, from the spatial limitations of -the stage? Cannot fiction devise a framework that is not so logical yet -more suitable to its genius? - -Modern writers say that it can, and we will now examine a recent -example--a violent onslaught on the plot as we have defined it: a -constructive attempt to put something in the place of the plot. - -I have already mentioned the novel in question: _Les Faux Monnayeurs_ by -André Gide. It contains within its covers both the methods. Gide has -also published the diary he kept while he was writing the novel, and -there is no reason why he should not publish in the future the -impressions he had when rereading both the diary and the novel, and in -the future-perfect a still more final synthesis in which the diary, the -novel, and his impressions of both will interact. He is indeed a little -more solemn than an author should be about the whole caboodle, but -regarded as a caboodle it is excessively interesting, and repays careful -study by critics. - -We have, in the first place, a plot in _Les Faux Monnayeurs_ of the -logical objective type that we have been considering--a plot, or rather -fragments of plots. The main fragment concerns a young man called -Olivier--a charming, touching and lovable character, who misses -happiness, and then recovers it after an excellently contrived -dénouement; confers it also; this fragment has a wonderful radiance and -"lives," if I may use so coarse a word, it is a successful creation on -familiar lines. But it is by no means the centre of the book. No more -are the other logical fragments--that which concerns Georges, Olivier's -schoolboy brother, who passes false coin, and is instrumental in driving -a fellow-pupil to suicide. (Gide gives us his sources for all this in -his diary, he got the idea of Georges from a boy whom he caught trying -to steal a book off a stall, the gang of coiners were caught at Rouen, -and the suicide of children took place at Clermont-Ferrand, etc.) -Neither Olivier, nor Georges, nor Vincent a third brother, nor Bernard -their friend is the centre of the book. We come nearer to it in Edouard. -Edouard is a novelist. He bears the same relation to Gide as Clissold -does to Wells. I dare not be more precise. Like Gide, he keeps a diary, -like Gide he is writing a book called _Les Faux Monnayeurs_, and like -Clissold he is disavowed. Edouard's diary is printed in full. It begins -before the plot-fragments, continues during them, and forms the bulk of -Gide's book. Edouard is not just a chronicler. He is an actor too; -indeed it is he who rescues Olivier and is rescued by him; we leave -those two in happiness. - -But that is still not the centre. The nearest to the centre lies in a -discussion about the art of the novel. Edouard is holding forth to -Bernard his secretary and some friends. He has said (what we all accept -as commonplace) that truth in life and truth in a novel are not -identical, and then he goes on to say that he wants to write a book -which shall include both sorts of truth. - - -"And what is its subject?" asked Sophroniska. - -"There is none," said Edouard sharply. "My novel has no subject. No -doubt that sounds foolish. Let us say, if you prefer, that it will not -have 'a' subject.... 'A slice of life,' the naturalistic school used to -say. The mistake that school made was always to cut its slice in the -same direction, always lengthwise, in the direction of time. Why not cut -it up and down? Or across? As for me, I don't want to cut it at all. You -see what I mean. I want to put everything into my novel and not snip off -my material either here or there. I have been working for a year, and -there is nothing I haven't put in: all I see, all I know, all I can -learn from other people's lives and my own." - -"My poor man, you will bore your readers to death," cried Layra, unable -to restrain her mirth. - -"Not at all. To get my effect, I am inventing, as my central character, -a novelist, and the subject of my book will be the struggle between what -reality offers him and what he tries to make of the offer." - -"Have you planned out this book?" asked Sophroniska, trying to keep -grave. - -"Of course not." - -"Why 'of course'?" - -"For a book of this type any plan would be unsuitable. The whole of it -would go wrong if I decided any detail ahead. I am waiting for reality -to dictate to me." - -"But I thought you wanted to get away from reality." - -"My novelist wants to get away, but I keep pulling him back. To tell the -truth, this is my subject: the struggle between facts as proposed by -reality, and the ideal reality." - -"Do tell us the name of this book," said Laura, in despair. - -"Very well. Tell it them, Bernard." - -"_Les Faux Monnayeurs_" said Bernard. "And now will you please tell us -who these faux monnayeurs are." - -"I haven't the least idea." - -Bernard and Laura looked at each other and then at Sophroniska. There -was the sound of a deep sigh. - -The fact was that ideas about money, depreciation, inflation, forgery, -etc., had gradually invaded Edouard's book--just as theories of clothing -invade _Sartor Resartus_ and even assume the functions of characters. -"Has any of you ever had hold of a false coin?" he asked after a pause. -"Imagine a ten-franc piece, gold, false. It is actually worth a couple -of sous, but it will remain worth ten francs until it is found out. -Suppose I begin with the idea that----" - -"But why begin with an idea?" burst out Bernard, who was by now in a -state of exasperation. "Why not begin with a fact? If you introduce the -fact properly, the idea will follow of itself. If I was writing your -_Faux Monnayeurs_ I should begin with a piece of false money, with the -ten-franc piece you were speaking of, and here it is!" - -So saying, Bernard pulled a ten-franc piece out of his pocket and flung -it on the table. - -"There," he remarked. "It rings all right. I got it this morning from -the grocer. It's worth more than a couple of sous, as it's coated in -gold, but it's actually made of glass. It will become quite transparent -in time. No--don't rub it--you're going to spoil my false coin." - -Edouard had taken it and was examining it with the utmost attention. - -"How did the grocer get it?" - -"He doesn't know. He passed it on me for a joke, and then enlightened -me, being a decent fellow. He let me have it for five francs. I thought -that, since you were writing _Les Faux Monnayeurs_, you ought to see -what false money is like, so I got it to show you. Now that you have -looked at it, give it me back. I am sorry to see that reality has no -interest for you." - -"Yes," said Edouard: "it interests me, but it puts me out." - -"That's a pity," remarked Bernard.[5] - - -This passage is the centre of the book. It contains the old thesis of -truth in life versus truth in art, and illustrates it very neatly by the -arrival of an actual false coin. What is new in it is the attempt to -combine the two truths, the proposal that writers should mix themselves -up in their material and be rolled over and over by it; they should not -try to subdue any longer, they should hope to be subdued, to be carried -away. As for a plot--to pot with the plot, break it up, boil it down. -Let there be those "formidable erosions of contour" of which Nietzsche -speaks. All that is prearranged is false. - -Another distinguished critic has agreed with Gide--that old lady in the -anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical. For some time -she could not be brought to understand what logic was, and when she -grasped its true nature she was not so much angry as contemptuous. -"Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish!" she exclaimed. "How can I tell -what I think till I see what I say?" Her nieces, educated young women, -thought that she was passée; she was really more up to date than they -were. - -Those who are in touch with contemporary France, say that the present -generation follows the advice of Gide and the old lady and resolutely -hurls itself into confusion, and indeed admires English novelists on the -ground that they so seldom succeed in what they attempt. Compliments are -always delightful, but this particular one is a bit of a backhander. It -is like trying to lay an egg and being told you have produced a -paraboloid--more curious than gratifying. And what results when you try -to lay a paraboloid, I cannot conceive--perhaps the death of the hen. -That seems the danger in Gide's position--he sets out to lay a -paraboloid; he is not well advised, if he wants to write subconscious -novels, to reason so lucidly and patiently about the subconscious; he is -introducing mysticism at the wrong stage of the process. However that is -his affair. As a critic he is most stimulating, and the various bundles -of words he has called _Les Faux Monnayeurs_ will be enjoyed by all who -cannot tell what they think till they see what they say, or who weary of -the tyranny by the plot and of its alternative, tyranny by characters. - -There is clearly something else in view, some other aspect or aspects -which we have yet to examine. We may suspect the claim to be consciously -subconscious, nevertheless there is a vague and vast residue into which -the subconscious enters. Poetry, religion, passion--we have not placed -them yet, and since we are critics—only critics--we must try to place -them, to catalogue the rainbow. We have already peeped and botanized -upon our mothers' graves. - -The numbering of the warp and woof of the rainbow must accordingly be -attempted and we must now bring our minds to bear on the subject of -fantasy. - - -[Footnote 5: Paraphrased from _Les Faux Monnayeurs_, pp. 238-246. -My version, needless to say, conveys neither the subtlety nor the -balance of the original.] - - - - -VI - -FANTASY - - -A course of lectures, if it is to be more than a collection of remarks, -must have an idea running through it. It must also have a subject, and -the idea ought to run through the subject too. This is so obvious as to -sound foolish, but any one who has tried to lecture will realize that -here is a genuine difficulty. A course, like any other collection of -words, generates an atmosphere. It has its own apparatus--a lecturer, an -audience or provision for one, it occurs at regular intervals, it is -announced by printed notices, and it has a financial side, though this -last is tactfully concealed. Thus it tends in its parasitic way to lead -a life of its own, and it and the idea running through it are apt to -move in one direction while the subject steals off in the other. - -The idea running through these lectures is by now plain enough: that -there are in the novel two forces: human beings and a bundle of various -things not human beings, and that it is the novelist's business to -adjust these two forces and conciliate their claims. That is plain -enough, but does it run through the novel too? Perhaps our subject, -namely the books we have read, has stolen away from us while we -theorize, like a shadow from an ascending bird. The bird is all -right--it climbs, it is consistent and eminent. The shadow is all -right--it has flickered across roads and gardens. But the two things -resemble one another less and less, they do not touch as they did when -the bird rested its toes on the ground. Criticism, especially a critical -course, is so misleading. However lofty its intentions and sound its -method, its subject slides away from beneath it, imperceptibly away, and -lecturer and audience may awake with a start to find that they are -carrying on in a distinguished and intelligent manner, but in regions -which have nothing to do with anything they have read. - -It was this that was worrying Gide, or rather one of the things that was -worrying him, for he has an anxious mind. When we try to translate truth -out of one sphere into another, whether from life into books or from -books into lectures, something happens to truth, it goes wrong, not -suddenly when it might be detected, but slowly. That long passage from -_Les Faux Monnayeurs_ already quoted, may recall the bird to its shadow. -It is not possible, after it, to apply the old apparatus any more. There -is more in the novel than time or people or logic or any of their -derivatives, more even than Fate. And by "more" I do not mean something -that excludes these aspects nor something that includes them, embraces -them. I mean something that cuts across them like a bar of light, that -is intimately connected with them at one place and patiently illumines -all their problems, and at another place shoots over or through them as -if they did not exist. We shall give that bar of light two names, -fantasy and prophecy. - -The novels we have now to consider all tell a story, contain characters, -and have plots or bits of plots, so we could apply to them the apparatus -suited for Fielding or Arnold Bennett. But when I say two of their -names--_Tristram Shandy_ and _Moby Dick_--it is clear that we must stop -and think a moment. The bird and the shadow are too far apart. A new -formula must be found: the mere fact that one can mention Tristram and -Moby in a single sentence shows it. What an impossible pair! As far -apart as the poles. Yes. And like the poles they have one thing in -common, which the lands round the equator do not share: an axis. What is -essential in Sterne and Melville belongs to this new aspect of fiction: -the fantastic-prophetical axis. George Meredith touched it: he was -somewhat fantastic. So did Charlotte Brontë: she was a prophetess -occasionally. But in neither of these was it essential. Deprive them of -it, and a book remains which still resembles _Harry Richmond_ or -_Shirley_. Deprive Sterne or Melville of it, deprive Peacock or Max -Beerbohm or Virginia Woolf or Walter de la Mare or William Beckford or -James Joyce or D. H. Lawrence or Swift, and nothing is left at all. - -Our easiest approach to a definition of any aspect of fiction is always -by considering the sort of demand it makes on the reader. Curiosity for -the story, human feelings and a sense of value for the characters, -intelligence and memory for the plot. What does fantasy ask of us? It -asks us to pay something, extra. It compels us to an adjustment that is -different to an adjustment required by a work of art, to an additional -adjustment. The other novelists say "Here is something that might occur -in your lives," the fantasist says "Here's something that could not -occur. I must ask you first to accept my book as a whole, and secondly -to accept certain things in my book." Many readers can grant the first -request, but refuse the second. "One knows a book isn't real," they say, -"still one does expect it to be natural, and this angel or midget or -ghost or silly delay about the child's birth--no, it is too much." They -either retract their original concession and stop reading, or if they do -go on it is with complete coldness, and they watch the gambols of the -author without realizing how much they may mean to him. - -No doubt the above approach is not critically sound. We all know that a -work of art is an entity, etc., etc.; it has its own laws which are not -those of daily life, anything that suits it is true, so why should any -question arise about the angel, etc., except whether it is suitable to -its book? Why place an angel on a different basis from a stockbroker? -Once in the realm of the fictitious, what difference is there between an -apparition and a mortgage? I see the soundness of this argument, but my -heart refuses to assent. The general tone of novels is so literal that -when the fantastic is introduced it produces a special effect: some -readers are thrilled, others choked off: it demands an additional -adjustment because of the oddness of its method or subject matter--like -a sideshow in an exhibition where you have to pay sixpence as well as -the original entrance fee. Some readers pay with delight, it is only for -the sideshows that they entered the exhibition, and it is only to them I -can now speak. Others refuse with indignation, and these have our -sincere regards, for to dislike the fantastic in literature is not to -dislike literature. It does not even imply poverty of imagination, only -a disinclination to meet certain demands that are made on it. Mr. -Asquith (if gossip is correct) could not meet the demands made on him by -_Lady into Fox_. He should not have objected, he said, if the fox had -become a lady again, but as it was he was left with an uncomfortable -dissatisfied feeling. This feeling reflects no discredit either upon an -eminent politician or a charming book. It merely means that Mr. Asquith, -though a genuine lover of literature, could not pay the additional -sixpence--or rather he was willing to pay it but hoped to get it back -again at the end. - -So fantasy asks us to pay something extra. - -Let us now distinguish between fantasy and prophecy. - -They are alike in having gods, and unlike in the gods they have. There -is in both the sense of mythology which differentiates them from other -aspects of our subject. An invocation is again possible, therefore on -behalf of fantasy let us now invoke all beings who inhabit the lower -air, the shallow water, and the smaller hills, all Fauns and Dryads and -slips of the memory, all verbal coincidences, Pans and puns, all that is -mediæval this side of the grave. When we come to prophecy, we shall -utter no invocation, but it will have been to whatever transcends our -abilities, even when it is human passion that transcends them, to the -deities of India, Greece, Scandinavia and Judæa, to all that is -mediæval beyond the grave and to Lucifer son of the morning. By their -mythologies we shall distinguish these two sorts of novels. - -A number of rather small gods then should haunt us today--I would call -them fairies if the word were not consecrated to imbecility. (Do you -believe in fairies? No, not under any circumstances.) The stuff of daily -life will be tugged and strained in various directions, the earth will -be given little tilts mischievous or pensive, spot lights will fall on -objects that have no reason to anticipate or welcome them, and tragedy -herself, though not excluded, will have a fortuitous air as if a word -would disarm her. The power of fantasy penetrates into every corner of -the universe, but not into the forces that govern it--the stars that are -the brain of heaven, the army of unalterable law, remain untouched--and -novels of this type have an improvised air, which is the secret of their -force and charm. They may contain solid character-drawing, penetrating -and bitter criticism of conduct and civilization; yet our simile of the -beam of light must remain, and if one god must be invoked specially, let -us call upon Hermes--messenger, thief, and conductor of souls to a not -too terrible hereafter. - -You will expect me now to say that a fantastic book asks us to accept -the supernatural. I will say it, but reluctantly, because any statement -as to their subject matter brings these novels into the claws of -critical apparatus, from which it is important that they should be -saved. It is truer of them than of most books that we can only know what -is in them by reading them, and their appeal is specially personal--they -are sideshows inside the main show. So I would rather hedge as much as -possible, and say that they ask us to accept either the supernatural or -its absence. - -A reference to the greatest of the them--_Tristram Shandy_--will make -this point clear. The supernatural is absent from the Shandy ménage, -yet a thousand incidents suggest that it is not far off. It would not be -really odd, would it, if the furniture in Mr. Shandy's bedroom, where he -retired in despair after hearing the omitted details of his son's birth, -should come alive like Belinda's toilette in _The Rape of the Lock_, or -that Uncle Toby's drawbridge should lead into Lilliput? There is a -charmed stagnation about the whole epic--the more the characters do the -less gets done, the less they have to say the more they talk, the harder -they think the softer they get, facts have an unholy tendency to unwind -and trip up the past instead of begetting the future, as in -well-conducted books, and the obstinacy of inanimate objects, like Dr. -Slop's bag, is most suspicious. Obviously a god is hidden in _Tristram -Shandy_, his name is Muddle, and some readers cannot accept him. Muddle -is almost incarnate--quite to reveal his awful features was not Sterne's -intention; that is the deity that lurks behind his masterpiece--the army -of unutterable muddle, the universe as a hot chestnut. Small wonder that -another divine muddler, Dr. Johnson, writing in 1776, should remark, -"Nothing odd will do long: _Tristram Shandy_ did not last!" Doctor -Johnson was not always happy in his literary judgments, but the -appropriateness of this one passes belief. - -Well, that must serve as our definition of fantasy. It implies the -supernatural, but need not express it. Often it does express it, and -were that type of classification helpful, we could make a list of the -devices which writers of a fantastic turn have used--such as the -introduction of a god, ghost, angel, monkey, monster, midget, witch into -ordinary life; or the introduction of ordinary men into no man's land, -the future, the past, the interior of the earth, the fourth dimension; -or divings into and dividings of personality; or finally the device of -parody or adaptation. These devices need never grow stale; they will -occur naturally to writers of a certain temperament, and be put to fresh -use; but the fact that their number is strictly limited is of interest; -and suggests that the beam of light can only be manipulated in certain -ways. - -I will select, as a typical example, a recent book about a witch: -_Flecker's Magic_, by Norman Matson. It seemed to me good and I -recommended it to a friend whose judgment I respect. He thought it poor. -That is what is so tiresome about new books; they never give us that -restful feeling which we have when perusing the classics. _Flecker's -Magic_ contains scarcely anything that is new--fantasies cannot: only -the old old story of the wishing ring which brings either misery or -nothing at all. Flecker, an American boy who is learning to paint in -Paris, is given the ring by a girl in a café; she is a witch, she tells -him; he has only to be sure what he wants and he will get it. To prove -her power, a motor-bus rises slowly from the street and turns upside -down in the air. The passengers, who do not fall out, try to look as if -nothing was happening. The driver, who is standing on the pavement at -the moment, cannot conceal his surprise, but when his bus returns safe -to earth again he thinks it wiser to get into his seat and drive off as -usual. Motor-buses do not revolve slowly through the air--so they do -not. Flecker now accepts the ring. His character, though slightly -sketched, is individual, and this definiteness causes the book to grip. - -It proceeds with a growing tension, a series of little shocks. The -method is Socratic. The boy starts by thinking of something obvious, -like a Rolls-Royce. But where shall he put the beastly thing? Or a -beautiful lady. But what about her carte d'identité? Or money? Ah, -that's more like it--he is almost a beggar. Say a million dollars. He -prepares to turn the ring for this wish--except while one's about it two -millions seem safer--or ten--or--and money blares out into madness, and -the same thing happens when he thinks of long life: to die in forty -years--no, in fifty--in one hundred--horrible, horrible. Then a solution -occurs. He has always wanted to be a great painter. Well, he'll be it at -once. But what kind of greatness? Giotto's? Cézanne's? Certainly not; -his own kind, and he does not know what that is, so this wish likewise -is impossible. - -And now a horrible old woman begins to haunt his days and dreams. She -reminds him vaguely of the girl who gave him the ring. She knows his -thoughts and she is always sidling up to him in the streets and saying, -"Dear boy--darling boy--wish for happiness." We learn in time that she -is the real witch--the girl was a human acquaintance whom she used to -get into touch with Flecker. The last of the witches--very lonely. The -rest have committed suicide during the eighteenth century--they could -not endure to survive into the world of Newton where two and two make -four, and even the world of Einstein is not sufficiently decentralised -to revive them. She has hung on in the hope of smashing this world, and -she wants the boy to ask for happiness because such a wish has never -been made in all the history of the ring. - - -Perhaps Flecker was the first modern man to find himself in this -predicament? The people of the old world had so little they knew surely -what they wanted. They knew about Almighty God, who wore a beard and sat -in an armchair about a mile above the fields, and life was very short -and very long too, for the days were so full of unthinking effort. - -The people of the recorded olden times wished for a beautiful castle on -a high hill and lived therein until death. But the hill was not so high -one might see from the windows back along thirty centuries--as one may -from a bungalow. In the castle there were no great volumes filled with -words and pictures of things dug up by man's relentless curiosity from -sand and soil in all comers of the world; there was a sentimental -half-belief in dragons, but no knowledge that once upon a time only -dragons had lived on the earth--that man's grandfather and grandmother -were dragons; there were no movies flickering like thoughts against a -white wall, no phonograph, no machinery with which to achieve the -sensation of speed; no diagrams of the fourth dimension, no contrasts in -life like that of Waterville, Minn., and Paris, France. In the castle -the light was weak and flickering, hallways were dark, rooms deeply -shadowed. The little outside world was full of shadow, and on the very -top of the mind of him who lived in the castle played a dim -light--underneath were shadows, fear, ignorance, will-to-ignorance. Most -of all, there was not in the castle on the hill the breathless sense of -imminent revelation--that today or surely tomorrow Man would at a stroke -double his power and change the world again. - -The ancient tales of magic were the mumbling thoughts of a distant -shabby little world--so, at least, thought Flecker, offended. The tales -gave him no guidance. There was too much difference between his world -and theirs. - -He wondered if he hadn't dismissed the wish for happiness rather -heedlessly? He seemed to get nowhere thinking about it. He was not wise -enough. In the old tales a wish for happiness was never made! He -wondered why. - -He might chance it--just to see what would happen. The thought made him -tremble. He leaped from his bed and paced the red-tiled floor, rubbing -his hands together. - -"I want to be happy for ever," he whispered, to hear the words, careful -not to touch the ring. "_Happy ... for ever_"--the two syllables of the -first word, like hard little pebbles, struck musically against the bell -of his imagination, but the second was a sigh. _For ever_--his spirit -sank under the soft heavy impact of it. Held in his thought the word -made a dreary music, fading. "_Happy for ever_"--NO!! - - -Thus again and again--the mark of the true fantasist--does Norman Matson -merge the kingdoms of magic and common sense by using words that apply -to both, and the mixture he has created comes alive. I will not tell the -end of the story. You will have guessed its essentials, but there are -always surprises in the working of a fresh mind, and to the end of time -good literature will be made round this notion of a wish. - -To turn from this simple example of the supernatural to a more -complicated one--to a highly accomplished and superbly written book -whose spirit is farcical: _Zuleika Dobson_ by Max Beerbohm. You all know -Miss Dobson--not personally, or you would not be here now. She is that -damsel for love of whom all the undergraduates of Oxford except one -drowned themselves during Eights week, and he threw himself out of a -window. - -A superb theme for a fantasy, but all will depend on the handling. It is -treated with a mixture of realism, wittiness, charm and mythology, and -the mythology is most important. Max has borrowed or created a number of -supernatural machines--to have entrusted Zuleika to one of them would be -inept; the fantasy would become heavy or thin. But we pass from the -sweating emperors to the black and pink pearls, the hooting owls, the -interference of the Muse Clio, the ghosts of Chopin and George Sand, of -Nellie O'Mora; just as one fails another starts, to uphold this gayest -and most exquisite of funeral palls. - - -Through the square, across the High, down Grove Street they -passed. The Duke looked up at the tower of Merton, _ώs oὔπoτ' αὗθιs -ἀλλὰ νῦν πανύστατoν_. Strange that tonight it would still be -standing here, in all its sober and solid beauty--still be -gazing, over the roofs and chimneys, at the tower of Magdalen, its -rightful bride. Through untold centuries of the future it would stand -thus, gaze thus. He winced. Oxford walls have a way of belittling us; -and the Duke was loth to regard his doom as trivial. - -Aye, by all minerals we are mocked. Vegetables, yearly deciduous, are -far more sympathetic. The lilac and laburnum, making lovely now the -railed pathway to Christ Church meadow, were all a-swaying and nodding -to the Duke as he passed by. "Adieu, adieu, your Grace," they were -whispering. "We are very sorry for you, very sorry indeed. We never -dared suppose you would predecease us. We think your death a very great -tragedy. Adieu! Perhaps we shall meet in another world--that is, if the -members of the animal kingdom have immortal souls, as we have." - -The Duke was little versed in their language; yet, as he passed between -these gently garrulous blooms, he caught at the least the drift of their -salutation, and smiled a vague but courteous acknowledgment, to the -right and the left alternately, creating a very favourable impression. - - -Has not a passage like this--with its freedom of invocation--a beauty -unattainable by serious literature? It is so funny and charming, so -iridescent yet so profound. Criticisms of human nature fly through the -book, not like arrows but upon the wings of sylphs. Towards the -end--that dreadful end often so fatal to fiction--the book rather flags: -the suicide of all the undergraduates of Oxford is not as delightful as -it ought to be when viewed at close quarters, and the defenestration of -Noaks almost nasty. Still it is a great work--the most consistent -achievement of fantasy in our time, and the closing scene in Zuleika's -bedroom with its menace of further disasters is impeccable. - - -And now with pent breath and fast-beating heart, she stared at the lady -of the mirror, without seeing her; and now she wheeled round and swiftly -glided to that little table on which stood her two books. She snatched -Bradshaw. - -We always intervene between Bradshaw and any one whom we see consulting -him. "Mademoiselle will permit me to find that which she seeks?" asked -Melisande. - -"Be quiet," said Zuleika. We always repulse, at first, any one who -intervenes between us and Bradshaw. - -We always end by accepting the intervention. "See if it is possible to -go direct from here to Cambridge," said Zuleika, handing the book on. -"If it isn't, then--well, see how one _does_ get there." - -We never have any confidence in the intervener. Nor is the intervener, -when it comes to the point, sanguine. With mistrust mounting to -exasperation Zuleika sat watching the faint and frantic researches of -her maid. - -"Stop!" she said suddenly. "I have a much better idea. Go down very -early to the station. See the stationmaster. Order me a special train. -For ten o'clock, say." - -Rising, she stretched her arms above her head. Her lips parted in a -yawn, met in a smile. With both hands she pushed back her hair from her -shoulders, and twisted it into a loose knot. Very lightly she slipped up -into bed, and very soon she was asleep. - - -So Zuleika ought to have come on to this place. She does not seem ever -to have arrived and we can only suppose that through the intervention of -the gods her special train failed to start, or, more likely, is still in -a siding at Bletchley. - -Among the devices in my list I mentioned "parody" or "adaptation" and -would now examine this further. The fantasist here adopts for his -mythology some earlier work and uses it as a framework or quarry for his -own purposes. There is an aborted example of this in _Joseph Andrews_. -Fielding set out to use _Pamela_ as a comic mythology. He thought it -would be fun to invent a brother to Pamela, a pure-minded footman, who -should repulse Lady Booby's attentions just as Pamela had repulsed Mr. -B.'s, and he made Lady Booby Mr. B.'s aunt. Thus he would be able to -laugh at Richardson, and incidentally express his own views of life. -Fielding's view of life however was of the sort that only rests content -with the creation of solid round characters, and with the growth of -Parson Adams and Mrs. Slipslop the fantasy ceases, and we get an -independent work. _Joseph Andrews_ (which is also important -historically) is interesting to us as an example of a false start. Its -author begins by playing the fool in a Richardsonian world, and ends by -being serious in a world of his own--the world of Tom Jones and Amelia. - -Parody or adaptation have enormous advantages to certain novelists, -particularly to those who may have a great deal to say and plenty of -literary genius, but who do not see the world in terms of individual men -and women--who do not, in other words, take easily to creating -characters. How are such men to start writing? An already existing book -or literary tradition may inspire them--they may find high up in its -cornices a pattern that will serve as a beginning, they may swing about -in its rafters and gain strength. That fantasy of Lowes Dickinson, _The -Magic Flute_, seems to be created thus: it has taken as its mythology -the world of Mozart. Tamino, Sarastro, and the Queen of the Night stand -in their enchanted kingdom ready for the author's thoughts, and when -these are poured in they become alive and a new and exquisite work is -born. And the same is true of another fantasy, anything but -exquisite--James Joyce's _Ulysses_[6] That remarkable affair--perhaps -the most interesting literary experiment of our day--could not have been -achieved unless Joyce had had, as his guide and butt, the world of the -_Odyssey_. - -I am only touching on one aspect of _Ulysses_: it is of course more than -a fantasy--it is a dogged attempt to cover the universe with mud, it is -an inverted Victorianism, an attempt to make crossness and dirt succeed -where sweetness and light failed, a simplification of the human -character in the interests of Hell. All simplifications are fascinating, -all lead us away from the truth (which lies far nearer the muddle of -_Tristram Shandy_), and _Ulysses_ must not detain us on the ground that -it contains a morality--otherwise we shall also have to discuss Mrs. -Humphry Ward. We are concerned with it because, through a mythology, -Joyce has been able to create the peculiar stage and characters he -required. - -The action of those 400,000 words occupies a single day, the scene is -Dublin, the theme is a journey--the modern man's journey from morn to -midnight, from bed to the squalid tasks of mediocrity, to a funeral, -newspaper office, library, pub, lavatory, lying-in hospital, a saunter -by the beach, brothel, coffee stall, and so back to bed. And it coheres -because it depends from the journey of a hero through the seas of -Greece, like a bat hanging to a cornice. - -Ulysses himself is Mr. Leopold Bloom--a converted Jew--greedy, -lascivious, timid, undignified, desultory, superficial, kindly and -always at his lowest when he pretends to aspire. He tries to explore -life through the body. Penelope is Mrs. Marion Bloom, an overblown -soprano, by no means harsh to her suitors. The third character is young -Stephen Dedalus, whom Bloom recognizes as his spiritual son much as -Ulysses recognizes Telemachus as his actual son. Stephen tries to -explore life through the intellect--we have met him before in _The -Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_, and now he is worked into this -epic of grubbiness and disillusion. He and Bloom meet half way through -in Night Town (which corresponds partly to Homer's Palace of Circe, -partly to his Descent into Hell) and in its supernatural and filthy -alleys they strike up their slight but genuine friendship. This is the -crisis of the book, and here--and indeed throughout--smaller mythologies -swarm and pullulate, like vermin between the scales of a poisonous -snake. Heaven and earth fill with infernal life, personalities melt, -sexes interchange, until the whole universe, including poor, -pleasure-loving Mr. Bloom, is involved in one joyless orgy. - -Does it come off? No, not quite. Indignation in literature never quite -comes off either in Juvenal or Swift or Joyce; there is something in -words that is alien to its simplicity. The Night Town scene does not -come off except as a superfetation of fantasies, a monstrous coupling of -reminiscences. Such satisfaction as can be attained in this direction is -attained, and all through the bode we have similar experiments--the aim -of which is to degrade all things and more particularly civilization and -art, by turning them inside out and upside down. Some enthusiasts may -think that _Ulysses_ ought to be mentioned not here but later on, under -the heading of prophecy, and I understand this criticism. But I prefer -to mention it today with _Tristram Shandy_, _Flecker's Magic_, _Zuleika -Dobson_, and _The Magic Flute_, because the raging of Joyce, like the -happier or calmer moods of the other writers, seems essentially -fantastic, and lacks the note for which we shall be listening soon. - -We must pursue this notion of mythology further, and more circumspectly. - - -[Footnote 6: _Ulysses_ (Shakespeare & Co., Paris) is not at present -obtainable in England. America, more enlightened, has produced a -mutilated version without the author's permission and without -paying him a cent.] - - - - -VII - -PROPHECY - - -WITH prophecy in the narrow sense of foretelling the future we have no -concern, and we have not much concern with it as an appeal for -righteousness. What will interest us today--what we must respond to, for -interest now becomes an inappropriate word--is an accent in the -novelist's voice, an accent for which the flutes and saxophones of -fantasy may have prepared us. His theme is the universe, or something -universal, but he is not necessarily going to "say" anything about the -universe; he proposes to sing, and the strangeness of song arising in -the halls of fiction is bound to give us a shock. How will song combine -with the furniture of common sense? we shall ask ourselves, and shall -have to answer "not too well": the singer does not always have room for -his gestures, the tables and chairs get broken, and the novel through -which bardic influence has passed often has a wrecked air, like a -drawing-room after an earthquake or a children's party. Readers of D. H. -Lawrence will understand what I mean. - -Prophecy--in our sense--is a tone of voice. It may imply any of the -faiths that have haunted humanity--Christianity, Buddhism, dualism, -Satanism, or the mere raising of human love and hatred to such a power -that their normal receptacles no longer contain them: but what -particular view of the universe is recommended--with that we are not -directly concerned. It is the implication that signifies and will filter -into the turns of the novelist's phrase, and in this lecture, which -promises to be so vague and grandiose, we may come nearer than elsewhere -to the minutiae of style. We shall have to attend to the novelist's -state of mind and to the actual words he uses; we shall neglect as far -as we can the problems of common sense. As far as we can: for all novels -contain tables and chairs, and most readers of fiction look for them -first. Before we condemn him for affectation and distortion we must -realize his view point. He is not looking at the tables and chairs at -all, and that is why they are out of focus. We only see what he does not -focus--not what he does--and in our blindness we laugh at him. - -I have said that each aspect of the novel demands a different quality in -the reader. Well, the prophetic aspect demands two qualities: humility -and the suspension of the sense of humour. Humility is a quality for -which I have only a limited admiration. In many phases of life it is a -great mistake and degenerates into defensiveness or hypocrisy. But -humility is in place just now. Without its help we shall not hear the -voice of the prophet, and our eyes will behold a figure of fun instead -of his glory. And the sense of humour--that is out of place: that -estimable adjunct of the educated man must be laid aside. Like the -schoolchildren in the Bible, one cannot help laughing at a prophet--his -bald head is so absurd--but one can discount the laughter and realize -that it has no critical value and is merely food for bears. - -Let us distinguish between the prophet and the non-prophet. - -There were two novelists, who were both brought up in Christianity. They -speculated and broke away, yet they neither left nor did they want to -leave the Christian spirit which they interpreted as a loving spirit. -They both held that sin is always punished, and punishment a purgation, -and they saw this process not with the detachment of an ancient Greek or -a modern Hindu, but with tears in their eyes. Pity, they felt, is the -atmosphere in which morality exercises its logic, a logic which -otherwise is crude and meaningless. What is the use of a sinner being -punished and cured if there is not an addition in the cure, a heavenly -bonus? And where does the addition come from? Not out of the machinery, -but out of the atmosphere in which the process occurs, out of the love -and pity which (they believed) are attributes of God. - -How similar these two novelists must have been! Yet one of them was -George Eliot and the other Dostoevsky. - -It will be said that Dostoevsky had vision. Still, so had George Eliot. -To classify them apart--and they must be parted--is not so easy. But the -difference between them will define itself at once exactly if I read two -passages from their works. To the classifier the passages will seem -similar: to any one who has an ear for song they come out of different -worlds. - -I will begin with a passage--fifty years ago it was a very famous -passage--out of _Adam Bede_. Hetty is in prison, condemned to die for -the murder of her illegitimate child. She will not confess, she is hard -and impenitent. Dinah, the Methodist, comes to visit her and tries to -touch her heart. - - -Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat -beside her. But she felt the Divine presence more and more--nay, as if -she herself were a part of it, and it was the Divine pity that was -beating in her heart, and was willing the rescue of this helpless one. -At last she was prompted to speak, and find out how far Hetty was -conscious of the present. - -"Hetty," she said gently, "do you know who it is that sits by your -side?" - -"Yes," Hetty answered slowly, "it's Dinah." Then, after a pause, she -added, "But you can do nothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. -They'll hang me o' Monday--it's Friday now." - -"But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one -close to you." - -Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, "Who?" - -"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and -trouble--who has known every thought you have had--has seen where you -went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have -tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't follow you, when -my arms can't reach you, when death has parted us, He who is -with you now and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no -difference--whether we live or die we are in the presence of God." - -"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? _Will_ they hang me for -certain? ... I wouldn't mind if they'd let me live ... help me.... I -can't feel anything like you ... my heart is hard." - -Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice: -"... Come, mighty Saviour! let the dead hear Thy voice; let the eyes of -the blind be opened: let her see that God encompasses her; let her -tremble at nothing but the sin that cuts her off from Him. Melt the hard -heart; unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her whole soul, -'Father, I have sinned.'" - -"Dinah," Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, "I will -speak ... I will tell ... I won't hide it any more. I did do it, -Dinah ... I buried in the wood ... the little baby ... and it cried ... I -heard it cry ... ever such a way off ... all night ... and I went back -because it cried." - -She paused and then spoke hurriedly in a louder pleading tone. - -"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't die--there might somebody find it. I -didn't kill it--I didn't kill it myself. I put it down there and covered -it up, and when I came back it was gone.... I don't know what I felt -until I found that the baby was gone. And when I put it there, I thought -I should like somebody to find it and save it from dying, but when I saw -it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o' -stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, and everybody as -saw me 'ud know about the baby. My heart went like stone; I couldn't -wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for -ever, and nothing 'ud ever change. But they came and took me away." - -Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still -something behind: and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that tears -must come before words. At last Hetty burst out with a sob. - -"Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the place in the -wood, now I've told everything?" - -"Let us pray, poor sinner: let us fall on our knees again, and pray to -the God of all mercy." - - -I have not done justice to this scene, because I have had to cut it, and -it is on her massiveness that George Eliot depends--she has no nicety of -style. The scene is sincere, solid, pathetic, and penetrated with -Christianity. The god whom Dinah summons is a living force to the -authoress also: he is not brought in to work up the reader's feelings; -he is the natural accompaniment of human error and suffering. - -Now contrast with it the following scene from _The Brothers Karamazov_ -(Mitya is being accused of the murder of his father, of which he is -indeed spiritually though not technically guilty). - - -They proceeded to a final revision of the protocol. Mitya got up, moved -from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a large chest -covered by a rug, and instantly fell asleep. - -He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the -time. - -He was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been stationed -long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses, -through snow and sleet. Not far off was a village; he could see the -black huts, and half the huts were burned down, there were only the -charred beams sticking up. And as they drove in, there were peasant -women drawn up along the road, a lot of women, a whole row, all thin and -wan, with their faces a sort of brownish colour, especially one at the -edge, a tall bony woman, who looked forty, but might have been only -twenty, with a long thin face. And in her arms was a little baby crying. -And her breasts seemed so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in -them. And the child cried and cried, and held out its little bare arms, -with its little fists blue from cold. - -"Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" Mitya asked as they dashed -gaily by. - -"It's the babe," answered the driver. "The babe weeping." - -And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, "the babe," and -he liked the peasant calling it "the babe." There seemed more pity in -it. - -"But why is it weeping?" Mitya persisted stupidly. "Why are its little -arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?" - -"Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging -because they've been burnt out." - -"No, no," Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me, why is -it those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe -poor? Why is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? -Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black -misery? Why don't they feed the babe?" - -And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless, -yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. -And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, -was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do -something for them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that -the dark-faced dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed -tears again from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once, -regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the -Karamazovs.... And his heart glowed, and he struggled forward towards -the light, and he longed to live, to go on and on, towards the new -beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten, now, at once! - -"What! Where?" he exclaimed, opening his eyes, and sitting up on the -chest, as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolay -Parfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the -protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had been asleep -an hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was -suddenly struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, -which hadn't been there when he leant back exhausted, on the chest. - -"Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?" he cried, with a -sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great -kindness had been shown him. - -He never found out who this kind man was, perhaps one of the peasant -witnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary had -compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head, but his whole -soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said he would -sign whatever they liked. - -"I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice, with a -new light, as of joy, in his face. - - -Now what is the difference in these passages--a difference that throbs -in every phrase? It is that the first writer is a preacher, and the -second a prophet. George Eliot talks about God, but never alters her -focus; God and the tables and chairs are all in the same plane, and in -consequence we have not for a moment the feeling that the whole universe -needs pity and love--they are only needed in Hetty's cell. In Dostoevsky -the characters and situations always stand for more than themselves; -infinity attends them; though yet they remain individuals they expand to -embrace it and summon it to embrace them; one can apply to them the -saying of St. Catherine of Siena that God is in the soul and the soul is -in God as the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea. Every -sentence he writes implies this extension, and the implication is the -dominant aspect of his work. He is a great novelist in the ordinary -sense--that is to say his characters have relation to ordinary life and -also live in their own surroundings, there are incidents which keep us -excited, and so on; he has also the greatness of a prophet, to which our -ordinary standards are inapplicable. - -That is the gulf between Hetty and Mitya, though they inhabit the same -moral and mythological worlds. Hetty, taken by herself, is quite -adequate. She is a poor girl, brought to confess her crime, and so to a -better frame of mind. But Mitya, taken by himself, is not adequate. He -only becomes real through what he implies, his mind is not in a frame at -all. Taken by himself he seems distorted out of drawing, intermittent; -we begin explaining him away and saying he was disproportionately -grateful for the pillow because he was overwrought--very like a Russian -in fact. We cannot understand him until we see that he extends, and that -the part of him on which Dostoevsky focused did not lie on that wooden -chest or even in dreamland but in a region where it could be joined by -the rest of humanity. Mitya is--all of us. So is Alyosha, so is -Smerdyakov. He is the prophetic vision, and the novelist's creation -also. He does not become all of us here: he is Mitya here as Hetty is -Hetty. The extension, the melting, the unity through love and pity occur -in a region which can only be implied and to which fiction is perhaps -the wrong approach. The world of the Karamazovs and Myshkin and -Raskolnikov, the world of Moby Dick which we shall enter shortly, it is -not a veil, it is not an allegory. It is the ordinary world of fiction, -but it reaches back. And that tiny humorous figure of Lady Bertram whom -we considered some time ago--Lady Bertram sitting on her sofa with -pug--may assist us in these deeper matters. Lady Bertram, we decided, -was a flat character, capable of extending into a round when the action -required it. Mitya is a round character, but he is capable of extension. -He does not conceal anything (mysticism), he does not mean anything -(symbolism), he is merely Dmitri Karamazov, but to be merely a person in -Dostoevsky is to join up with all the other people far back. -Consequently the tremendous current suddenly flows--for me in those -closing words: "I've had a good dream, gentlemen." Have I had that good -dream too? No, Dostoevsky's characters ask us to share something deeper -than their experiences. They convey to us a sensation that is partly -physical--the sensation of sinking into a translucent globe and seeing -our experience floating far above us on its surface, tiny, remote, yet -ours. We have not ceased to be people, we have given nothing up, but -"the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea." - -There we touch the limit of our subject. We are not concerned with the -prophet's message, or rather (since matter and manner cannot be wholly -separated) we are concerned with it as little as possible. What matters -is the accent of his voice, his song. Hetty might have a good dream in -prison, and it would be true of her, satisfyingly true, but it would -stop short. Dinah would say she was glad, Hetty would recount her dream, -which, unlike Mitya's, would be logically connected with the crisis, and -George Eliot would say something sound and sympathetic about good dreams -generally, and their inexplicably helpful effect on the tortured breast. -Just the same and absolutely different are the two scenes, the two -books, the two writers. - -Now another point appears. Regarded merely as a novelist the prophet has -certain uncanny advantages, so that it is sometimes worth letting him -into a drawing-room even on the furniture's account. Perhaps he will -smash or distort, but perhaps he will illumine. As I said of the -fantasist, he manipulates a beam of light which occasionally touches the -objects so sedulously dusted by the hand of common sense, and renders -them more vivid than they can ever be in domesticity. This intermittent -realism pervades all the greater works of Dostoevsky and Herman -Melville. Dostoevsky can be patiently accurate about a trial or the -appearance of a staircase. Melville can catalogue the products of the -whale ("I have ever found the plain things the knottiest of all," he -remarks). D. H. Lawrence can describe a field of grass and flowers or -the entrance into Fremantle. Little things in the foreground seem to be -all that the prophet cares about at moments--he sits down with them so -quiet and busy like a child between two romps. What does he feel during -these intermittencies? Is it another form of excitement, or is he -resting? We cannot know. No doubt it is what A.E. feels when he is doing -his creameries, or what Claudel feels when he is doing his diplomacy, -but what is that? Anyhow, it characterizes these novels and gives them -what is always provocative in a work of art: roughness of surface. While -they pass under our eyes they are full of dents and grooves and lumps -and spikes which draw from us little cries of approval and disapproval. -When they have past, the roughness is forgotten, they become as smooth -as the moon. - -Prophetic fiction, then, seems to have definite characteristics. It -demands humility and the absence of the sense of humour. It reaches -back--though we must not conclude from the example of Dostoevsky that it -always reaches back to pity and love. It is spasmodically realistic. And -it gives us the sensation of a song or of sound. It is unlike fantasy -because its face is towards unity, whereas fantasy glances about. Its -confusion is incidental, whereas fantasy's is fundamental--_Tristram -Shandy_ ought to be a muddle, _Zuleika Dobson_ ought to keep changing -mythologies. Also the prophet--one imagines--has gone "off" more -completely than the fantasist, he is in a remoter emotional state while -he composes. Not many novelists have this aspect. Poe is too incidental. -Hawthorne potters too anxiously round the problem of individual -salvation to get free. Hardy, a philosopher and a great poet, might seem -to have claims, but Hardy's novels are surveys, they do not give out -sounds. The writer sits back, it is true, but the characters do not -reach back. He shows them to us as they let their arms rise and fall in -the air; they may parallel our sufferings but can never extend -them--never, I mean, could Jude step forward like Mitya and release -floods of our emotion by saying "Gentlemen, I've had a bad dream." -Conrad is in a rather similar position. The voice, the voice of Marlow, -is too full of experiences to sing, it is dulled by many reminiscences -of error and beauty, its owner has seen too much to see beyond cause and -effect. To have a philosophy--even a poetic and emotional philosophy -like Hardy's and Conrad's--leads to reflections on life and things. A -prophet does not reflect. And he does not hammer away. That is why we -exclude Joyce. Joyce has many qualities akin to prophecy and he has -shown (especially in the _Portrait of the Artist_) an imaginative grasp -of evil. But he undermines the universe in too workmanlike a manner, -looking round for this tool or that: in spite of all his internal -looseness he is too tight, he is never vague except after due -deliberation; it is talk, talk, never song. - -So, though I believe this lecture is on a genuine aspect of the novel, -not a fake aspect, I can only think of four writers to illustrate -it--Dostoevsky, Melville, D. H. Lawrence and Emily Brontë. Emily -Brontë shall be left to the last, Dostoevsky I have alluded to, -Melville is the centre of our picture, and the centre of Melville is -_Moby Dick_. - -_Moby Dick_ is an easy book, as long as we read it as a yarn or an -account of whaling interspersed with snatches of poetry. But as soon as -we catch the song in it, it grows difficult and immensely important. -Narrowed and hardened into words the spiritual theme of _Moby Dick_ is -as follows: a battle against evil conducted too long or in the wrong -way. The White Whale is evil, and Captain Ahab is warped by constant -pursuit until his knight-errantry turns into revenge. These are words--a -symbol for the book if we want one--but they do not carry us much -further than the acceptance of the book as a yarn--perhaps they carry us -backwards, for they may mislead us into harmonizing the incidents, and -so losing their roughness and richness. The idea of a contest we may -retain: all action is a battle, the only happiness is peace. But contest -between what? We get false if we say that it is between good and evil or -between two unreconciled evils. The essential in _Moby Dick_, its -prophetic song, flows athwart the action and the surface morality like -an undercurrent. It lies outside words. Even at the end, when the ship -has gone down with the bird of heaven pinned to its mast, and the empty -coffin, bouncing up from the vortex, has carried Ishmael back to the -world--even then we cannot catch the words of the song. There has been -stress, with intervals: but no explicable solution, certainly no -reaching back into universal pity and love; no "Gentlemen, I've had a -good dream." - -The extraordinary nature of the book appears in two of its early -incidents--the sermon about Jonah and the friendship with Queequeg. - -The sermon has nothing to do with Christianity. It asks for endurance or -loyalty without hope of reward. The preacher "kneeling in the pulpit's -bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed -eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and -praying at the bottom of the sea." Then he works up and up and concludes -on a note of joy that is far more terrifying than a menace. - - -Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him when the ship of -this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him -who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns and destroys all sin -though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. -Delight--top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, -but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to -him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob -can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and -deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his -final breath--O Father!--chiefly known to me by thy rod--mortal or -immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this -world's or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee: for -what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God? - - -I believe it is not a coincidence that the last ship we encounter at the -end of the book before the final catastrophe should be called the -Delight; a vessel of ill omen who has herself encountered Moby Dick and -been shattered by him. But what the connection was in the prophet's mind -I cannot say, nor could he tell us. - -Immediately after the sermon, Ishmael makes a passionate alliance with -the cannibal Queequeg, and it looks for a moment that the book is to be -a saga of blood-brotherhood. But human relationships mean little to -Melville, and after a grotesque and violent entry, Queequeg is almost -forgotten. Almost--not quite. Towards the end he falls ill and a coffin -is made for him which he does not occupy, as he recovers. It is this -coffin, serving as a life-buoy, that saves Ishmael from the final -whirlpool, and this again is no coincidence, but an unformulated -connection that sprang up in Melville's mind. _Moby Dick_ is full of -meanings: its meaning is a different problem. It is wrong to turn the -Delight or the coffin into symbols, because even if the symbolism is -correct, it silences the book. Nothing can be stated about _Moby Dick_ -except that it is a contest. The rest is song. - -It is to his conception of evil that Melville's work owes much of its -strength. As a rule evil has been feebly envisaged in fiction, which -seldom soars above misconduct or avoids the clouds of mysteriousness. -Evil to most novelists is either sexual and social or is something very -vague for which a special style with implications of poetry is thought -suitable. They want it to exist, in order that it may kindly help them -on with the plot, and evil, not being kind, generally hampers them with -a villain--a Lovelace or Uriah Heep, who does more harm to the author -than to the fellow characters. For a real villain we must turn to a -story of Melville's called _Billy Budd_.[7] - -It is a short story, but must be mentioned because of the light it -throws on his other work. The scene is on a British man-of-war soon -after the Mutiny at the Nore--a stagey yet intensely real vessel. The -hero, a young sailor, has goodness--which is faint beside the goodness -of Alyosha; still he has goodness of the glowing aggressive sort which -cannot exist unless it has evil to consume. He is not aggressive -himself. It is the light within him that irritates and explodes. On the -surface he is a pleasant, merry, rather insensitive lad, whose perfect -physique is marred by one slight defect, a stammer, which finally -destroys him. He is "dropped into a world not without some mantraps, and -against whose subtleties simple courage without any touch of defensive -ugliness is of little avail; and where such innocence as man is capable -of does yet, in a moral emergency, not always sharpen the faculties or -enlighten the will." Claggart, one of the petty officers, at once sees -in him the enemy--his own enemy, for Claggart is evil. It is again the -contest between Ahab and Moby Dick, though the parts are more clearly -assigned, and we are further from prophecy and nearer to morality and -common sense. But not much nearer. Claggart is not like any other -villain. - - -Natural depravity has certain negative virtues, serving it as silent -auxiliaries. It is not going too far to say that it is without vices or -small sins. There is a phenomenal pride in it that excludes them from -anything--never mercenary or avaricious. In short, the character here -meant partakes nothing of the sordid or sensual. It is serious, but free -from acerbity. - - -He accuses Billy of trying to foment a mutiny. The charge is ridiculous, -no one believes it, and yet it proves fatal. For when the boy is -summoned to declare his innocence, he is so horrified that he cannot -speak, his ludicrous stammer seizes him, the power within him explodes, -and he knocks down his traducer, kills him, and has to be hanged. - -_Billy Budd_ is a remote unearthly episode, but it is a song not without -words, and should be read both for its own beauty and as an introduction -to more difficult works. Evil is labelled and personified instead of -slipping over the ocean and round the world, and Melville's mind can be -observed more easily. What one notices in him is that his apprehensions -are free from personal worry, so that we become bigger not smaller after -sharing them. He has not got that tiresome little receptacle, a -conscience, which is often such a nuisance in serious writers and so -contracts their effects--the conscience of Hawthorne or of Mark -Rutherford. Melville--after the initial roughness of his -realism--reaches straight back into the universal, to a blackness and -sadness so transcending our own that they are undistinguishable from -glory. He says, "in certain moods no man can weigh this world without -throwing in a something somehow like Original Sin to strike the uneven -balance." He threw it in, that undefinable something, the balance -righted itself, and he gave us harmony and temporary salvation. - -It is no wonder that D. H. Lawrence should have written two penetrating -studies of Melville, for Lawrence himself is, as far as I know, the only -prophetic novelist writing today--all the rest are fantasists or -preachers: the only living novelist in whom the song predominates, who -has the rapt bardic quality, and whom it is idle to criticize. He -invites criticism because he is a preacher also--it is this minor aspect -of him which makes him so difficult and misleading--an excessively -clever preacher who knows how to play on the nerves of his congregation. -Nothing is more disconcerting than to sit down, so to speak, before your -prophet, and then suddenly to receive his boot in the pit of your -stomach. "I'm damned if I'll be humble after that," you cry, and so lay -yourself open to further nagging. Also the subject matter of the sermon -is agitating--hot denunciations or advice--so that in the end you cannot -remember whether you ought or ought not to have a body, and are only -sure that you are futile. This bullying, and the honeyed sweetness which -is a bully's reaction, occupy between them the foreground of Lawrence's -work; his greatness lies far, far back, and rests, not like Dostoevsky's -upon Christianity, nor like Melville's upon a contest, but upon -something æsthetic. The voice is Balder's voice, though the hands are -the hands of Esau. The prophet is irradiating nature from within, so -that every colour has a glow and every form a distinctness which could -not otherwise be obtained. Take a scene that always stays in the memory: -that scene in _Women in Love_ where one of the characters throws stones -into the water at night to shatter the image of the moon. Why he throws, -what the scene symbolizes, is unimportant. But the writer could not get -such a moon and water otherwise; he reaches them by his special path -which stamps them as more wonderful than any we can imagine. It is the -prophet back where he started from, back where the rest of us are -waiting by the edge of the pool, but with a power of re-creation and -evocation we shall never possess. - -Humility is not easy with this irritable and irritating author, for the -humbler we get, the crosser he gets. Yet I do not see how else to read -him. If we start resenting or mocking, his treasure disappears as surely -as if we started obeying him. What is valuable about him cannot be put -into words; it is colour, gesture and outline in people and things, the -usual stock-in-trade of the novelist, but evolved by such a different -process that they belong to a new world. - -But what about Emily Brontë? Why should _Wuthering Heights_ come into -this enquiry? It is a story about human beings, it contains no view of -the universe. - -My answer is that the emotions of Heathcliffe and Catherine Earnshaw -function differently to other emotions in fiction. Instead of inhabiting -the characters, they surround them like thunder clouds, and generate the -explosions that fill the novel from the moment when Lockwood dreams of -the hand at the window down to the moment when Heathcliffe, with the -same window open, is discovered dead. _Wuthering Heights_ is filled with -sound--storm and rushing wind--a sound more important than words and -thoughts. Great as the novel is, one cannot afterwards remember anything -in it but Heathcliffe and the elder Catherine. They cause the action by -their separation: they close it by their union after death. No wonder -they "walk"; what else could such beings do? even when they were alive -their love and hate transcended them. - -Emily Brontë had in some ways a literal and careful mind. She -constructed her novel on a time chart even more elaborate than Miss -Austen's, and she arranged the Linton and Earnshaw families -symmetrically, and she had a clear idea of the various legal steps by -which Heathcliffe gained possession of their two properties.[8] Then why -did she deliberately introduce muddle, chaos, tempest? Because in our -sense of the word she was a prophetess: because what is implied is more -important to her than what is said; and only in confusion could the -figures of Heathcliffe and Catherine externalize their passion till it -streamed through the house and over the moors. _Wuthering Heights_ has -no mythology beyond what these two characters provide: no great book is -more cut off from the universals of Heaven and Hell. It is local, like -the spirits it engenders, and whereas we may meet Moby Dick in any pond, -we shall only encounter them among the harebells and limestone of their -own county. - -A concluding remark. Always, at the back of my mind, there lurks a -reservation about this prophetic stuff, a reservation which some will -make more strongly while others will not make it at all. Fantasy has -asked us to pay something extra; and now prophecy asks for humility and -even for a suspension of the sense of humour, so that we are not allowed -to snigger when a tragedy is called _Billy Budd_. We have indeed to lay -aside the single vision which we bring to most of literature and life -and have been trying to use through most of our enquiry, and take up a -different set of tools. Is this right? Another prophet, Blake, had no -doubt that it was right. - - - May God us keep - From single vision and Newton's sleep, - - -he cried and he has painted that same Newton with a pair of compasses in -his hand, describing a miserable mathematical triangle, and turning his -back upon the gorgeous and immeasurable water growths of _Moby Dick_. -Few will agree with Blake. Fewer will agree with Blake's Newton. Most of -us will be eclectics to this side or that according to our temperament. -The human mind is not a dignified organ, and I do not see how we can -exercise it sincerely except through eclecticism. And the only advice I -would offer my fellow eclectics is: "Do not be proud of your -inconsistency. It is a pity, it is a pity that we should be equipped -like this. It is a pity that Man cannot be at the same time impressive -and truthful." For the first five lectures of this course we have used -more or less the same set of tools. This time and last we have had to -lay them down. Next time we shall take them up again, but with no -certainty that they are the best equipment for a critic or that there is -such a thing as a critical equipment. - - -[Footnote 7: Only to be found in a collected edition. For knowledge -of it, and for much else, I am indebted to Mr. John Freeman's -admirable monograph on Melville.] - -[Footnote 8: See that sound and brilliant essay, _The Structure -of Wuthering Heights_, by C.P.S. (Hogarth Press.)] - - - - -VIII - -PATTERN AND RHYTHM - - -OUR interludes, gay and grave, are over, and we return to the general -scheme of the course. We began with the story, and having considered -human beings, we proceeded to the plot which springs out of the story. -Now we must consider something which springs mainly out of the plot, and -to which the characters and any other element present also contribute. -For this new aspect there appears to be no literary word--indeed the -more the arts develop the more they depend on each other for definition. -We will borrow from painting first and call it the pattern. Later we -will borrow from music and call it rhythm. Unfortunately both these -words are vague--when people apply rhythm or pattern to literature they -are apt not to say what they mean and not to finish their sentences: it -is, "Oh, but surely the rhythm ..." or "Oh, but if you call that -pattern ..." - -Before I discuss what pattern entails, and what qualities a reader must -bring to its appreciation, I will give two examples of books with -patterns so definite that a pictorial image sums them up: a book the -shape of an hour-glass and a book the shape of a grand chain in that -old-time dance, the Lancers. - -_Thais_, by Anatole France, is the shape of an hour-glass. - -There are two chief characters, Paphnuce the ascetic, Thais the -courtesan. Paphnuce lives in the desert, he is saved and happy when the -book starts. Thais leads a life of sin in Alexandria, and it is his duty -to save her. In the central scene of the book they approach, he -succeeds; she goes into a monastery and gains salvation, because she has -met him, but he, because he has met her, is damned. The two characters -converge, cross, and recede with mathematical precision, and part of the -pleasure we get from the book is due to this. Such is the pattern of -Thais--so simple that it makes a good starting-point for a difficult -survey. It is the same as the story of _Thais_, when events unroll in -their time-sequence, and the same as the plot of _Thais_, when we see -the two characters bound by their previous actions and taking fatal -steps whose consequence they do not see. But whereas the story appeals -to our curiosity and the plot to our intelligence, the pattern appeals -to our æsthetic sense, it causes us to see the book as a whole. We do -not see it as an hour-glass--that is the hard jargon of the lecture room -which must never be taken literally at this advanced stage of our -enquiry. We just have a pleasure without knowing why, and when the -pleasure is past, as it is now, and our minds are left free to explain -it, a geometrical simile such as an hour-glass will be found helpful. If -it was not for this hour-glass the story, the plot, and the characters -of Thais and Paphnuce would none of them exert their full force, they -would none of them breathe as they do. "Pattern," which seems so rigid, -is connected with atmosphere, which seems so fluid. - -Now for the book that is shaped like the grand chain: _Roman Pictures_ -by Percy Lubbock. - -_Roman Pictures_ is a social comedy. The narrator is a tourist in Rome; -he there meets a kindly and shoddy friend of his, Deering, who rebukes -him superciliously for staring at churches and sets him out to explore -society. This he does, demurely obedient; one person hands him on to -another; café, studio, Vatican and Quirinal purlieus are all reached, -until finally, at the extreme end of his career he thinks, in a most -aristocratic and dilapidated palazzo, whom should he meet but the -second-rate Deering; Deering is his hostess's nephew, but had concealed -it owing to some backfire of snobbery. The circle is complete, the -original partners have rejoined, and greet one another with mutual -confusion which turns to mild laughter. - -What is so good in _Roman Pictures_ is not the presence of the "grand -chain" pattern--any one can organize a grand chain--but the suitability -of the pattern to the author's mood. Lubbock works all through by -administering a series of little shocks, and by extending to his -characters an elaborate charity which causes them to appear in a rather -worse light than if no charity was wasted on them at all. It is the -comic atmosphere, but sub-acid, meticulously benign. And at the end we -discover to our delight that the atmosphere has been externalized, and -that the partners, as they elide together in the marchesa's -drawing-room, have done the exact thing which the book requires, which -it required from the start, and have bound the scattered incidents -together with a thread woven out of their own substance. - -_Thais_ and _Roman Pictures_ provide easy examples of pattern; it is not -often that one can compare a book to a pictorial object with any -accuracy, though curves, etc., are freely spoken of by critics who do -not quite know what they want to say. We can only say (so far) that -pattern is an æsthetic aspect of the novel, and that though it may be -nourished by anything in the novel--any character, scene, word--it draws -most of its nourishment from the plot. We noted, when discussing the -plot, that it added to itself the quality of beauty; beauty a little -surprised at her own arrival: that upon its neat carpentry there could -be seen, by those who cared to see, the figure of the Muse; that Logic, -at the moment of finishing its own house, laid the foundation of a new -one. Here, here is the point where the aspect called pattern is most -closely in touch with its material; here is our starting point. It -springs mainly from the plot, accompanies it like a light in the clouds, -and remains visible after it has departed. Beauty is sometimes the shape -of the book, the book as a whole, the unity, and our examination would -be easier if it was always this. But sometimes it is not. When it is not -I shall call it rhythm. For the moment we are concerned with pattern -only. - -Let us examine at some length another book of the rigid type, a book -with a unity, and in this sense an easy book, although it is by Henry -James. We shall see in it pattern triumphant, and we shall also be able -to see the sacrifices an author must make if he wants his pattern and -nothing else to triumph. - -_The Ambassadors_, like _Thais_, is the shape of an hour-glass. Strether -and Chad, like Paphnuce and Thais, change places, and it is the -realization of this that makes the book so satisfying at the close. The -plot is elaborate and subtle, and proceeds by action or conversation or -meditation through every paragraph. Everything is planned, everything -fits; none of the minor characters are just decorative like the -talkative Alexandrians at Nirias' banquet; they elaborate on the main -theme, they work. The final effect is pre-arranged, dawns gradually on -the reader, and is completely successful when it comes. Details of -intrigue, of the various missions from America, may be forgotten, but -the symmetry they have created is enduring. - -Let us trace the growth of this symmetry.[9] - -Strether, a sensitive middle-aged American, is commissioned by his old -friend, Mrs. Newsome, whom he hopes to marry, to go to Paris and rescue -her son Chad, who has gone to the bad in that appropriate city. The -Newsomes are sound commercial people, who have made money over -manufacturing a small article of domestic utility. Henry James never -tells us what the small article is, and in a moment we shall understand -why. Wells spits it out in _Tono Bungay_, Meredith reels it out in _Evan -Harrington_, Trollope prescribes it freely for Miss Dunstable, but for -James to indicate how his characters made their pile--it would not do. -The article is somewhat ignoble and ludicrous--that is enough. If you -choose to be coarse and daring and visualize it for yourself as, say, a -button-hook, you can, but you do so at your own risk: the author remains -uninvolved. - -Well, whatever it is, Chad Newsome ought to come back and help make it, -and Strether undertakes to fetch him. He has to be rescued from a life -which is both immoral and unremunerative. - -Strether is a typical James character--he recurs in nearly all the books -and is an essential part of their construction. He is the observer who -tries to influence the action, and who through his failure to do so -gains extra opportunities for observation. And the other characters are -such as an observer like Strether is capable of observing--through -lenses procured from a rather too first-class oculist. Everything is -adjusted to his vision, yet he is not a quietist--no, that is the -strength of the device; he takes us along with him, we move as well as -look on. - -When he lands in England (and a landing is an exalted and enduring -experience for James, it is as vital as Newgate for Defoe; poetry and -life crowd round a landing): when Strether lands, though it is only old -England, he begins to have doubts of his mission, which increase when he -gets to Paris. For Chad Newsome, far from going to the bad, has -improved; he is distinguished, he is so sure of himself that he can be -kind and cordial to the man who has orders to fetch him away; his -friends are exquisite, and as for "women in the case" whom his mother -anticipated, there is no sign of them whatever. It is Paris that has -enlarged and redeemed him--and how well Strether himself understands -this! - - -His greatest uneasiness seemed to peep at him out of the possible -impression that almost any acceptance of Paris might give one's -authority away. It hung before him this morning, the vast bright -Babylon, like some huge iridescent object, a jewel brilliant and hard, -in which parts were not to be discriminated nor differences comfortably -marked. It twinkled and trembled and melted together; and what seemed -all surface one moment seemed all depth the next. It was a place of -which, unmistakably, Chad was fond; wherefore, if he, Strether, should -like it too much, what on earth, with such a bond, would become of -either of them? - - -Thus, exquisitely and firmly, James sets his atmosphere--Paris -irradiates the book from end to end, it is an actor though always -unembodied, it is a scale by which human sensibility can be measured, -and when we have finished the novel and allow its incidents to blur that -we may see the pattern plainer, it is Paris that gleams at the centre of -the hour-glass shape--Paris--nothing so crude as good or evil. Strether -sees this soon, and sees that Chad realizes it better than he himself -can; and when he has reached this stage of initiation the novel takes a -turn: there is, after all, a woman in the case; behind Paris, -interpreting it for Chad, is the adorable and exalted figure of Mme. de -Vionnet. It is now impossible for Strether to proceed. All that is noble -and refined in life concentrates in Mme. de Vionnet and is reinforced by -her pathos. She asks him not to take Chad away. He promises--without -reluctance, for his own heart has already shown him as much--and he -remains in Paris not to fight it but to fight for it. - -For the second batch of ambassadors now arrives from the New World. Mrs. -Newsome, incensed and puzzled by the unseemly delay, has despatched -Chad's sister, his brother-in-law, and Mamie, the girl whom he is -supposed to marry. The novel now becomes, within its ordained limits, -most amusing. There is a superb set-to between Chad's sister and Mme. de -Vionnet, while as for Mamie--here is disastrous Mamie, seen as we see -all things, through Strether's eyes. - - -As a child, as a "bud," and then again as a flower of expansion, Mamie -had bloomed for him, freely, in the almost incessantly open doorways of -home; where he remembered her at first very forward, as then very -backward--for he had carried on at one period, in Mrs. Newsome's -parlours, a course of English literature reinforced by exams and -teas--and once more, finally, as very much in advance. But he had kept -no great sense of points of contact; it not being in the nature of -things at Woollett that the freshest of the buds should find herself in -the same basket with the most withered of the winter apples.... He none -the less felt now, as he sat with the charming girl, the signal growth -of a confidence. For she _was_ charming, when all was said, and none the -less so for the visible habit and practice of freedom and fluency. She -was charming, he was aware, in spite of the fact that if he hadn't found -her so he would have found her something he should have been in peril of -expressing as "funny." Yes, she was funny, wonderful Mamie, and without -dreaming it; she was bland, she was bridal--with never, that he could -make out as yet, a bridegroom to support it; she was handsome and -portly, and easy and chatty, soft and sweet and almost disconcertingly -reassuring. She was dressed, if we might so far discriminate, less as a -young lady than as an old one--had an old one been supposable to -Strether as so committed to vanity; the complexities of her hair missed -moreover also the looseness of youth; and she had a mature manner of -bending a little, as to encourage and reward, while she held neatly in -front of her a pair of strikingly polished hands: the combination of all -of which kept up about her the glamour of her "receiving," placed her -again perpetually between the windows and within sound of the ice cream -plates, suggested the enumeration of all the names, gregarious specimens -of a single type, she was happy to "meet." - - -Mamie! She is another Henry James type; nearly every novel contains a -Mamie--Mrs. Gereth in _The Spoils of Poynton_ for instance, or Henrietta -Stackpole in _The Portrait of a Lady_. He is so good at indicating -instantaneously and constantly that a character is second rate, -deficient in sensitiveness, abounding in the wrong sort of worldliness; -he gives such a character so much vitality that its absurdity is -delightful. - -So Strether changes sides and loses all hopes of marrying Mrs. Newsome. -Paris is winning--and then he catches sight of something new. Is not -Chad, as regards any fineness in him, played out? Is not Chad's Paris -after all just a place for a spree? This fear is confirmed. He goes for -a solitary country walk, and at the end of the day he comes across Chad -and Mme. de Vionnet. They are in a boat, they pretend not to see him, -because their relation is at bottom an ordinary liaison, and they are -ashamed. They were hoping for a secret week-end at an inn while their -passion survived; for it will not survive, Chad will tire of the -exquisite Frenchwoman, she is part of his fling; he will go back to his -mother and make the little domestic article and marry Mamie. They know -all this, and it is revealed to Strether though they try to hide it; -they lie, they are vulgar--even Mme. de Vionnet, even her pathos, once -so exquisite, is stained with commonness. - - -It was like a chill in the air to him, it was almost appalling, that a -creature so fine could be, by mysterious forces, a creature so -exploited. For, at the end of all things, they _were_ mysterious; she -had but made Chad what he was--so why could she think she had made him -infinite? She had made him better, she had made him best, she had made -him anything one would; but it came to our friend with supreme queerness -that he was none the less only Chad. The work, however admirable, was -nevertheless of the strict human order, and in short it was -marvellous that the companion of mere earthly joys, of comforts, -aberrations--however one classed them--within the common experience, -should be so transcendency prized. - -She was older for him tonight, visibly less exempt from the touch of -time; but she was as much as ever the finest and subtlest creature, the -happiest apparition, it had been given him, in all his years, to meet; -and yet he could see her there as vulgarly troubled, in very truth, as a -maidservant crying for a young man. The only thing was that she judged -herself as the maidservant wouldn't; the weakness of which wisdom too, -the dishonour of which judgment, seemed but to sink her lower. - - -So Strether loses them too. As he says: "I have lost everything--it is -my only logic." It is not that they have gone back. It is that he has -gone on. The Paris they revealed to him--he could reveal it to them now, -if they had eyes to see, for it is something finer than they could ever -notice for themselves, and his imagination has more spiritual value than -their youth. The pattern of the hour-glass is complete; he and Chad have -changed places, with more subtle steps than Thais and Paphnuce, and the -light in the clouds proceeds not from the well-lit Alexandria, but from -the jewel which "twinkled and trembled and melted together, and what -seemed all surface one moment seemed all depth the next." - -The beauty that suffuses _The Ambassadors_ is the reward due to a fine -artist for hard work. James knew exactly what he wanted, he pursued the -narrow path of æsthetic duty, and success to the full extent of his -possibilities has crowned him. The pattern has woven itself with -modulation and reservations Anatole France will never attain. Woven -itself wonderfully. But at what sacrifice! - -So enormous is the sacrifice that many readers cannot get interested in -James, although they can follow what he says (his difficulty has been -much exaggerated), and can appreciate his effects. They cannot grant his -premise, which is that most of human life has to disappear before he can -do us a novel. - -He has, in the first place, a very short list of characters. I have -already mentioned two--the observer who tries to influence the action, -and the second-rate outsider (to whom, for example, all the brilliant -opening of _What Maisie Knew_ is entrusted). Then there is the -sympathetic foil--very lively and frequently female--in _The -Ambassadors_. Maria Gostrey plays this part; there is the wonderful rare -heroine, whom Mme. de Vionnet approached and who is consummated by Milly -in _The Wings of the Dove_; there is sometimes a villain, sometimes a -young artist with generous impulses; and that is about all. For so fine -a novelist it is a poor show. - -In the second place, the characters, beside being few in number, are -constructed on very stingy lines. They are incapable of fun, of rapid -motion, of carnality, and of nine-tenths of heroism. Their clothes will -not take off, the diseases that ravage them are anonymous, like the -sources of their income, their servants are noiseless or resemble -themselves, no social explanation of the world we know is possible for -them, for there are no stupid people in their world, no barriers of -language, and no poor. Even their sensations are limited. They can land -in Europe and look at works of art and at each other, but that is all. -Maimed creatures can alone breathe in Henry James's pages--maimed yet -specialized. They remind one of the exquisite deformities who haunted -Egyptian art in the reign of Akhenaton--huge heads and tiny legs, but -nevertheless charming. In the following reign they disappear. - -Now this drastic curtailment, both of the numbers of human beings and of -their attributes, is in the interests of the pattern. The longer James -worked, the more convinced he grew that a novel should be a whole--not -necessarily geometric like _The Ambassadors_, but it should accrete -round a angle topic, situation, gesture, which should occupy the -characters and provide a plot, and should also fasten up the novel on -the outside--catch its scattered statements in a net, make them cohere -like a planet, and swing through the skies of memory. A pattern must -emerge, and anything that emerged from the pattern must be pruned off as -wanton distraction. Who so wanton as human beings? Put Tom Jones or Emma -or even Mr. Casaubon into a Henry James book, and the book will burn to -ashes, whereas we could put them into one another's books and only cause -local inflammation. Only a Henry James character will suit, and though -they are not dead--certain selected recesses of experience he explores -very well--they are gutted of the common stuff that fills characters in -other books, and ourselves. And this castrating is not in the interests -of the Kingdom of Heaven, there is no philosophy in the novels, no -religion (except an occasional touch of superstition), no prophecy, no -benefit for the superhuman at all. It is for the sake of a particular -æsthetic effect which is certainly gained, but at this heavy price. - -H. G. Wells has been amusing on this point, and perhaps profound. In -_Boon_--one of his liveliest works--he had Henry James much upon his -mind, and wrote a superb parody of him. - - -James begins by taking it for granted that a novel is a work of art that -must be judged by its oneness. Some one gave him that idea in the -beginning of things and he has never found it out. He doesn't find -things out. He doesn't even seem to want to find things out. He accepts -very readily and then--elaborates.... The only living human motives left -in his novels are a certain avidity and an entirely superficial -curiosity.... His people nose out suspicions, hint by hint, link by -link. Have you ever known living human beings do that? The thing his -novel is _about_ is always there. It is like a church lit but with no -congregation to distract you, with every light and line focussed on the -high altar. And on the altar, very reverently placed, intensely there, -is a dead kitten, an egg shell, a piece of string.... Like his _Altar of -the Dead_ with nothing to the dead at all.... For if there was, they -couldn't all be candles, and the effect would vanish. - - -Wells sent _Boon_ as a present to Janies, apparently thinking the master -would be as much pleased by such heartiness and honesty as was he -himself. The master was far from pleased, and a most interesting -correspondence ensued.[10] Each of the eminent men becomes more and more -himself as it proceeds. James is polite, reminiscent, bewildered, and -exceedingly formidable: he admits that the parody has not "filled him -with a fond elation," and regrets in conclusion that he can sign himself -"only yours faithfully, Henry James." Wells is bewildered too, but in a -different way; he cannot understand why the man should be upset. And, -beyond the personal comedy, there is the great literary importance of -the issue. It is this question of the rigid pattern: hour-glass or grand -chain or converging lines of the cathedral or diverging lines of the -Catherine wheel, or bed of Procrustes--whatever image you like as long -as it implies unity. Can it be combined with the immense richness of -material which life provides? Wells and James would agree it cannot, -Wells would go on to say that life should be given the preference, and -must not be whittled or distended for a pattern's sake. My own -prejudices are with Wells. The James novels are a unique possession and -the reader who cannot accept his premises misses some valuable and -exquisite sensations. But I do not want more of his novels, especially -when they are written by some one else, just as I do not want the art of -Akhenaton to extend into the reign of Tutankhamen. - -That then is the disadvantage of a rigid pattern. It may externalize the -atmosphere, spring naturally from the plot, but it shuts the doors on -life and leaves the novelist doing exercises, generally in the -drawing-room. Beauty has arrived, but in too tyrannous a guise. In -plays--the plays of Racine, for instance--she may be justified because -beauty can be a great empress on the stage, and reconcile us to the loss -of the men we knew. But in the novel, her tyranny as it grows powerful -grows petty, and generates regrets which sometimes take the form of -books like _Boon_. To put it in other words, the novel is not capable of -as much artistic development as the drama: its humanity or the grossness -of its material hinder it (use whichever phrase you like). To most -readers of fiction the sensation from a pattern is not intense enough to -justify the sacrifices that made it, and their verdict is "Beautifully -done, but not worth doing." - -Still this is not the end of our quest. We will not give up the hope of -beauty yet. Cannot it be introduced into fiction by some other method -than the pattern? Let us edge rather nervously towards the idea of -"rhythm." - -Rhythm is sometimes quite easy. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, for -instance, starts with the rhythm "diddidy dum," which we can all hear -and tap to. But the symphony as a whole has also a rhythm--due mainly to -the relation between its movements--which some people can hear but no -one can tap to. This second sort of rhythm is difficult, and whether it -is substantially the same as the first sort only a musician could tell -us. What a literary man wants to say though is that the first kind of -rhythm, the diddidy dum, can be found in certain novels and may give -them beauty. And the other rhythm, the difficult one--the rhythm of the -Fifth Symphony as a whole--I cannot quote you any parallels for that in -fiction, yet it may be present. - -Rhythm in the easy sense, is illustrated by the work of Marcel -Proust.[11] - -Proust's conclusion has not been published yet, and his admirers say -that when it comes everything will fall into its place, times past will -be recaptured and fixed, we shall have a perfect whole. I do not believe -this. The work seems to me a progressive rather than an æsthetic -confession, and with the elaboration of Albertine the author was getting -tired. Bits of news may await us, but it will be surprising if we have -to revise our opinion of the whole book. The book is chaotic, ill -constructed, it has and will have no external shape; and yet it hangs -together because it is stitched internally, because it contains rhythms. - -There are several examples (the photographing of the grandmother is one -of them) but the most important from the binding point of view is his -use of the "little phrase" in the music of Vinteuil. It does more than -anything else--more even than the jealousy which successively destroys -Swann, the hero, and Charlus--to make us feel that we are in a -homogeneous world. We first hear Vinteuil's name in hideous -circumstances. The musician is dead--an obscure little country organist, -unknown to fame--and his daughter is defiling his memory. The horrible -scene is to radiate in several directions, but it passes, we forget -about it. - -Then we are at a Paris salon. A violin sonata is performed and a little -phrase from its andante catches the ear of Swann and steals into his -life. It is always a living being, but takes various forms. For a time -it attends his love for Odette. The love affair goes wrong, the phrase -is forgotten, we forget it. Then it breaks out again when he is ravaged -by jealousy, and now it attends his misery and past happiness at once, -without losing its own divine character. Who wrote the sonata? On -hearing it is by Vinteuil, Swann says, "I once knew a wretched little -organist of that name--it couldn't be by him." But it is, and Vinteuil's -daughter and her friend transcribed and published it. - -That seems all. The little phrase crosses the book again and again, but -as an echo, a memory; we like to encounter it, but it has no binding -power. Then, hundreds and hundreds of pages on, when Vinteuil has become -a national possession, and there is talk of raising a statue to him in -the town where he has been so wretched and so obscure, another work of -his is performed--a posthumous sextet. The hero listens--he is in an -unknown rather terrible universe while a sinister dawn reddens the sea. -Suddenly for him and for the reader too, the little phrase of the sonata -recurs--half heard, changed, but giving complete orientation, so that he -is back in the country of his childhood with the knowledge that it -belongs to the unknown. - -We are not obliged to agree with Proust's actual musical descriptions -(they are too pictorial for my own taste): but what we must admire is -his use of rhythm in literature, and his use of something which is akin -by nature to the effect it has to produce--namely a musical phrase. -Heard by various people--first by Swann, then by the hero--the phrase of -Vinteuil is not tethered; it is not a banner such as we find George -Meredith using--a double-blossomed cherry tree to accompany Clara -Middleton, a yacht in smooth waters for Cecilia Halkett. A banner can -only reappear, rhythm can develop, and the little phrase has a life of -its own, unconnected with the lives of its auditors, as with the life of -the man who composed it. It is almost an actor, but not quite, and that -"not quite" means that its power has gone towards stitching Proust's -book together from the inside, and towards the establishment of beauty -and the ravishing of the reader's memory. There are times when the -little phrase--from its gloomy inception, through the sonata into the -sextet--means everything to the reader. There are times when it means -nothing and is forgotten, and this seems to me the function of rhythm in -fiction; not to be there all the time like a pattern, but by its lovely -waxing and waning to fill us with surprise and freshness and hope. - -Done badly, rhythm is most boring, it hardens into a symbol and instead -of carrying us on it trips us up. With exasperation we find that -Galsworthy's spaniel John, or whatever it is, lies under the feet again; -and even Meredith's cherry trees and yachts, graceful as they are, only -open the windows into poetry. I doubt that it can be achieved by the -writers who plan their books beforehand, it has to depend on a local -impulse when the right interval is reached. But the effect can be -exquisite, it can be obtained without mutilating the characters, and it -lessens our need of an external form. - -That must suffice on the subject of easy rhythm in fiction: which may be -defined as repetition plus variation, and which can be illustrated by -examples. Now for the more difficult question. Is there any effect in -novels comparable to the effect of the Fifth Symphony as a whole, -where, when the orchestra stops, we hear something that has never -actually been played? The opening movement, the andante, and the -trio-scherzo-trio-finale-trio-finale that composes the third block, all -enter the mind at once, and extend one another into a common entity. -This common entity, this new thing, is the symphony as a whole, and it -has been achieved mainly (though not entirely) by the relation between -the three big blocks of sound which the orchestra has been playing. I am -calling this relation "rhythmic." If the correct musical term is -something else, that does not matter; what we have now to ask ourselves -is whether there is any analogy to it in fiction. - -I cannot find any analogy. Yet there may be one; in music fiction is -likely to find its nearest parallel. - -The position of the drama is different. The drama may look towards the -pictorial arts, it may allow Aristotle to discipline it, for it is not -so deeply committed to the claims of human beings. Human beings have -their great chance in the novel. They say to the novelist: "Recreate us -if you like, but we must come in," and the novelist's problem, as we -have seen all along, is to give them a good run and to achieve something -else at the same time. Whither shall he turn? not indeed for help but -for analogy. Music, though it does not employ human beings, though it is -governed by intricate laws, nevertheless does offer in its final -expression a type of beauty which fiction might achieve in its own way. -Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must ding to. Not completion. -Not rounding off but opening out. When the symphony is over we feel that -the notes and tunes composing it have been liberated, they have found in -the rhythm of the whole their individual freedom. Cannot the novel be -like that? Is not there something of it in _War and Peace_?--the book -with which we began and in which we must end. Such an untidy book. Yet, -as we read it, do not great chords begin to sound behind us, and when we -have finished does not every item--even the catalogue of -strategies--lead a larger existence than was possible at the time? - - -[Footnote 9: There is a masterly analysis of _The Ambassadors_ -from another standpoint in _The Craft of Fiction_.] - -[Footnote 10: See the _Letters of H. James_, Vol. II.] - -[Footnote 11: The first three books of _À la recherche du temps -perdu_ have been excellently translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff -under the title of _Remembrance of Things Past_. (A. & C. Boni.)] - - - - -IX - -CONCLUSION - - -IT is tempting to conclude by speculations as to the future of the -novel, will it become more or less realistic, will it be killed by the -cinema, and so on. Speculations, whether sad or lively, always have a -large air about them, they are a very convenient way of being helpful or -impressive. But we have no right to entertain them. We have refused to -be hampered by the past, so we must not profit by the future. We have -visualized the novelists of the last two hundred years all writing -together in one room, subject to the same emotions and putting the -accidents of their age into the crucible of inspiration, and whatever -our results, our method has been sound--sound for an assemblage of -pseudo-scholars like ourselves. But we must visualize the novelists of -the next two hundred years as also writing in the room. The change in -their subject matter will be enormous; they will not change. We may -harness the atom, we may land on the moon, we may abolish or intensify -warfare, the mental processes of animals may be understood; but all -these are trifles, they belong to history not to art. History develops, -art stands still. The novelist of the future will have to pass all the -new facts through the old if variable mechanism of the creative mind. - -There is however one question which touches our subject, and which only -a psychologist could answer. But let us ask it. Will the creative -process itself alter? Will the mirror get a new coat of quicksilver? In -other words, can human nature change? Let us consider this possibility -for a moment--we are entitled to that much relaxation. - -It is amusing to listen to elderly people on this subject. Sometimes a -man says in confident tones: "Human nature's the same in all ages. The -primitive cave man lies deep in us all. Civilization--pooh! a mere -veneer. You can't alter facts." He speaks like this when he is feeling -prosperous and fat. When he is feeling depressed and is worried by the -young, or is being sentimental about them on the ground that they will -succeed in life when he has failed, then he will take the opposite view -and say mysteriously, "Human nature is not the same. I have seen -fundamental changes in my own time. You must face facts." And he goes on -like this day after day, alternately facing facts and refusing to alter -them. - -All I will do is to state a possibility. If human nature does alter it -will be because individuals manage to look at themselves in a new way. -Here and there people--a very few people, but a few novelists are among -them--are trying to do this. Every institution and vested interest is -against such a search: organized religion, the State, the family in its -economic aspect, have nothing to gain, and it is only when outward -prohibitions weaken that it can proceed: history conditions it to that -extent. Perhaps the searchers will fail, perhaps it is impossible for -the instrument of contemplation to contemplate itself, perhaps if it is -possible it means the end of imaginative literature--which if I -understand him rightly is the view of that acute enquirer, Mr. I. A. -Richards. Anyhow--that way lies movement and even combustion for the -novel, for if the novelist sees himself differently he will see his -characters differently and a new system of lighting will result. - -I do not know on the verge of which philosophy or what rival -philosophies the above remarks are wavering, but as I look back at my -own scraps of knowledge and into my own heart, I see these two movements -of the human mind: the great tedious onrush known as history, and a shy -crablike sideways movement. Both movements have been neglected in these -lectures: history because it only carries people on, it is just a train -full of passengers; and the crablike movement because it is too slow and -cautious to be visible over our tiny period of two hundred years. So we -laid it down as an axiom when we started that human nature is -unchangeable, and that it produces in rapid succession prose fictions, -which fictions, when they contain 50,000 words or more, are called -novels. If we had the power or license to take a wider view, and survey -all human and pre-human activity, we might not conclude like this; the -crablike movement, the shiftings of the passengers, might be visible, -and the phrase "the development of the novel" might cease to be a -pseudo-scholarly tag or a technical triviality, and become important, -because it implied the development of humanity. - - - - -INDEX OF MAIN REFERENCES - - - Alain, 73-74 - Aristotle, 126-129 - Asquith, Mr., 161 - Austen, Jane, 100-101, 112-114 - - Beerbohm, Max, 171-175 - Bennett, Arnold, 62-63 - Birth, treatment of, 76-77, - 81-82 - Blake, William, 211 - Brontë, Charlotte, 139-140 - Brontë, Emily, 209-211 - - C. P. S., 210 - Chevalley, Abel, 17 - Clark, W. G., 13-15 - - Death, treatment of, 76, 82-83 - Defoe, Daniel, 87-95 - Dickens, Charles, 32-34, 104, - 108-109, 119-120 - Dickinson, Lowes, 177 - Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 188-195 - Douglas, Norman, 107-108 - - Eliot, George, 184-188 - Eliot, T. S., 41 - - Fantasy defined, 158-159 - Fielding, Henry, 118, 124, - 175-176 - "Flat" characters, 103-112 - Food, treatment of, 77, 83 - France, Anatole, 214-215 - Freeman, John, 204 - - Garnett, David, 161 - Gide, André, 121-122, 146-153 - Goldsmith, Oliver, 143 - - Hardy, Thomas, 140-142, 198 - - Inspiration, nature of, 39 - - James, Henry, 30-31, 218-234 - Joyce, James, 177-180, 199 - - Lawrence, D. H., 107, 207-209 - Literary tradition, 40-41 - Love, treatment of, 78-80, 86-87 - Lubbock, Percy, 118-119, - 216-217 - - Matson, Norman, 166-171 - Melville, Herman, 199-206 - Meredith George, 106, - 134-138 - - Novel defined, 17 - "Novelist's touch," the, 107 - - _One Thousand and One Nights_, - 47 - - Pattern defined, 218 - Plot defined, 130 - Point of view, 118-125 - Prophecy defined, 182-183 - Proust, Marcel, 104, 236-239 - Provincialism, 19 - Pseudo-scholarship, 23-28 - - Raleigh, Walter, 22 - Rhythm, two kinds of, 240-241 - Richards, I. A., 245 - Richardson, Samuel, 29-30 - "Round" characters, 112-118 - - Scott, Walter, 51-62, 104 - Sleep, treatment of, 80, 84 - Stein, Gertrude, 67-68 - Sterne, Laurence, 35-37, - 157-158 - Story, definition of, 44-45; the - repository of a voice, 64-65 - _Swiss Family Robinson_, 52-53 - - Thackeray, W. M., 118, 124 - Tolstoy, Leo, 63-64, 122-123, - 242 - Trollope, Anthony, 82-83 - - Victoria, Queen, 71-72 - - Wells, H. G., 31-34, 109-110, - 231-233 - Woolf, Virginia, 34-37 - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Aspects of the novel</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Edward Morgan Forster</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 7, 2023 [eBook #70492]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - - -<h1><i>ASPECTS</i><br> -OF THE NOVEL</h1> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em;'>E. M. FORSTER</div> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>NEW YORK</b> -<b>HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY</b></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY<br> -HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><i>By the same author</i> -<br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">A PASSAGE TO INDIA</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">HOWARDS END</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">A ROOM WITH A VIEW</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">THE LONGEST JOURNEY</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS <i>and other stories</i></span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">THE ETERNAL MOMENT <i>and other stories</i></span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">ABINGER HARVEST</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">GOLDSWORTHY LOWES DICKINSON</span><br> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">VIRGINIA WOOLF (<i>The Rede Lecture</i>)</span> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><i>To</i><br> -CHARLES MAURON</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - - -<h2>NOTE</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -THESE are some lectures (the Clark lectures) which were delivered under -the auspices of Trinity College, Cambridge, in the spring of 1927. They -were informal, indeed talkative, in their tone, and it seemed safer when -presenting them in book form not to mitigate the talk, in case nothing -should be left at all. Words such as "I," "you," "one," "we," "curiously -enough," "so to speak," "only imagine," and "of course" will -consequently occur on every page and will rightly distress the sensitive -reader; but he is asked to remember that if these words were removed -others, perhaps more distinguished, might escape through the orifices -they left, and that since the novel is itself often colloquial it may -possibly withhold some of its secrets from the graver and grander -streams of criticism, and may reveal them to backwaters and shallows. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -<p class="nind"> -CHAPTER -<br> -I <a href="#chap01">INTRODUCTORY</a><br> -<br> -II <a href="#chap02">THE STORY</a><br> -<br> -III <a href="#chap03">PEOPLE</a><br> -<br> -IV <a href="#chap04">PEOPLE (<i>continued</i>)</a><br> -<br> -V <a href="#chap05">THE PLOT</a><br> -<br> -VI <a href="#chap06">FANTASY</a><br> -<br> -VII <a href="#chap07">PROPHECY</a><br> -<br> -VIII <a href="#chap08">PATTERN AND RHYTHM</a><br> -<br> -IX <a href="#chap09">CONCLUSION</a><br> -<br> -<a href="#INDEX">INDEX OF MAIN REFERENCES</a><br> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL</h2> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="I: INTRODUCTORY"><a id="chap01"></a>I -<br><br> -INTRODUCTORY</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -THIS lectureship is connected with the name of William George Clark, a -fellow of Trinity. It is through him we meet today, and through him we -shall approach our subject. -</p> -<p> -Clark was, I believe, a Yorkshireman. He was born in 1821, was at school -at Sedbergh and Shrewsbury, entered Trinity as an undergraduate in 1840, -became fellow four years later, and made the college his home for nearly -thirty years, only leaving it when his health broke, shortly before his -death. He is best known as a Shakespearian scholar, but he published two -books on other subjects to which we must here refer. He went as a young -man to Spain and wrote a pleasant lively account of his holiday called -<i>Gazpacho</i>: Gazpacho being the name of a certain cold soup which he -ate and appears to have enjoyed among the peasants of Andalusia: indeed he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> -appears to have enjoyed everything. Eight years later, as a result of a -holiday in Greece, he published a second book, <i>Peloponnesus</i>. -<i>Peloponnesus</i> is a graver work and a duller. Greece was a serious -place in those days, more serious than Spain, besides, Clark had by now not -only taken Orders but become Public Orator, and he was, above all, -travelling with Dr. Thompson, the then Master of the college, who was -not at all the sort of person to be involved in a cold soup. The jests -about mules and fleas are consequently few, and we are increasingly -confronted with the remains of Classical Antiquity and the sites of -battles. What survives in the book—apart from its learning—is -its feeling for Greek country-side. Clark also travelled in Italy and -Poland. -</p> -<p> -To turn to his academic career. He planned the great <i>Cambridge -Shakespeare</i>, first with Glover, then with Aldis Wright (both librarians -of Trinity), and, helped by Aldis Wright, he issued the <i>Globe -Shakespeare</i>, a popular text. He collected much material for an edition -of Aristophanes. He also published some Sermons, but in 1869 he gave up -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> -Holy Orders—which, by the way, will exempt us from excessive -orthodoxy. Like his friend and biographer Leslie Stephen, like Henry -Sidgwick and others of that generation, he did not find it possible to -remain in the Church, and he has explained his reasons in a pamphlet -entitled <i>The Present Dangers of the Church of England</i>. He -resigned his post of Public Orator in consequence, while retaining his -college tutorship. He died at the age of fifty-seven, esteemed by all -who knew him as a lovable, scholarly and honest man. You will have -realized that he is a Cambridge figure. Not a figure in the great world -or even at Oxford, but a spirit peculiar to these courts, which perhaps -only you who tread them after him can justly appreciate: the spirit of -integrity. Out of a bequest in his will, his old college has provided -for a series of lectures, to be delivered annually "on some period or -periods of English Literature not earlier than Chaucer," and that is why -we meet here now. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> -</p> -<p> -Invocations are out of fashion, yet I wanted to make this small one, for -two reasons. Firstly, may a little of Clark's integrity be with us -through this course; and secondly, may he accord us a little -inattention! For I am not keeping quite strictly to the terms laid -down—"Period or periods of English Literature." This condition, -though it sounds liberal and is liberal enough in spirit, happens -verbally not quite to suit our subject, and I shall occupy the -introductory lecture in explaining why this is. The points raised may -seem trivial. But they will lead us to a convenient vantage post from -which we can begin our main attack next week. -</p> -<p> -We need a vantage post, for the novel is a formidable mass, and it is so -amorphous—no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not -even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of -literature—irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating -into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they -sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at -the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> -them. Perhaps we ought to define what a novel is before starting. This -will not take a second. M. Abel Chevalley has, in his brilliant little -manual,<a id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> provided a definition, and if a French critic cannot define -the English novel, who can? It is, he says, "a fiction in prose of a -certain extent" (une fiction en prose d'une certaine étendue). That is -quite good enough for us, and we may perhaps go so far as to add that -the extent should not be less than 50,000 words. Any fictitious prose -work over 50,000 words will be a novel for the purposes of these -lectures, and if this seems to you unphilosophic will you think of an -alternative definition, which will include <i>The Pilgrim's Progress</i>, -<i>Marius the Epicurean</i>, <i>The Adventures of a Younger Son</i>, <i>The -Magic Flute</i>, <i>The Journal of the Plague</i>, <i>Zuleika Dobson</i>, -<i>Rasselas</i>, <i>Ulysses</i>, and <i>Green Mansions</i>, or else will -give reasons for their exclusion? Parts of our spongy tract seem more -fictitious than other parts, it is true: near the middle, on a tump of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> -grass, stand Miss Austen with the figure of Emma by her side, and -Thackeray holding up Esmond. But no intelligent remark known to me will -define the tract as a whole. All we can say of it is that it -is bounded by two chains of mountains neither of which rises very -abruptly—the opposing ranges of Poetry and of History—and -bounded on the third side by a sea—a sea that we shall encounter -when we come to <i>Moby Dick</i>. - - -</p> -<p> -Let us begin by considering the proviso "English Literature." "English" -we shall of course interpret as written in English, not as published -south of the Tweed or east of the Atlantic, or north of the Equator: we -need not attend to geographical accidents, they can be left to the -politicians. Yet, even with this interpretation, are we as free as we wish? -Can we, while discussing English fiction, quite ignore fiction -written in other languages, particularly French and Russian? As far as -influence goes, we could ignore it, for our writers have never been much -influenced by the continentals. But—for reasons soon to be -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> -explained—I want to talk as little as possible about influence -during these lectures. My subject is a particular kind of book and the -aspects that book has assumed in English. Can we ignore its collateral -aspects on the continent? Not entirely. An unpleasant and unpatriotic -truth has here to be faced. No English novelist is as great as -Tolstoy—that is to say has given so complete a picture of man's -life, both on its domestic and heroic side. No English novelist has -explored man's soul as deeply as Dostoevsky. And no novelist anywhere -has analysed the modern consciousness as successfully as Marcel Proust. -Before these triumphs we must pause. English poetry fears no -one—excels in quality as well as quantity. But English Action is -less triumphant: it does not contain the best stuff yet written, and if -we deny this we become guilty of provincialism. -</p> -<p> -Now, provincialism does not signify in a writer, and may indeed be the -chief source of his strength: only a prig or a fool would complain that -Defoe is cockneyfied or Thomas Hardy countrified. But provincialism in a -critic is a serious fault. A critic has no right to the narrowness which -is the frequent prerogative of the creative artist. He has to have a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> -wide outlook or he has not anything at all. Although the novel exercises -the rights of a created object, criticism has not those rights, and too -many little mansions in English fiction have been acclaimed to their own -detriment as important edifices. Take four at random: <i>Cranford</i>, -<i>The Heart of Midlothian</i>, <i>Jane Eyre</i>, <i>Richard -Feverel</i>. For various personal and local reasons we may be attached -to these four books. <i>Cranford</i> radiates the humour of the urban -midlands, <i>Midlothian</i> is a handful out of Edinburgh, <i>Jane -Eyre</i> is the passionate dream of a fine but still undeveloped woman. -<i>Richard Feverel</i> exudes farmhouse lyricism and flickers with -modish wit, but all four are little mansions, not mighty edifices, and -we shall see and respect them for what they are if we stand them for an -instant in the colonnades of <i>War and Peace</i>, or the vaults of -<i>The Brothers Karamazov</i>. -</p> -<p> -I shall not often refer to foreign novels in these lectures, still less -would I pose as an expert on them who is debarred from discussing them -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> -by his terms of reference. But I do want to emphasize their greatness -before we start; to cast, so to speak, this preliminary shadow over our -subject, so that when we look back on it at the end we may have the -better chance of seeing it in its true lights. -</p> -<p> -So much for the proviso "English." Now for a more important proviso, -that of "period or periods." This idea of a period of a development in -time, with its consequent emphasis on influences and schools, happens to -be exactly what I am hoping to avoid during our brief survey, and I -believe that the author of <i>Gazpacho</i> will be lenient. Time, all the -way through, is to be our enemy. We are to visualize the English novelists -not as floating down that stream which bears all its sons away unless -they are careful, but as seated together in a room, a circular room, a -sort of British Museum reading-room—all writing their novels -simultaneously. They do not, as they sit there, think "I live under -Queen Victoria, I under Anne, I carry on the tradition of Trollope, I am -reacting against Aldous Huxley." The fact that their pens are in their -hands is far more vivid to them. They are half mesmerized, their sorrows -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> -and joys are pouring out through the ink, they are approximated by the -act of creation, and when Professor Oliver Elton says, as he does, that -"after 1847 the novel of passion was never to be the same again," none -of them understand what he means. That is to be our vision of them—an -imperfect vision, but it is suited to our powers, it will preserve us -from a serious danger, the danger of pseudo-scholarship. -</p> -<p> -Genuine scholarship is one of the highest successes which our race can -achieve. No one is more triumphant than the man who chooses a worthy -subject and masters all its facts and the leading facts of the subjects -neighbouring. He can then do what he likes. He can, if his subject is -the novel, lecture on it chronologically if he wishes because he has -read all the important novels of the past four centuries, many of the -unimportant ones, and has adequate knowledge of any collateral facts -that bear upon English fiction. The late Sir Walter Raleigh (who once -held this lectureship) was such a scholar. Raleigh knew so many facts -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> -that he was able to proceed to influences, and his monograph on the -English novel adopts the treatment by period which his unworthy -successor must avoid. The scholar, like the philosopher, can contemplate -the river of time. He contemplates it not as a whole, but he can see the -facts, the personalities, floating past him, and estimate the relations -between them, and if his conclusions could be as valuable to us as they -are to himself he would long ago have civilized the human race. As you -know, he has failed. True scholarship is incommunicable, true scholars -rare. There are a few scholars, actual or potential, in the audience -today, but only a few, and there is certainly none on the platform. Most -of us are pseudo-scholars, and I want to consider our characteristics -with sympathy and respect, for we are a very large and quite a powerful -class, eminent in Church and State, we control the education of the -Empire, we lend to the Press such distinction as it consents to receive, -and we are a welcome asset at dinner-parties. -</p> -<p> -Pseudo-scholarship is, on its good side, the homage paid by ignorance to -learning. It also has an economic side, on which we need not be hard. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> -Most of us must get a job before thirty, or sponge on our relatives, and -many jobs can only be got by passing an exam. The pseudo-scholar often -does well in examination (real scholars are not much good), and even -when he fails he appreciates their innate majesty. They are gateways to -employment, they have power to ban and bless. A paper on <i>King Lear</i> -may lead somewhere, unlike the rather far-fetched play of the same name. It -may be a stepping-stone to the Local Government Board. He does not often -put it to himself openly and say "That's the use of knowing things, they -help you to get on." The economic pressure he feels is more often -subconscious, and he goes to his exam, merely feeling that a paper on -King Lear is a very tempestuous and terrible experience but an intensely -real one. And whether he be cynical or naïf, he is not to be blamed. As -long as learning is connected with earning, as long as certain jobs can -only be reached through exams, so long must we take the examination -system seriously. If another ladder to employment was contrived, much -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> -so-called education would disappear, and no one be a penny the stupider. -</p> -<p> -It is when he comes to criticism—to a job like the present—that -he can be so pernicious, because he follows the method of a true scholar -without having his equipment. He classes books before he has understood -or read them; that is his first crime. Classification by chronology. -Books written before 1847, books written after it, books written after -or before 1848. The novel in the reign of Queen Anne, the pre-novel, the -ur-novel, the novel of the future. Classification by subject -matter—sillier still. The literature of Inns, beginning with <i>Tom -Jones</i>; the literature of the Women's Movement, beginning -with <i>Shirley</i>; the literature of Desert Islands, from -<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> to <i>The Blue Lagoon</i>; the literature of -Rogues—dreariest of all, though the Open Road runs it pretty -close; the literature of Sussex (perhaps the most devoted of the Home -Counties); improper books—a serious though dreadful -branch of enquiry, only to be pursued by pseudo-scholars of -riper years, novels relating to industrialism, aviation, chiropody, the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> -weather. I include the weather on the authority of the most amazing work -on the novel that I have met for many years. It came over the Atlantic -to me, nor shall I ever forget it. It was a literary manual entitled -<i>Materials and Methods of Fiction</i>. The writer's name shall be -concealed. He was a pseudo-scholar and a good one. He classified novels -by their dates, their length, their locality, their sex, their point of -view, till no more seemed possible. But he still had the weather up his -sleeve, and when he brought it out, it had nine heads. He gave an -example under each head, for he was anything but slovenly, and we will -run through his list. In the first place the weather can be -"decorative," as in Pierre Loti; then "utilitarian," as in <i>The Mill on -the Floss</i> (no Floss, no Mill; no Mill, no Tullivers); "illustrative," -as in <i>The Egoist</i>; "planned in pre-established harmony," as by Fiona -MacLeod; "in emotional contrast," as in <i>The Master of Ballantrae</i>; -"determinative of action," as in a certain Kipling story, where a man -proposes to the wrong girl on account of a mud storm; "a controlling -influence," <i>Richard Feverel</i>; "itself a hero," like Vesuvius in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> -<i>The Days of Pompeii</i>; and ninethly, it can be "non-existent," as in a -nursery tale. I liked him flinging in non-existence. It made everything -so scientific and trim. But he himself remained a little dissatisfied, -and having finished his classification he said yes, of course there was -one more thing, and that was genius; it was useless for a novelist to -know that there are nine sorts of weather, unless he has genius also. -Cheered by this reflection, he classified novels by their tones. There -are only two tones, personal and impersonal, and having given examples -of each he grew pensive again and said, "Yes, but you must have genius -too, or neither tone will profit." -</p> -<p> -This constant reference to genius is another characteristic of the -pseudo-scholar. He loves mentioning genius, because the sound of the -word exempts him from trying to discover its meaning. Literature is -written by geniuses. Novelists are geniuses. There we are; now let us -classify them. Which he does. Everything he says may be accurate but all -is useless because he is moving round books instead of through them, he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> -either has not read them or cannot read them properly. Books have to be -read (worse luck, for it takes a long time); it is the only way of -discovering what they contain. A few savage tribes eat them, but reading -is the only method of assimilation revealed to the west. The reader must -sit down alone and struggle with the writer, and this the pseudo-scholar -will not do. He would rather relate a book to the history of its time, -to events in the life of its author, to the events it describes, above -all to some tendency. As soon as he can use the word "tendency" his -spirits rise, and though those of his audience may sink, they often pull -out their pencils at this point and make a note, under the belief that a -tendency is portable. -</p> -<p> -That is why, in the rather ramshackly course that lies ahead of us, we -cannot consider fiction by periods, we must not contemplate the stream -of time. Another image better suits our powers: that of all the -novelists writing their novels at once. They come from different ages -and ranks, they have different temperaments and aims, but they all hold -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> -pens in their hands, and are in the process of creation. Let us look -over their shoulders for a moment and see what they are writing. It may -exorcise that demon of chronology which is at present our enemy and -which (we shall discover next week) is sometimes their enemy too. "Oh, -what quenchless feud is this, that Time hath with the sons of men," -cries Herman Melville, and the feud goes on not only in life and death -but in the by-ways of literary creation and criticism. Let us avoid it -by imagining that all the novelists are at work together in a circular -room. I shall not mention their names until we have heard their words, -because a name brings associations with it, dates, gossip, all the -furniture of the method we are discarding. -</p> -<p> -They have been instructed to group themselves in pairs. We approach the -first pair, and read as follows:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -i. I don't know what to do—not I. God forgive me, but I am very -impatient! I wish—but I don't know what to wish without a sin. Yet I -wish it would please God to take me to his mercy!—I can meet with none -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> -here.—What a world is this!—What is there in it desirable? -The good we hope for so strangely mixed, that one knows not what to wish -for! And one half of mankind tormenting the other and being tormented -themselves in tormenting. -</p> -<p> -ii. What I hate is myself—when I think that one has to take so -much, to be happy, out of the lives of others, and that one isn't happy -even then. One does it to cheat one's self and to stop one's -mouth—but that is only, at the best, for a little. The wretched -self is always there, always making us somehow a fresh anxiety. What it -comes to is that it's not, that it's never, a happiness, any happiness -at all, to <i>take</i>. The only safe thing is to give. It's what plays -you least false. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -It is obvious that here sit two novelists who are looking at life from -much the same angle, yet the first of them is Samuel Richardson, and the -second you will have already identified as Henry James. Each is an -anxious rather than an ardent psychologist. Each is sensitive to -suffering and appreciates self-sacrifice; each falls short of the tragic, -though a close approach is made. A sort of tremulous nobility—that -is the spirit that dominates them—and oh how well they -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> -write!—not a word out of place in their copious flows. A hundred and -fifty years of time divide them, but are not they dose together in other -ways, and may not their neighbourliness profit us? Of course as I say -this I hear Henry James beginning to express his regret—no, not his -regret but his surprise—no, not even his surprise but his awareness -that neighbourliness is being postulated of him, and postulated, must he -add, in relation to a shopkeeper. And I hear Richardson, equally -cautious, wondering whether any writer born outside England can be -chaste. But these are surface differences, are indeed no differences at -all, but additional points of contact. We leave them sitting in harmony, -and proceed to our next pair. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -i. All the preparations for the funeral ran easily and happily under -Mrs. Johnson's skilful hands. On the eve of the sad occasion she -produced a reserve of black sateen, the kitchen steps, and a box of -tintacks, and decorated the house with festoons and bows of black in the -best possible taste. She tied up the knocker with black crêpe, and put -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> -a large bow over the corner of the steel engraving of Garibaldi, and -swathed the bust of Mr. Gladstone that had belonged to the deceased with -inky swathings. She turned the two vases that had views of Tivoli and -the Bay of Naples round, so that these rather brilliant landscapes were -hidden and only the plain blue enamel showed, and she anticipated the -long contemplated purchase of a tablecloth for the front room, and -substituted a violet purple cover for the now very worn and faded -raptures and roses in plushette that had hitherto done duty there. -Everything that loving consideration could do to impart a dignified -solemnity to her little home was done. -</p> -<p> -ii. The air of the parlour being faint with the smell of sweet cake, I -looked about for the table of refreshments; it was scarcely visible -until one had got accustomed to the gloom, but there was a cut-up plum -cake upon it, and there were cut-up oranges, and sandwiches, and -biscuits, and two decanters that I knew very well as ornaments, but had -never seen used in all my life; one full of port, and one of sherry. -Standing at this table, I became conscious of the servile Pumblechook in -a black cloak and several yards of hat-band, who was alternately -stuffing himself, and making obsequious movements to catch my attention. -The moment he succeeded, he came over to me (breathing sherry and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> -crumbs) and said in a subdued voice, "May I, dear sir?" and did. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -These two funerals did not by any means happen on the same day. One is -the funeral of Mr. Polly's father (1920), the other the funeral of Mrs. -Gargery in <i>Great Expectations</i> (1860). Yet Wells and Dickens are -describing them from the same point of view and even using the same -tricks of style (cf. the two vases and the two decanters). They are, -both, humorists and visualizers who get an effect by cataloguing details -and whisking the page over irritably. They are generous-minded; they -hate shams and enjoy being indignant about them; they are valuable -social reformers; they have no notion of confining books to a library -shelf. Sometimes the lively surface of their prose scratches like a -cheap gramophone record, a certain poorness of quality appears, and the -face of the author draws rather too near to that of the reader. In other -words, neither of them has much taste: the world of beauty was largely -closed to Dickens, and is entirely closed to Wells. And there are other -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> -parallels—for instance their method of drawing character, but that we -shall examine later on. And perhaps the great difference between them is -the difference of opportunity offered to an obscure boy of genius a -hundred years ago and to a similar boy forty years ago. The difference -is all in Wells' favour. He is far better educated than his predecessor; -in particular the addition of science has strengthened his mind out of -recognition and subdued his hysteria. He registers an improvement in -society: Dotheboys Hall has been superseded by the Polytechnic. But he -does not register any change in the novelist's art. -</p> -<p> -What about our next pair? -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -i. But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was -made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that I might get -up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to -say for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it -happened. O dear me, the mystery of life! The inaccuracy of thought! The -ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our possessions -we have—what an accidental affair this living is after all -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> -our civilization—let me just count over a few of the things lost on -one lifetime, beginning, for that always seems the most mysterious of -losses—what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble—three pale -blue canisters of bookbinding tools? Then there were the birdcages, the -iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the -bagatelle-board, the hand-organ—all gone, and jewels too. Opals and -emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring -affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, -that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one -wants to compare life to anything one must liken it to being blown -through the Tube at fifty miles an hour.... -</p> -<p> -ii. Every day for at least ten years together did my father resolve to -have it mended; 'tis not mended yet. No family but ours would have borne -with it an hour, and what is most astonishing, there was not a subject -in the world upon which my father was so eloquent as upon that of -door-hinges. And yet, at the same time, he was certainly one of the -greatest bubbles to them, I think, that history can produce; his -rhetoric and conduct were at perpetual handy-cuffs. Never did the -parlour door open but his philosophy or his principles fell a victim to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> -it; three drops of oil with a feather, and a smart stroke of a hammer, -had saved his honour for ever. -</p> -<p> -Inconsistent soul that man is; languishing under wounds which he has the -power to heal; his whole life a contradiction to his knowledge; his -reason, that precious gift of God to him (instead of pouring in oil), -serving but to sharpen his sensibilities, to multiply his pains, and -render him more melancholy and uneasy under them! Poor unhappy creature, -that he should do so! Are not the necessary causes of misery in this -life enough, but he must add voluntary ones to his stock of sorrow? -Struggle against evils which cannot be avoided, and submit to others -which a tenth part of the trouble they create him would remove from his -heart for ever. -</p> -<p> -By all that is good and virtuous, if there are three drops of oil to be -got and a hammer to be found within ten miles of Shandy Hall, the -parlour door hinge shall be mended this reign. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -The passage last quoted is, of course, out of <i>Tristram Shandy</i>. The -other passage was from Virginia Woolf. She and Sterne are both -fantasists. They start with a little object, take a flutter from it, and -settle on it again. They combine a humorous appreciation of the muddle -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> -of life with a keen sense of its beauty. There is even the same tone in -their voices—a rather deliberate bewilderment, an announcement to all -and sundry that they do not know where they are going. No doubt their -scales of value are not the same. Sterne is a sentimentalist, Virginia -Woolf (except perhaps in her latest work, <i>To the Lighthouse</i>) is -extremely aloof. Nor are their achievements on the same scale. But their -medium is similar, the same odd effects are obtained by it, the parlour -door is never mended, the mark on the wall turns out to be a snail, life -is such a muddle, oh, dear, the will is so weak, the sensations -fidgety—philosophy—God—oh, dear, look at the -mark—listen to the door—existence is really too ... what were -we saying? -</p> -<p> -Does not chronology seem less important now that we have visualized six -novelists at their jobs? If the novel develops, is it not likely to -develop on different lines from the British Constitution, or even the -Women's Movement? I say "even the Women's Movement" because there -happened to be a close association between fiction in England and that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> -movement during the nineteenth century—a connection so close that it -has misled some critics into thinking it an organic connection. As women -bettered their position the novel, they asserted, became better too. -Quite wrong. A mirror does not develop because an historical pageant -passes in front of it. It only develops when it gets a fresh coat of -quicksilver—in other words, when it acquires new sensitiveness; and -the novel's success lies in its own sensitiveness, not in the success of -its subject matter. Empires fall, votes are accorded, but to those people -writing in the circular room it is the feel of the pen between their -fingers that matters most. They may decide to write a novel upon the -French or the Russian Revolution, but memories, associations, passions, -rise up and cloud their objectivity, so that at the close, when they -re-read, some one else seems to have been holding their pen and to have -relegated their theme to the background. That "some one else" is their -self no doubt, but not the self that is so active in time and lives -under George IV or V. All through history writers while writing have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> -felt more or less the same. They have entered a common state which it is -convenient to call inspiration,<a id="FNanchor_2_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_1" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> and having regard to that state, we -may say that History develops, Art stands still. -</p> -<p> -History develops, Art stands still, is a crude motto, indeed it is -almost a slogan, and though forced to adopt it we must not do so without -admitting it vulgarily. It contains only a partial truth. -</p> -<p> -It debars us in the first place from considering whether the human mind -alters from generation to generation; whether, for instance, Thomas -Deloney, who wrote humorously about shops and pubs in the reign of Queen -Elizabeth, differs fundamentally from his modern representative—who -would be some one of the calibre of Neil Lyons or Pett Ridge. As a -matter of fact Deloney did not differ; differed as an individual, but -not fundamentally, not because he lived four hundred years ago. Four -thousand, fourteen thousand years might give us pause, but four hundred -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> -years is nothing in the life of our race, and does not allow room for -any measurable change. So our slogan here is no practical hindrance. We -can chant it without shame. -</p> -<p> -It is more serious when we turn to the development of tradition and see -what we lose through being debarred from examining that. Apart from -schools and influences and fashions, there has been a technique in -English fiction, and this does alter from generation to generation. The -technique of laughing at characters for instance: to smoke and to rag -are not identical; the Elizabethan humorist picks up his victim in a -different way from the modern, raises his laugh by other tricks. Or the -technique of fantasy: Virginia Woolf, though her aim and general effect -both resemble Sterne's, differs from him in execution; she belongs to -the same tradition but to a later phase of it. Or the technique of -conversation: in my pairs of examples I could not include a couple of -dialogues, though I wanted to, for the reason that the use of the "he -said" and "she said" varies so much through the centuries that it -colours its surroundings, and though the speakers may be similarly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> -conceived they will not seem so in an extract. Well, we cannot examine -questions like these, and must admit we are the poorer, though we can -abandon the development of subject matter and the development of the -human race without regret. Literary tradition is the borderland lying -between literature and history, and the well-equipped critic will spend -much time there and enrich his judgment accordingly. We cannot go there -because we have not read enough. We must pretend it belongs to history -and cut it off accordingly. We must refuse to have anything to do with -chronology. -</p> -<p> -Let me quote here for our comfort from my immediate predecessor in this -lectureship, Mr. T. S. Eliot. Mr. Eliot enumerates, in the introduction -to <i>The Sacred Wood</i>, the duties of the critic. "It is part of his -business to preserve tradition—when a good tradition exists. It is -part of his business to see literature steadily and to see it whole; and -this is eminently to see it not as consecrated by time, but to see it -beyond time." The first duty we cannot perform, the second we must try to -perform. We can neither examine nor preserve tradition. But we can -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> -visualize the novelists as sitting in one room, and force them, by our -very ignorance, from the limitations of date and place. I think that is -worth doing, or I should not have ventured to undertake this course. -</p> -<p> -How then are we to attack the novel—that spongy tract, those fictions -in prose of a certain extent which extend so indeterminately? Not with -any elaborate apparatus. Principles and systems may suit other forms of -art, but they cannot be applicable here—or if applied their results -must be subjected to re-examination. And who is the re-examiner? Well, I -am afraid it will be the human heart, it will be this man-to-man -business, justly suspect in its cruder forms. The final test of a novel -will be our affection for it, as it is the test of our friends, and of -anything else which we cannot define. Sentimentality—to some a worse -demon than chronology—will lurk in the background saying, "Oh, but I -like that," "Oh, but that doesn't appeal to me," and all I can promise -is that sentimentality shall not speak too loudly or too soon. The -intensely, stiflingly human quality of the novel is not to be avoided; -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> -the novel is sogged with humanity; there is no escaping the uplift or -the downpour, nor can they be kept out of criticism. We may hate -humanity, but if it is exorcised or even purified the novel wilts, -little is left but a bunch of words. -</p> -<p> -And I have chosen the title "Aspects" because it is unscientific and -vague, because it leaves us the maximum of freedom, because it means -both the different ways we can look at a novel and the different ways a -novelist can look at his work. And the aspects selected for discussion -are seven in number: The Story; People; The Plot; Fantasy; Prophecy; -Pattern and Rhythm. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a><i>Le Roman Anglais de Notre Temps</i>. By Abel Chevalley, -(Oxford University Press, New York.)</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_2_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_1"><span class="label">[2]</span></a>I have touched on this theory of inspiration in a short essay -called "Anonymity." (Hogarth Press, London.)</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="II: THE STORY"><a id="chap02"></a>II -<br><br> -THE STORY</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -WE shall all agree that the fundamental aspect of the novel is its -story-telling aspect, but we shall voice our assent in different tones, -and it is on the precise tone of voice we employ now that our subsequent -conclusions will depend. -</p> -<p> -Let us listen to three voices. If you ask one type of man, "What -does a novel do?" he will reply placidly: "Well—I don't -know—it seems a funny sort of question to ask—a novel's a -novel—well, I don't know—I suppose it kind of tells a story, -so to speak." He is quite good-tempered and vague, and probably driving -a motor-bus at the same time and paying no more attention to literature -than it merits. Another man, whom I visualize as on a golf-course, will -be aggressive and brisk. He will reply: "What does a novel do? Why, tell -a story of course, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> -I've no use for it if it didn't. I like a story. Very bad taste on my -part, no doubt, but I like a story. You can take your art, you can take -your literature, you can take your music, but give me a good story. And -I like a story to be a story, mind, and my wife's the same." And a third -man he says in a sort of drooping regretful voice, "Yes—oh, dear, -yes—the novel tells a story." I respect and admire the first speaker. -I detest and fear the second. And the third is myself. Yes—oh, dear, -yes—the novel tells a story. That is the fundamental aspect without -which it could not exist. That is the highest factor common to all -novels, and I wish that it was not so, that it could be something -different—melody, or perception of the truth, not this low atavistic -form. -</p> -<p> -For the more we look at the story (the story that is a story, mind), the -more we disentangle it from the finer growths that it supports, the less -shall we find to admire. It runs like a backbone—or may I say a -tape-worm, for its beginning and end are arbitrary. It is immensely -old—goes back to neolithic times, perhaps to palæolithic. Neanderthal -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> -man listened to stories, if one may judge by the shape of his skull. The -primitive audience was an audience of shock-heads, gaping round the -camp-fire, fatigued with contending against the mammoth or the woolly -rhinoceros, and only kept awake by suspense. What would happen next? The -novelist droned on, and as soon as the audience guessed what happened -next, they either fell asleep or killed him. We can estimate the dangers -incurred when we think of the career of Scheherazade in somewhat later -times. Scheherazade avoided her fate because she knew how to wield the -weapon of suspense—the only literary tool that has any effect upon -tyrants and savages. Great novelist though she was,—exquisite in her -descriptions, tolerant in her judgments, ingenious in her incidents, -advanced in her morality, vivid in her delineations of character, expert in -her knowledge of three Oriental capitals—it was yet on none of these -gifts that she relied when trying to save her life from her intolerable -husband. They were but incidental. She only survived because she managed -to keep the king wondering what would happen next. Each time she saw the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> -sun rising she stopped in the middle of a sentence, and left him gaping. -"At this moment Scheherazade saw the morning appearing and, discreet, -was silent." This uninteresting little phrase is the backbone of the -<i>One Thousand and One Nights</i>, the tape-worm by which they are tied -together and the life of a most accomplished princess was preserved. -</p> -<p> -We are all like Scheherazade's husband, in that we want to know what -happens next. That is universal and that is why the backbone of a novels -has to be a story. Some of us want to know nothing else—there is -nothing in us but primeval curiosity, and consequently our other -literary judgments are ludicrous. And now the story can be defined. It is -a narrative of events arranged in their time sequence—dinner coming -after breakfast, Tuesday after Monday, decay after death, and so on. Qua -story, it can only have one merit: that of making the audience want to -know what happens next. And conversely it can only have one fault: that -of making the audience not want to know what happens next. These are the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> -only two criticisms that can be made on the story that is a story. It is -the lowest and simplest of literary organisms. Yet it is the highest -factor common to all the very complicated organisms known as novels. -</p> -<p> -When we isolate the story like this from the nobler aspects through -which it moves, and hold it out on the forceps—wriggling and -interminable, the naked worm of time—it presents an appearance that -is both unlovely and dull. But we have much to learn from it. Let us begin -by considering it in connection with daily life. -</p> -<p> -Daily life is also full of the time-sense. We think one event occurs -after or before another, the thought is often in our minds, and much of -our talk and action proceeds on the assumption. Much of our talk and -action, but not all; there seems something else in life besides time, -something which may conveniently be called "value," something which is -measured not by minutes or hours, but by intensity, so that when we look -at our past it does not stretch back evenly but piles up into a few -notable pinnacles, and when we look at the future it seems sometimes a -wall, sometimes a cloud, sometimes a sun, but never a chronological -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> -chart. Neither memory nor anticipation is much interested in Father -Time, and all dreamers, artists and lovers are partially delivered from -his tyranny; he can kill them, but he cannot secure their attention, and -at the very moment of doom, when the dock collected in the tower its -strength and struck, they may be looking the other way. So daily life, -whatever it may be really, is practically composed of two lives—the -life in time and the life by values—and our conduct reveals a double -allegiance. "I only saw her for five minutes, but it was worth it." There -you have both allegiances in a single sentence. And what the story does -is to narrate the life in time. And what the entire novel does—if -it is a good novel—is to include the life by values as well; using -devices hereafter to be examined. It, also, pays a double allegiance. -But in it, in the novel, the allegiance to time is imperative: no novel -could be written without it. Whereas in daily life the allegiance may -not be necessary: we do not know, and the experience of certain mystics -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> -suggests, indeed, that it is not necessary, and that we are quite -mistaken in supposing that Monday is followed by Tuesday, or death by -decay. It is always possible for you or me in daily life to deny that -time exists and act accordingly even if we become unintelligible and are -sent by our fellow citizens to what they choose to call a lunatic -asylum. But it is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the -fabric of his novel: he must cling however lightly to the thread of his -story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes -unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder. -</p> -<p> -I am trying not to be philosophic about time, for it is (experts assure -us) a most dangerous hobby for an outsider, far more fatal than place; -and quite eminent metaphysicians have been dethroned through referring -to it improperly. I am only trying to explain that as I lecture now I -hear that clock ticking or do not hear it ticking, I retain or lose -the time sense; whereas in a novel there is always a clock. The author -may dislike his clock. Emily Brontë in <i>Wuthering Heights</i> tried to -hide hers. Sterne, in <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, turned his upside down. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> -Marcel Proust, still more ingenious, kept altering the hands, so that his -hero was at the same period entertaining a mistress to supper and playing -ball with his nurse in the park. All these devices are legitimate, but -none of them contravene our thesis: the basis of a novel is a story, and -a story is a narrative of events arranged in time sequence. (A story, by -the way, is not the same as a plot. It may form the basis of one, but -the plot is an organism of a higher type, and will be defined and -discussed in a future lecture.) -</p> -<p> -Who shall tell us a story? -</p> -<p> -Sir Walter Scott of course. -</p> -<p> -Scott is a novelist over whom we shall violently divide. For my own part -I do not care for him, and find it difficult to understand his continued -reputation. His reputation in his day—that is easy to understand. -There are important historical reasons for it, which we should discuss if -our scheme was chronological. But when we fish him out of the river of time -and set him to write in that circular room with the other novelists, he -presents a less impressive figure. He is seen to have a trivial mind and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> -a heavy style. He cannot construct. He has neither artistic detachment -nor passion, and how can a writer who is devoid of both, create -characters who will move us deeply? Artistic detachment—perhaps it is -priggish to ask for that. But passion—surely passion is low brow -enough, and think how all Scott's laborious mountains and scooped-out -glens and carefully ruined abbeys call out for passion, passion and how -it is never there! If he had passion he would be a great writer—no -amount of clumsiness or artificiality would matter then. But he only has -a temperate heart and gentlemanly feelings, and an intelligent affection -for the country-side: and this is not basis enough for great novels. And -his integrity—that is worse than nothing, for it was a purely moral -and commercial integrity. It satisfied his highest needs and he never -dreamt that another sort of loyalty exists. -</p> -<p> -His fame is due to two causes. In the first place, many of the elder -generation had him read aloud to them when they were young; he is -entangled with happy sentimental memories, with holidays in or residence -in Scotland. They love him indeed for the same reason that I loved and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> -still love <i>The Swiss Family Robinson</i>. I could lecture to you now on -<i>The Swiss Family Robinson</i> and it would be a glowing lecture, because -of the emotions felt in boyhood. When my brain decays entirely I shall -not bother any more over great literature. I shall go back to the -romantic shore where the "ship struck with a fearful shock," emitting -four demigods named Fritz, Ernest, Jack and little Franz, together with -their father, their mother, and a cushion, which contained all the -appliances necessary for a ten years' residence in the tropics. That is -my eternal summer, that is what <i>The Swiss Family Robinson</i> means to -me, and is not it all that Sir Walter Scott means to some of you? Is he -really more than a reminder of early happiness? And until our brains do -decay, must not we put all this aside when we attempt to understand -books? -</p> -<p> -In the second place, Scott's fame rests upon one genuine basis. He could -tell a story. He had the primitive power of keeping the reader in -suspense and playing on his curiosity. Let us paraphrase <i>The -Antiquary</i>—not analyze it, analysis is the wrong method, but -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> -paraphrase. Then we shall see the story unrolling itself, and be able to -study its simple devices. -</p> - -<blockquote><p class="center"> -THE ANTIQUARY<br> -<br> -CHAPTER I -</p> -<p> -It was early in a fine summer's day, near the end of the eighteenth -century, when a young man of genteel appearance, having occasion to go -towards the north-east of Scotland, provided himself with a ticket in -one of those public carriages which travel between Edinburgh and the -Queensferry, at which place, as the name implies, and as is well known -to all my northern readers, there is a passage-boat for crossing the -Frith of Forth. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -That is the first sentence in <i>The Antiquary</i>—not an exciting -sentence, but it gives us the time, the place, and a young man,—it -sets the story-teller's scene. We feel a moderate interest in what the -young man will do next. His name is Lovel, and there is a mystery about -him. He is the hero or Scott would not call him genteel, and he is sure to -make the heroine happy. He meets the Antiquary, Jonathan Oldbuck. They get -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> -into the coach, not too quickly, become acquainted, Lovel visits Oldbuck at -his house. Near it they meet a new character, Edie Ochiltree. Scott is -good at introducing fresh characters. He slides them very naturally, and -with a promising air. Edie Ochiltree promises a good deal. He is a -beggar—no ordinary beggar, a romantic and reliable rogue, and will he -not help to solve the mystery of which we saw the tip in Lovel? More -introductions: to Sir Arthur Wardour (old family, bad manager); to his -daughter Isabella (haughty), whom the hero loves unrequited; and to -Oldbuck's sister Miss Grizzle. Miss Grizzle is introduced with the same -air of promise. As a matter of fact she is just a comic turn—she -leads nowhere, and your story-teller is full of these turns. He need not -hammer away all the time at cause and effect. He keeps just as well -within the simple boundaries of his art if he says things that have no -bearing on the development. The audience thinks they will develop, but -the audience is shock-headed and tired and easily forgets. Unlike the -weaver of plots, the story-teller profits by ragged ends. Miss Grizzle -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> -is a small example of a ragged end; for a big one I would refer to a -novel that professes to be lean and tragic: <i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i>. -Scott presents the Lord High Keeper in this book with great emphasis and -with endless suggestions that the defects of his character will lead to -the tragedy, while as a matter of fact the tragedy would occur in almost -the same form if he did not exist—the only necessary ingredients in -it being Edgar, Lucy, Lady Ashton and Bucklaw. Well, to return to <i>The -Antiquary</i>, then there is a dinner, Oldbuck and Sir Arthur quarrel, Sir -Arthur is offended and leaves early with his daughter, and they try to -walk back to their own house across the sands. Tides rise over sands. -The tide rises. Sir Arthur and Isabel are cut off, and are confronted in -their peril by Edie Ochiltree. This is the first serious moment in the -story and this is how the story-teller who is a story-teller handles it: -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -While they exchanged these words, they paused upon the highest ledge of -rock to which they could attain; for it seemed that any farther attempt -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> -to move forward could only serve to anticipate their fate. Here then -they were to await the sure, though slow progress of the raging element, -something in the situation of the martyrs of the Early Church, who, -exposed by heathen tyrants to be slain by wild beasts, were compelled -for a time to witness the impatience and rage by which the animals were -agitated, while awaiting the signal for undoing their grates and letting -them loose upon the victims. -</p> -<p> -Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella time to collect the powers of -a mind naturally strong and courageous, and which rallied itself at this -terrible juncture. "Must we yield life," she said, "without a struggle? -Is there no path, however dreadful, by which we could climb the crag, or -at least attain some height above the tide, where we could remain till -morning, or till help comes? They must be aware of our situation, and -will raise the country to relieve us." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Thus speaks the heroine, in accents which certainly chill the reader. -Yet we want to know what happens next. The rocks are of cardboard, like -those in my dear Swiss Family; the tempest is turned on with one hand -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> -while Scott scribbles away about Early Christians with the other; there -is no sincerity, no sense of danger in the whole affair; it is all -passionless, perfunctory, yet we do just want to know what happens next. -</p> -<p> -Why—Lovel rescues them. Yes; we ought to have thought of that; and -what then? -</p> -<p> -Another ragged end. Lovel is put by the Antiquary to sleep in a haunted -room, where he has a dream or vision of his host's ancestor, who says to -him, "Kunst macht Gunst," words which he does not understand at the -time, owing to his ignorance of German, and learns afterwards that they -mean "Skill wins Favour": he must pursue the siege of Isabella's heart. -That is to say the supernatural contributes nothing to the story. It is -introduced with tapestries and storms, but only a copy-book maxim -results. The reader does not know this though. When he hears "Kunst -macht Gunst," his attention reawakens ... then his attention is diverted -to something else, and the time-sequence goes on. -</p> -<p> -Picnic in the ruins of St. Ruth. Introduction of Dousterswivel, a wicked -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> -foreigner, who has involved Sir Arthur in mining schemes and whose -superstitions are ridiculed because not of the genuine Border brand. -Arrival of Hector McIntyre, the Antiquary's nephew, who suspects Lovel -of being an impostor. The two fight a duel; Lovel, thinking he has -killed his opponent, flies with Edie Ochiltree, who has turned up as -usual. They hide in the ruins of St. Ruth, where they watch -Dousterswivel gulling Sir Arthur in a treasure-hunt. Lovel gets away on -a boat and—out of sight out of mind; we do not worry about him until -he turns up again. Second treasure-hunt at St. Ruth. Sir Arthur finds a -hoard of silver. Third treasure-hunt. Dousterswivel is soundly -cudgelled, and when he comes to himself sees the funeral rites of the -old Countess of Glenallan, who is being buried there at midnight and -with secrecy, that family being of the Romish persuasion. -</p> -<p> -Now the Glenallans are very important in the story, yet how casually -they are introduced! They are hooked on to Dousterswivel in the most -artless way. His pair of eyes happened to be handy, so Scott had a peep -through them. And the reader by now is getting so docile under the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> -succession of episodes that he just gapes, like a primitive cave mam. -Now the Glenallan interest gets to work, the ruins of St. Ruth are -switched off, and we enter what may be called the "pre-story," where two -new characters intervene, and talk wildly and darkly about a sinful -past. Their names are: Elspeth Mucklebackit, a Sibyl of a fisherwoman, -and Lord Glenallan, son of the dead countess. Their dialogue is -interrupted by other events—by the arrest, trial and release of Edie -Ochiltree, by the death by drowning of another new character, and by the -humours of Hector McIntyre's convalescence at his uncle's house. But the -gist is that Lord Glenallan many years ago had married a lady called -Evelina Nevile, against his mother's wish, and had then been given to -understand that she was his half-sister. Maddened with horror, he had -left her before she gave birth to a child. Elspeth, formerly his -mother's servant, now explains to him that Evelina was no relation to -him, that she died in childbirth—Elspeth and another woman -attending—and that the child disappeared. Lord Glenallan then goes to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> -consult the Antiquary, who, as a Justice of the Peace, knew something of -the events of the time, and who had also loved Evelina. And what happens -next? Sir Arthur Wardour's goods are sold up, for Dousterswivel has -ruined him. And then? The French are reported to be landing. And then? -Lovel rides into the district leading the British troops. He calls -himself "Major Nevile" now. But even "Major Nevile" is not his right -name, for he is who but the lost child of Lord Glenallan, he is none -other than the legitimate heir to an earldom. Partly through Elspeth -Mucklebackit, partly through her fellow servant whom he meets as a nun -abroad, partly through an uncle who has died, partly through Edie -Ochiltree, the truth has come out. There are indeed plenty of reasons -for the dénouement, but Scott is not interested in reasons; he dumps -them down without bothering to elucidate them; to make one thing happen -after another is his only serious aim. And then? Isabella Wardour -relents and marries the hero. And then? That is the end of the story. We -must not ask "And then?" too often. If the time-sequence is pursued one -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> -second too far it leads us into quite another country. -</p> -<p> -<i>The Antiquary</i> is a book in which the life in time is celebrated -instinctively by the novelist, and this must lead to slackening of -emotion and shallowness of judgment, and in particular to that idiotic -use of marriage as a finale. Time can be celebrated consciously also, -and we shall find an example of this in a very different sort of book, a -memorable book: Arnold Bennett's <i>The Old Wives' Tale</i>. Time is the -real hero of <i>The Old Wives' Tale</i>. He is installed as the lord of -creation—excepting indeed of Mr. Critchlow, whose bizarre exemption -only gives added force. Sophia and Constance are the children of Time -from the instant we see them romping with their mother's dresses; they -are doomed to decay with a completeness that is very rare in literature. -They are girls, Sophia runs away and marries, the mother dies, Constance -marries, her husband dies, Sophia's husband dies, Sophia dies, Constance -dies, their old rheumatic dog lumbers up to see whether anything remains -in the saucer. Our daily life in time is exactly this business of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> -getting old which clogs the arteries of Sophia and Constance, and the -story that is a story and sounded so healthy and stood no nonsense -cannot sincerely lead to any conclusion but the grave. It is an -unsatisfactory conclusion. Of course we grow old. But a great book must -rest on something more than an "of course," and <i>The Old Wives' Tale</i> -is very strong, sincere and sad,—it misses greatness. -</p> -<p> -What about <i>War and Peace</i>? that is certainly great, that likewise -emphasizes the effects of time and the waxing and waning of a -generation. Tolstoy, like Bennett, has the courage to show us people -getting old—the partial decay of Nicolay and Natasha is really more -sinister than the complete decay of Constance and Sophia: more of our -own youth seems to have perished in it. Then why is <i>War and Peace</i> -not depressing? Probably because it has extended over space as well as over -time, and the sense of space until it terrifies us is exhilarating, and -leaves behind it an effect like music. After one has read <i>War and -Peace</i> for a bit, great chords begin to sound, and we cannot say exactly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> -what struck them. They do not arise from the story, though Tolstoy is -quite as interested in what comes next as Scott, and quite as sincere as -Bennett. They do not come from the episodes nor yet from the characters. -They come from the immense area of Russia, over which episodes and -characters have been scattered, from the sum-total of bridges and frozen -rivers, forests, roads, gardens, fields, which accumulate grandeur and -sonority after we have passed them. Many novelists have the feeling for -place—Five Towns, Auld Reekie, and so on. Very few have the sense of -space, and the possession of it ranks high in Tolstoy's divine -equipment. Space is the lord of <i>War and Peace</i>, not time. -</p> -<p> -A word in conclusion about the story as the repository of a voice. It is -the aspect of the novelist's work which asks to be read out loud, which -appeals not to the eye, like most prose, but to the ear; having indeed -this much in common with oratory. It does not offer melody or cadence. -For these, strange as it may seem, the eye is sufficient; the eye, -backed by a mind that transmutes, can easily gather up the sounds of a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> -paragraph or dialogue when they have æsthetic value, and refer them to -our enjoyment,—yes, can even telescope them up so that we get them -quicker than we should do if they were recited, just as some people can -look through a musical score quicker than it can be rapped out on the -piano. But the eye is not equally quick at catching a voice. That -opening sentence of <i>The Antiquary</i> has no beauty of sound, yet we -should lose something if it was not read aloud. Our mind would commune -with Walter Scott's silently, and less profitably. The story, besides -saying one thing after another, adds something because of its connection -with a voice. -</p> -<p> -It does not add much. It does not give us anything as important as the -author's personality. His personality—when he has one—is -conveyed through nobler agencies, such as the characters or the plot or his -comments on life. What the story does do in this particular capacity, -all it can do, is to transform us from readers into listeners, to whom -"a" voice speaks, the voice of the tribal narrator, squatting in the -middle of the cave, and saying one thing after another until the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> -audience falls asleep among their offal and bones. The story is -primitive, it reaches back to the origins of literature, before reading -was discovered, and it appeals to what is primitive in us. That is why -we are so unreasonable over the stories we like, and so ready to bully -those who like something else. For instance, I am annoyed when people -laugh at me for loving <i>The Swiss Family Robinson</i>, and I hope that I -have annoyed some of you over Scott! You see what I mean. Intolerance is -the atmosphere stories generate. The story is neither moral nor is it -favourable to the understanding of the novel in its other aspects. If we -want to do that we must come out of the cave. -</p> -<p> -We shall not come out of it yet, but observe already how that other -life—the life by value—presses against the novel from all -sides, how it is ready to fill and indeed distort it, offering it people, -plots, fantasies, views of the universe, anything except this constant "and -then ... and then," which is the sole contribution of our present -inquiry. The life in time is so obviously base and inferior that the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> -question naturally occurs: cannot the novelist abolish it from his work, -even as the mystic asserts he has abolished it from his experience, and -install its radiant alternative alone? -</p> -<p> -Well, there is one novelist who has tried to abolish time, and her -failure is instructive: Gertrude Stein. Going much further than Emily -Brontë, Sterne or Proust, Gertrude Stein has smashed up and pulverized -her clock and scattered its fragments over the world like the limbs of -Osiris, and she has done this not from naughtiness but from a noble -motive: she has hoped to emancipate fiction from the tyranny of time and -to express in it the life by values only. She fails, because as soon as -fiction is completely delivered from time it cannot express anything at -all, and in her later writing we can see the slope down which she is -slipping. She wants to abolish this whole aspect of the story, this -sequence in chronology, and my heart goes out to her. She cannot do it -without abolishing the sequence between the sentences. But this is not -effective unless the order of the words in the sentences is also -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> -abolished, which in its turn entails the abolition of the order of the -letters or sounds in the words. And now she is over the precipice. There -is nothing to ridicule in such an experiment as hers. It is much more -important to play about like this than to rewrite the Waverley Novels. -Yet the experiment is doomed to failure. The time-sequence cannot be -destroyed without carrying in its ruin all that should have taken its -place; the novel that would express values only becomes unintelligible -and therefore valueless. -</p> -<p> -That is why I must ask you to join me in repeating in exactly the right -tone of voice the words with which this lecture opened. Do not say them -vaguely and good-temperedly like a busman: you have not the right. Do -not say them briskly and aggressively like a golfer: you know better. -Say them a little sadly, and you will be correct. Yes—oh, dear, -yes—the novel tells a story. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="III: PEOPLE"><a id="chap03"></a>III -<br><br> -PEOPLE</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -HAVING discussed the story—that simple and fundamental aspect of the -novel—we can turn to a more interesting topic: the actors. We need -not ask what happened next, but to whom did it happen; the novelist will be -appealing to our intelligence and imagination, not merely to our -curiosity. A new emphasis enters his voice: emphasis upon value. -</p> -<p> -Since the actors in a story are usually human, it seemed convenient to -entitle this aspect People. Other animals have been introduced, but with -limited success, for we know too little so far about their psychology. -There may be, probably will be, an alteration here in the future, -comparable to the alteration in the novelist's rendering of savages in -the past. The gulf that separates Man Friday from Batouala may be -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> -paralleled by the gulf that will separate Kipling's wolves from their -literary descendants two hundred years hence, and we shall have animals -who are neither symbolic, nor little men disguised, nor as four-legged -tables moving, nor as painted scraps of paper that fly. It is one of the -ways where science may enlarge the novel, by giving it fresh subject -matter. But the help has not been given yet, and until it comes we may -say that the actors in a story are, or pretend to be, human beings. -</p> -<p> -Since the novelist is himself a human being, there is an affinity -between him and his subject matter which is absent in many other forms -of art. The historian is also linked, though, as we shall see, less -intimately. The painter and sculptor need not be linked: that is to say -they need not represent human beings unless they wish, no more need the -poet, while the musician cannot represent them even if he wishes, -without the help of a programme. The novelist, unlike many of his -colleagues, makes up a number of word-masses roughly describing himself -(roughly: niceties shall come later), gives them names and sex, assigns -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> -them plausible gestures, and causes them to speak by the use of inverted -commas, and perhaps to behave consistently. These word-masses are his -characters. They do not come thus coldly to his mind, they may be -created in delirious excitement, still, their nature is conditioned by -what he guesses about other people, and about himself, and is further -modified by the other aspects of his work. This last point—the -relation of characters to the other aspects of the novel—will form -the subject of a future enquiry. At present we are occupied with their -relation to actual life. What is the difference between people in a -novel and people like the novelist or like you, or like me, or Queen -Victoria? -</p> -<p> -There is bound to be a difference. If a character in a novel is exactly -like Queen Victoria—not rather like but exactly like—then it -actually is Queen Victoria, and the novel, or all of it that the character -touches, becomes a memoir. A memoir is history, it is based on evidence. -A novel is based on evidence + or — <i>x</i>, the unknown quantity being -the temperament of the novelist, and the unknown quantity always -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> -modifies the effect of the evidence, and sometimes transforms it -entirely. -</p> -<p> -The historian deals with actions, and with the characters of men only so -far as he can deduce them from their actions. He is quite as much -concerned with character as the novelist, but he can only know of its -existence when it shows on the surface. If Queen Victoria had not said, -"We are not amused," her neighbours at table would not have known she -was not amused, and her ennui could never have been announced to the -public. She might have frowned, so that they would have deduced her -state from that—looks and gestures are also historical evidence. -But if she remained impassive—what would any one know? The hidden -life is, by definition, hidden. The hidden life that appears in external -signs is hidden no longer, has entered the realm of action. And it is -the function of the novelist to reveal the hidden life at its source: to -tell us more about Queen Victoria than could be known, and thus to -produce a character who is not the Queen Victoria of history. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> -</p> -<p> -The interesting and sensitive French critic, who writes under the name -of Alain, has some helpful if slightly fantastic remarks on this point. -He gets a little out of his depth, but not as much as I feel myself out -of mine, and perhaps together we may move toward the shore. Alain -examines in turn the various forms of æsthetic activity, and coming in -time to the novel (le roman) he asserts that each human being has two -sides, appropriate to history and fiction. All that is observable in a -man—that is to say his actions and such of his spiritual existence as -can be deduced from his actions—falls into the domain of history. But -his romanceful or romantic side (sa partie romanesque ou romantique) -includes "the pure passions, that is to say the dreams, joys, sorrows -and self-communings which politeness or shame prevent him from -mentioning"; and to express this side of human nature is one of the -chief functions of the novel. "What is fictitious in a novel is not so -much the story as the method by which thought develops into action, a -method which never occurs in daily life.... History, with its emphasis -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> -on external causes, is dominated by the notion of fatality, whereas -there is no fatality in the novel; there, everything is founded on human -nature, and the dominating feeling is of an existence where everything -is intentional, even passions and crimes, even misery."<a id="FNanchor_3_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_1" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> -</p> -<p> -This is perhaps a roundabout way of saying what every British schoolboy -knew, that the historian records whereas the novelist must create. -Still, it is a profitable roundabout, for it brings out the fundamental -difference between people in daily life and people in books. In daily -life we never understand each other, neither complete clairvoyance nor -complete confessional exists. We know each other approximately, by -external signs, and these serve well enough as a basis for society and -even for intimacy. But people in a novel can be understood completely by -the reader, if the novelist wishes; their inner as well as their outer -life can be exposed. And this is why they often seem more definite than -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> -characters in history, or even our own friends; we have been told all -about them that can be told; even if they are imperfect or unreal they -do not contain any secrets, whereas our friends do and must, mutual -secrecy being one of the conditions of life upon this globe. -</p> -<p> -Now let us restate the problem in a more schoolboyish way. You and I are -people. Had not we better glance through the main facts in our own -lives—not in our individual careers but in our make-up as human -beings? Then we shall have something definite to start from. -</p> -<p> -The main facts in human life are five: birth, food, sleep, love and -death. One could increase the number—add breathing for -instance—but these five are the most obvious. Let us briefly ask -ourselves what part they play in our lives, and what in novels. Does the -novelist tend to reproduce them accurately or does he tend to -exaggerate, minimize, ignore, and to exhibit his characters going -through processes which are not the same through which you and I go, -though they bear the same names? -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> -</p> -<p> -To consider the two strangest first: birth and death; strange because -they are at the same time experiences and not experiences. We only know -of them by report. We were all born, but we cannot remember what it was -like. And death is coming even as birth has come, but, similarly, we do -not know what it is like. Our final experience, like our first, is -conjectural. We move between two darknesses. Certain people pretend to -tell us what birth and death are like: a mother, for instance, has her -point of view about birth, a doctor, a religious, have their points of -view about both. But it is all from the outside, and the two entities -who might enlighten us, the baby and the corpse, cannot do so, because -their apparatus for communicating their experiences is not attuned to -our apparatus for reception. -</p> -<p> -So let us think of people as starting life with an experience they -forget and ending it with one which they anticipate but cannot -understand. These are the creatures whom the novelist proposes to -introduce as characters into books; these, or creatures plausibly like -them. The novelist is allowed to remember and understand everything, if -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> -it suits him. He knows all the hidden life. How soon will he pick up his -characters after birth, how close to the grave will he follow them? And -what will he say, or cause to be felt, about these two queer -experiences? -</p> -<p> -Then food, the stoking up process, the keeping alive of an individual -flame, the process that begins before birth and is continued after it by -the mother, and finally taken over by the individual himself, who goes -on day after day putting an assortment of objects into a hole in his -face without becoming surprised or bored: food is a link between the -known and the forgotten; closely connected with birth, which none of us -remembers, and coming down to this morning's breakfast. Like -sleep—which in many ways it resembles—food does not merely -restore our strength, it has also an æsthetic side, it can taste good or -bad. What will happen to this double-faced commodity in books? -</p> -<p> -And fourthly, sleep. On the average, about a third of our time is not -spent in society or civilization or even in what is usually called -solitude. We enter a world of which little is known and which seems to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> -us after leaving it to have been partly oblivion, partly a caricature of -this world and partly a revelation. "I dreamt of nothing" or "I dreamt -of a ladder" or "I dreamt of heaven" we say when we wake. I do not want -to discuss the nature of sleep and dreams—only to point out that they -occupy much time and that what is called "History" only busies itself -with about two-thirds of the human cycle, and theorizes accordingly. -Does fiction take up a similar attitude? -</p> -<p> -And lastly, love. I am using this celebrated word in its widest and -dullest sense. Let me be very dry and brief about sex in the first -place. Some years after a human being is born, certain changes occur in -it, as in other animals, which changes often lead to union with another -human being, and to the production of more human beings. And our race -goes on. Sex begins before adolescence, and survives sterility; it is -indeed coeval with our lives, although at the mating age its effects are -more obvious to society. And besides sex, there are other emotions, also -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> -strengthening towards maturity: the various upliftings of the spirit, -such as affection, friendship, patriotism, mysticism—and as soon as -we try to determine the relation between sex and these other emotions we -shall of course begin to quarrel as violently as we ever could about -Walter Scott, perhaps even more violently. Let me only tabulate the -various points of view. Some people say that sex is basic and underlies -all these other loves—love of friends, of God, of country. Others say -that it is connected with them, but laterally, it is not their root. -Others say that it is not connected at all. All I suggest is that we -call the whole bundle of emotions love, and regard them as the fifth -great experience through which human beings have to pass. When human -beings love they try to get something. They also try to give something, -and this double aim makes love more complicated than food or sleep. It -is selfish and altruistic at the same time, and no amount of -specialization in one direction quite atrophies the other. How much time -does love take? This question sounds gross but it must be asked because -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> -it bears on our present enquiry. Sleep takes about eight hours out of -the twenty-four, food about two more. Shall we put down love for another -two? Surely that is a handsome allowance. Love may weave itself into our -other activities—so may drowsiness and hunger. Love may start various -secondary activities: for instance, a man's love for his family may -cause him to spend a good deal of time on the Stock Exchange, or his -love for God a good deal of time in church. But that he has emotional -communion with any beloved object for more than two hours a day may be -gravely doubted, and it is this emotional communion, this desire to give -and to get, this mixture of generosity and expectation, that -distinguishes love from the other experiences on our list. -</p> -<p> -That is the human make-up—or part of it. Made up like this himself, -the novelist takes his pen in his hand, gets into the abnormal state which -it is convenient to call "inspiration," and tries to create characters. -Perhaps the characters have to fall in with something else in his novel: -this often happens (the books of Henry James are an extreme case), and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> -then the characters have, of course, to modify the make-up accordingly. -However, we are considering now the more simple case of the novelist -whose main passion is human beings and who will sacrifice a great deal -to their convenience—story, plot, form, incidental beauty. -</p> -<p> -Well, in what senses do the nations of fiction differ from those of the -earth? One cannot generalize about them, because they have nothing in -common in the scientific sense; they need not have glands, for example, -whereas all human beings have glands. Nevertheless, though incapable of -strict definition, they tend to behave along the same lines. -</p> -<p> -In the first place, they come into the world more like parcels than -human beings. When a baby arrives in a novel it usually has the air of -having been posted. It is delivered "off"; one of the elder characters -goes and picks it up and shows it to the reader, after which it is -usually laid in cold storage until it can talk or otherwise assist in -the action. There is both a good and a bad reason for this and for all -other deviations from earthly practice; these we will note in a minute, -but do just observe in what a very perfunctory way the population of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> -noveldom is recruited. Between Sterne and James Joyce, scarcely any -writer has tried either to use the facts of birth or to invent a new set -of facts, and no one, except in a sort of auntish wistful way, has tried -to work back towards the psychology of the baby's mind and to utilize -the literary wealth that must lie there. Perhaps it cannot be done. We -shall decide in a moment. -</p> -<p> -Death. The treatment of death, on the other hand, is nourished much more -on observation, and has a variety about it which suggests that the -novelist finds it congenial. He does, for the reason that death ends a -book neatly, and for the less obvious reason that working as he does in -time he finds it easier to work from the known towards the darkness -rather than from the darkness of birth towards the known. By the time -his characters die, he understands them, he can be both appropriate and -imaginative about them—strongest of combinations. Take a little -death—the death of Mrs. Proudie in the <i>Last Chronicle of -Barset</i>. All is in keeping, yet the effect is terrifying, because -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> -Trollope has ambled Mrs. Proudie down many a diocesan bypath, showing -her paces, making her snap, accustoming us, even to boredom, to her -character and tricks, to her "Bishop, consider the souls of the people," -and then she has a heart attack by the edge of her bed, she has ambled -far enough,—end of Mrs. Proudie. There is scarcely anything that -the novelist cannot borrow from "daily death"; scarcely anything he may -not profitably invent. The doors of that darkness lie open to him and he -can even follow his characters through it, provided he is shod with -imagination and does not try to bring us back scraps of séance -information about the "life beyond." -</p> -<p> -What of food, the third fact upon our list? Food in fiction is mainly -social. It draws characters together, but they seldom require it -physiologically, seldom enjoy it, and never digest it unless specially -asked to do so. They hunger for each other, as we do in life, but our -equally constant longing for breakfast and lunch does not get reflected. -Even poetry has made more of it—at least of its æsthetic side. Milton -and Keats have both come nearer to the sensuousness of swallowing than -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> -George Meredith. -</p> -<p> -Sleep. Also perfunctory. No attempt to indicate oblivion or the actual -dream world. Dreams are either logical or else mosaics made out of hard -little fragments of the past and future. They are introduced with a -purpose and that purpose is not the character's life as a whole, but -that part of it he lives while awake. He is never conceived as a -creature a third of whose time is spent in the darkness. It is the -limited daylight vision of the historian, which the novelist elsewhere -avoids. Why should he not understand or reconstruct sleep? For remember, -he has the right to invent, and we know when he is inventing truly, -because his passion floats us over improbabilities. Yet he has neither -copied sleep nor created it. It is just an amalgam. -</p> -<p> -Love. You all know how enormously love bulks in novels, and will -probably agree with me that it has done them harm and made them -monotonous. Why has this particular experience, especially in its sex -form, been transplanted in such generous quantities? If you think of a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> -novel in the vague you think of a love interest—of a man and woman -who want to be united and perhaps succeed. If you think of your own life in -the vague, or of a group of lives, you are left with a very different -and a more complex impression. -</p> -<p> -There would seem to be two reasons why love, even in good sincere -novels, is unduly prominent. -</p> -<p> -Firstly, when the novelist ceases to design his characters and begins to -create them—"love" in any or all of its aspects becomes important in -his mind, and without intending to do so he makes his characters unduly -sensitive to it—unduly in the sense that they would not trouble so -much in life. The constant sensitiveness of characters for each -other—even in writers called robust like Fielding—is -remarkable, and has no parallel in life, except among people who have -plenty of leisure. Passion, intensity at moments—yes, but not this -constant awareness, this endless readjusting, this ceaseless hunger. I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> -believe that these are the reflections of the novelist's own state of -mind while he composes, and that the predominance of love in novels is -partly because of this. -</p> -<p> -A second reason; which logically comes into another part of our enquiry, -but it shall be noted here. Love, like death, is congenial to a novelist -because it ends a book conveniently. He can make it a permanency, and -his readers easily acquiesce, because one of the illusions attached to -love is that it will be permanent. Not has been—will be. All history, -all our experience, teaches us that no human relationship is constant, -it is as unstable as the living beings who compose it, and they must -balance like jugglers if it is to remain; if it is constant it is no -longer a human relationship but a social habit, the emphasis in it has -passed from love to marriage. All this we know, yet we cannot bear to -apply our bitter knowledge to the future; the future is to be so -different; the perfect person is to come along, or the person we know -already is to become perfect. There are to be no changes, no necessity -for alertness. We are to be happy or even perhaps miserable for ever and -ever. Any strong emotion brings with it the illusion of permanence, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> -the novelists have seized upon this. They usually end their books with -marriage, and we do not object because we lend them our dreams. -</p> -<p> -Here we must conclude our comparison of those two allied species, Homo -Sapiens and Homo Fictus. Homo Fictus is more elusive than his cousin. He -is created in the minds of hundreds of different novelists, who have -conflicting methods of gestation, so one must not generalize. Still, one -can say a little about him. He is generally born off, he is capable of -dying on, he wants little food or sleep, he is tirelessly occupied with -human relationships. And—most important—we can know more -about him than we can know about any of our fellow creatures, because -his creator and narrator are one. Were we equipped for hyperbole we -might exclaim at this point: "If God could tell the story of the -Universe, the Universe would become fictitious." -</p> -<p> -For this is the principle involved. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Let us, after these high speculations, take an easy character and study -it for a little. Moll Flanders will do. She fills the book that bears -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> -her name, or rather stands alone in it, like a tree in a park, so that -we can see her from every aspect and are not bothered by rival growths. -Defoe is telling a story, like Scott, and we shall find stray threads -left about in much the same way, on the chance of the writer wanting to -pick them up afterwards: Moll's early batch of children for instance. -But the parallel between Scott and Defoe cannot be pressed. What -interested Defoe was the heroine, and the form of his book proceeds -naturally out of her character. Seduced by a younger brother and married -to an elder, she takes to husbands in the earlier and brighter part of -her career: not to prostitution, which she detests with all the force of -a decent and affectionate heart. She and most of the characters in -Defoe's underworld are kind to one another, they save each other's -feelings and run risks through personal loyalty. Their innate goodness -is always flourishing despite the author's better judgment, the reason -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> -evidently being that the author had some great experience himself while -in Newgate. We do not know what it was, probably he himself did not know -afterwards, for he was a busy slipshod journalist and a keen politician. -But something occurred to him in prison, and out of its vague, powerful -emotion Moll and Roxana are born. Moll is a character physically, with -hard plump limbs that get into bed and pick pockets. She lays no stress -upon her appearance, yet she moves us as having height and weight, as -breathing and eating, and doing many of the things that are usually -missed out. Husbands were her earlier employ: she was trigamous if not -quadrigamous, and one of her husbands turned out to be a brother. She -was happy with all of them, they were nice to her, she nice to them. -Listen to the pleasant jaunt her draper husband took her—she never -cared for him much. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"Come, my dear," says he to me one day, "shall we go and take a turn -into the country for about a week?" "Ay, my dear," says I, "whither -would you go?" "I care not whither," says he, "but I have a mind to look -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> -like quality for a week. We'll go to Oxford," says he. "How," says I, -"shall we go? I am no horse-woman, and 'tis too far for a coach." "Too -far!" says he; "no place is too far for a coach-and-six. If I carry you -out, you shall travel like a duchess." "Hum," says I, "my dear, 'tis a -frolic; but if you have a mind to it, I don't care." Well, the time was -appointed, we had a rich coach, very good horses, a coachman, postilion, -and two footmen in very good liveries; a gentleman on horseback, and a -page with a feather in his hat upon another horse. The servants all -called my lord, and the innkeepers, you may be sure, did the like, and I -was her honour the Countess, and thus we travelled to Oxford, and a very -pleasant journey we had; for, give him his due, not a beggar alive knew -better how to be a lord than my husband. We saw all the rarities at -Oxford, talked with two or three Fellows of Colleges about putting out a -young nephew, that was left to his lordship's care, to the University, -and of their being his tutors. We diverted ourselves with bantering -several other poor Scholars, with hopes of being at least his lordship's -chaplains, and putting on a scarf; and thus having lived like quality, -indeed, as to expense, we went away for Northampton, and, in a word, in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> -about twelve days' ramble came home again, to the tune of about £93 -expense. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Contrast with this the scene with her Lancashire husband, whom she -deeply loved. He is a high-wayman, and each by pretending to wealth has -trapped the other into marriage. After the ceremony, they are mutually -unmasked, and if Defoe were writing mechanically he would set them to -upbraid one another, like Mr. and Mrs. Lammle in <i>Our Mutual Friend</i>. -But he has given himself over to the humour and good sense of his -heroine. She guides him through. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"Truly," said I to him, "I found you would soon have conquered me; and -it is my affliction now, that I am not in a condition to let you see how -easily I should have been reconciled to you, and have passed by all the -tricks you had put upon me, in recompense of so much good-humour. But, -my dear," said I, "what can we do now? We are both undone, and what -better are we for our being reconciled together, seeing we have nothing -to live on?" -</p> -<p> -We proposed a great many things, but nothing could offer where there was -nothing to begin with. He begged me at last to talk no more of it, for, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> -he said, I would break his heart; so we talked of other things a little, -till at last he took a husband's leave of me, and so we went to sleep. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Which is both truer to daily life and pleasanter to read than Dickens. -The couple are up against facts, not against the author's theory of -morality, and being sensible good-hearted rogues, they do not make a -fuss. In the later part of her career she turns from husbands to -thieving; she thinks this a change for the worse and a natural darkness -spreads over the scene. But she is as firm and amusing as ever. How just -are her reflections when she robs of her gold necklace the little girl -returning from the dancing-class. The deed is done in the little passage -leading to St. Bartholomew's, Smithfield (you can visit the place -today—Defoe haunts London) and her impulse is to kill the child as -well. She does not, the impulse is very feeble, but conscious of the -risk the child has run she becomes most indignant with the parents for -"leaving the poor little lamb to come home by itself, and it would teach -them to take more care of it another time." How heavily and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> -pretentiously a modern psychologist would labour to express this! It -just runs off Defoe's pen, and so in another passage, where Moll cheats -a man, and then tells him pleasantly afterwards that she has done so, -with the result that she slides still further into his good graces, and -cannot bear to cheat him any more. Whatever she does gives us a slight -shock—not the jolt of disillusionment, but the thrill that proceeds -from a living being. We laugh at her, but without bitterness or -superiority. She is neither hypocrite nor fool. -</p> -<p> -Towards the end of the book she is caught in a draper's shop by two -young ladies from behind the counter: "I would have given them good -words but there was no room for it: two fiery dragons could not have -been more furious than they were"—they call for the police, she is -arrested and sentenced to death and then transported to Virginia -instead. The clouds of misfortune lift with indecent rapidity. The -voyage is a very pleasant one, owing to the kindness of the old woman -who had originally taught her to steal. And (better still) her -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> -Lancashire husband happens to be transported also. They land at Virginia -where, much to her distress, her brother-husband proves to be in -residence. She conceals this, he dies, and the Lancashire husband only -blames her for concealing it from him: he has no other grievance, for -the reason that he and she are still in love. So the book closes -prosperously, and firm as at the opening sentence the heroine's voice -rings out: "We resolve to spend the remainder of our years in sincere -penitence for the wicked lives we have led." -</p> -<p> -Her penitence is sincere, and only a superficial judge will condemn her -as a hypocrite. A nature such as hers cannot for long distinguish -between doing wrong and getting caught—for a sentence or two she -disentangles them but they insist on blending, and that is why her -outlook is so cockneyfied and natural, with "sich is life" for a -philosophy and Newgate in the place of Hell. If we were to press her or -her creator Defoe and say, "Come, be serious. Do you believe in -Infinity?" they would say (in the parlance of their modern descendants), -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> -"Of course I believe in Infinity—what do you take me for?"—a -confession of faith that slams the door on Infinity more completely than -could any denial. -</p> -<p> -<i>Moll Flanders</i> then shall stand as our example of a novel, in which a -character is everything and is given freest play. Defoe makes a slight -attempt at a plot with the brother-husband as a centre, but he is quite -perfunctory, and her legal husband (the one who took her on the jaunt to -Oxford) just disappears and is heard of no more. Nothing matters but the -heroine; she stands in an open space like a tree, and having said that -she seems absolutely real from every point of view, we must ask -ourselves whether we should recognize her if we met her in daily life. -For that is the point we are still considering: the difference between -people in life and people in books. And the odd thing is, that even -though we take a character as natural and untheoretical as Moll who -would coincide with daily life in every detail, we should not find her -there as a whole. Suppose I suddenly altered my voice from a lecturing -voice into an ordinary one and said to you, "Look out—I can see Moll -in the audience—look out, Mr."—naming one of you by -name—"she as near as could be got your watch"—well, you -would know at once that I was wrong, that I was sinning not only against -probabilities, which does not signify, but against daily life and books and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> -the gulf that divides them. If I said, "Look out, there's some one like -Moll in the audience," you might not believe me but you would not be -annoyed by my imbecile lack of taste: I should only be sinning against -probability. To suggest that Moll is in Cambridge this afternoon or -anywhere in England, or has been anywhere in England is idiotic. Why? -</p> -<p> -This particular question will be easy to answer next week, when we shall -deal with more complicated novels, where the character has to fit in -with other aspects of fiction. We shall then be able to make the usual -reply, which we find in all manuals of literature, and which should -always be given in an examination paper, the æsthetic reply, to the -effect that a novel is a work of art, with its own laws, which are not -those of daily life, and that a character in a novel is real when it -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> -lives in accordance with such laws. Amelia or Emma, we shall then say, -cannot be at this lecture because they exist only in the books called -after them, only in worlds of Fielding or Jane Austen. The barrier of -art divides them from us. They are real not because they are like -ourselves (though they may be like us) but because they are convincing. -</p> -<p> -It is a good answer, it will lead on to some sound conclusions. Yet it -is not satisfactory for a novel like <i>Moll Flanders</i>, where the -character is everything and can do what it likes. We want a reply that -is less aesthetic and more psychological. Why cannot she be here? What -separates her from us? Our answer has already been implied in that -quotation from Alain: she cannot be here because she belongs to a world -where the secret life is visible, to a world that is not and cannot be -ours, to a world where the narrator and the creator are one. And now we -can get a definition as to when a character in a book is real: it is -real when the novelist knows everything about it. He may not choose to -tell us all he knows—many of the facts, even of the kind we call -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> -obvious, may be hidden. But he will give us the feeling that though the -character has not been explained, it is explicable, and we get from this -a reality of a kind we can never get in daily life. -</p> -<p> -For human intercourse, as soon as we look at it for its own sake and not -as a social adjunct, is seen to be haunted by a spectre. We cannot -understand each other, except in a rough and ready way; we cannot reveal -ourselves, even when we want to; what we call intimacy is only a -makeshift; perfect knowledge is an illusion. But in the novel we can -know people perfectly, and, apart from the general pleasure of reading, -we can find here a compensation for their dimness in life. In this -direction fiction is truer than history, because it goes beyond the -evidence, and each of us knows from his own experience that there is -something beyond the evidence, and even if the novelist has not got it -correctly, well—he has tried. He can post his people in as babies, he -can cause them to go on without sleep or food, he can make them be in -love, love and nothing but love, provided he seems to know everything -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> -about them, provided they are his creations. That is why Moll Flanders -cannot be here, that is one of the reasons why Amelia and Emma cannot be -here. They are people whose secret lives are visible or might be -visible: we are people whose secret lives are invisible. -</p> -<p> -And that is why novels, even when they are about wicked people, can -solace us; they suggest a more comprehensible and thus a more manageable -human race, they give us the illusion of perspicacity and of power. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_3_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_1"><span class="label">[3]</span></a>Paraphrased from <i>Système des Beaux Arts</i>, pp. 314-315. -I am indebted to M. André Maurois for introducing me to this -stimulating essay.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="IV: PEOPLE (continued)"><a id="chap04"></a>IV -<br><br> -PEOPLE (<i>continued</i>)</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -WE now turn from transplantation to acclimatization. We have discussed -whether people could be taken out of life and put into a book, and -conversely whether they could come out of books and sit down in this -room. The answer suggested was in the negative and led to a more vital -question: can we, in daily life, understand each other? Today our -problems are more academic. We are concerned with the characters in -their relation to other aspects of the novel; to a plot, a moral, their -fellow characters, atmosphere, etc. They will have to adapt themselves -to other requirements of their creator. -</p> -<p> -It follows that we shall no longer expect them to coincide as a whole -with daily life, only to parallel it. When we say that a character in -Jane Austen, Miss Bates for instance, is "so like life" we mean that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> -each bit of her coincides with a bit of life, but that she as a whole -only parallels the chatty spinster we met at tea. Miss Bates is bound by -a hundred threads to Highbury. We cannot tear her away without bringing -her mother too, and Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, and the whole of -Box Hill; whereas we could tear Moll Flanders away, at least for the -purposes of experiment. A Jane Austen novel is more complicated than a -Defoe, because the characters are inter-dependent, and there is the -additional complication of a plot. The plot in <i>Emma</i> is not prominent -and Miss Bates contributes little. Still it is there, she is connected -with the principals, and the result is a closely woven fabric from which -nothing can be removed. Miss Bates and Emma herself are like bushes in a -shrubbery—not isolated trees like Moll—and any one who has -tried to thin out a shrubbery knows how wretched the bushes look if they -are transplanted elsewhere, and how wretched is the look of the bushes that -remain. In most books the characters cannot spread themselves. They must -exercise a mutual restraint. -</p> -<p> -The novelist, we are beginning to see, has a very mixed lot of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> -ingredients to handle. There is the story, with its time-sequence of -"and then ... and then ..."; there are ninepins about whom he might -tell the story, and tell a rattling good one, but no, he prefers to tell -his story about human beings; he takes over the life by values as well -as the life in time. The characters arrive when evoked, but full of the -spirit of mutiny. For they have these numerous parallels with people -like ourselves, they try to live their own lives and are consequently -often engaged in treason against the main scheme of the book. They "run -away," they "get out of hand": they are creations inside a creation, and -often inharmonious towards it; if they are given complete freedom they -kick the book to pieces, and if they are kept too sternly in check, they -revenge themselves by dying, and destroy it by intestinal decay. -</p> -<p> -These trials beset the dramatist also, and he has yet another set of -ingredients to cope with—the actors and actresses—and they -appear to side sometimes with the characters they represent, sometimes with -the play as a whole, and more often to be the mortal enemies of both. The -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> -weight they throw is incalculable, and how any work of art survives -their arrival I do not understand. Concerned with a lower form of art, -we need not worry—but, in passing, is it not extraordinary that plays -on the stage are often better than they are in the study, and that the -introduction of a bunch of rather ambitious and nervous men and women -should add anything to our understanding of Shakespeare and Tchekov? -</p> -<p> -No, the novelist has difficulties enough, and today we shall examine two -of his devices for solving them—instinctive devices, for his methods -when working are seldom the same as the methods we use when examining -his work. The first device is the use of different kinds of characters. -The second is connected with the point of view. -</p> -<p> -i. We may divide characters into flat and round. -</p> -<p> -Flat characters were called "humours" in the seventeenth century, and -are sometimes called types, and sometimes caricatures. In their purest -form, they are constructed round a single idea or quality: when there is -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> -more than one factor in them, we get the beginning of the curve towards -the round. The really flat character can be expressed in one sentence such -as "I never will desert Mr. Micawber." There is Mrs. Micawber—she -says she won't desert Mr. Micawber, she doesn't, and there she is. Or: -"I must conceal, even by subterfuges, the poverty of my master's house." -There is Caleb Balderstone in <i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i>. He does not -use the actual phrase, but it completely describes him; he has no existence -outside it, no pleasures, none of the private lusts and aches that must -complicate the most consistent of servitors. Whatever he does, wherever -he goes, whatever lies he tells or plates he breaks, it is to conceal -the poverty of his master's house. It is not his idée fixe, because -there is nothing in him into which the idea can be fixed. He is the -idea, and such life as he possesses radiates from its edges and from the -scintillations it strikes when other elements in the novel impinge. Or -take Proust. There are numerous flat characters in Proust, such as the -Princess of Parma, or Legrandin. Each can be expressed in a single -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> -sentence, the Princess's sentence being, "I must be particularly careful -to be kind." She does nothing except to be particularly careful, and -those of the other characters who are more complex than herself easily -see through the kindness, since it is only a by-product of the -carefulness. -</p> -<p> -One great advantage of flat characters is that they are easily -recognized whenever they come in—recognized by the reader's emotional -eye, not by the visual eye, which merely notes the recurrence of a -proper name. In Russian novels, where they so seldom occur, they would -be a decided help. It is a convenience for an author when he can strike -with his full force at once, and flat characters are very useful to him, -since they never need reintroducing, never run away, have not to be -watched for development, and provide their own atmosphere—little -luminous disks of a pre-arranged size, pushed hither and thither like -counters across the void or between the stars; most satisfactory. -</p> -<p> -A second advantage is that they are easily remembered by the reader -afterwards. They remain in his mind as unalterable for the reason that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> -they were not changed by circumstances; they moved through -circumstances, which gives them in retrospect a comforting quality, and -preserves them when the book that produced them may decay. The Countess -in <i>Evan Harrington</i> furnishes a good little example here. Let us -compare our memories of her with our memories of Becky Sharp. We do not -remember what the Countess did or what she passed through. What is clear -is her figure and the formula that surrounds it, namely, "Proud as we -are of dear papa, we must conceal his memory." All her rich humour -proceeds from this. She is a flat character. Becky is round. She, too, -is on the make, but she cannot be summed up in a single phrase, and we -remember her in connection with the great scenes through which she -passed and as modified by those scenes—that is to say, we do not -remember her so easily because she waxes and wanes and has facets like a -human being. All of us, even the sophisticated, yearn for permanence, -and to the unsophisticated permanence is the chief excuse for a work of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> -art. We all want books to endure, to be refuges, and their inhabitants -to be always the same, and flat characters tend to justify themselves on -this account. -</p> -<p> -All the same, critics who have their eyes fixed severely upon daily -life—as were our eyes last week—have very little patience -with such renderings of human nature. Queen Victoria, they argue, cannot -be summed up in a single sentence, so what excuse remains for Mrs. -Micawber? One of our foremost writers, Mr. Norman Douglas, is a critic -of this type, and the passage from him which I will quote puts the case -against flat characters in a forcible fashion. The passage occurs in an -open letter to D. H. Lawrence, with whom he is quarrelling: a doughty -pair of combatants, the hardness of whose hitting makes the rest of us -feel like a lot of ladies up in a pavilion. He complains that Lawrence, -in a biography, has falsified the picture by employing "the novelist's -touch," and he goes on to define what this is: -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -It consists, I should say, in a failure to realize the complexities of -the ordinary human mind; it selects for literary purposes two or three -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> -facets of a man or woman, generally the most spectacular, and therefore -useful ingredients of their character and disregards all the others. -Whatever fails to fit in with these specially chosen traits is -eliminated—must be eliminated, for otherwise the description would -not hold water. Such and such are the data: everything incompatible with -those data has to go by the board. It follows that the novelist's touch -argues, often logically, from a wrong premise: it takes what it likes -and leaves the rest. The facts may be correct as far as they go but -there are too few of them: what the author says may be true and yet by -no means the truth. That is the novelist's touch. It falsifies life. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Well, the novelist's touch as thus defined is, of course, bad in -biography, for no human being is simple. But in a novel it has its -place: a novel that is at all complex often requires flat people as well -as round, and the outcome of their collisions parallels life more -accurately than Mr. Douglas implies. The case of Dickens is significant. -Dickens' people are nearly all flat (Pip and David Copperfield attempt -roundness, but so diffidently that they seem more like bubbles than -solids). Nearly every one can be summed up in a sentence, and yet there -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> -is this wonderful feeling of human depth. Probably the immense vitality -of Dickens causes his characters to vibrate a little, so that they -borrow his life and appear to lead one of their own. It is a conjuring -trick; at any moment we may look at Mr. Pickwick edgeways and find him -no thicker than a gramophone record. But we never get the sideway view. -Mr. Pickwick is far too adroit and well trained. He always has the air -of weighing something, and when he is put into the cupboard of the young -ladies' school he seems as heavy as Falstaff in the buck-basket at -Windsor. Part of the genius of Dickens is that he does use types and -caricatures, people whom we recognize the instant they re-enter, and yet -achieves effects that are not mechanical and a vision of humanity that -is not shallow. Those who dislike Dickens have an excellent case. He -ought to be bad. He is actually one of our big writers, and his immense -success with types suggests that there may be more in flatness than the -severer critics admit. -</p> -<p> -Or take H. G. Wells. With the possible exceptions of Kipps and the aunt -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> -in <i>Tono Bungay</i>, all Wells' characters are as flat as a photograph. -But the photographs are agitated with such vigour that we forget their -complexities lie on the surface and would disappear if it was scratched -or curled up. A Wells character cannot indeed be summed up in a single -phrase; he is tethered much more to observation, he does not create -types. Nevertheless his people seldom pulsate by their own strength. It -is the deft and powerful hands of their maker that shake them and trick -the reader into a sense of depth. Good but imperfect novelists, like -Wells and Dickens, are very clever at transmitting force. The part of -their novel that is alive galvanizes the part that is not, and causes -the characters to jump about and speak in a convincing way. They are -quite different from the perfect novelist who touches all his material -directly, who seems to pass the creative finger down every sentence and -into every word. Richardson, Defoe, Jane Austen, are perfect in this -particular way; their work may not be great but their hands are always -upon it; there is not the tiny interval between the touching of the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> -button and the sound of the bell which occurs in novels where the -characters are not under direct control. -</p> -<p> -For we must admit that flat people are not in themselves as big -achievements as round ones, and also that they are best when they are -comic. A serious or tragic flat character is apt to be a bore. Each time -he enters crying "Revenge!" or "My heart bleeds for humanity!" or -whatever his formula is, our hearts sink. One of the romances of a -popular contemporary writer is constructed round a Sussex farmer who -says, "I'll plough up that bit of gorse." There is the farmer, there is -the gorse; he says he'll plough it up, he does plough it up, but it is -not like saying "I'll never desert Mr. Micawber," because we are so -bored by his consistency that we do not care whether he succeeds with -the gorse or fails. If his formula was analysed and connected up with -the rest of the human outfit, we should not be bored any longer, the -formula would cease to be the man and become an obsession in the man; -that is to say he would have turned from a flat farmer into a round one. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> -It is only round people who are fit to perform tragically for any length -of time and can move us to any feelings except humour and -appropriateness. -</p> -<p> -So now let us desert these two-dimensional people, and by way of transition -to the round, let us go to <i>Mansfield Park</i>, and look at Lady -Bertram, sitting on her sofa with pug. Pug is flat, like most animals in -fiction. He is once represented as straying into a rose-bed in a -cardboard kind of way, but that is all, and during most of the book his -mistress seems to be cut out of the same simple material as her dog. -Lady Bertram's formula is, "I am kindly, but must not be fatigued," and -she functions out of it. But at the end there is a catastrophe. Her two -daughters come to grief—to the worst grief known to Miss Austen's -universe, far worse than the Napoleonic wars. Julia elopes Maria, who is -unhappily married, runs off with a lover. What is Lady Bertram's -reaction? The sentence describing it is significant: "Lady Bertram did -not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all -important points, and she saw therefore in all its enormity, what had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> -happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise -her, to think little of guilt and infamy." These are strong words, and -they used to worry me because I thought Jane Austen's moral sense was -getting out of hand. She may, and of course does, deprecate guilt and -infamy herself, and she duly causes all possible distress in the minds -of Edmund and Fanny, but has she any right to agitate calm, consistent -Lady Bertram? Is not it like giving pug three faces and setting him to -guard the gates of Hell? Ought not her ladyship to remain on the sofa -saying, "This is a dreadful and sadly exhausting business about Julia -and Maria, but where is Fanny gone? I have dropped another stitch"? -</p> -<p> -I used to think this, through misunderstanding Jane Austen's -method—exactly as Scott misunderstood it when he congratulated her -for painting on a square of ivory. She is a miniaturist, but never -two-dimensional. All her characters are round, or capable of rotundity. -Even Miss Bates has a mind, even Elizabeth Eliot a heart, and Lady -Bertram's moral fervour ceases to vex us when we realize this: the disk -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> -has suddenly extended and become a little globe. When the novel is -closed, Lady Bertram goes back to the flat, it is true; the dominant -impression she leaves can be summed up in a formula. But that is not how -Jane Austen conceived her, and the freshness of her reappearances are -due to this. Why do the characters in Jane Austen give us a slightly new -pleasure each time they come in, as opposed to the merely repetitive -pleasure that is caused by a character in Dickens? Why do they combine -so well in a conversation, and draw one another out without seeming to -do so, and never perform? The answer to this question can be put in -several ways: that, unlike Dickens, she was a real artist, that she -never stooped to caricature, etc. But the best reply is that her -characters though smaller than his are more highly organized. They -function all round, and even if her plot made greater demands on them -than it does, they would still be adequate. Suppose that Louisa Musgrove -had broken her neck on the Cobb. The description of her death would have -been feeble and ladylike—physical violence is quite beyond Miss -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> -Austen's powers—but the survivors would have reacted properly as soon -as the corpse was carried away, they would have brought into view new -sides of their character, and though <i>Persuasion</i> would have been -spoiled as a book, we should know more than we do about Captain -Wentworth and Anne. All the Jane Austen characters are ready for an -extended life, for a life which the scheme of her books seldom requires -them to lead, and that is why they lead their actual lives so -satisfactorily. Let us return to Lady Bertram and the crucial sentence. -See how subtly it modulates from her formula into an area where the -formula does not work. "Lady Bertram did not think deeply." Exactly: as -per formula. "But guided by Sir Thomas she thought justly on all -important points." Sir Thomas' guidance, which is part of the formula, -remains, but it pushes her ladyship towards an independent and undesired -morality. "She saw therefore in all its enormity what had happened." -This is the moral fortissimo—very strong but carefully introduced. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> -And then follows a most artful decrescendo, by means of negatives. "She -neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think -little of guilt or infamy." The formula is reappearing, because as a -rule she does try to minimize trouble, and does require Fanny to advise -her how to do this; indeed Fanny has done nothing else for the last ten -years. The words, though they are negatived, remind us of this, her -normal state is again in view, and she has in a single sentence been -inflated into a round character and collapsed back into a flat one. How -Jane Austen can write! In a few words she has extended Lady Bertram, and -by so doing she has increased the probability of the elopements of Maria -and Julia. I say probability because the elopements belong to the domain -of violent physical action, and here, as already indicated, Jane Austen -is feeble and ladylike. Except in her school-girl novels, she cannot -stage a crash. Everything violent has to take place "off"—Louisa's -accident and Marianne Dashwood's putrid throat are the nearest -exceptions—and consequently all the comments on the elopement must be -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> -sincere and convincing, otherwise we should doubt whether it occurred. -Lady Bertram helps us to believe that her daughters have run away, and -they have to run away, or there would be no apotheosis for Fanny. It is -a little point, and a little sentence, yet it shows us how delicately a -great novelist can modulate into the round. -</p> -<p> -All through her works we find these characters, apparently so simple and -flat, never needing reintroduction and yet never out of their -depth—Henry Tilney, Mr. Woodhouse, Charlotte Lucas. She may label her -characters "Sense," "Pride," "Sensibility," "Prejudice," but they are -not tethered to those qualities. -</p> -<p> -As for the round characters proper, they have already been defined by -implication and no more need be said. All I need do is to give some -examples of people in books who seem to me round so that the definition -can be tested afterwards: -</p> -<p> -All the principal characters in <i>War and Peace</i>, all the Dostoevsky -characters, and some of the Proust—for example, the old family -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> -servant, the Duchess of Guermantes, M. de Charlus, and Saint Loup; -Madame Bovary—who, like Moll Flanders, has her book to herself, -and can expand and secrete unchecked; some people in Thackeray—for -instance, Becky and Beatrix; some in Fielding—Parson Adams, Tom -Jones; and some in Charlotte Brontë, most particularly Lucy Snowe. (And -many more—this is not a catalogue.) The test of a round character -is whether it is capable of surprising in a convincing way. If it never -surprises, it is flat. If it does not convince, it is a flat pretending -to be round. It has the incalculability of life about it—life -within the pages of a book. And by using it sometimes alone, more often -in combination with the other kind, the novelist achieves his task of -acclimatization and harmonizes the human race with the other aspects of -his work. -</p> -<p> -ii. Now for the second device: the point of view from which the story -may be told. -</p> -<p> -To some critics this is the fundamental device of novel-writing. "The -whole intricate question of method, in the craft of fiction," says Mr. -Percy Lubbock, "I take to be governed by the question of the <i>point of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> -view</i>—the question of the relation in which the narrator stands -to the story." And his book <i>The Craft of Fiction</i> examines various -points of view with genius and insight. The novelist, he says, can -either describe the characters from outside, as an impartial or partial -onlooker; or he can assume omniscience and describe them from within; or -he can place himself in the position of one of them and affect to be in -the dark as to the motives of the rest; or there are certain -intermediate attitudes. -</p> -<p> -Those who follow him will lay a sure foundation for the æsthetics of -fiction—a foundation which I cannot for a moment promise. This is a -ramshackly survey and for me the "whole intricate question of method" -resolves itself not into formulæ but into the power of the writer to bounce -the reader into accepting what he says—a power which Mr. Lubbock -admits and admires, but locates at the edge of the problem instead of at -the centre. I should put it plumb in the centre. Look how Dickens bounces -us in <i>Bleak House</i>. Chapter I of <i>Bleak House</i> is omniscient. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> -Dickens takes us into the Court of Chancery and rapidly explains all the -people there. In Chapter II he is partially omniscient. We still use his -eyes, but for some unexplained reason they begin to grow weak: he can -explain Sir Leicester Dedlock to us, part of Lady Dedlock but not all, -and nothing of Mr. Tulkinghorn. In Chapter III he is even more -reprehensible: he goes straight across into the dramatic method and -inhabits a young lady, Esther Summerson. "I have a great deal of -difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for I know I -am not clever," pipes up Esther, and continues in this strain with -consistency and competence, so long as she is allowed to hold the pen. -At any moment the author of her being may snatch it from her, and run -about taking notes himself, leaving her seated goodness knows where, and -employed we do not care how. Logically, <i>Bleak House</i> is all to -pieces, but Dickens bounces us, so that we do not mind the shiftings of -the view point. -</p> -<p> -Critics are more apt to object than readers. Zealous for the novel's -eminence, they are a little too apt to look out for problems that shall -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> -be peculiar to it, and differentiate it from the drama; they feel it -ought to have its own technical troubles before it can be accepted as an -independent art; and since the problem of a point of view certainly is -peculiar to the novel they have rather overstressed it. I do not myself -think it is so important as a proper mixture of characters—a problem -which the dramatist is up against also. And the novelist must bounce us; -that is imperative. -</p> -<p> -Let us glance at two other examples of a shifting view point. -</p> -<p> -The eminent French writer, André Gide, has published a novel called -<i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i><a id="FNanchor_4_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_1" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>—for all its modernity, this novel of Gide's -has one aspect in common with <i>Bleak House</i>: it is all to pieces -logically. Sometimes the author is omniscient: he explains everything, -he stands back, "il juge ses personnages"; at other times his -omniscience is partial; yet again he is dramatic, and causes the story -to be told through the diary of one of the characters. There is the same -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> -absence of view point, but whereas in Dickens it was instinctive, in -Gide it is sophisticated; he expatiates too much about the jolts. The -novelist who betrays too much interest in his own method can never be -more than interesting; he has given up the creation of character and -summoned us to help analyse his own mind, and a heavy drop in the -emotional thermometer results. <i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i> is among the more -interesting of recent works: not among the vital: and greatly as we -shall have to admire it as a fabric we cannot praise it unrestrictedly -now. -</p> -<p> -For our second example we must again glance at <i>War and Peace</i>. Here -the result is vital: we are bounced up and down Russia—omniscient, -semi-omniscient, dramatized here or there as the moment dictates—and -at the end we have accepted it all. Mr. Lubbock does not, it is true: great -as he finds the book, he would find it greater if it had a view point; -he feels Tolstoy has not pulled his full weight. I feel that the rules -of the game of writing are not like this. A novelist can shift his view -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> -point if it comes off, and it came off with Dickens and Tolstoy. Indeed -this power to expand and contract perception (of which the shifting view -point is a symptom), this right to intermittent knowledge:—I find it -one of the great advantages of the novel-form, and it has a parallel in -our perception of life. We are stupider at some times than others; we -can enter into people's minds occasionally but not always, because our -own minds get tired; and this intermittence lends in the long run -variety and colour to the experiences we receive. A quantity of -novelists, English novelists especially, have behaved like this to the -people in their books: played fast and loose with them, and I cannot see -why they should be censured. -</p> -<p> -They must be censured if we catch them at it at the time. That is quite -true, and out of it arises another question: may the writer take the -reader into his confidence about his characters? Answer has already been -indicated: better not. It is dangerous, it generally leads to a drop in -the temperature, to intellectual and emotional laxity, and worse still -to facetiousness, and to a friendly invitation to see how the figures -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> -hook up behind. "Doesn't A look nice—she always was my favourite." -"Let's think of why B does that—perhaps there's more in him than -meets the eye—yes, see—he has a heart of gold—having -given you this peep at it I'll pop it back—I don't think he's -noticed." "And C—he always was the mystery man." Intimacy is -gained but at the expense of illusion and nobility. It is like standing -a man a drink so that he may not criticize your opinions. With all -respect to Fielding and Thackeray it is devastating, it is bar-parlour -chattiness, and nothing has been more harmful to the novels of the past. -To take your reader into your confidence about the universe is a -different thing. It is not dangerous for a novelist to draw back from -his characters, as Hardy and Conrad do, and to generalize about -the conditions under which he thinks life is carried on. It is -confidences about the individual people that do harm, and beckon -the reader away from the people to an examination of the novelist's -mind. Not much is ever found in it at such a moment, for it is never in -the creative state: the mere process of saying, "Come along, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> -let's have a chat," has cooled it down. -</p> -<p> -Our comments on human beings must now come to an end. They may take -fuller shape when we come to discuss the plot. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_4_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_1"><span class="label">[4]</span></a>Translated by Dorothy Bussy as <i>The Counterfeiters</i> -(Knopf).</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="V: THE PLOT"><a id="chap05"></a>V -<br><br> -THE PLOT</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -"CHARACTER," says Aristotle, "gives us qualities, but it is in -actions—what we do—that we are happy or the reverse." We -have already decided that Aristotle is wrong and now we must face the -consequences of disagreeing with him. "All human happiness and misery," -says Aristotle, "take the form of action." We know better. We believe -that happiness and misery exist in the secret life, which each of us -leads privately and to which (in his characters) the novelist has -access. And by the secret life we mean the life for which there is no -external evidence, not, as is vulgarly supposed, that which is revealed -by a chance word or a sigh. A chance word or sigh are just as much -evidence as a speech or a murder: the life they reveal ceases to be -secret and enters the realm of action. -</p> -<p> -There is, however, no occasion to be hard on Aristotle. He had read few -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> -novels and no modern ones—the <i>Odyssey</i> but not -<i>Ulysses</i>—he was by temperament apathetic to secrecy, and -indeed regarded the human mind as a sort of tub from which everything -can finally be extracted; and when he wrote the words quoted above he -had in view the drama, where no doubt they hold true. In the drama all -human happiness and misery does and must take the form of action. -Otherwise its existence remains unknown, and this is the great -difference between the drama and the novel. -</p> -<p> -The speciality of the novel is that the writer can talk about his -characters as well as through them or can arrange for us to listen when -they talk to themselves. He has access to self-communings, and from that -level he can descend even deeper and peer into the subconscious. A man does -not talk to himself quite truly—not even to himself; the happiness -or misery that he secretly feels proceed from causes that he cannot -quite explain, because as soon as he raises them to the level of the -explicable they lose their native quality. The novelist has a real pull -here. He can show the subconscious short-circuiting straight into action -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> -(the dramatist can do this too); he can also show it in its relation to -soliloquy. He commands all the secret life, and he must not be robbed of -this privilege. "How did the writer know that?" it is sometimes said. -"What's his standpoint? He is not being consistent, he's shifting his -point of view from the limited to the omniscient, and now he's edging -back again." Questions like these have too much the atmosphere of the -law courts about them. All that matters to the reader is whether the -shifting of attitude and the secret life are convincing, whether it is -<i>πιθανόν</i> in fact, and with his favourite word ringing in his -ears Aristotle may retire. -</p> -<p> -However, he leaves us in some confusion, for what, with this enlargement -of human nature, is going to become of the plot? In most literary works -there are two elements: human individuals, whom we have recently -discussed, and the element vaguely called art. Art we have also dallied -with, but with a very low form of it: the story: the chopped-off length -of the tapeworm of time. Now we arrive at a much higher aspect: the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> -plot, and the plot, instead of finding human beings more or less cut to -its requirements, as they are in the drama, finds them enormous, shadowy -and intractable, and three-quarters hidden like an iceberg. In vain it -points out to these unwieldy creatures the advantages of the triple -process of complication, crisis, and solution so persuasively expounded -by Aristotle. A few of them rise and comply, and a novel which ought to -have been a play is the result. But there is no general response. They -want to sit apart and brood or something, and the plot (whom I here -visualize as a sort of higher government official) is concerned at their -lack of public spirit: "This will not do," it seems to say. -"Individualism is a most valuable quality; indeed my own position -depends upon individuals; I have always admitted as much freely. -Nevertheless there are certain limits, and those limits are being -overstepped. Characters must not brood too long, they must not waste -time running up and down ladders in their own insides, they must -contribute, or higher interests will be jeopardised." How well one knows -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> -that phrase, "a contribution to the plot"! It is accorded, and of -necessity, by the people in a drama: how necessary is it in a novel? -</p> -<p> -Let us define a plot. We have defined a story as a narrative of events -arranged in their time-sequence. A plot is also a narrative of events, -the emphasis falling on causality. "The king died and then the queen -died," is a story. "The king died, and then the queen died of grief" is -a plot. The time-sequence is preserved, but the sense of causality -overshadows it. Or again: "The queen died, no one knew why, until it was -discovered that it was through grief at the death of the king." This is -a plot with a mystery in it, a form capable of high development. It -suspends the time-sequence, it moves as far away from the story as its -limitations will allow. Consider the death of the queen. If it is in a -story we say "and then?" If it is in a plot we ask "why?" That is the -fundamental difference between these two aspects of the novel. A plot -cannot be told to a gaping audience of cave men or to a tyrannical -sultan or to their modern descendant the movie-public. They can only be -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> -kept awake by "and then—and then——" They can only supply -curiosity. But a plot demands intelligence and memory also. -</p> -<p> -Curiosity is one of the lowest of the human faculties. You will have -noticed in daily life that when people are inquisitive they nearly -always have bad memories and are usually stupid at bottom. The man who -begins by asking you how many brothers and sisters you have, is never a -sympathetic character, and if you meet him in a year's time he will -probably ask you how many brothers and sisters you have, his mouth again -sagging open, his eyes still bulging from his head. It is difficult to -be friends with such a man, and for two inquisitive people to be friends -must be impossible. Curiosity by itself takes us a very little way, nor -does it take us far into the novel—only as far as the story. If we -would grasp the plot we must add intelligence and memory. -</p> -<p> -Intelligence first. The intelligent novel-reader, unlike the inquisitive -one who just runs his eye over a new fact, mentally picks it up. He sees -it from two points of view: isolated, and related to the other facts -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> -that he has read on previous pages. Probably he does not understand it, -but he does not expect to do so yet awhile. The facts in a highly -organized novel (like <i>The Egoist</i>) are often of the nature of -cross-correspondences and the ideal spectator cannot expect to view them -properly until he is sitting up on a hill at the end. This element of -surprise or mystery—the detective element as it is sometimes rather -emptily called—is of great importance in a plot. It occurs through a -suspension of the time-sequence; a mystery is a pocket in time, and it -occurs crudely, as in "Why did the queen die?" and more subtly in -half-explained gestures and words, the true meaning of which only dawns -pages ahead. Mystery is essential to a plot, and cannot be appreciated -without intelligence. To the curious it is just another "and -then——" To appreciate a mystery, part of the mind must be left -behind, brooding, while the other part goes marching on. -</p> -<p> -That brings us to our second qualification: memory. -</p> -<p> -Memory and intelligence are closely connected, for unless we remember we -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> -cannot understand. If by the time the queen dies we have forgotten the -existence of the king we shall never make out what killed her. The -plot-maker expects us to remember, we expect him to leave no loose ends. -Every action or word ought to count; it ought to be economical and -spare; even when complicated it should be organic and free from dead -matter. It may be difficult or easy, it may and should contain -mysteries, but it ought not to mislead. And over it, as it unfolds, will -hover the memory of the reader (that dull glow of the mind of which -intelligence is the bright advancing edge) and will constantly rearrange -and reconsider, seeing new clues, new chains of cause and effect, and -the final sense (if the plot has been a fine one) will not be of clues -or chains, but of something æsthetically compact, something which might -have been shown by the novelist straight away, only if he had shown it -straight away it would never have become beautiful. We come up against -beauty here—for the first time in our enquiry: beauty at which a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> -novelist should never aim, though he fails if he does not achieve it. I -will conduct beauty to her proper place later on. Meanwhile please -accept her as part of a completed plot. She looks a little surprised at -being there, but beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the -emotion that best suits her face, as Botticelli knew when he painted her -risen from the waves, between the winds and the flowers. The beauty who -does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due—she -reminds us too much of a prima donna. -</p> -<p> -But let us get back to the plot, and we will do so via George Meredith. -</p> -<p> -Meredith is not the great name he was twenty or thirty years ago, when -much of the universe and all Cambridge trembled. I remember how -depressed I used to be by a line in one of his poems: "We live but to be -sword or block." I did not want to be either and I knew that I was not a -sword. It seems though that there was no real cause for depression, for -Meredith is himself now rather in the trough of a wave, and though -fashion will turn and raise him a bit, he will never be the spiritual -power he was about the year 1900. His philosophy has not worn well. His -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> -heavy attacks on sentimentality—they bore the present generation, -which pursues the same quarry but with neater instruments, and is apt to -suspect any one carrying a blunderbuss of being a sentimentalist -himself. And his visions of Nature—they do not endure like Hardy's, -there is too much Surrey about them, they are fluffy and lush. He could -no more write the opening chapter of <i>The Return of the Native</i> than -Box Hill could visit Salisbury Plain. What is really tragic and enduring in -the scenery of England was hidden from him, and so is what is really -tragic in life. When he gets serious and noble-minded there is a -strident overtone, a bullying that becomes distressing. I feel indeed -that he was like Tennyson in one respect: through not taking himself -quietly enough he strained his inside. And his novels: most of the -social values are faked. The tailors are not tailors, the cricket -matches are not cricket, the railway, trains do not even seem to be -trains, the county families give the air of having been only just that -moment unpacked, scarcely in position before the action starts, the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> -straw still clinging to their beards. It is surely very odd, the social -scene in which his characters are set: it is partly due to his fantasy, -which is legitimate, but partly a chilly fake, and wrong. What with the -faking, what with the preaching, which was never agreeable and is now -said to be hollow, and what with the home counties posing as the -universe, it is no wonder Meredith now lies in the trough. And yet he is -in one way a great novelist. He is the finest contriver that English -fiction has ever produced, and any lecture on plot must do homage to -him. -</p> -<p> -Meredith's plots are not closely knit. We cannot describe the action of -<i>Harry Richmond</i> in a phrase, as we can that of <i>Great -Expectations</i>, though both books turn on the mistake made -by a young man as to the sources of his fortune. A Meredithian -plot is not a temple to the tragic or even to the comic Muse, -but rather resembles a series of kiosks most artfully placed -among wooded slopes, which his people reach by their own impetus, -and from which they emerge with altered aspect. Incident springs out -of character, and having occurred it alters that character. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> -People and events are closely connected, and he does it by means of -these contrivances. They are often delightful, sometimes touching, -always unexpected. This shock, followed by the feeling, "Oh, that's all -right," is a sign that all is well with the plot: characters, to be -real, ought to run smoothly, but a plot ought to cause surprise. The -horse-whipping of Dr. Shrapnel in <i>Beauchamp's Career</i> is a surprise. -We know that Everard Romfrey must dislike Shrapnel, must hate and -misunderstand his radicalism, and be jealous of his influence over -Beauchamp: we watch too the growth of the misunderstanding over -Rosamund, we watch the intrigues of Cecil Baskelett. As far as -characters go, Meredith plays with his cards on the table, but when the -incident comes what a shock it gives us and the characters too! The -tragicomic business of one old man whipping another from the highest -motives—it reacts upon all their world, and transforms all the -personages of the book. It is not the centre of <i>Beauchamp's Career</i>, -which indeed has no centre. It is essentially a contrivance, a door -through which the book is made to pass, emerging in an altered form. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> -Towards the close, when Beauchamp is drowned and Shrapnel and Romfrey -are reconciled over his body, there is an attempt to elevate the plot to -Aristotelian symmetry, to turn the novel into a temple wherein dwells -interpretation and peace. Meredith fails here: <i>Beauchamp's Career</i> -remains a series of contrivances (the visit to France is another of -them), but contrivances that spring from the characters and react upon -them. -</p> -<p> -And now briefly to illustrate the mystery element in the plot: the -formula of "The queen died, it was afterwards discovered through grief." -I will take an example, not from Dickens (though <i>Great Expectations</i> -provides a fine one), nor from Conan Doyle (whom my priggishness -prevents me from enjoying), but again from Meredith: an example of a -concealed emotion from the admirable plot of <i>The Egoist</i>: it occurs -in the character of Laetitia Dale. -</p> -<p> -We are told, at first, all that passes in Laetitia's mind. Sir -Willoughby has twice jilted her, she is sad, resigned. Then, for -dramatic reasons, her mind is hidden from us, it develops naturally -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> -enough, but does not re-emerge until the great midnight scene where he -asks her to marry him because he is not sure about Clara, and this time, -a changed woman, Laetitia says "No." Meredith has concealed the change. -It would have spoiled his high comedy if we had been kept in touch with -it throughout. Sir Willoughby has to have a series of crashes, to catch -at this and that, and find everything rickety. We should not enjoy the -fun, in fact it would be boorish, if we saw the author preparing the -booby traps beforehand, so Laetitia's apathy has been hidden from us. -This is one of the countless examples in which either plot or character -has to suffer, and Meredith with his unerring good sense here lets the -plot triumph. -</p> -<p> -As an example of mistaken triumph, I think of a slip—it is no more -than a slip—which Charlotte Brontë makes in <i>Villette</i>. She -allows Lucy Snowe to conceal from the reader her discovery that Dr. John -is the same as her old playmate Graham. When it comes out, we do get a good -plot thrill, but too much at the expense of Lucy's character. She has -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> -seemed, up to then, the spirit of integrity, and has, as it were, laid -herself under a moral obligation to narrate all that she knows. That she -stoops to suppress is a little distressing, though the incident is too -trivial to do her any permanent harm. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes a plot triumphs too completely. The characters have to suspend -their natures at every turn, or else are so swept away by the course of -Fate that our sense of their reality is weakened. We shall find -instances of this in a writer who is far greater than Meredith, and yet -less successful as a novelist—Thomas Hardy. Hardy seems to me -essentially a poet, who conceives of his novels from an enormous height. -They are to be tragedies or tragi-comedies, they are to give out the -sound of hammer-strokes as they proceed; in other words Hardy arranges -events with emphasis on causality, the ground plan is a plot, and the -characters are ordered to acquiesce in its requirements. Except in the -person of Tess (who conveys the feeling that she is greater than -destiny) this aspect of his work is unsatisfactory. His characters are -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> -involved in various snares, they are finally bound hand and foot, there -is ceaseless emphasis on fate, and yet, for all the sacrifices made to it, -we never see the action as a living thing as we see it in <i>Antigone</i> -or <i>Berenice</i> or <i>The Cherry Orchard</i>. The fate above us, not the -fate working through us—that is what is eminent and memorable in the -Wessex novels. Egdon Heath before Eustada Vye has set foot upon it. The -woods without the Woodlanders. The downs above Budmouth Regis with the -royal princesses, still asleep, driving across them through the dawn. -Hardy's success in <i>The Dynasts</i> (where he uses another medium) is -complete, there the hammer-strokes are heard, cause and effect enchain the -characters despite their struggles, complete contact between the actors -and the plot is established. But in the novels, though the same superb -and terrible machine works, it never catches humanity in its teeth; -there is some vital problem that has not been answered, or even posed, -in the misfortunes of Jude the Obscure. In other words the characters -have been required to contribute too much to the plot; except in their -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> -rustic humours, their vitality has been impoverished, they have gone dry -and thin. This, as far as I can make out, is the flaw running through -Hardy's novels: he has emphasized causality more strongly than his -medium permits. As a poet and prophet and visualizer George Meredith is -nothing by his side—just a suburban roarer—but Meredith did -know what the novel could stand, where the plot could dun the characters -for a contribution, where it must let them function as they liked. And -the moral—well, I see no moral, because the work of Hardy is my -home and that of Meredith cannot be: still the moral from the point of -these lectures is again unfavourable to Aristotle. In the novel, all -human happiness and misery does not take the form of action, it seeks -means of expression other than through the plot, it must not be rigidly -canalized. -</p> -<p> -In the losing battle that the plot fights with the characters, it often -takes a cowardly revenge. Nearly all novels are feeble at the end. This -is because the plot requires to be wound up. Why is this necessary? Why -is there not a convention which allows a novelist to stop as soon as he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> -feels muddled or bored? Alas, he has to round things off, and usually -the characters go dead while he is at work, and our final impression of -them is through deadness. <i>The Vicar of Wakefield</i> is in this way a -typical novel, so clever and fresh in the first half, up to the painting -of the family group with Mrs. Primrose as Venus, and then so wooden and -imbecile. Incidents and people that occurred at first for their own sake -now have to contribute to the dénouement. In the end even the author -feels he is being a little foolish. "Nor can I go on," he says, "without -a reflection on those accidental meetings which, though they happen -every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some extraordinary -occasion." Goldsmith is of course a light-weight, but most novels do -fail here—there is this disastrous standstill while logic takes over -the command from flesh and blood. If it was not for death and marriage -I do not know how the average novelist would conclude. Death and -marriage are almost his only connection between his characters and his -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> -plot, and the reader is more ready to meet him here, and take a bookish -view of them, provided they occur later on in the book: the writer, poor -fellow, must be allowed to finish up somehow, he has his living to get -like any one else, so no wonder that nothing is heard but hammering and -screwing. -</p> -<p> -This—as far as one can generalize—is the inherent defect of -novels: they go off at the end: and there are two explanations of it: -firstly, failure of pep, which threatens the novelist like all workers: -and secondly, the difficulty which we have been discussing. The -characters have been getting out of hand, laying foundations and -declining to build on them afterwards, and now the novelist has to -labour personally, in order that the job may be done to time. He -pretends that the characters are acting for him. He keeps mentioning -their names and using inverted commas. But the characters are gone or -dead. -</p> -<p> -The plot, then, is the novel in its logical intellectual aspect: it -requires mystery, but the mysteries are solved later on: the reader may -be moving about in worlds unrealized, but the novelist has no -misgivings. He is competent, poised above his work, throwing a beam of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> -light here, popping on a cap of invisibility there, and (qua plot-maker) -continually negotiating with himself qua character-monger as to the best -effect to be produced. He plans his book beforehand: or anyhow he stands -above it, his interest in cause and effect give him an air of -predetermination. -</p> -<p> -And now we must ask ourselves whether the framework thus produced is the -best possible for a novel. After all, why has a novel to be planned? -Cannot it grow? Why need it close, as a play closes? Cannot it open out? -Instead of standing above his work and controlling it, cannot the -novelist throw himself into it and be carried along to some goal that he -does not foresee? The plot is exciting and may be beautiful, yet is it -not a fetich, borrowed from the drama, from the spatial limitations of -the stage? Cannot fiction devise a framework that is not so logical yet -more suitable to its genius? -</p> -<p> -Modern writers say that it can, and we will now examine a recent -example—a violent onslaught on the plot as we have defined it: a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> -constructive attempt to put something in the place of the plot. -</p> -<p> -I have already mentioned the novel in question: <i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i> -by André Gide. It contains within its covers both the methods. Gide has -also published the diary he kept while he was writing the novel, and -there is no reason why he should not publish in the future the -impressions he had when rereading both the diary and the novel, and in -the future-perfect a still more final synthesis in which the diary, the -novel, and his impressions of both will interact. He is indeed a little -more solemn than an author should be about the whole caboodle, but -regarded as a caboodle it is excessively interesting, and repays careful -study by critics. -</p> -<p> -We have, in the first place, a plot in <i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i> of the -logical objective type that we have been considering—a plot, or -rather fragments of plots. The main fragment concerns a young man called -Olivier—a charming, touching and lovable character, who misses -happiness, and then recovers it after an excellently contrived -dénouement; confers it also; this fragment has a wonderful radiance and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> -"lives," if I may use so coarse a word, it is a successful creation on -familiar lines. But it is by no means the centre of the book. No more are -the other logical fragments—that which concerns Georges, Olivier's -schoolboy brother, who passes false coin, and is instrumental in driving -a fellow-pupil to suicide. (Gide gives us his sources for all this in -his diary, he got the idea of Georges from a boy whom he caught trying -to steal a book off a stall, the gang of coiners were caught at Rouen, -and the suicide of children took place at Clermont-Ferrand, etc.) -Neither Olivier, nor Georges, nor Vincent a third brother, nor Bernard -their friend is the centre of the book. We come nearer to it in Edouard. -Edouard is a novelist. He bears the same relation to Gide as Clissold -does to Wells. I dare not be more precise. Like Gide, he keeps a diary, -like Gide he is writing a book called <i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i>, and like -Clissold he is disavowed. Edouard's diary is printed in full. It begins -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> -before the plot-fragments, continues during them, and forms the bulk of -Gide's book. Edouard is not just a chronicler. He is an actor too; -indeed it is he who rescues Olivier and is rescued by him; we leave -those two in happiness. -</p> -<p> -But that is still not the centre. The nearest to the centre lies in a -discussion about the art of the novel. Edouard is holding forth to -Bernard his secretary and some friends. He has said (what we all accept -as commonplace) that truth in life and truth in a novel are not -identical, and then he goes on to say that he wants to write a book -which shall include both sorts of truth. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"And what is its subject?" asked Sophroniska. -</p> -<p> -"There is none," said Edouard sharply. "My novel has no subject. No -doubt that sounds foolish. Let us say, if you prefer, that it will not -have 'a' subject.... 'A slice of life,' the naturalistic school used to -say. The mistake that school made was always to cut its slice in the -same direction, always lengthwise, in the direction of time. Why not cut -it up and down? Or across? As for me, I don't want to cut it at all. You -see what I mean. I want to put everything into my novel and not snip off -my material either here or there. I have been working for a year, and -there is nothing I haven't put in: all I see, all I know, all I can -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> -learn from other people's lives and my own." -</p> -<p> -"My poor man, you will bore your readers to death," cried Layra, unable -to restrain her mirth. -</p> -<p> -"Not at all. To get my effect, I am inventing, as my central character, -a novelist, and the subject of my book will be the struggle between what -reality offers him and what he tries to make of the offer." -</p> -<p> -"Have you planned out this book?" asked Sophroniska, trying to keep -grave. -</p> -<p> -"Of course not." -</p> -<p> -"Why 'of course'?" -</p> -<p> -"For a book of this type any plan would be unsuitable. The whole of it -would go wrong if I decided any detail ahead. I am waiting for reality -to dictate to me." -</p> -<p> -"But I thought you wanted to get away from reality." -</p> -<p> -"My novelist wants to get away, but I keep pulling him back. To tell the -truth, this is my subject: the struggle between facts as proposed by -reality, and the ideal reality." -</p> -<p> -"Do tell us the name of this book," said Laura, in despair. -</p> -<p> -"Very well. Tell it them, Bernard." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i>" said Bernard. "And now will you please tell us -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> -who these faux monnayeurs are." -</p> -<p> -"I haven't the least idea." -</p> -<p> -Bernard and Laura looked at each other and then at Sophroniska. There -was the sound of a deep sigh. -</p> -<p> -The fact was that ideas about money, depreciation, inflation, forgery, -etc., had gradually invaded Edouard's book—just as theories of -clothing invade <i>Sartor Resartus</i> and even assume the functions of -characters. "Has any of you ever had hold of a false coin?" he asked -after a pause. "Imagine a ten-franc piece, gold, false. It is actually -worth a couple of sous, but it will remain worth ten francs until it is -found out. Suppose I begin with the idea that——" -</p> -<p> -"But why begin with an idea?" burst out Bernard, who was by now in a -state of exasperation. "Why not begin with a fact? If you introduce the -fact properly, the idea will follow of itself. If I was writing your -<i>Faux Monnayeurs</i> I should begin with a piece of false money, with the -ten-franc piece you were speaking of, and here it is!" -</p> -<p> -So saying, Bernard pulled a ten-franc piece out of his pocket and flung -it on the table. -</p> -<p> -"There," he remarked. "It rings all right. I got it this morning from -the grocer. It's worth more than a couple of sous, as it's coated in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> -gold, but it's actually made of glass. It will become quite transparent -in time. No—don't rub it—you're going to spoil my false coin." -</p> -<p> -Edouard had taken it and was examining it with the utmost attention. -</p> -<p> -"How did the grocer get it?" -</p> -<p> -"He doesn't know. He passed it on me for a joke, and then enlightened -me, being a decent fellow. He let me have it for five francs. I thought -that, since you were writing <i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i>, you ought to see -what false money is like, so I got it to show you. Now that you have -looked at it, give it me back. I am sorry to see that reality has no -interest for you." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said Edouard: "it interests me, but it puts me out." -</p> -<p> -"That's a pity," remarked Bernard.<a id="FNanchor_5_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_1" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -This passage is the centre of the book. It contains the old thesis of -truth in life versus truth in art, and illustrates it very neatly by the -arrival of an actual false coin. What is new in it is the attempt to -combine the two truths, the proposal that writers should mix themselves -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> -up in their material and be rolled over and over by it; they should not -try to subdue any longer, they should hope to be subdued, to be carried -away. As for a plot—to pot with the plot, break it up, boil it down. -Let there be those "formidable erosions of contour" of which Nietzsche -speaks. All that is prearranged is false. -</p> -<p> -Another distinguished critic has agreed with Gide—that old lady in -the anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical. For some -time she could not be brought to understand what logic was, and when she -grasped its true nature she was not so much angry as contemptuous. -"Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish!" she exclaimed. "How can I tell -what I think till I see what I say?" Her nieces, educated young women, -thought that she was passée; she was really more up to date than they -were. -</p> -<p> -Those who are in touch with contemporary France, say that the present -generation follows the advice of Gide and the old lady and resolutely -hurls itself into confusion, and indeed admires English novelists on the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> -ground that they so seldom succeed in what they attempt. Compliments are -always delightful, but this particular one is a bit of a backhander. It -is like trying to lay an egg and being told you have produced a -paraboloid—more curious than gratifying. And what results when you -try to lay a paraboloid, I cannot conceive—perhaps the death of -the hen. That seems the danger in Gide's position—he sets out to -lay a paraboloid; he is not well advised, if he wants to write -subconscious novels, to reason so lucidly and patiently about the -subconscious; he is introducing mysticism at the wrong stage of the -process. However that is his affair. As a critic he is most stimulating, -and the various bundles of words he has called <i>Les Faux -Monnayeurs</i> will be enjoyed by all who cannot tell what they think -till they see what they say, or who weary of the tyranny by the plot and -of its alternative, tyranny by characters. -</p> -<p> -There is clearly something else in view, some other aspect or aspects -which we have yet to examine. We may suspect the claim to be consciously -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> -subconscious, nevertheless there is a vague and vast residue into which -the subconscious enters. Poetry, religion, passion—we have not placed -them yet, and since we are critics—only critics—we must try to place -them, to catalogue the rainbow. We have already peeped and botanized -upon our mothers' graves. -</p> -<p> -The numbering of the warp and woof of the rainbow must accordingly be -attempted and we must now bring our minds to bear on the subject of -fantasy. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_5_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_1"><span class="label">[5]</span></a>Paraphrased from <i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i>, pp. 238-246. -My version, needless to say, conveys neither the subtlety nor the -balance of the original.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="VI: FANTASY"><a id="chap06"></a>VI -<br><br> -FANTASY</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -A course of lectures, if it is to be more than a collection of remarks, -must have an idea running through it. It must also have a subject, and -the idea ought to run through the subject too. This is so obvious as to -sound foolish, but any one who has tried to lecture will realize that -here is a genuine difficulty. A course, like any other collection of -words, generates an atmosphere. It has its own apparatus—a lecturer, -an audience or provision for one, it occurs at regular intervals, it is -announced by printed notices, and it has a financial side, though this -last is tactfully concealed. Thus it tends in its parasitic way to lead -a life of its own, and it and the idea running through it are apt to -move in one direction while the subject steals off in the other. -</p> -<p> -The idea running through these lectures is by now plain enough: that -there are in the novel two forces: human beings and a bundle of various -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> -things not human beings, and that it is the novelist's business to -adjust these two forces and conciliate their claims. That is plain -enough, but does it run through the novel too? Perhaps our subject, -namely the books we have read, has stolen away from us while we -theorize, like a shadow from an ascending bird. The bird is all -right—it climbs, it is consistent and eminent. The shadow is all -right—it has flickered across roads and gardens. But the two things -resemble one another less and less, they do not touch as they did when -the bird rested its toes on the ground. Criticism, especially a critical -course, is so misleading. However lofty its intentions and sound its -method, its subject slides away from beneath it, imperceptibly away, and -lecturer and audience may awake with a start to find that they are -carrying on in a distinguished and intelligent manner, but in regions -which have nothing to do with anything they have read. -</p> -<p> -It was this that was worrying Gide, or rather one of the things that was -worrying him, for he has an anxious mind. When we try to translate truth -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> -out of one sphere into another, whether from life into books or from -books into lectures, something happens to truth, it goes wrong, not -suddenly when it might be detected, but slowly. That long passage from -<i>Les Faux Monnayeurs</i> already quoted, may recall the bird to its -shadow. It is not possible, after it, to apply the old apparatus any -more. There is more in the novel than time or people or logic or any of -their derivatives, more even than Fate. And by "more" I do not mean -something that excludes these aspects nor something that includes them, -embraces them. I mean something that cuts across them like a bar of -light, that is intimately connected with them at one place and patiently -illumines all their problems, and at another place shoots over or -through them as if they did not exist. We shall give that bar of light -two names, fantasy and prophecy. -</p> -<p> -The novels we have now to consider all tell a story, contain characters, -and have plots or bits of plots, so we could apply to them the apparatus -suited for Fielding or Arnold Bennett. But when I say two of their -names—<i>Tristram Shandy</i> and <i>Moby Dick</i>—it is clear -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> -that we must stop and think a moment. The bird and the shadow are too -far apart. A new formula must be found: the mere fact that one can -mention Tristram and Moby in a single sentence shows it. What an -impossible pair! As far apart as the poles. Yes. And like the poles they -have one thing in common, which the lands round the equator do not -share: an axis. What is essential in Sterne and Melville belongs to this -new aspect of fiction: the fantastic-prophetical axis. George Meredith -touched it: he was somewhat fantastic. So did Charlotte Brontë: she was -a prophetess occasionally. But in neither of these was it essential. -Deprive them of it, and a book remains which still resembles <i>Harry -Richmond</i> or <i>Shirley</i>. Deprive Sterne or Melville of it, -deprive Peacock or Max Beerbohm or Virginia Woolf or Walter de la Mare -or William Beckford or James Joyce or D. H. Lawrence or Swift, and -nothing is left at all. -</p> -<p> -Our easiest approach to a definition of any aspect of fiction is always -by considering the sort of demand it makes on the reader. Curiosity for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> -the story, human feelings and a sense of value for the characters, -intelligence and memory for the plot. What does fantasy ask of us? It -asks us to pay something, extra. It compels us to an adjustment that is -different to an adjustment required by a work of art, to an additional -adjustment. The other novelists say "Here is something that might occur -in your lives," the fantasist says "Here's something that could not -occur. I must ask you first to accept my book as a whole, and secondly -to accept certain things in my book." Many readers can grant the first -request, but refuse the second. "One knows a book isn't real," they say, -"still one does expect it to be natural, and this angel or midget or ghost -or silly delay about the child's birth—no, it is too much." They -either retract their original concession and stop reading, or if they do -go on it is with complete coldness, and they watch the gambols of the -author without realizing how much they may mean to him. -</p> -<p> -No doubt the above approach is not critically sound. We all know that a -work of art is an entity, etc., etc.; it has its own laws which are not -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> -those of daily life, anything that suits it is true, so why should any -question arise about the angel, etc., except whether it is suitable to -its book? Why place an angel on a different basis from a stockbroker? -Once in the realm of the fictitious, what difference is there between an -apparition and a mortgage? I see the soundness of this argument, but my -heart refuses to assent. The general tone of novels is so literal that -when the fantastic is introduced it produces a special effect: some readers -are thrilled, others choked off: it demands an additional adjustment -because of the oddness of its method or subject matter—like -a sideshow in an exhibition where you have to pay sixpence as well as -the original entrance fee. Some readers pay with delight, it is only for -the sideshows that they entered the exhibition, and it is only to them I -can now speak. Others refuse with indignation, and these have our -sincere regards, for to dislike the fantastic in literature is not to -dislike literature. It does not even imply poverty of imagination, only -a disinclination to meet certain demands that are made on it. Mr. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> -Asquith (if gossip is correct) could not meet the demands made on him by -<i>Lady into Fox</i>. He should not have objected, he said, if the fox had -become a lady again, but as it was he was left with an uncomfortable -dissatisfied feeling. This feeling reflects no discredit either upon an -eminent politician or a charming book. It merely means that Mr. Asquith, -though a genuine lover of literature, could not pay the additional -sixpence—or rather he was willing to pay it but hoped to get it back -again at the end. -</p> -<p> -So fantasy asks us to pay something extra. -</p> -<p> -Let us now distinguish between fantasy and prophecy. -</p> -<p> -They are alike in having gods, and unlike in the gods they have. There -is in both the sense of mythology which differentiates them from other -aspects of our subject. An invocation is again possible, therefore on -behalf of fantasy let us now invoke all beings who inhabit the lower -air, the shallow water, and the smaller hills, all Fauns and Dryads and -slips of the memory, all verbal coincidences, Pans and puns, all that is -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> -mediæval this side of the grave. When we come to prophecy, we shall -utter no invocation, but it will have been to whatever transcends our -abilities, even when it is human passion that transcends them, to the -deities of India, Greece, Scandinavia and Judæa, to all that is -mediæval beyond the grave and to Lucifer son of the morning. By their -mythologies we shall distinguish these two sorts of novels. -</p> -<p> -A number of rather small gods then should haunt us today—I would call -them fairies if the word were not consecrated to imbecility. (Do you -believe in fairies? No, not under any circumstances.) The stuff of daily -life will be tugged and strained in various directions, the earth will -be given little tilts mischievous or pensive, spot lights will fall on -objects that have no reason to anticipate or welcome them, and tragedy -herself, though not excluded, will have a fortuitous air as if a word -would disarm her. The power of fantasy penetrates into every corner of the -universe, but not into the forces that govern it—the stars -that are the brain of heaven, the army of unalterable law, remain -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> -untouched—and novels of this type have an improvised air, which is -the secret of their force and charm. They may contain solid -character-drawing, penetrating and bitter criticism of conduct and -civilization; yet our simile of the beam of light must remain, and if -one god must be invoked specially, let us call upon -Hermes—messenger, thief, and conductor of souls to a not too -terrible hereafter. -</p> -<p> -You will expect me now to say that a fantastic book asks us to accept -the supernatural. I will say it, but reluctantly, because any statement -as to their subject matter brings these novels into the claws of -critical apparatus, from which it is important that they should be -saved. It is truer of them than of most books that we can only know what -is in them by reading them, and their appeal is specially -personal—they are sideshows inside the main show. So I would -rather hedge as much as possible, and say that they ask us to accept -either the supernatural or its absence. -</p> -<p> -A reference to the greatest of the them—<i>Tristram -Shandy</i>—will make this point clear. The supernatural is absent -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> -from the Shandy ménage, yet a thousand incidents suggest that it is not -far off. It would not be really odd, would it, if the furniture in Mr. -Shandy's bedroom, where he retired in despair after hearing the omitted -details of his son's birth, should come alive like Belinda's toilette in -<i>The Rape of the Lock</i>, or that Uncle Toby's drawbridge should lead -into Lilliput? There is a charmed stagnation about the whole -epic—the more the characters do the less gets done, the less they -have to say the more they talk, the harder they think the softer they -get, facts have an unholy tendency to unwind and trip up the past -instead of begetting the future, as in well-conducted books, and the -obstinacy of inanimate objects, like Dr. Slop's bag, is most suspicious. -Obviously a god is hidden in <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, his name is Muddle, -and some readers cannot accept him. Muddle is almost -incarnate—quite to reveal his awful features was not Sterne's -intention; that is the deity that lurks behind his masterpiece—the -army of unutterable muddle, the universe as a hot chestnut. Small wonder -that another divine muddler, Dr. Johnson, writing in 1776, should -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> -remark, "Nothing odd will do long: <i>Tristram Shandy</i> did not last!" -Doctor Johnson was not always happy in his literary judgments, but the -appropriateness of this one passes belief. -</p> -<p> -Well, that must serve as our definition of fantasy. It implies the -supernatural, but need not express it. Often it does express it, and -were that type of classification helpful, we could make a list of the -devices which writers of a fantastic turn have used—such as the -introduction of a god, ghost, angel, monkey, monster, midget, witch into -ordinary life; or the introduction of ordinary men into no man's land, -the future, the past, the interior of the earth, the fourth dimension; -or divings into and dividings of personality; or finally the device of -parody or adaptation. These devices need never grow stale; they will -occur naturally to writers of a certain temperament, and be put to fresh -use; but the fact that their number is strictly limited is of interest; -and suggests that the beam of light can only be manipulated in certain -ways. -</p> -<p> -I will select, as a typical example, a recent book about a witch: -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> -<i>Flecker's Magic</i>, by Norman Matson. It seemed to me good and I -recommended it to a friend whose judgment I respect. He thought it poor. -That is what is so tiresome about new books; they never give us that -restful feeling which we have when perusing the classics. <i>Flecker's -Magic</i> contains scarcely anything that is new—fantasies cannot: -only the old old story of the wishing ring which brings either misery or -nothing at all. Flecker, an American boy who is learning to paint in -Paris, is given the ring by a girl in a café; she is a witch, she tells -him; he has only to be sure what he wants and he will get it. To prove -her power, a motor-bus rises slowly from the street and turns upside -down in the air. The passengers, who do not fall out, try to look as if -nothing was happening. The driver, who is standing on the pavement at -the moment, cannot conceal his surprise, but when his bus returns safe -to earth again he thinks it wiser to get into his seat and drive off as -usual. Motor-buses do not revolve slowly through the air—so they do -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> -not. Flecker now accepts the ring. His character, though slightly -sketched, is individual, and this definiteness causes the book to grip. -</p> -<p> -It proceeds with a growing tension, a series of little shocks. The -method is Socratic. The boy starts by thinking of something obvious, -like a Rolls-Royce. But where shall he put the beastly thing? Or a -beautiful lady. But what about her carte d'identité? Or money? Ah, -that's more like it—he is almost a beggar. Say a million dollars. -He prepares to turn the ring for this wish—except while one's -about it two millions seem safer—or ten—or—and money -blares out into madness, and the same thing happens when he thinks of -long life: to die in forty years—no, in fifty—in one -hundred—horrible, horrible. Then a solution occurs. He has always -wanted to be a great painter. Well, he'll be it at once. But what kind -of greatness? Giotto's? Cézanne's? Certainly not; his own kind, and he -does not know what that is, so this wish likewise is impossible. -</p> -<p> -And now a horrible old woman begins to haunt his days and dreams. She -reminds him vaguely of the girl who gave him the ring. She knows his -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> -thoughts and she is always sidling up to him in the streets and saying, -"Dear boy—darling boy—wish for happiness." We learn in time -that she is the real witch—the girl was a human acquaintance whom -she used to get into touch with Flecker. The last of the -witches—very lonely. The rest have committed suicide during the -eighteenth century—they could not endure to survive into the world -of Newton where two and two make four, and even the world of Einstein is -not sufficiently decentralised to revive them. She has hung on in the -hope of smashing this world, and she wants the boy to ask for happiness -because such a wish has never been made in all the history of the ring. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Perhaps Flecker was the first modern man to find himself in this -predicament? The people of the old world had so little they knew surely -what they wanted. They knew about Almighty God, who wore a beard and sat -in an armchair about a mile above the fields, and life was very short -and very long too, for the days were so full of unthinking effort. -</p> -<p> -The people of the recorded olden times wished for a beautiful castle on -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> -a high hill and lived therein until death. But the hill was not so high -one might see from the windows back along thirty centuries—as one may -from a bungalow. In the castle there were no great volumes filled with -words and pictures of things dug up by man's relentless curiosity from -sand and soil in all comers of the world; there was a sentimental -half-belief in dragons, but no knowledge that once upon a time only -dragons had lived on the earth—that man's grandfather and grandmother -were dragons; there were no movies flickering like thoughts against a -white wall, no phonograph, no machinery with which to achieve the -sensation of speed; no diagrams of the fourth dimension, no contrasts in -life like that of Waterville, Minn., and Paris, France. In the castle -the light was weak and flickering, hallways were dark, rooms deeply -shadowed. The little outside world was full of shadow, and on the very -top of the mind of him who lived in the castle played a dim -light—underneath were shadows, fear, ignorance, will-to-ignorance. -Most of all, there was not in the castle on the hill the breathless sense -of imminent revelation—that today or surely tomorrow Man would at a -stroke double his power and change the world again. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> -</p> -<p> -The ancient tales of magic were the mumbling thoughts of a distant -shabby little world—so, at least, thought Flecker, offended. The -tales gave him no guidance. There was too much difference between his world -and theirs. -</p> -<p> -He wondered if he hadn't dismissed the wish for happiness rather -heedlessly? He seemed to get nowhere thinking about it. He was not wise -enough. In the old tales a wish for happiness was never made! He -wondered why. -</p> -<p> -He might chance it—just to see what would happen. The thought made -him tremble. He leaped from his bed and paced the red-tiled floor, rubbing -his hands together. -</p> -<p> -"I want to be happy for ever," he whispered, to hear the words, careful -not to touch the ring. "<i>Happy ... for ever</i>"—the two -syllables of the first word, like hard little pebbles, struck musically -against the bell of his imagination, but the second was a sigh. <i>For -ever</i>—his spirit sank under the soft heavy impact of it. Held -in his thought the word made a dreary music, fading. "<i>Happy for -ever</i>"—NO!! -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Thus again and again—the mark of the true fantasist—does Norman -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> -Matson merge the kingdoms of magic and common sense by using words that -apply to both, and the mixture he has created comes alive. I will not -tell the end of the story. You will have guessed its essentials, but -there are always surprises in the working of a fresh mind, and to the -end of time good literature will be made round this notion of a wish. -</p> -<p> -To turn from this simple example of the supernatural to a more -complicated one—to a highly accomplished and superbly written book -whose spirit is farcical: <i>Zuleika Dobson</i> by Max Beerbohm. You all -know Miss Dobson—not personally, or you would not be here now. She -is that damsel for love of whom all the undergraduates of Oxford except -one drowned themselves during Eights week, and he threw himself out of a -window. -</p> -<p> -A superb theme for a fantasy, but all will depend on the handling. It is -treated with a mixture of realism, wittiness, charm and mythology, and -the mythology is most important. Max has borrowed or created a number of -supernatural machines—to have entrusted Zuleika to one of them would -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> -be inept; the fantasy would become heavy or thin. But we pass from the -sweating emperors to the black and pink pearls, the hooting owls, the -interference of the Muse Clio, the ghosts of Chopin and George Sand, of -Nellie O'Mora; just as one fails another starts, to uphold this gayest -and most exquisite of funeral palls. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Through the square, across the High, down Grove Street they -passed. The Duke looked up at the tower of Merton, <i>ώs oὔπoτ' αὗθιs -ἀλλὰ νῦν πανύστατoν</i>. Strange that tonight it would still be -standing here, in all its sober and solid beauty—still be -gazing, over the roofs and chimneys, at the tower of Magdalen, its -rightful bride. Through untold centuries of the future it would stand -thus, gaze thus. He winced. Oxford walls have a way of belittling us; -and the Duke was loth to regard his doom as trivial. -</p> -<p> -Aye, by all minerals we are mocked. Vegetables, yearly deciduous, are -far more sympathetic. The lilac and laburnum, making lovely now the -railed pathway to Christ Church meadow, were all a-swaying and nodding -to the Duke as he passed by. "Adieu, adieu, your Grace," they were -whispering. "We are very sorry for you, very sorry indeed. We never -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> -dared suppose you would predecease us. We think your death a very great -tragedy. Adieu! Perhaps we shall meet in another world—that is, if -the members of the animal kingdom have immortal souls, as we have." -</p> -<p> -The Duke was little versed in their language; yet, as he passed between -these gently garrulous blooms, he caught at the least the drift of their -salutation, and smiled a vague but courteous acknowledgment, to the -right and the left alternately, creating a very favourable impression. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Has not a passage like this—with its freedom of invocation—a -beauty unattainable by serious literature? It is so funny and charming, so -iridescent yet so profound. Criticisms of human nature fly through the -book, not like arrows but upon the wings of sylphs. Towards the -end—that dreadful end often so fatal to fiction—the book rather -flags: the suicide of all the undergraduates of Oxford is not as delightful -as it ought to be when viewed at close quarters, and the defenestration of -Noaks almost nasty. Still it is a great work—the most consistent -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> -achievement of fantasy in our time, and the closing scene in Zuleika's -bedroom with its menace of further disasters is impeccable. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -And now with pent breath and fast-beating heart, she stared at the lady -of the mirror, without seeing her; and now she wheeled round and swiftly -glided to that little table on which stood her two books. She snatched -Bradshaw. -</p> -<p> -We always intervene between Bradshaw and any one whom we see consulting -him. "Mademoiselle will permit me to find that which she seeks?" asked -Melisande. -</p> -<p> -"Be quiet," said Zuleika. We always repulse, at first, any one who -intervenes between us and Bradshaw. -</p> -<p> -We always end by accepting the intervention. "See if it is possible to -go direct from here to Cambridge," said Zuleika, handing the book on. -"If it isn't, then—well, see how one <i>does</i> get there." -</p> -<p> -We never have any confidence in the intervener. Nor is the intervener, -when it comes to the point, sanguine. With mistrust mounting to -exasperation Zuleika sat watching the faint and frantic researches of -her maid. -</p> -<p> -"Stop!" she said suddenly. "I have a much better idea. Go down very -early to the station. See the stationmaster. Order me a special train. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> -For ten o'clock, say." -</p> -<p> -Rising, she stretched her arms above her head. Her lips parted in a -yawn, met in a smile. With both hands she pushed back her hair from her -shoulders, and twisted it into a loose knot. Very lightly she slipped up -into bed, and very soon she was asleep. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -So Zuleika ought to have come on to this place. She does not seem ever -to have arrived and we can only suppose that through the intervention of -the gods her special train failed to start, or, more likely, is still in -a siding at Bletchley. -</p> -<p> -Among the devices in my list I mentioned "parody" or "adaptation" and -would now examine this further. The fantasist here adopts for his -mythology some earlier work and uses it as a framework or quarry for his -own purposes. There is an aborted example of this in <i>Joseph Andrews</i>. -Fielding set out to use <i>Pamela</i> as a comic mythology. He thought it -would be fun to invent a brother to Pamela, a pure-minded footman, who -should repulse Lady Booby's attentions just as Pamela had repulsed Mr. -B.'s, and he made Lady Booby Mr. B.'s aunt. Thus he would be able to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> -laugh at Richardson, and incidentally express his own views of life. -Fielding's view of life however was of the sort that only rests content -with the creation of solid round characters, and with the growth of -Parson Adams and Mrs. Slipslop the fantasy ceases, and we get an -independent work. <i>Joseph Andrews</i> (which is also important -historically) is interesting to us as an example of a false start. Its -author begins by playing the fool in a Richardsonian world, and ends by -being serious in a world of his own—the world of Tom Jones and -Amelia. -</p> -<p> -Parody or adaptation have enormous advantages to certain novelists, -particularly to those who may have a great deal to say and plenty of -literary genius, but who do not see the world in terms of individual men -and women—who do not, in other words, take easily to creating -characters. How are such men to start writing? An already existing book -or literary tradition may inspire them—they may find high up in its -cornices a pattern that will serve as a beginning, they may swing about -in its rafters and gain strength. That fantasy of Lowes Dickinson, <i>The -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> -Magic Flute</i>, seems to be created thus: it has taken as its mythology -the world of Mozart. Tamino, Sarastro, and the Queen of the Night stand -in their enchanted kingdom ready for the author's thoughts, and when -these are poured in they become alive and a new and exquisite work is -born. And the same is true of another fantasy, anything but -exquisite—James Joyce's <i>Ulysses</i><a id="FNanchor_6_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_1" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> That remarkable affair—perhaps -the most interesting literary experiment of our day—could not have -been achieved unless Joyce had had, as his guide and butt, the world of the -<i>Odyssey</i>. -</p> -<p> -I am only touching on one aspect of <i>Ulysses</i>: it is of course more -than a fantasy—it is a dogged attempt to cover the universe with -mud, it is an inverted Victorianism, an attempt to make crossness and -dirt succeed where sweetness and light failed, a simplification of the -human character in the interests of Hell. All simplifications are -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> -fascinating, all lead us away from the truth (which lies far nearer the -muddle of <i>Tristram Shandy</i>), and <i>Ulysses</i> must not detain us -on the ground that it contains a morality—otherwise we shall also -have to discuss Mrs. Humphry Ward. We are concerned with it because, -through a mythology, Joyce has been able to create the peculiar stage -and characters he required. -</p> -<p> -The action of those 400,000 words occupies a single day, the scene is -Dublin, the theme is a journey—the modern man's journey from morn to -midnight, from bed to the squalid tasks of mediocrity, to a funeral, -newspaper office, library, pub, lavatory, lying-in hospital, a saunter -by the beach, brothel, coffee stall, and so back to bed. And it coheres -because it depends from the journey of a hero through the seas of -Greece, like a bat hanging to a cornice. -</p> -<p> -Ulysses himself is Mr. Leopold Bloom—a converted Jew—greedy, -lascivious, timid, undignified, desultory, superficial, kindly and -always at his lowest when he pretends to aspire. He tries to explore -life through the body. Penelope is Mrs. Marion Bloom, an overblown -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> -soprano, by no means harsh to her suitors. The third character is young -Stephen Dedalus, whom Bloom recognizes as his spiritual son much as -Ulysses recognizes Telemachus as his actual son. Stephen tries to -explore life through the intellect—we have met him before in <i>The -Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i>, and now he is worked into this -epic of grubbiness and disillusion. He and Bloom meet half way through -in Night Town (which corresponds partly to Homer's Palace of Circe, -partly to his Descent into Hell) and in its supernatural and filthy -alleys they strike up their slight but genuine friendship. This is the -crisis of the book, and here—and indeed throughout—smaller -mythologies swarm and pullulate, like vermin between the scales of a -poisonous snake. Heaven and earth fill with infernal life, personalities -melt, sexes interchange, until the whole universe, including poor, -pleasure-loving Mr. Bloom, is involved in one joyless orgy. -</p> -<p> -Does it come off? No, not quite. Indignation in literature never quite -comes off either in Juvenal or Swift or Joyce; there is something in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> -words that is alien to its simplicity. The Night Town scene does not -come off except as a superfetation of fantasies, a monstrous coupling of -reminiscences. Such satisfaction as can be attained in this direction is -attained, and all through the bode we have similar experiments—the -aim of which is to degrade all things and more particularly civilization -and art, by turning them inside out and upside down. Some enthusiasts -may think that <i>Ulysses</i> ought to be mentioned not here but later -on, under the heading of prophecy, and I understand this criticism. But -I prefer to mention it today with <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, <i>Flecker's -Magic</i>, <i>Zuleika Dobson</i>, and <i>The Magic Flute</i>, because -the raging of Joyce, like the happier or calmer moods of the other -writers, seems essentially fantastic, and lacks the note for which we -shall be listening soon. -</p> -<p> -We must pursue this notion of mythology further, and more circumspectly. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_6_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_1"><span class="label">[6]</span></a><i>Ulysses</i> (Shakespeare & Co., Paris) is not at present -obtainable in England. America, more enlightened, has produced a -mutilated version without the author's permission and without -paying him a cent.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="VII: PROPHECY"><a id="chap07"></a>VII -<br><br> -PROPHECY</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -WITH prophecy in the narrow sense of foretelling the future we have no -concern, and we have not much concern with it as an appeal for -righteousness. What will interest us today—what we must respond to, -for interest now becomes an inappropriate word—is an accent in the -novelist's voice, an accent for which the flutes and saxophones of -fantasy may have prepared us. His theme is the universe, or something -universal, but he is not necessarily going to "say" anything about the -universe; he proposes to sing, and the strangeness of song arising in -the halls of fiction is bound to give us a shock. How will song combine -with the furniture of common sense? we shall ask ourselves, and shall -have to answer "not too well": the singer does not always have room for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> -his gestures, the tables and chairs get broken, and the novel through -which bardic influence has passed often has a wrecked air, like a -drawing-room after an earthquake or a children's party. Readers of D. H. -Lawrence will understand what I mean. -</p> -<p> -Prophecy—in our sense—is a tone of voice. It may imply any of -the faiths that have haunted humanity—Christianity, Buddhism, -dualism, Satanism, or the mere raising of human love and hatred to such a -power that their normal receptacles no longer contain them: but what -particular view of the universe is recommended—with that we are not -directly concerned. It is the implication that signifies and will filter -into the turns of the novelist's phrase, and in this lecture, which -promises to be so vague and grandiose, we may come nearer than elsewhere -to the minutiae of style. We shall have to attend to the novelist's -state of mind and to the actual words he uses; we shall neglect as far -as we can the problems of common sense. As far as we can: for all novels -contain tables and chairs, and most readers of fiction look for them -first. Before we condemn him for affectation and distortion we must -realize his view point. He is not looking at the tables and chairs at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> -all, and that is why they are out of focus. We only see what he does not -focus—not what he does—and in our blindness we laugh at him. -</p> -<p> -I have said that each aspect of the novel demands a different quality in -the reader. Well, the prophetic aspect demands two qualities: humility -and the suspension of the sense of humour. Humility is a quality for -which I have only a limited admiration. In many phases of life it is a -great mistake and degenerates into defensiveness or hypocrisy. But -humility is in place just now. Without its help we shall not hear the -voice of the prophet, and our eyes will behold a figure of fun instead -of his glory. And the sense of humour—that is out of place: that -estimable adjunct of the educated man must be laid aside. Like the -schoolchildren in the Bible, one cannot help laughing at a -prophet—his bald head is so absurd—but one can discount the -laughter and realize that it has no critical value and is merely food -for bears. -</p> -<p> -Let us distinguish between the prophet and the non-prophet. -</p> -<p> -There were two novelists, who were both brought up in Christianity. They -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> -speculated and broke away, yet they neither left nor did they want to -leave the Christian spirit which they interpreted as a loving spirit. -They both held that sin is always punished, and punishment a purgation, -and they saw this process not with the detachment of an ancient Greek or -a modern Hindu, but with tears in their eyes. Pity, they felt, is the -atmosphere in which morality exercises its logic, a logic which -otherwise is crude and meaningless. What is the use of a sinner being -punished and cured if there is not an addition in the cure, a heavenly -bonus? And where does the addition come from? Not out of the machinery, -but out of the atmosphere in which the process occurs, out of the love -and pity which (they believed) are attributes of God. -</p> -<p> -How similar these two novelists must have been! Yet one of them was -George Eliot and the other Dostoevsky. -</p> -<p> -It will be said that Dostoevsky had vision. Still, so had George Eliot. -To classify them apart—and they must be parted—is not so easy. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> -But the difference between them will define itself at once exactly if I -read two passages from their works. To the classifier the passages will -seem similar: to any one who has an ear for song they come out of -different worlds. -</p> -<p> -I will begin with a passage—fifty years ago it was a very famous -passage—out of <i>Adam Bede</i>. Hetty is in prison, condemned to die -for the murder of her illegitimate child. She will not confess, she is hard -and impenitent. Dinah, the Methodist, comes to visit her and tries to -touch her heart. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat -beside her. But she felt the Divine presence more and more—nay, as if -she herself were a part of it, and it was the Divine pity that was -beating in her heart, and was willing the rescue of this helpless one. -At last she was prompted to speak, and find out how far Hetty was -conscious of the present. -</p> -<p> -"Hetty," she said gently, "do you know who it is that sits by your -side?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," Hetty answered slowly, "it's Dinah." Then, after a pause, she -added, "But you can do nothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> -They'll hang me o' Monday—it's Friday now." -</p> -<p> -"But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one -close to you." -</p> -<p> -Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, "Who?" -</p> -<p> -"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and -trouble—who has known every thought you have had—has seen where -you went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have -tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't follow you, when -my arms can't reach you, when death has parted us, He who is -with you now and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no -difference—whether we live or die we are in the presence of God." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? <i>Will</i> they hang me for -certain? ... I wouldn't mind if they'd let me live ... help me.... I -can't feel anything like you ... my heart is hard." -</p> -<p> -Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice: -"... Come, mighty Saviour! let the dead hear Thy voice; let the eyes of -the blind be opened: let her see that God encompasses her; let her -tremble at nothing but the sin that cuts her off from Him. Melt the hard -heart; unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her whole soul, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> -'Father, I have sinned.'" -</p> -<p> -"Dinah," Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, "I will -speak ... I will tell ... I won't hide it any more. I did do it, -Dinah ... I buried in the wood ... the little baby ... and it cried ... I -heard it cry ... ever such a way off ... all night ... and I went back -because it cried." -</p> -<p> -She paused and then spoke hurriedly in a louder pleading tone. -</p> -<p> -"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't die—there might somebody find -it. I didn't kill it—I didn't kill it myself. I put it down there -and covered it up, and when I came back it was gone.... I don't know -what I felt until I found that the baby was gone. And when I put it -there, I thought I should like somebody to find it and save it from -dying, but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. -I never thought o' stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, -and everybody as saw me 'ud know about the baby. My heart went like -stone; I couldn't wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I -should stay there for ever, and nothing 'ud ever change. But they came -and took me away." -</p> -<p> -Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still -something behind: and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that tears -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> -must come before words. At last Hetty burst out with a sob. -</p> -<p> -"Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the place in the -wood, now I've told everything?" -</p> -<p> -"Let us pray, poor sinner: let us fall on our knees again, and pray to -the God of all mercy." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -I have not done justice to this scene, because I have had to cut it, and -it is on her massiveness that George Eliot depends—she has no nicety -of style. The scene is sincere, solid, pathetic, and penetrated with -Christianity. The god whom Dinah summons is a living force to the -authoress also: he is not brought in to work up the reader's feelings; -he is the natural accompaniment of human error and suffering. -</p> -<p> -Now contrast with it the following scene from <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i> -(Mitya is being accused of the murder of his father, of which he is -indeed spiritually though not technically guilty). -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -They proceeded to a final revision of the protocol. Mitya got up, moved -from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a large chest -covered by a rug, and instantly fell asleep. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> -</p> -<p> -He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the -time. -</p> -<p> -He was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been stationed -long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses, -through snow and sleet. Not far off was a village; he could see the -black huts, and half the huts were burned down, there were only the -charred beams sticking up. And as they drove in, there were peasant -women drawn up along the road, a lot of women, a whole row, all thin and -wan, with their faces a sort of brownish colour, especially one at the -edge, a tall bony woman, who looked forty, but might have been only -twenty, with a long thin face. And in her arms was a little baby crying. -And her breasts seemed so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in -them. And the child cried and cried, and held out its little bare arms, -with its little fists blue from cold. -</p> -<p> -"Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" Mitya asked as they dashed -gaily by. -</p> -<p> -"It's the babe," answered the driver. "The babe weeping." -</p> -<p> -And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, "the babe," and -he liked the peasant calling it "the babe." There seemed more pity in -it. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> -</p> -<p> -"But why is it weeping?" Mitya persisted stupidly. "Why are its little -arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?" -</p> -<p> -"Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging -because they've been burnt out." -</p> -<p> -"No, no," Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me, why is -it those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe -poor? Why is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? -Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black -misery? Why don't they feed the babe?" -</p> -<p> -And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless, -yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. -And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, -was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do -something for them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that -the dark-faced dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed -tears again from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once, -regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the -Karamazovs.... And his heart glowed, and he struggled forward towards -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> -the light, and he longed to live, to go on and on, towards the new -beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten, now, at once! -</p> -<p> -"What! Where?" he exclaimed, opening his eyes, and sitting up on the -chest, as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolay -Parfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the -protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had been asleep -an hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was -suddenly struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, -which hadn't been there when he leant back exhausted, on the chest. -</p> -<p> -"Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?" he cried, with a -sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great -kindness had been shown him. -</p> -<p> -He never found out who this kind man was, perhaps one of the peasant -witnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary had -compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head, but his whole -soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said he would -sign whatever they liked. -</p> -<p> -"I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice, with a -new light, as of joy, in his face. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Now what is the difference in these passages—a difference that -throbs in every phrase? It is that the first writer is a preacher, and -the second a prophet. George Eliot talks about God, but never alters her -focus; God and the tables and chairs are all in the same plane, and in -consequence we have not for a moment the feeling that the whole universe -needs pity and love—they are only needed in Hetty's cell. In -Dostoevsky the characters and situations always stand for more than -themselves; infinity attends them; though yet they remain individuals -they expand to embrace it and summon it to embrace them; one can apply -to them the saying of St. Catherine of Siena that God is in the soul and -the soul is in God as the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea. -Every sentence he writes implies this extension, and the implication is -the dominant aspect of his work. He is a great novelist in the ordinary -sense—that is to say his characters have relation to ordinary life -and also live in their own surroundings, there are incidents which keep -us excited, and so on; he has also the greatness of a prophet, to which -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> -our ordinary standards are inapplicable. -</p> -<p> -That is the gulf between Hetty and Mitya, though they inhabit the same -moral and mythological worlds. Hetty, taken by herself, is quite -adequate. She is a poor girl, brought to confess her crime, and so to a -better frame of mind. But Mitya, taken by himself, is not adequate. He -only becomes real through what he implies, his mind is not in a frame at -all. Taken by himself he seems distorted out of drawing, intermittent; -we begin explaining him away and saying he was disproportionately grateful -for the pillow because he was overwrought—very like a Russian -in fact. We cannot understand him until we see that he extends, and that -the part of him on which Dostoevsky focused did not lie on that wooden -chest or even in dreamland but in a region where it could be joined by -the rest of humanity. Mitya is—all of us. So is Alyosha, so is -Smerdyakov. He is the prophetic vision, and the novelist's creation -also. He does not become all of us here: he is Mitya here as Hetty is -Hetty. The extension, the melting, the unity through love and pity occur -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> -in a region which can only be implied and to which fiction is perhaps -the wrong approach. The world of the Karamazovs and Myshkin and -Raskolnikov, the world of Moby Dick which we shall enter shortly, it is -not a veil, it is not an allegory. It is the ordinary world of fiction, -but it reaches back. And that tiny humorous figure of Lady Bertram whom -we considered some time ago—Lady Bertram sitting on her sofa with -pug—may assist us in these deeper matters. Lady Bertram, we decided, -was a flat character, capable of extending into a round when the action -required it. Mitya is a round character, but he is capable of extension. -He does not conceal anything (mysticism), he does not mean anything -(symbolism), he is merely Dmitri Karamazov, but to be merely a person in -Dostoevsky is to join up with all the other people far back. -Consequently the tremendous current suddenly flows—for me in those -closing words: "I've had a good dream, gentlemen." Have I had that good -dream too? No, Dostoevsky's characters ask us to share something deeper -than their experiences. They convey to us a sensation that is partly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> -physical—the sensation of sinking into a translucent globe and seeing -our experience floating far above us on its surface, tiny, remote, yet -ours. We have not ceased to be people, we have given nothing up, but -"the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea." -</p> -<p> -There we touch the limit of our subject. We are not concerned with the -prophet's message, or rather (since matter and manner cannot be wholly -separated) we are concerned with it as little as possible. What matters -is the accent of his voice, his song. Hetty might have a good dream in -prison, and it would be true of her, satisfyingly true, but it would -stop short. Dinah would say she was glad, Hetty would recount her dream, -which, unlike Mitya's, would be logically connected with the crisis, and -George Eliot would say something sound and sympathetic about good dreams -generally, and their inexplicably helpful effect on the tortured breast. -Just the same and absolutely different are the two scenes, the two -books, the two writers. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> -</p> -<p> -Now another point appears. Regarded merely as a novelist the prophet has -certain uncanny advantages, so that it is sometimes worth letting him -into a drawing-room even on the furniture's account. Perhaps he will -smash or distort, but perhaps he will illumine. As I said of the -fantasist, he manipulates a beam of light which occasionally touches the -objects so sedulously dusted by the hand of common sense, and renders -them more vivid than they can ever be in domesticity. This intermittent -realism pervades all the greater works of Dostoevsky and Herman -Melville. Dostoevsky can be patiently accurate about a trial or the -appearance of a staircase. Melville can catalogue the products of the -whale ("I have ever found the plain things the knottiest of all," he -remarks). D. H. Lawrence can describe a field of grass and flowers or -the entrance into Fremantle. Little things in the foreground seem to be -all that the prophet cares about at moments—he sits down with them so -quiet and busy like a child between two romps. What does he feel during -these intermittencies? Is it another form of excitement, or is he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> -resting? We cannot know. No doubt it is what A.E. feels when he is doing -his creameries, or what Claudel feels when he is doing his diplomacy, -but what is that? Anyhow, it characterizes these novels and gives them -what is always provocative in a work of art: roughness of surface. While -they pass under our eyes they are full of dents and grooves and lumps -and spikes which draw from us little cries of approval and disapproval. -When they have past, the roughness is forgotten, they become as smooth -as the moon. -</p> -<p> -Prophetic fiction, then, seems to have definite characteristics. It -demands humility and the absence of the sense of humour. It reaches -back—though we must not conclude from the example of Dostoevsky that -it always reaches back to pity and love. It is spasmodically realistic. And -it gives us the sensation of a song or of sound. It is unlike fantasy -because its face is towards unity, whereas fantasy glances about. Its -confusion is incidental, whereas fantasy's is fundamental—<i>Tristram -Shandy</i> ought to be a muddle, <i>Zuleika Dobson</i> ought to keep -changing mythologies. Also the prophet—one imagines—has gone -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> -"off" more completely than the fantasist, he is in a remoter emotional -state while he composes. Not many novelists have this aspect. Poe is too -incidental. Hawthorne potters too anxiously round the problem of -individual salvation to get free. Hardy, a philosopher and a great poet, -might seem to have claims, but Hardy's novels are surveys, they do not -give out sounds. The writer sits back, it is true, but the characters do -not reach back. He shows them to us as they let their arms rise and fall -in the air; they may parallel our sufferings but can never extend -them—never, I mean, could Jude step forward like Mitya and release -floods of our emotion by saying "Gentlemen, I've had a bad dream." -Conrad is in a rather similar position. The voice, the voice of Marlow, -is too full of experiences to sing, it is dulled by many reminiscences -of error and beauty, its owner has seen too much to see beyond cause and -effect. To have a philosophy—even a poetic and emotional -philosophy like Hardy's and Conrad's—leads to reflections on life -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> -and things. A prophet does not reflect. And he does not hammer away. -That is why we exclude Joyce. Joyce has many qualities akin to prophecy -and he has shown (especially in the <i>Portrait of the Artist</i>) an -imaginative grasp of evil. But he undermines the universe in too -workmanlike a manner, looking round for this tool or that: in spite of -all his internal looseness he is too tight, he is never vague except -after due deliberation; it is talk, talk, never song. -</p> -<p> -So, though I believe this lecture is on a genuine aspect of the novel, -not a fake aspect, I can only think of four writers to illustrate -it—Dostoevsky, Melville, D. H. Lawrence and Emily Brontë. Emily -Brontë shall be left to the last, Dostoevsky I have alluded to, -Melville is the centre of our picture, and the centre of Melville is -<i>Moby Dick</i>. -</p> -<p> -<i>Moby Dick</i> is an easy book, as long as we read it as a yarn or an -account of whaling interspersed with snatches of poetry. But as soon as -we catch the song in it, it grows difficult and immensely important. -Narrowed and hardened into words the spiritual theme of <i>Moby Dick</i> is -as follows: a battle against evil conducted too long or in the wrong -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> -way. The White Whale is evil, and Captain Ahab is warped by constant -pursuit until his knight-errantry turns into revenge. These are -words—a symbol for the book if we want one—but they do not -carry us much further than the acceptance of the book as a -yarn—perhaps they carry us backwards, for they may mislead us into -harmonizing the incidents, and so losing their roughness and richness. -The idea of a contest we may retain: all action is a battle, the only -happiness is peace. But contest between what? We get false if we say -that it is between good and evil or between two unreconciled evils. The -essential in <i>Moby Dick</i>, its prophetic song, flows athwart the -action and the surface morality like an undercurrent. It lies outside -words. Even at the end, when the ship has gone down with the bird of -heaven pinned to its mast, and the empty coffin, bouncing up from the -vortex, has carried Ishmael back to the world—even then we cannot -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> -catch the words of the song. There has been stress, with intervals: but -no explicable solution, certainly no reaching back into universal pity and -love; no "Gentlemen, I've had a good dream." -</p> -<p> -The extraordinary nature of the book appears in two of its early -incidents—the sermon about Jonah and the friendship with Queequeg. -</p> -<p> -The sermon has nothing to do with Christianity. It asks for endurance or -loyalty without hope of reward. The preacher "kneeling in the pulpit's -bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed -eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and -praying at the bottom of the sea." Then he works up and up and concludes -on a note of joy that is far more terrifying than a menace. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him when the ship of -this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him -who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns and destroys all sin -though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. -Delight—top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or -lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> -him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob -can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and -deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his -final breath—O Father!—chiefly known to me by thy -rod—mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, -more than to be this world's or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave -eternity to Thee: for what is man that he should live out the lifetime -of his God? -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -I believe it is not a coincidence that the last ship we encounter at the -end of the book before the final catastrophe should be called the -Delight; a vessel of ill omen who has herself encountered Moby Dick and -been shattered by him. But what the connection was in the prophet's mind -I cannot say, nor could he tell us. -</p> -<p> -Immediately after the sermon, Ishmael makes a passionate alliance with -the cannibal Queequeg, and it looks for a moment that the book is to be -a saga of blood-brotherhood. But human relationships mean little to -Melville, and after a grotesque and violent entry, Queequeg is almost -forgotten. Almost—not quite. Towards the end he falls ill and a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> -coffin is made for him which he does not occupy, as he recovers. It is this -coffin, serving as a life-buoy, that saves Ishmael from the final -whirlpool, and this again is no coincidence, but an unformulated -connection that sprang up in Melville's mind. <i>Moby Dick</i> is full of -meanings: its meaning is a different problem. It is wrong to turn the -Delight or the coffin into symbols, because even if the symbolism is -correct, it silences the book. Nothing can be stated about <i>Moby Dick</i> -except that it is a contest. The rest is song. -</p> -<p> -It is to his conception of evil that Melville's work owes much of its -strength. As a rule evil has been feebly envisaged in fiction, which -seldom soars above misconduct or avoids the clouds of mysteriousness. -Evil to most novelists is either sexual and social or is something very -vague for which a special style with implications of poetry is thought -suitable. They want it to exist, in order that it may kindly help them -on with the plot, and evil, not being kind, generally hampers them with -a villain—a Lovelace or Uriah Heep, who does more harm to the author -than to the fellow characters. For a real villain we must turn to a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> -story of Melville's called <i>Billy Budd</i>.<a id="FNanchor_7_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_1" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> -</p> -<p> -It is a short story, but must be mentioned because of the light it -throws on his other work. The scene is on a British man-of-war soon -after the Mutiny at the Nore—a stagey yet intensely real vessel. The -hero, a young sailor, has goodness—which is faint beside the goodness -of Alyosha; still he has goodness of the glowing aggressive sort which -cannot exist unless it has evil to consume. He is not aggressive -himself. It is the light within him that irritates and explodes. On the -surface he is a pleasant, merry, rather insensitive lad, whose perfect -physique is marred by one slight defect, a stammer, which finally -destroys him. He is "dropped into a world not without some mantraps, and -against whose subtleties simple courage without any touch of defensive -ugliness is of little avail; and where such innocence as man is capable -of does yet, in a moral emergency, not always sharpen the faculties or -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> -enlighten the will." Claggart, one of the petty officers, at once sees -in him the enemy—his own enemy, for Claggart is evil. It is again the -contest between Ahab and Moby Dick, though the parts are more clearly -assigned, and we are further from prophecy and nearer to morality and -common sense. But not much nearer. Claggart is not like any other -villain. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Natural depravity has certain negative virtues, serving it as silent -auxiliaries. It is not going too far to say that it is without vices or -small sins. There is a phenomenal pride in it that excludes them from -anything—never mercenary or avaricious. In short, the character here -meant partakes nothing of the sordid or sensual. It is serious, but free -from acerbity. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -He accuses Billy of trying to foment a mutiny. The charge is ridiculous, -no one believes it, and yet it proves fatal. For when the boy is -summoned to declare his innocence, he is so horrified that he cannot -speak, his ludicrous stammer seizes him, the power within him explodes, -and he knocks down his traducer, kills him, and has to be hanged. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> -</p> -<p> -<i>Billy Budd</i> is a remote unearthly episode, but it is a song not -without words, and should be read both for its own beauty and as an -introduction to more difficult works. Evil is labelled and personified -instead of slipping over the ocean and round the world, and Melville's -mind can be observed more easily. What one notices in him is that his -apprehensions are free from personal worry, so that we become bigger not -smaller after sharing them. He has not got that tiresome little -receptacle, a conscience, which is often such a nuisance in serious -writers and so contracts their effects—the conscience of Hawthorne -or of Mark Rutherford. Melville—after the initial roughness of his -realism—reaches straight back into the universal, to a blackness -and sadness so transcending our own that they are undistinguishable from -glory. He says, "in certain moods no man can weigh this world without -throwing in a something somehow like Original Sin to strike the uneven -balance." He threw it in, that undefinable something, the balance -righted itself, and he gave us harmony and temporary salvation. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> -</p> -<p> -It is no wonder that D. H. Lawrence should have written two penetrating -studies of Melville, for Lawrence himself is, as far as I know, the only -prophetic novelist writing today—all the rest are fantasists or -preachers: the only living novelist in whom the song predominates, who -has the rapt bardic quality, and whom it is idle to criticize. He invites -criticism because he is a preacher also—it is this minor aspect -of him which makes him so difficult and misleading—an excessively -clever preacher who knows how to play on the nerves of his congregation. -Nothing is more disconcerting than to sit down, so to speak, before your -prophet, and then suddenly to receive his boot in the pit of your -stomach. "I'm damned if I'll be humble after that," you cry, and so lay -yourself open to further nagging. Also the subject matter of the sermon -is agitating—hot denunciations or advice—so that in the end you -cannot remember whether you ought or ought not to have a body, and are only -sure that you are futile. This bullying, and the honeyed sweetness which -is a bully's reaction, occupy between them the foreground of Lawrence's -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> -work; his greatness lies far, far back, and rests, not like Dostoevsky's -upon Christianity, nor like Melville's upon a contest, but upon -something æsthetic. The voice is Balder's voice, though the hands are -the hands of Esau. The prophet is irradiating nature from within, so -that every colour has a glow and every form a distinctness which could -not otherwise be obtained. Take a scene that always stays in the memory: -that scene in <i>Women in Love</i> where one of the characters throws -stones into the water at night to shatter the image of the moon. Why he -throws, what the scene symbolizes, is unimportant. But the writer could -not get such a moon and water otherwise; he reaches them by his special -path which stamps them as more wonderful than any we can imagine. It is -the prophet back where he started from, back where the rest of us are -waiting by the edge of the pool, but with a power of re-creation and -evocation we shall never possess. -</p> -<p> -Humility is not easy with this irritable and irritating author, for the -humbler we get, the crosser he gets. Yet I do not see how else to read -him. If we start resenting or mocking, his treasure disappears as surely -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> -as if we started obeying him. What is valuable about him cannot be put -into words; it is colour, gesture and outline in people and things, the -usual stock-in-trade of the novelist, but evolved by such a different -process that they belong to a new world. -</p> -<p> -But what about Emily Brontë? Why should <i>Wuthering Heights</i> come into -this enquiry? It is a story about human beings, it contains no view of -the universe. -</p> -<p> -My answer is that the emotions of Heathcliffe and Catherine Earnshaw -function differently to other emotions in fiction. Instead of inhabiting -the characters, they surround them like thunder clouds, and generate the -explosions that fill the novel from the moment when Lockwood dreams of -the hand at the window down to the moment when Heathcliffe, with the same -window open, is discovered dead. <i>Wuthering Heights</i> is filled with -sound—storm and rushing wind—a sound more important than words -and thoughts. Great as the novel is, one cannot afterwards remember -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> -anything in it but Heathcliffe and the elder Catherine. They cause the -action by their separation: they close it by their union after death. No -wonder they "walk"; what else could such beings do? even when they were -alive their love and hate transcended them. -</p> -<p> -Emily Brontë had in some ways a literal and careful mind. She -constructed her novel on a time chart even more elaborate than Miss -Austen's, and she arranged the Linton and Earnshaw families -symmetrically, and she had a clear idea of the various legal steps by -which Heathcliffe gained possession of their two properties.<a id="FNanchor_8_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_1" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> Then why -did she deliberately introduce muddle, chaos, tempest? Because in our -sense of the word she was a prophetess: because what is implied is more -important to her than what is said; and only in confusion could the -figures of Heathcliffe and Catherine externalize their passion till it -streamed through the house and over the moors. <i>Wuthering Heights</i> has -no mythology beyond what these two characters provide: no great book is -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> -more cut off from the universals of Heaven and Hell. It is local, like -the spirits it engenders, and whereas we may meet Moby Dick in any pond, -we shall only encounter them among the harebells and limestone of their -own county. -</p> -<p> -A concluding remark. Always, at the back of my mind, there lurks a -reservation about this prophetic stuff, a reservation which some will -make more strongly while others will not make it at all. Fantasy has -asked us to pay something extra; and now prophecy asks for humility and -even for a suspension of the sense of humour, so that we are not allowed -to snigger when a tragedy is called <i>Billy Budd</i>. We have indeed to -lay aside the single vision which we bring to most of literature and life -and have been trying to use through most of our enquiry, and take up a -different set of tools. Is this right? Another prophet, Blake, had no -doubt that it was right. -</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i19">May God us keep</span><br> -<span class="i2">From single vision and Newton's sleep,</span> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> -<p class="nind"> -he cried and he has painted that same Newton with a pair of compasses in -his hand, describing a miserable mathematical triangle, and turning his -back upon the gorgeous and immeasurable water growths of <i>Moby Dick</i>. -Few will agree with Blake. Fewer will agree with Blake's Newton. Most of -us will be eclectics to this side or that according to our temperament. -The human mind is not a dignified organ, and I do not see how we can -exercise it sincerely except through eclecticism. And the only advice I -would offer my fellow eclectics is: "Do not be proud of your -inconsistency. It is a pity, it is a pity that we should be equipped -like this. It is a pity that Man cannot be at the same time impressive -and truthful." For the first five lectures of this course we have used -more or less the same set of tools. This time and last we have had to -lay them down. Next time we shall take them up again, but with no -certainty that they are the best equipment for a critic or that there is -such a thing as a critical equipment. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_7_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_1"><span class="label">[7]</span></a>Only to be found in a collected edition. For knowledge -of it, and for much else, I am indebted to Mr. John Freeman's -admirable monograph on Melville.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_8_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_1"><span class="label">[8]</span></a>See that sound and brilliant essay, <i>The Structure -of Wuthering Heights</i>, by C.P.S. (Hogarth Press.)</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="VIII: PATTERN AND RHYTHM"><a id="chap08"></a>VIII -<br><br> -PATTERN AND RHYTHM</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -OUR interludes, gay and grave, are over, and we return to the general -scheme of the course. We began with the story, and having considered -human beings, we proceeded to the plot which springs out of the story. -Now we must consider something which springs mainly out of the plot, and -to which the characters and any other element present also contribute. -For this new aspect there appears to be no literary word—indeed the -more the arts develop the more they depend on each other for definition. -We will borrow from painting first and call it the pattern. Later we -will borrow from music and call it rhythm. Unfortunately both these words -are vague—when people apply rhythm or pattern to literature they -are apt not to say what they mean and not to finish their sentences: it -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> -is, "Oh, but surely the rhythm ..." or "Oh, but if you call that -pattern ..." -</p> -<p> -Before I discuss what pattern entails, and what qualities a reader must -bring to its appreciation, I will give two examples of books with -patterns so definite that a pictorial image sums them up: a book the -shape of an hour-glass and a book the shape of a grand chain in that -old-time dance, the Lancers. -</p> -<p> -<i>Thais</i>, by Anatole France, is the shape of an hour-glass. -</p> -<p> -There are two chief characters, Paphnuce the ascetic, Thais the -courtesan. Paphnuce lives in the desert, he is saved and happy when the -book starts. Thais leads a life of sin in Alexandria, and it is his duty -to save her. In the central scene of the book they approach, he -succeeds; she goes into a monastery and gains salvation, because she has -met him, but he, because he has met her, is damned. The two characters -converge, cross, and recede with mathematical precision, and part of the -pleasure we get from the book is due to this. Such is the pattern of -Thais—so simple that it makes a good starting-point for a difficult -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> -survey. It is the same as the story of <i>Thais</i>, when events unroll in -their time-sequence, and the same as the plot of <i>Thais</i>, when we see -the two characters bound by their previous actions and taking fatal -steps whose consequence they do not see. But whereas the story appeals -to our curiosity and the plot to our intelligence, the pattern appeals -to our æsthetic sense, it causes us to see the book as a whole. We do not -see it as an hour-glass—that is the hard jargon of the lecture room -which must never be taken literally at this advanced stage of our -enquiry. We just have a pleasure without knowing why, and when the -pleasure is past, as it is now, and our minds are left free to explain -it, a geometrical simile such as an hour-glass will be found helpful. If -it was not for this hour-glass the story, the plot, and the characters -of Thais and Paphnuce would none of them exert their full force, they -would none of them breathe as they do. "Pattern," which seems so rigid, -is connected with atmosphere, which seems so fluid. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> -</p> -<p> -Now for the book that is shaped like the grand chain: <i>Roman Pictures</i> -by Percy Lubbock. -</p> -<p> -<i>Roman Pictures</i> is a social comedy. The narrator is a tourist in -Rome; he there meets a kindly and shoddy friend of his, Deering, who -rebukes him superciliously for staring at churches and sets him out to -explore society. This he does, demurely obedient; one person hands him -on to another; café, studio, Vatican and Quirinal purlieus are all -reached, until finally, at the extreme end of his career he thinks, in a -most aristocratic and dilapidated palazzo, whom should he meet but the -second-rate Deering; Deering is his hostess's nephew, but had concealed -it owing to some backfire of snobbery. The circle is complete, the -original partners have rejoined, and greet one another with mutual -confusion which turns to mild laughter. -</p> -<p> -What is so good in <i>Roman Pictures</i> is not the presence of the "grand -chain" pattern—any one can organize a grand chain—but the -suitability of the pattern to the author's mood. Lubbock works all through -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> -by administering a series of little shocks, and by extending to his -characters an elaborate charity which causes them to appear in a rather -worse light than if no charity was wasted on them at all. It is the -comic atmosphere, but sub-acid, meticulously benign. And at the end we -discover to our delight that the atmosphere has been externalized, and -that the partners, as they elide together in the marchesa's -drawing-room, have done the exact thing which the book requires, which -it required from the start, and have bound the scattered incidents -together with a thread woven out of their own substance. -</p> -<p> -<i>Thais</i> and <i>Roman Pictures</i> provide easy examples of pattern; -it is not often that one can compare a book to a pictorial object with -any accuracy, though curves, etc., are freely spoken of by critics who -do not quite know what they want to say. We can only say (so far) that -pattern is an æsthetic aspect of the novel, and that though it may be -nourished by anything in the novel—any character, scene, -word—it draws most of its nourishment from the plot. We noted, -when discussing the plot, that it added to itself the quality of beauty; -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> -beauty a little surprised at her own arrival: that upon its neat -carpentry there could be seen, by those who cared to see, the figure of -the Muse; that Logic, at the moment of finishing its own house, laid the -foundation of a new one. Here, here is the point where the aspect called -pattern is most closely in touch with its material; here is our starting -point. It springs mainly from the plot, accompanies it like a light in -the clouds, and remains visible after it has departed. Beauty is -sometimes the shape of the book, the book as a whole, the unity, and our -examination would be easier if it was always this. But sometimes it is -not. When it is not I shall call it rhythm. For the moment we are -concerned with pattern only. -</p> -<p> -Let us examine at some length another book of the rigid type, a book -with a unity, and in this sense an easy book, although it is by Henry -James. We shall see in it pattern triumphant, and we shall also be able -to see the sacrifices an author must make if he wants his pattern and -nothing else to triumph. -</p> -<p> -<i>The Ambassadors</i>, like <i>Thais</i>, is the shape of an hour-glass. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> -Strether and Chad, like Paphnuce and Thais, change places, and it is the -realization of this that makes the book so satisfying at the close. The -plot is elaborate and subtle, and proceeds by action or conversation or -meditation through every paragraph. Everything is planned, everything -fits; none of the minor characters are just decorative like the -talkative Alexandrians at Nirias' banquet; they elaborate on the main -theme, they work. The final effect is pre-arranged, dawns gradually on -the reader, and is completely successful when it comes. Details of -intrigue, of the various missions from America, may be forgotten, but -the symmetry they have created is enduring. -</p> -<p> -Let us trace the growth of this symmetry.<a id="FNanchor_9_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_1" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> -</p> -<p> -Strether, a sensitive middle-aged American, is commissioned by his old -friend, Mrs. Newsome, whom he hopes to marry, to go to Paris and rescue -her son Chad, who has gone to the bad in that appropriate city. The -Newsomes are sound commercial people, who have made money over -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> -manufacturing a small article of domestic utility. Henry James never -tells us what the small article is, and in a moment we shall understand -why. Wells spits it out in <i>Tono Bungay</i>, Meredith reels it out in -<i>Evan Harrington</i>, Trollope prescribes it freely for Miss -Dunstable, but for James to indicate how his characters made their -pile—it would not do. The article is somewhat ignoble and -ludicrous—that is enough. If you choose to be coarse and daring -and visualize it for yourself as, say, a button-hook, you can, but you -do so at your own risk: the author remains uninvolved. -</p> -<p> -Well, whatever it is, Chad Newsome ought to come back and help make it, -and Strether undertakes to fetch him. He has to be rescued from a life -which is both immoral and unremunerative. -</p> -<p> -Strether is a typical James character—he recurs in nearly all the -books and is an essential part of their construction. He is the observer -who tries to influence the action, and who through his failure to do so -gains extra opportunities for observation. And the other characters are -such as an observer like Strether is capable of observing—through -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> -lenses procured from a rather too first-class oculist. Everything is -adjusted to his vision, yet he is not a quietist—no, that is the -strength of the device; he takes us along with him, we move as well as -look on. -</p> -<p> -When he lands in England (and a landing is an exalted and enduring -experience for James, it is as vital as Newgate for Defoe; poetry and -life crowd round a landing): when Strether lands, though it is only old -England, he begins to have doubts of his mission, which increase when he -gets to Paris. For Chad Newsome, far from going to the bad, has -improved; he is distinguished, he is so sure of himself that he can be -kind and cordial to the man who has orders to fetch him away; his -friends are exquisite, and as for "women in the case" whom his mother -anticipated, there is no sign of them whatever. It is Paris that has -enlarged and redeemed him—and how well Strether himself understands -this! -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -His greatest uneasiness seemed to peep at him out of the possible -impression that almost any acceptance of Paris might give one's -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> -authority away. It hung before him this morning, the vast bright -Babylon, like some huge iridescent object, a jewel brilliant and hard, -in which parts were not to be discriminated nor differences comfortably -marked. It twinkled and trembled and melted together; and what seemed -all surface one moment seemed all depth the next. It was a place of -which, unmistakably, Chad was fond; wherefore, if he, Strether, should -like it too much, what on earth, with such a bond, would become of -either of them? -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Thus, exquisitely and firmly, James sets his atmosphere—Paris -irradiates the book from end to end, it is an actor though always -unembodied, it is a scale by which human sensibility can be measured, -and when we have finished the novel and allow its incidents to blur that -we may see the pattern plainer, it is Paris that gleams at the centre of -the hour-glass shape—Paris—nothing so crude as good or evil. -Strether sees this soon, and sees that Chad realizes it better than he -himself can; and when he has reached this stage of initiation the novel -takes a turn: there is, after all, a woman in the case; behind Paris, -interpreting it for Chad, is the adorable and exalted figure of Mme. de -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> -Vionnet. It is now impossible for Strether to proceed. All that is noble -and refined in life concentrates in Mme. de Vionnet and is reinforced by -her pathos. She asks him not to take Chad away. He promises—without -reluctance, for his own heart has already shown him as much—and he -remains in Paris not to fight it but to fight for it. -</p> -<p> -For the second batch of ambassadors now arrives from the New World. Mrs. -Newsome, incensed and puzzled by the unseemly delay, has despatched -Chad's sister, his brother-in-law, and Mamie, the girl whom he is -supposed to marry. The novel now becomes, within its ordained limits, -most amusing. There is a superb set-to between Chad's sister and Mme. de -Vionnet, while as for Mamie—here is disastrous Mamie, seen as we see -all things, through Strether's eyes. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -As a child, as a "bud," and then again as a flower of expansion, Mamie -had bloomed for him, freely, in the almost incessantly open doorways of -home; where he remembered her at first very forward, as then very -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> -backward—for he had carried on at one period, in Mrs. Newsome's -parlours, a course of English literature reinforced by exams and -teas—and once more, finally, as very much in advance. But he had kept -no great sense of points of contact; it not being in the nature of -things at Woollett that the freshest of the buds should find herself in -the same basket with the most withered of the winter apples.... He none -the less felt now, as he sat with the charming girl, the signal growth -of a confidence. For she <i>was</i> charming, when all was said, and none -the less so for the visible habit and practice of freedom and fluency. She -was charming, he was aware, in spite of the fact that if he hadn't found -her so he would have found her something he should have been in peril of -expressing as "funny." Yes, she was funny, wonderful Mamie, and without -dreaming it; she was bland, she was bridal—with never, that he could -make out as yet, a bridegroom to support it; she was handsome and -portly, and easy and chatty, soft and sweet and almost disconcertingly -reassuring. She was dressed, if we might so far discriminate, less as a -young lady than as an old one—had an old one been supposable to -Strether as so committed to vanity; the complexities of her hair missed -moreover also the looseness of youth; and she had a mature manner of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> -bending a little, as to encourage and reward, while she held neatly in -front of her a pair of strikingly polished hands: the combination of all -of which kept up about her the glamour of her "receiving," placed her -again perpetually between the windows and within sound of the ice cream -plates, suggested the enumeration of all the names, gregarious specimens -of a single type, she was happy to "meet." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Mamie! She is another Henry James type; nearly every novel contains a -Mamie—Mrs. Gereth in <i>The Spoils of Poynton</i> for instance, or -Henrietta Stackpole in <i>The Portrait of a Lady</i>. He is so good at -indicating instantaneously and constantly that a character is second -rate, deficient in sensitiveness, abounding in the wrong sort of -worldliness; he gives such a character so much vitality that its -absurdity is delightful. -</p> -<p> -So Strether changes sides and loses all hopes of marrying Mrs. Newsome. -Paris is winning—and then he catches sight of something new. Is not -Chad, as regards any fineness in him, played out? Is not Chad's Paris -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> -after all just a place for a spree? This fear is confirmed. He goes for -a solitary country walk, and at the end of the day he comes across Chad -and Mme. de Vionnet. They are in a boat, they pretend not to see him, -because their relation is at bottom an ordinary liaison, and they are -ashamed. They were hoping for a secret week-end at an inn while their -passion survived; for it will not survive, Chad will tire of the -exquisite Frenchwoman, she is part of his fling; he will go back to his -mother and make the little domestic article and marry Mamie. They know -all this, and it is revealed to Strether though they try to hide it; -they lie, they are vulgar—even Mme. de Vionnet, even her pathos, once -so exquisite, is stained with commonness. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -It was like a chill in the air to him, it was almost appalling, that a -creature so fine could be, by mysterious forces, a creature so -exploited. For, at the end of all things, they <i>were</i> mysterious; she -had but made Chad what he was—so why could she think she had made him -infinite? She had made him better, she had made him best, she had made -him anything one would; but it came to our friend with supreme queerness -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> -that he was none the less only Chad. The work, however admirable, was -nevertheless of the strict human order, and in short it was -marvellous that the companion of mere earthly joys, of comforts, -aberrations—however one classed them—within the common -experience, should be so transcendency prized. -</p> -<p> -She was older for him tonight, visibly less exempt from the touch of -time; but she was as much as ever the finest and subtlest creature, the -happiest apparition, it had been given him, in all his years, to meet; -and yet he could see her there as vulgarly troubled, in very truth, as a -maidservant crying for a young man. The only thing was that she judged -herself as the maidservant wouldn't; the weakness of which wisdom too, -the dishonour of which judgment, seemed but to sink her lower. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -So Strether loses them too. As he says: "I have lost everything—it is -my only logic." It is not that they have gone back. It is that he has gone -on. The Paris they revealed to him—he could reveal it to them now, -if they had eyes to see, for it is something finer than they could ever -notice for themselves, and his imagination has more spiritual value than -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> -their youth. The pattern of the hour-glass is complete; he and Chad have -changed places, with more subtle steps than Thais and Paphnuce, and the -light in the clouds proceeds not from the well-lit Alexandria, but from -the jewel which "twinkled and trembled and melted together, and what -seemed all surface one moment seemed all depth the next." -</p> -<p> -The beauty that suffuses <i>The Ambassadors</i> is the reward due to a fine -artist for hard work. James knew exactly what he wanted, he pursued the -narrow path of æsthetic duty, and success to the full extent of his -possibilities has crowned him. The pattern has woven itself with -modulation and reservations Anatole France will never attain. Woven -itself wonderfully. But at what sacrifice! -</p> -<p> -So enormous is the sacrifice that many readers cannot get interested in -James, although they can follow what he says (his difficulty has been -much exaggerated), and can appreciate his effects. They cannot grant his -premise, which is that most of human life has to disappear before he can -do us a novel. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> -</p> -<p> -He has, in the first place, a very short list of characters. I have -already mentioned two—the observer who tries to influence the action, -and the second-rate outsider (to whom, for example, all the brilliant -opening of <i>What Maisie Knew</i> is entrusted). Then there is the -sympathetic foil—very lively and frequently female—in <i>The -Ambassadors</i>. Maria Gostrey plays this part; there is the wonderful rare -heroine, whom Mme. de Vionnet approached and who is consummated by Milly -in <i>The Wings of the Dove</i>; there is sometimes a villain, sometimes a -young artist with generous impulses; and that is about all. For so fine -a novelist it is a poor show. -</p> -<p> -In the second place, the characters, beside being few in number, are -constructed on very stingy lines. They are incapable of fun, of rapid -motion, of carnality, and of nine-tenths of heroism. Their clothes will -not take off, the diseases that ravage them are anonymous, like the -sources of their income, their servants are noiseless or resemble -themselves, no social explanation of the world we know is possible for -them, for there are no stupid people in their world, no barriers of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> -language, and no poor. Even their sensations are limited. They can land -in Europe and look at works of art and at each other, but that is all. -Maimed creatures can alone breathe in Henry James's pages—maimed yet -specialized. They remind one of the exquisite deformities who haunted -Egyptian art in the reign of Akhenaton—huge heads and tiny legs, but -nevertheless charming. In the following reign they disappear. -</p> -<p> -Now this drastic curtailment, both of the numbers of human beings and of -their attributes, is in the interests of the pattern. The longer James -worked, the more convinced he grew that a novel should be a whole—not -necessarily geometric like <i>The Ambassadors</i>, but it should accrete -round a angle topic, situation, gesture, which should occupy the -characters and provide a plot, and should also fasten up the novel on -the outside—catch its scattered statements in a net, make them cohere -like a planet, and swing through the skies of memory. A pattern must -emerge, and anything that emerged from the pattern must be pruned off as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> -wanton distraction. Who so wanton as human beings? Put Tom Jones or Emma -or even Mr. Casaubon into a Henry James book, and the book will burn to -ashes, whereas we could put them into one another's books and only cause -local inflammation. Only a Henry James character will suit, and though -they are not dead—certain selected recesses of experience he explores -very well—they are gutted of the common stuff that fills characters -in other books, and ourselves. And this castrating is not in the interests -of the Kingdom of Heaven, there is no philosophy in the novels, no -religion (except an occasional touch of superstition), no prophecy, no -benefit for the superhuman at all. It is for the sake of a particular -æsthetic effect which is certainly gained, but at this heavy price. -</p> -<p> -H. G. Wells has been amusing on this point, and perhaps profound. In -<i>Boon</i>—one of his liveliest works—he had Henry James much -upon his mind, and wrote a superb parody of him. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -James begins by taking it for granted that a novel is a work of art that -must be judged by its oneness. Some one gave him that idea in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> -beginning of things and he has never found it out. He doesn't find -things out. He doesn't even seem to want to find things out. He accepts -very readily and then—elaborates.... The only living human motives -left in his novels are a certain avidity and an entirely superficial -curiosity.... His people nose out suspicions, hint by hint, link by -link. Have you ever known living human beings do that? The thing his -novel is <i>about</i> is always there. It is like a church lit but with no -congregation to distract you, with every light and line focussed on the -high altar. And on the altar, very reverently placed, intensely there, -is a dead kitten, an egg shell, a piece of string.... Like his <i>Altar of -the Dead</i> with nothing to the dead at all.... For if there was, they -couldn't all be candles, and the effect would vanish. -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Wells sent <i>Boon</i> as a present to Janies, apparently thinking the -master would be as much pleased by such heartiness and honesty as was he -himself. The master was far from pleased, and a most interesting -correspondence ensued.<a id="FNanchor_10_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_1" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> Each of the eminent men becomes more and more -himself as it proceeds. James is polite, reminiscent, bewildered, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> -exceedingly formidable: he admits that the parody has not "filled him -with a fond elation," and regrets in conclusion that he can sign himself -"only yours faithfully, Henry James." Wells is bewildered too, but in a -different way; he cannot understand why the man should be upset. And, -beyond the personal comedy, there is the great literary importance of -the issue. It is this question of the rigid pattern: hour-glass or grand -chain or converging lines of the cathedral or diverging lines of the -Catherine wheel, or bed of Procrustes—whatever image you like as long -as it implies unity. Can it be combined with the immense richness of -material which life provides? Wells and James would agree it cannot, -Wells would go on to say that life should be given the preference, and -must not be whittled or distended for a pattern's sake. My own -prejudices are with Wells. The James novels are a unique possession and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> -the reader who cannot accept his premises misses some valuable and -exquisite sensations. But I do not want more of his novels, especially -when they are written by some one else, just as I do not want the art of -Akhenaton to extend into the reign of Tutankhamen. -</p> -<p> -That then is the disadvantage of a rigid pattern. It may externalize the -atmosphere, spring naturally from the plot, but it shuts the doors on -life and leaves the novelist doing exercises, generally in the -drawing-room. Beauty has arrived, but in too tyrannous a guise. In -plays—the plays of Racine, for instance—she may be justified -because beauty can be a great empress on the stage, and reconcile us to the -loss of the men we knew. But in the novel, her tyranny as it grows powerful -grows petty, and generates regrets which sometimes take the form of -books like <i>Boon</i>. To put it in other words, the novel is not capable -of as much artistic development as the drama: its humanity or the grossness -of its material hinder it (use whichever phrase you like). To most -readers of fiction the sensation from a pattern is not intense enough to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> -justify the sacrifices that made it, and their verdict is "Beautifully -done, but not worth doing." -</p> -<p> -Still this is not the end of our quest. We will not give up the hope of -beauty yet. Cannot it be introduced into fiction by some other method -than the pattern? Let us edge rather nervously towards the idea of -"rhythm." -</p> -<p> -Rhythm is sometimes quite easy. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, for -instance, starts with the rhythm "diddidy dum," which we can all hear and -tap to. But the symphony as a whole has also a rhythm—due mainly to -the relation between its movements—which some people can hear but no -one can tap to. This second sort of rhythm is difficult, and whether it -is substantially the same as the first sort only a musician could tell -us. What a literary man wants to say though is that the first kind of -rhythm, the diddidy dum, can be found in certain novels and may give -them beauty. And the other rhythm, the difficult one—the rhythm of -the Fifth Symphony as a whole—I cannot quote you any parallels for -that in fiction, yet it may be present. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> -</p> -<p> -Rhythm in the easy sense, is illustrated by the work of Marcel -Proust.<a id="FNanchor_11_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_1" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> -</p> -<p> -Proust's conclusion has not been published yet, and his admirers say -that when it comes everything will fall into its place, times past will -be recaptured and fixed, we shall have a perfect whole. I do not believe -this. The work seems to me a progressive rather than an æsthetic -confession, and with the elaboration of Albertine the author was getting -tired. Bits of news may await us, but it will be surprising if we have -to revise our opinion of the whole book. The book is chaotic, ill -constructed, it has and will have no external shape; and yet it hangs -together because it is stitched internally, because it contains rhythms. -</p> -<p> -There are several examples (the photographing of the grandmother is one -of them) but the most important from the binding point of view is his -use of the "little phrase" in the music of Vinteuil. It does more than -anything else—more even than the jealousy which successively destroys -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> -Swann, the hero, and Charlus—to make us feel that we are in a -homogeneous world. We first hear Vinteuil's name in hideous -circumstances. The musician is dead—an obscure little country -organist, unknown to fame—and his daughter is defiling his memory. -The horrible scene is to radiate in several directions, but it passes, -we forget about it. -</p> -<p> -Then we are at a Paris salon. A violin sonata is performed and a little -phrase from its andante catches the ear of Swann and steals into his -life. It is always a living being, but takes various forms. For a time -it attends his love for Odette. The love affair goes wrong, the phrase -is forgotten, we forget it. Then it breaks out again when he is ravaged -by jealousy, and now it attends his misery and past happiness at once, -without losing its own divine character. Who wrote the sonata? On -hearing it is by Vinteuil, Swann says, "I once knew a wretched little -organist of that name—it couldn't be by him." But it is, and -Vinteuil's daughter and her friend transcribed and published it. -</p> -<p> -That seems all. The little phrase crosses the book again and again, but -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> -as an echo, a memory; we like to encounter it, but it has no binding -power. Then, hundreds and hundreds of pages on, when Vinteuil has become -a national possession, and there is talk of raising a statue to him in -the town where he has been so wretched and so obscure, another work of -his is performed—a posthumous sextet. The hero listens—he is -in an unknown rather terrible universe while a sinister dawn reddens the -sea. Suddenly for him and for the reader too, the little phrase of the -sonata recurs—half heard, changed, but giving complete -orientation, so that he is back in the country of his childhood with the -knowledge that it belongs to the unknown. -</p> -<p> -We are not obliged to agree with Proust's actual musical descriptions -(they are too pictorial for my own taste): but what we must admire is -his use of rhythm in literature, and his use of something which is akin -by nature to the effect it has to produce—namely a musical phrase. -Heard by various people—first by Swann, then by the hero—the -phrase of Vinteuil is not tethered; it is not a banner such as we find -George Meredith using—a double-blossomed cherry tree to accompany -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> -Clara Middleton, a yacht in smooth waters for Cecilia Halkett. A banner can -only reappear, rhythm can develop, and the little phrase has a life of -its own, unconnected with the lives of its auditors, as with the life of -the man who composed it. It is almost an actor, but not quite, and that -"not quite" means that its power has gone towards stitching Proust's -book together from the inside, and towards the establishment of beauty -and the ravishing of the reader's memory. There are times when the -little phrase—from its gloomy inception, through the sonata into the -sextet—means everything to the reader. There are times when it means -nothing and is forgotten, and this seems to me the function of rhythm in -fiction; not to be there all the time like a pattern, but by its lovely -waxing and waning to fill us with surprise and freshness and hope. -</p> -<p> -Done badly, rhythm is most boring, it hardens into a symbol and instead -of carrying us on it trips us up. With exasperation we find that -Galsworthy's spaniel John, or whatever it is, lies under the feet again; -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> -and even Meredith's cherry trees and yachts, graceful as they are, only -open the windows into poetry. I doubt that it can be achieved by the -writers who plan their books beforehand, it has to depend on a local -impulse when the right interval is reached. But the effect can be -exquisite, it can be obtained without mutilating the characters, and it -lessens our need of an external form. -</p> -<p> -That must suffice on the subject of easy rhythm in fiction: which may be -defined as repetition plus variation, and which can be illustrated by -examples. Now for the more difficult question. Is there any effect in -novels comparable to the effect of the Fifth Symphony as a whole, -where, when the orchestra stops, we hear something that has never -actually been played? The opening movement, the andante, and the -trio-scherzo-trio-finale-trio-finale that composes the third block, all -enter the mind at once, and extend one another into a common entity. -This common entity, this new thing, is the symphony as a whole, and it -has been achieved mainly (though not entirely) by the relation between -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> -the three big blocks of sound which the orchestra has been playing. I am -calling this relation "rhythmic." If the correct musical term is -something else, that does not matter; what we have now to ask ourselves -is whether there is any analogy to it in fiction. -</p> -<p> -I cannot find any analogy. Yet there may be one; in music fiction is -likely to find its nearest parallel. -</p> -<p> -The position of the drama is different. The drama may look towards the -pictorial arts, it may allow Aristotle to discipline it, for it is not -so deeply committed to the claims of human beings. Human beings have -their great chance in the novel. They say to the novelist: "Recreate us -if you like, but we must come in," and the novelist's problem, as we -have seen all along, is to give them a good run and to achieve something -else at the same time. Whither shall he turn? not indeed for help but -for analogy. Music, though it does not employ human beings, though it is -governed by intricate laws, nevertheless does offer in its final -expression a type of beauty which fiction might achieve in its own way. -Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must ding to. Not completion. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> -Not rounding off but opening out. When the symphony is over we feel that -the notes and tunes composing it have been liberated, they have found in -the rhythm of the whole their individual freedom. Cannot the novel be -like that? Is not there something of it in <i>War and Peace</i>?—the -book with which we began and in which we must end. Such an untidy book. -Yet, as we read it, do not great chords begin to sound behind us, and when -we have finished does not every item—even the catalogue of -strategies—lead a larger existence than was possible at the time? -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_9_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_1"><span class="label">[9]</span></a>There is a masterly analysis of <i>The Ambassadors</i> -from another standpoint in <i>The Craft of Fiction</i>.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_10_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_1"><span class="label">[10]</span></a>See the <i>Letters of H. James</i>, Vol. II.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_11_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_1"><span class="label">[11]</span></a>The first three books of <i>À la recherche du temps -perdu</i> have been excellently translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff -under the title of <i>Remembrance of Things Past</i>. (A. & C. Boni.)</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="IX: CONCLUSION"><a id="chap09"></a>IX -<br><br> -CONCLUSION</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -IT is tempting to conclude by speculations as to the future of the -novel, will it become more or less realistic, will it be killed by the -cinema, and so on. Speculations, whether sad or lively, always have a -large air about them, they are a very convenient way of being helpful or -impressive. But we have no right to entertain them. We have refused to -be hampered by the past, so we must not profit by the future. We have -visualized the novelists of the last two hundred years all writing -together in one room, subject to the same emotions and putting the -accidents of their age into the crucible of inspiration, and whatever -our results, our method has been sound—sound for an assemblage of -pseudo-scholars like ourselves. But we must visualize the novelists of -the next two hundred years as also writing in the room. The change in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> -their subject matter will be enormous; they will not change. We may -harness the atom, we may land on the moon, we may abolish or intensify -warfare, the mental processes of animals may be understood; but all -these are trifles, they belong to history not to art. History develops, -art stands still. The novelist of the future will have to pass all the -new facts through the old if variable mechanism of the creative mind. -</p> -<p> -There is however one question which touches our subject, and which only -a psychologist could answer. But let us ask it. Will the creative -process itself alter? Will the mirror get a new coat of quicksilver? In -other words, can human nature change? Let us consider this possibility -for a moment—we are entitled to that much relaxation. -</p> -<p> -It is amusing to listen to elderly people on this subject. Sometimes a -man says in confident tones: "Human nature's the same in all ages. The -primitive cave man lies deep in us all. Civilization—pooh! a mere -veneer. You can't alter facts." He speaks like this when he is feeling -prosperous and fat. When he is feeling depressed and is worried by the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> -young, or is being sentimental about them on the ground that they will -succeed in life when he has failed, then he will take the opposite view -and say mysteriously, "Human nature is not the same. I have seen -fundamental changes in my own time. You must face facts." And he goes on -like this day after day, alternately facing facts and refusing to alter -them. -</p> -<p> -All I will do is to state a possibility. If human nature does alter it -will be because individuals manage to look at themselves in a new way. Here -and there people—a very few people, but a few novelists are among -them—are trying to do this. Every institution and vested interest is -against such a search: organized religion, the State, the family in its -economic aspect, have nothing to gain, and it is only when outward -prohibitions weaken that it can proceed: history conditions it to that -extent. Perhaps the searchers will fail, perhaps it is impossible for -the instrument of contemplation to contemplate itself, perhaps if it is -possible it means the end of imaginative literature—which if I -understand him rightly is the view of that acute enquirer, Mr. I. A. -Richards. Anyhow—that way lies movement and even combustion for the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> -novel, for if the novelist sees himself differently he will see his -characters differently and a new system of lighting will result. -</p> -<p> -I do not know on the verge of which philosophy or what rival -philosophies the above remarks are wavering, but as I look back at my -own scraps of knowledge and into my own heart, I see these two movements -of the human mind: the great tedious onrush known as history, and a shy -crablike sideways movement. Both movements have been neglected in these -lectures: history because it only carries people on, it is just a train -full of passengers; and the crablike movement because it is too slow and -cautious to be visible over our tiny period of two hundred years. So we -laid it down as an axiom when we started that human nature is -unchangeable, and that it produces in rapid succession prose fictions, -which fictions, when they contain 50,000 words or more, are called -novels. If we had the power or license to take a wider view, and survey -all human and pre-human activity, we might not conclude like this; the -crablike movement, the shiftings of the passengers, might be visible, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> -and the phrase "the development of the novel" might cease to be a -pseudo-scholarly tag or a technical triviality, and become important, -because it implied the development of humanity. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2 title="INDEX OF MAIN REFERENCES"><a id="INDEX"></a><br> -INDEX OF MAIN REFERENCES</h2> -<p class="indx"> -Alain, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>-<a href="#Page_74">74</a><br> -Aristotle, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>-<a href="#Page_129">129</a><br> -Asquith, Mr., <a href="#Page_161">161</a><br> -Austen, Jane, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>-<a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>-<a href="#Page_114">114</a><br> -<br> -Beerbohm, Max, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>-<a href="#Page_175">175</a><br> -Bennett, Arnold, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>-<a href="#Page_63">63</a><br> -Birth, treatment of, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>-<a href="#Page_77">77</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_81">81</a>-<a href="#Page_82">82</a></span><br> -Blake, William, <a href="#Page_211">211</a><br> -Brontë, Charlotte, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>-<a href="#Page_140">140</a><br> -Brontë, Emily, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>-<a href="#Page_211">211</a><br> -<br> -C. P. S., <a href="#Page_210">210</a><br> -Chevalley, Abel, <a href="#Page_17">17</a><br> -Clark, W. G., <a href="#Page_13">13</a>-<a href="#Page_15">15</a><br> -<br> -Death, treatment of, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>-<a href="#Page_83">83</a><br> -Defoe, Daniel, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>-<a href="#Page_95">95</a><br> -Dickens, Charles, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>-<a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_108">108</a>-<a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>-<a href="#Page_120">120</a></span><br> -Dickinson, Lowes, <a href="#Page_177">177</a><br> -Dostoevsky, Fyodor, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>-<a href="#Page_195">195</a><br> -Douglas, Norman, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>-<a href="#Page_108">108</a><br> -<br> -Eliot, George, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>-<a href="#Page_188">188</a><br> -Eliot, T. S., <a href="#Page_41">41</a><br> -<br> -Fantasy defined, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>-<a href="#Page_159">159</a><br> -Fielding, Henry, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_175">175</a>-<a href="#Page_176">176</a></span><br> -"Flat" characters, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>-<a href="#Page_112">112</a><br> -Food, treatment of, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a><br> -France, Anatole, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>-<a href="#Page_215">215</a><br> -Freeman, John, <a href="#Page_204">204</a><br> -<br> -Garnett, David, <a href="#Page_161">161</a><br> -Gide, André, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>-<a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>-<a href="#Page_153">153</a><br> -Goldsmith, Oliver, <a href="#Page_143">143</a><br> -<br> -Hardy, Thomas, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>-<a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a><br> -<br> -Inspiration, nature of, <a href="#Page_39">39</a><br> -<br> -James, Henry, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>-<a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>-<a href="#Page_234">234</a><br> -Joyce, James, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>-<a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a><br> -<br> -Lawrence, D. H., <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>-<a href="#Page_209">209</a><br> -Literary tradition, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>-<a href="#Page_41">41</a><br> -Love, treatment of, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>-<a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>-<a href="#Page_87">87</a><br> -Lubbock, Percy, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>-<a href="#Page_119">119</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_216">216</a>-<a href="#Page_217">217</a></span><br> -<br> -Matson, Norman, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>-<a href="#Page_171">171</a><br> -Melville, Herman, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>-<a href="#Page_206">206</a><br> -Meredith George, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_134">134</a>-<a href="#Page_138">138</a></span><br> -<br> -Novel defined, <a href="#Page_17">17</a><br> -"Novelist's touch," the, <a href="#Page_107">107</a><br> -<br> -<i>One Thousand and One Nights</i>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></span><br> -<br> -Pattern defined, <a href="#Page_218">218</a><br> -Plot defined, <a href="#Page_130">130</a><br> -Point of view, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>-<a href="#Page_125">125</a><br> -Prophecy defined, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>-<a href="#Page_183">183</a><br> -Proust, Marcel, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>-<a href="#Page_239">239</a><br> -Provincialism, <a href="#Page_19">19</a><br> -Pseudo-scholarship, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>-<a href="#Page_28">28</a><br> -<br> -Raleigh, Walter, <a href="#Page_22">22</a><br> -Rhythm, two kinds of, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>-<a href="#Page_241">241</a><br> -Richards, I. A., <a href="#Page_245">245</a><br> -Richardson, Samuel, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>-<a href="#Page_30">30</a><br> -"Round" characters, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>-<a href="#Page_118">118</a><br> -<br> -Scott, Walter, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>-<a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a><br> -Sleep, treatment of, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a><br> -Stein, Gertrude, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>-<a href="#Page_68">68</a><br> -Sterne, Laurence, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>-<a href="#Page_37">37</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_157">157</a>-<a href="#Page_158">158</a></span><br> -Story, definition of, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>-<a href="#Page_45">45</a>; the<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">repository of a voice, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>-<a href="#Page_65">65</a></span><br> -<i>Swiss Family Robinson</i>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>-<a href="#Page_53">53</a><br> -<br> -Thackeray, W. M., <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a><br> -Tolstoy, Leo, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>-<a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>-<a href="#Page_123">123</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></span><br> -Trollope, Anthony, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>-<a href="#Page_83">83</a><br> -<br> -Victoria, Queen, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>-<a href="#Page_72">72</a><br> -<br> -Wells, H. G., <a href="#Page_31">31</a>-<a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>-<a href="#Page_110">110</a>,<br> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><a href="#Page_231">231</a>-<a href="#Page_233">233</a></span><br> -Woolf, Virginia, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>-<a href="#Page_37">37</a><br> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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