There is an unconscious double meaning in the American name given to
the novel published in 1914, _The Greatest of These_, for it can be
taken not only in the Pauline significance, but as the greatest of
these books we are considering. It is the most ambitious and on the
whole the most effective of its author's productions, containing also
the essence of his religion--charity contrasted with opinions. We
have an illustration of his favourite method of portraying the shade
and shine of human character by placing in opposition two leading
representatives of two large classes of nominal Christians--a clergyman
of the Church of England and a minister of the Dissenters. Mr. Marshall
never wrote a better first chapter. The reader is instantly aware
that he has in his hands a masterpiece. Every leading character is
introduced in the opening chapter either in person or in allusive
conversation, and we know that Mr. Marshall has what most novelists
seek in vain--a real plot. This book, which eventually rises to the
highest spiritual altitude attained thus far by its author, begins on
a note of sordid sex-tragedy, as unusual in the stories of Mr. Marshall
as a picture like the Price household is in the work of Jane Austen;
here it serves to bring forward the forthright and self-satisfied
Anglican, who little dreams of his approaching humiliation; he is
brought into conflict with a kind of Zeal-of-the-land Busy, whose
aggressive self-righteousness is to be softened by the very man who he
hoped would harden it. Here too, as in _Exton Manor_, we come as near
as we ever come in Mr. Marshall's books to meeting a villain--in each
case it is a woman with a serpent's tongue.
The time-element in _The Greatest of These_ is managed with consummate
skill. So far as the novel has a hero, it is the Rev. Dr. Merrow. He
does not appear in Roding until the one-hundred-and-sixty-third page,
but there is so much talk, for and against him, that the reader awaits
his arrival at the railway station with fully as much eagerness as any
of the village gossips. And then, owing to the Doctor's fatigue from
the journey, the reader is as baffled as the parishioners. It is quite
impossible to discover what manner of man he is. The author refuses
to help us, preferring to let his leading character reveal himself
without any manipulation behind the scenes. This revelation is gradual,
made up of many little details of speech and behaviour, as it would be
in real life.
But although the personality of the man is not clear until more than
half of the book has passed, the ninth chapter, which shows him in
action in London as a public institution, is one of the most powerful
pieces of prose Mr. Marshall has ever composed. He writes as if
inspired by the theme. Not only is it a magnificent description of a
great occasion, its dramatic power is immensely heightened because
we see it through the eyes of a young ritualist, to whom it is as
strange--and at first as repellent--as some vulgar heathen observance.
But gradually distaste changes to interest, and interest to enthusiasm.
Such passages as the following are entirely unlike the ordinary current
of Mr. Marshall's style, but it is a proof that he can reach the
heights when the occasion calls.
There came more of these sentences. The spark had
caught; the furnace was beginning to glow. George
gazed at the preacher with his own face alight. His
surroundings were forgotten.... If this was the kind
of preaching that had brought Dr. Merrow his great
reputation, then he understood its appeal, and was
himself moved by it. It came from something beyond
creeds, far beyond differences in methods of worship.
It had been heard in all ages of the Church, amidst the
splendours of mediæval superstition, as in the crude
barrenness of modern revivalism. The spirit moved on
the face of the waters; the stagnancy of mere words was
broken; there was life and healing in them.
The words came faster. The voice grew stronger, and
took on a different tone, as if on an organ a touch
of reed had been added to diapason. The slightly bent
figure became straighter, the worn face younger. The
preacher began to use his hands--thin, flexible,
nervous hands, which seemed to clutch at deep truths,
and fling them out for the world to take hold of. Soon
the burning words came in a torrent, as of a rushing
mass of water of irresistible force, yet bound within
its directing channel. Every now and then they sank
to a deep calm, but were still infused with the same
concentrative power. Such words had stirred men's
minds and souls in long past ages. Spoken on bare
hillsides underneath the symbol of faith, they had
converted kingdoms. Flung forth over throngs of rough
fighting men, they had turned bloodshed and rapine into
righteous crusades. Their power was older than that
of Christianity itself. In the dim ages of religious
history it had singled out Aaron for the priesthood,
and put him above Moses, the warrior leader. Later,
it had burst the bonds of the priesthood itself, and
winged the utterances of great prophets.
Every page that we turn in this extraordinary book lessens the distance
not only in time but in sympathy between the Rector and the Pastor.
The orthodox evangelical chapel orator is drawn with just the insight
one would superficially _not_ expect from a man of Mr. Marshall's
birth, breeding, and environment. He is certainly the author's finest
achievement, even finer than Squire Clinton, for he is more difficult
to draw. The Rev. Dr. Merrow must be added to Chaucer's Poore Persoun
and to Goldsmith's Village Preacher as one more permanent clerical
figure in imaginative literature.
Lesser personages in this story are given with the same care in detail,
until we feel their presence as personal friends. The curate, the
Rev. George Barton, so completely misunderstood by Mrs. Merrow, is an
almost flawless portrait. His healthy, athletic outdoor nature and the
development of his inner life are both presented with subtle, delicate
strokes of the pen possible only to an artist of distinction.
It is interesting to contemplate side by side in the reader's mind
the wife of the Rector and the wife of the Pastor. Both are good
women--their only similarity. Lady Ruth, a born aristocrat, with a
"temperamental inability to comport herself as the busy wife of a busy
clergyman" is one of the most gracious and lovely figures created by
our novelist, which means that her charm is irresistible. The less
admirable, but more energetic wife of Dr. Merrow is so perfect a
representative of the busy city pastor's helpmate that we can only
wonder how it is possible to put on paper any creation so real. There
is not a false touch in this picture. William Allingham wrote in his
diary after reading one of Browning's poems, "Bravo, Browning!" Upon
finishing _The Greatest of These_, which I confidently call a great
novel, I could hardly refrain from a shout of applause.