memories and portraits-第38章

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novel；　and　that　it　would　have　been　very　differently　conceived　and　

treated　had　it　belonged　to　that　other　marked　class；　of　which　I　now　

proceed　to　speak。



I　take　pleasure　in　calling　the　dramatic　novel　by　that　name；　because　

it　enables　me　to　point　out　by　the　way　a　strange　and　peculiarly　

English　misconception。　　It　is　sometimes　supposed　that　the　drama　

consists　of　incident。　　It　consists　of　passion；　which　gives　the　

actor　his　opportunity；　and　that　passion　must　progressively　

increase；　or　the　actor；　as　the　piece　proceeded；　would　be　unable　to　

carry　the　audience　from　a　lower　to　a　higher　pitch　of　interest　and　

emotion。　　A　good　serious　play　must　therefore　be　founded　on　one　of　

the　passionate　CRUCES　of　life；　where　duty　and　inclination　come　

nobly　to　the　grapple；　and　the　same　is　true　of　what　I　call；　for　that　

reason；　the　dramatic　novel。　　I　will　instance　a　few　worthy　

specimens；　all　of　our　own　day　and　language；　Meredith's　RHODA　

FLEMING；　that　wonderful　and　painful　book；　long　out　of　print；　（13）　

and　hunted　for　at　bookstalls　like　an　Aldine；　Hardy's　PAIR　OF　BLUE　

EYES；　and　two　of　Charles　Reade's；　GRIFFITH　GAUNT　and　the　DOUBLE　

MARRIAGE；　originally　called　WHITE　LIES；　and　founded　（by　an　accident　

quaintly　favourable　to　my　nomenclature）　on　a　play　by　Maquet；　the　

partner　of　the　great　Dumas。　　In　this　kind　of　novel　the　closed　door　

of　THE　AUTHOR　OF　BELTRAFFIO　must　be　broken　open；　passion　must　

appear　upon　the　scene　and　utter　its　last　word；　passion　is　the　be…

all　and　the　end…all；　the　plot　and　the　solution；　the　protagonist　and　

the　DEUS　EX　MACHINA　in　one。　　The　characters　may　come　anyhow　upon　

the　stage：　we　do　not　care；　the　point　is；　that；　before　they　leave　

it；　they　shall　become　transfigured　and　raised　out　of　themselves　by　

passion。　　It　may　be　part　of　the　design　to　draw　them　with　detail；　to　

depict　a　full…length　character；　and　then　behold　it　melt　and　change　

in　the　furnace　of　emotion。



But　there　is　no　obligation　of　the　sort；　nice　portraiture　is　not　

required；　and　we　are　content　to　accept　mere　abstract　types；　so　they　

be　strongly　and　sincerely　moved。　　A　novel　of　this　class　may　be　even　

great；　and　yet　contain　no　individual　figure；　it　may　be　great；　

because　it　displays　the　workings　of　the　perturbed　heart　and　the　

impersonal　utterance　of　passion；　and　with　an　artist　of　the　second　

class　it　is；　indeed；　even　more　likely　to　be　great；　when　the　issue　

has　thus　been　narrowed　and　the　whole　force　of　the　writer's　mind　

directed　to　passion　alone。　　Cleverness　again；　which　has　its　fair　

field　in　the　novel　of　character；　is　debarred　all　entry　upon　this　

more　solemn　theatre。　　A　far…fetched　motive；　an　ingenious　evasion　of　

the　issue；　a　witty　instead　of　a　passionate　turn；　offend　us　like　an　

insincerity。　　All　should　be　plain；　all　straightforward　to　the　end。　　

Hence　it　is　that；　in　RHODA　FLEMING；　Mrs。　Lovell　raises　such　

resentment　in　the　reader；　her　motives　are　too　flimsy；　her　ways　are　

too　equivocal；　for　the　weight　and　strength　of　her　surroundings。　　

Hence　the　hot　indignation　of　the　reader　when　Balzac；　after　having　

begun　the　DUCHESSE　DE　LANGEAIS　in　terms　of　strong　if　somewhat　

swollen　passion；　cuts　the　knot　by　the　derangement　of　the　hero's　

clock。　　Such　personages　and　incidents　belong　to　the　novel　of　

character；　they　are　out　of　place　in　the　high　society　of　the　

passions；　when　the　passions　are　introduced　in　art　at　their　full　

height；　we　look　to　see　them；　not　baffled　and　impotently　striving；　

as　in　life；　but　towering　above　circumstance　and　acting　substitutes　

for　fate。



And　here　I　can　imagine　Mr。　James；　with　his　lucid　sense；　to　

intervene。　　To　much　of　what　I　have　said　he　would　apparently　demur；　

in　much　he　would；　somewhat　impatiently；　acquiesce。　　It　may　be　true；　

but　it　is　not　what　he　desired　to　say　or　to　hear　said。　　He　spoke　of　

the　finished　picture　and　its　worth　when　done；　I；　of　the　brushes；　

the　palette；　and　the　north　light。　　He　uttered　his　views　in　the　tone　

and　for　the　ear　of　good　society；　I；　with　the　emphasis　and　

technicalities　of　the　obtrusive　student。　　But　the　point；　I　may　

reply；　is　not　merely　to　amuse　the　public；　but　to　offer　helpful　

advice　to　the　young　writer。　　And　the　young　writer　will　not　so　much　

be　helped　by　genial　pictures　of　what　an　art　may　aspire　to　at　its　

highest；　as　by　a　true　idea　of　what　it　must　be　on　the　lowest　terms。　　

The　best　that　we　can　say　to　him　is　this：　Let　him　choose　a　motive；　

whether　of　character　or　passion；　carefully　construct　his　plot　so　

that　every　incident　is　an　illustration　of　the　motive；　and　every　

property　employed　shall　bear　to　it　a　near　relation　of　congruity　or　

contrast；　avoid　a　sub…plot；　unless；　as　sometimes　in　Shakespeare；　

the　sub…plot　be　a　reversion　or　complement　of　the　main　intrigue；　

suffer　not　his　style　to　flag　below　the　level　of　the　argument；　pitch　

the　key　of　conversation；　not　with　any　thought　of　how　men　talk　in　

parlours；　but　with　a　single　eye　to　the　degree　of　passion　he　may　be　

called　on　to　express；　and　allow　neither　himself　in　the　narrative　

nor　any　character　in　the　course　of　the　dialogue；　to　utter　one　

sentence　that　is　not　part　and　parcel　of　the　business　of　the　story　

or　the　discussion　of　the　problem　involved。　　Let　him　not　regret　if　

this　shortens　his　book；　it　will　be　better　so；　for　to　add　irrelevant　

matter　is　not　to　lengthen　but　to　bury。　　Let　him　not　mind　if　he　miss　

a　thousand　qualities；　so　that　he　keeps　unflaggingly　in　pursuit　of　

the　one　he　has　chosen。　　Let　him　not　care　particularly　if　he　miss　

the　tone　of　conversation；　the　pungent　material　detail　of　the　day's　

manners；　the　reproduction　of　the　atmosphere　and　the　environment。　　

These　elements　are　not　essential：　a　novel　may　be　excellent；　and　yet　

have　none　of　them；　a　passion　or　a　character　is　so　much　the　better　

depicted　as　it　rises　clearer　from　material　circumstance。　　In　this　

age　of　the　particular；　let　him　remember　the　ages　of　the　abstract；　

the　great　books　of　the　past；　the　brave　men　that　lived　before　

Shakespeare　and　before　Balzac。　　And　as　the　root　of　the　whole　

matter；　let　him　bear　in　mind　that　his　novel　is　not　a　transcript　of　

life；　to　be　judged　by　its　exactitude；　but　a　simplification　of　some　

side　or　point　of　life；　to　stand　or　fall　by　its　significant　

simplicity。　　For　although；　in　great　men；　working　upon　great　

motives；　what　we　observe　and　admire　is　often　their　complexity；　yet　

underneath　appearances　the　truth　remains　unchanged：　that　

simplification　was　their　method；　and　that　simplicity　is　their　

excellence。





II





Since　the　above　was　written　another　novelist　has　entered　repeatedly　

the　lists　of　theory：　one　well　worthy　of　mention；　Mr。　W。　D。　Howells；　

and　none　ever　couched　a　lance　with　narrower　convictions。　　His　own　

work　and　those　of　his　pupils　and　masters　singly　occupy　his　mind；　he　

is　the　bondslave；　the　zealot　of　his　school；　he　dreams　of　an　advance　

in　art　like　what　there　is　in　science；　he　thinks　of　past　things　as　

radically　dead；　he　thinks　a　form　can　be　outlived：　a　strange　

immersion　in　his　own　history；　a　strange　forgetfulness　of　the　

history　of　the　race！　　Meanwhile；　by　a　glance　at　his　own　works　

（could　he　see　them　with　the　eager　eyes　of　his　readers）　much　of　this　

illusion　would　be　dispelled。　　For　while　he　holds　all　the　poor　

little　orthodoxies　of　the　day　…　no　poorer　and　no　smaller　than　those　

of　yesterday　or　to…morrow；　poor　and　small；　indeed；　only　so　far　as　

they　are　exclusive　…　the　living　quality　of　much　that　he　has　done　is　

of　a　contrary；　I　had　almost　said　of　a　heretical；　complexion。　　A　

man；　as　I　read　him；　of　an　originally　strong　romantic　bent　…　a　

certain　glow　of　romance　still　resides　in　many　of　his　books；　and　

lends　them　their　distinction。　　As　by　accident　he　runs　out　and　

revels　in　the　exceptional；　and　it　is　then；　as　often　as　not；　that　

his　reader　rejoices　…　justly；　as　I　contend。　　For　in　all　this　

excessive　eagerness　to　be　centrally　human；　is　there　not　one　central　

human　thing　that　Mr。　Howells　is　too　often　tempted　to　neglect：　I　

mean　himself？　　A　poet；　a　finished　artist；