We find, in the main, that women developed--and perfected--the domestic
novel. They made circulating libraries respectable, establishing the
right, and the power, of women to write fiction.
They carried on the traditions of Richardson and Fielding by choosing
the middle-class for subject, at first confining themselves to Society
and the County, but extending--with George Eliot--to all “Professions,”
and to a study of the poor. They made novels a reflection, and a
criticism, of life.
It seems curious that, with the possible exception of Charlotte Brontë,
women were all stern realists: while even her imaginativeness can
scarcely be called romantic. The fact is, probably, that the heroes
and heroines of romance were mainly conceived for young ladies, and
popularly supposed to represent their ideal. Wherefore, when women
began to express themselves, they--more or less consciously--set out
to expose this fallacy: to prove that they could enjoy and face real
life. No school of writers, indeed, has more fearlessly or more
persistently created their characters from flesh and blood than the
school represented by Jane Austen and George Eliot. None has dwelt more
persistently on the trivial details of everyday life, the conquests of
observation. Whether concerned, like Miss Burney, with the Comedy of
Manners; or, like George Eliot, with the Analysis of Soul; they have
one and all found their inspiration in human nature. And, in reality,
this was the main progress achieved in fiction between Richardson and
the nineteenth century--the growth on which the true modern novel was
built up. Critics, indeed, have treated the “romance” and the “novel”
as independent entities; and if we limit the term romance to work
preceding _Pamela_, we may accept their dictum. There is an essential
difference between “making up” characters from a pseudo-ideal of the
possibilities in human nature, and reflecting life. The old system, no
doubt, was unhealthy in two ways: The ideals not well-chosen, being
composed by high-flown exaggeration; and they were so mingled with
actuality as to deceive the young person. For that matter the complaint
is still living that girls and boys continually fancy real life will
prove “just like a novel.” It does not, of course, differ greatly
from those of Jane Austen or George Eliot. The former, in fact, was
accused--in her own day--of setting too high a price on “prudence” in
matrimony; and the latter of encouraging a gloomy outlook.
Obviously realism, as here applied, has no connection with that
Continental variety of the art which has more recently usurped the
name. Women-writers, of this era, had not developed the cult of
Ugliness, they did not confound painting with photography, they did not
busy themselves with the morbid or the abnormal. Their works are not
documents, but revelations. They dwell on manners, without ignoring
their spiritual significance. To-day we have some use for the new
realism, while dreading its predominance. They had none.
In enumerating the classes, or types, of humanity with whom the
women-writers were mainly concerned, we were witnessing, of course,
the allied progress of history. It was during the second half of the
eighteenth, and the first of the nineteenth, centuries that the great
English middle-class steadily grew in power and importance, boldly
educating itself for influence,--before labour was heard in the land.
Fanny Burney has given us the “classes” at play; we fancy that Jane
Austen, betraying their empty-mindedness, must have longed for, if she
did not actually anticipate, better things; Charlotte Brontë utters
the first protest, indicating a struggle for existence; George Eliot
finds them busy about the meaning of life and its possibilities. Thus,
finally, we read of real workers--men and women with the world at their
feet, building an Empire, facing problems, questioning the gods.
And, in their own particular sphere,--the revelation of Woman,--we
have seen already the same advance. Each of them gives us, for
her own generation, a “new woman”; creating, by the revelation of
possibilities, an actual type. By teaching us what was “going on” _in
women_, they taught women to be themselves. They opened the doors of
Liberty towards Progress.
Minor achievements, on the other hand, were mostly directed towards
the extension of subject matter, and the provision of new channels
for fiction. Mrs. Radcliffe--who stood aside from the line of
advance--established the School of Terror, applying romance methods to
melodrama, with more power than we can find elsewhere in English. Maria
Edgeworth introduced the story for children, which was not a tract,
but the literary answer to “Tell me a story,” the exploitation of
nursery tales told by mothers from time immemorial. This was developed
by Harriet Martineau and Charlotte Yonge, bearing fruit later in
libraries of most varied achievement. As we all know, there have been
several works of genius written expressly for children (as were not the
_Pilgrim’s Progress_, _Robinson Crusoe_, and _Gulliver’s Travels_);
innumerable delightful stories of a similar nature, and much inferior
work.
The earlier women-writers set an excellent example in this field, if
they retained overmuch moralising. They gave us a few nursery classics
which show practical insight into the child’s mind, and the gift of
holding his interest by healthy wonder. We need only compare _Sandford
and Merton_ with _Frank_ to recognise their peculiar fitness for such
work.
The invention (by Mrs. Craik) of the “novel for the young person”
is an allied achievement. It was developed by Charlotte Yonge, and
has been always a legitimate province for women. Its dangers are
over-sentimentalism (kin to Romance proper) and the idealism of the
Woman’s Man. Mrs. Craik gave us one type in _John Halifax, Gentleman_;
there are two in Miss Yonge’s _Heir of Redclyffe_.
It must be noted further that Harriet Martineau exploited philanthropy,
and introduced the didactic element developed by George Eliot. Most
women are born preachers--even Jane Austen occasionally points a
moral--and this characteristic became prevalent early in their work. It
was employed sometimes in the defence, or the exposure, of particular
religious tenets; at others, on questions of pure ethics. There is
a sense, of course, in which every story of life must carry its own
moral; but George Eliot and most of the minor novelists obtrude this
matter. In many cases the lesson is the motive, which is false art.
However, the “novel with a purpose” clearly has come to stay. It
outlived the period with which we are concerned, and is still vital.
Speaking generally, the earlier women novelists contented themselves
with raising the standard of domestic morality, upholding the family,
and hinting at _one_ ideal for the _two_ sexes. George Eliot, indeed,
went into individual cases with much detail; but we note in all that
their pet abomination is hypocrisy and cant.
Finally, and most important of all in outside influence, Maria
Edgeworth invented the “national” novel--developed by Susan Ferrier
and Mrs. Oliphant. We have noted already that in banishing the stage
Irishman Miss Edgeworth inspired _Waverley_; and the list of more
recent examples (sprung from India, the “kailyard,” the moorlands,
and a hundred localities) would prove too formidable for passing
enumeration. Her instinctive patriotism has sprung a mine that is
practically inexhaustible and has given us much of our best work. The
“Hardy” country and all “local colour” are similarly inspired. It is
not too much to say that in this matter Miss Edgeworth introduced an
entirely new element, only second in importance to the revelation of
femininity, which is woman’s chief contribution to the progress of
Fiction.
While women were thus developing English fiction, with no rival of
genius except Scott in his magnificent isolation, men had in some way
advanced from Richardson to Thackeray and Dickens. It is worth noticing
how far the two Victorian novelists showed the influence of feminine
work, in what respects they reverted to the eighteenth century, and
what new elements they introduced.
Both are still middle-class and, in one sense, domestic realists.
Thackeray satirises Society (like Miss Burney and Jane Austen); Dickens
works on manners, expounds causes, and takes up the poor. Both caught
an enthusiasm for history from Scott, in which women did nothing of the
first importance. Thackeray capped Lady Susan with Barry Lyndon, and
Dickens produced a few overwrought washes of childhood--which women,
curiously enough, never treated in their regular novels.
A certain resemblance in scope and arrangement has been noted already
between _Vanity Fair_ and _Evelina_; but, speaking generally, it is
obvious that Thackeray writes of Society more as a man of the world,
and with broader insight, than either Miss Burney or Miss Austen.
He not only observes, but criticises. One might say that, like all
moderns, he feels morally responsible for the world. The “manners”
which constitute the humour of Dickens are more varied and, on the
other hand, more caricatured than those of the women-writers. His fury
against social evils is more public-spirited and less specialised; his
knowledge of the poor more intimate and genuinely sympathetic.
They have learnt, it would seem, from women to elaborate details in
observation, to depend on truthful pictures of everyday life, avoiding
romance-characterisation or the aid of adventure in the composition of
their plots. In fact, the development from Richardson’s revolution is
consecutive, taken up by the Victorians where the women left it. New
side-issues are introduced; the novel becomes more complex with the
increased activities of civilisation, and grows with the growth of the
middle classes. It is now the mouthpiece of what Commerce and Education
began to feel and express. But the _direction_ of progress is not
changed.
So far it may fairly be said that Thackeray and Dickens have followed
the women’s lead, and bear witness to their influence.
Yet Thackeray reverts, particularly in _Pendennis_, to the “wild-oats”
plot of Fielding; Dickens is quite innocent of artistic construction,
as perfected in Jane Austen; and neither of them seems to have
benefited at all from the extraordinary revelation of womanhood which
we have traced from its earliest source.
Thackeray’s heroines are, one and all, obviously made by a man for men.
Amelia is a hearth-rug, with a pattern of pretty flowers. Beatrice
and Blanche are variants of the eternal flirt--as man reads her. Lady
Castlewood, Helen and Laura Pendennis are of the women who spend their
lives waiting for the right man. Ethel Newcome is a man’s dream; and we
venture to fancy that if ever a woman be born with genius to draw Becky
Sharpe, she would find _something_ to add to the picture.
The case of Dickens is even more desperate. His “pretty housemaids,”
indeed, are “done to a turn”; and Nancy is of the immortals. He
could illustrate with melodramatic intensity certain feminine
characteristics, good or evil, tragic or comic. But all his heroines
belong to a few obvious waxwork types--the idiotic “pet” or the
fireside “angel”; the “comfort” or the prig, composed of curls,
blushes, and giggles; looks of reproach and tender advice. Possibly
Dora is rather more aggravating than Dolly Varden, Agnes is wiser than
Kate Nickleby, but they all work by machinery, with visible springs.
It was reserved for George Meredith to understand women.