“La plainte est pour le fat, le bruit est pour le sot;
L’honnête homme hue s’éloigne et ne dit mot!”
Miss Corelli assumes that all the reviewers are venal and dishonest,
and that because they do not praise her books, books which are so
influential and popular, they are bad critics. Reviewers, take them
all in all, are nothing of the sort. I have written hundreds of book
reviews. I have reviewed for the _Saturday Review_, the _Academy_, and
the _Bookman_, among other journals. Therefore you may assume that I
met plenty of other critics, and know their polity and ways. We were
all honest enough in those days--that I say without any doubt at all.
I remember Mr. Frank Harris, the then editor of the _Saturday_, giving
me a certain novel to review, and expressing himself with great point
and freedom about it. As I was leaving his room he called me back, and
said, as well as I can remember his words, “Remember that this is only
_my_ point of view, and what I want in this case is yours. You may
like the stuff, and if you do, of course you will say so.”
I _didn’t_ like it, and said so, but I have never forgotten the
incident.
As I said in the beginning of this paper, directly my stories began to
be occupied with religion as the force, _qui fait le monde à la
ronde_, some of the critics began to be unkind. But what on earth is
the use of wasting one’s own time, and the time of the public, in
fussing and complaining? The people who said this about my work were
quite sincere. Their opinion is quite as good as mine, however much I
don’t agree with it. _Quot homines tot sententiæ._ My business is to
earn a living for myself and for those who are dependent on me. Thank
God I can do so. My duty is to hammer away at the doctrines in which I
believe, and endeavour to get others to believe in them. Therefore I
must not “call or cry aloud.” I must go on doing what I am doing, and
doing it _sans rançune_.
Remember, and I wish Miss Corelli, for example, could see this also,
that criticism of novels in our day is a purely _literary_ criticism.
The theory of modern criticism is that Art is a thing by itself and
owes no duty to Ethics. The reason for Art is, art. Ten years ago I
think I would almost have gone to the stake for this doctrine. I
believed in it devoutly; I couldn’t be patient, even, in the presence
of any one who argued otherwise. I well remember the indignant anger
with which I repudiated the suggestion of my father, a clergyman, that
when I grew older and had suffered, when I came into real contact with
the great central facts of life, I should think very differently. He
was perfectly right. Art is the essential part of fiction, but it is
not destroyed because it is employed as the handmaid of an ethical
standpoint.
But this truth is no reason for “answering back” the critics who do
not appreciate it. Nothing is quite true--except The Incarnation--a
naïve statement you may call it, but as a corollary of the epigram,
true too! It is better, by far, to realize that modern criticism is
most valuable from the purely literary point of view, and yet that the
purely literary point of view is only one side of the model the artist
must study before he learns how to draw.
Therefore, when any critic tells me of this or that fault in
technique, I take his expert opinion for what it is worth--an expert
opinion--and try to learn from his criticism. I try to learn and do
better. When the post-bag discloses a criticism obviously animated by
personal prejudice or dictated by the religious politics of the paper
in which it appears, I grin and bear it--though I don’t like it!--and
console myself with the verse composed by the American poet whose
critics were _always_ unfair, or at least he said so--
“The cow is in the garden,
The cat is in the lake,
The pig is in the hammock,
What difference _does_ it make!”
No author, who has a public at all, suffers from _criticism_ which is
fair or even from _criticism_ which is unfair.
An author is not well advised in publicly answering or combating
either.
When Disraeli said that the critics were the “people who had failed in
literature and art,” he forgot that bad wine often makes excellent
vinegar. I am quite certain that I have never suffered in the
suffrages of my readers--and so in pocket!--from hostile criticism.
And I have had any amount of it--the little green wrapper is not
always pleasant reading. But I have never shouted out that I have been
personally hurt or wounded by hostile criticism, and I certainly never
shall. The days are past when the _Quarterly_ could kill Keats, and
the days have not arrived when the reprobatory finger which is
sometimes wagged at one can take one’s bread-and-butter away.
But sometimes--and now, please, I unsheathe my toy sword, or at least
flourish my cane--the postman brings something that cannot hurt one
seriously, though it stings. This something is not criticism at all.
It stings, not because of the actual attempt--even the smallest plants
cannot grow unhampered by insect life--but because, puny as it may be,
it is so manifestly unfair. In this regard I can sympathize with Miss
Corelli because, however the critics may write of her books from the
literary pedestal, they sometimes write of her, from a shelter
trench, in a very different way.
One morning I read a little sneer about myself which was entirely
without justification or explanation. It occurred in a Catholic
magazine, which I will call _The Thesaurus_, dated June 1906, and was
written by the editor, who may be designated as the Rev. Mr. Roget.
Here it is:--
“Perhaps one of those authors whom the public love--Miss
Corelli, Mr. Hall Caine, or Mr. ‘Guy Thorne‘--may be preparing
a novel with the education controversy as its theme. In that
case, one can only hope devoutly that the Bishop of London will
_not_ think it advisable to advertise the book from the pulpit.
Yet if one could only have heard a frank opinion of _When it
was Dark_ expressed by the last Bishop of London--Dr.
Creighton--that would indeed have been a joy.”
_The Thesaurus_ is a pleasant little magazine devoted to quite
innocuous fiction and articles. It has, in the number I quote above,
nine pages of advertisements, an article called “In the Engadine,” a
“Few hints on church embroidery,” a very happily named story called
“In a Dull Moment,” etc, etc. Indeed it could not hurt a fly. I say
this much, not because I have any dislike for this nice little
periodical, but in order to point out that in answering its editor’s
remarks about me, I am not endeavouring to become known to the world,
and to advertise myself by the endeavour to link my name to its
editor’s.
There is a certain sort of hurried and sporadic writing which is not
criticism, but is irresponsible nonsense set down to fill a page no
less than to gratify a prejudice.
It’s all give and take in literary polemics. People are always going
for one in the press, and very often with perfect justice. But when
one reads remarks like those I have quoted, and remarks written by a
Mr. Roget, then, if it amuses one, there is at least a text for a
small monition.
Miss Marie Corelli is very well able to look after herself. However
much Mr. Roget may endeavour to pillory this lady in his “Study
Window,” I don’t suppose she cares. She is a great modern force; Mr.
Roget isn’t. Mr. Hall Caine will not, I imagine, try to stop being one
of the authors “whom the public love” because of the editor of _The
Thesaurus_. Nor have I, the humblest person in the trilogy, yet
suffered.
And, believe me, it is not because I personally care much that I am
writing like this, nor is Mr. Roget any armed assassin in a narrow
path. But such an one ought to be laughed at a little, because he is
typical of a class of young men who should be taught the economy of
reserve.
Mr. Roget did not explain his reasons for attacking me, though I,
quite frankly, give mine for attacking him. But as--through the
lamentable chances of war--my remarks will be read by a great many
more folk than his were read by, we are quits, and I can start fair,
though with all the rigour of the game.
The Editor in his paragraph not only states that he himself does not
like one of my stories--_i. e., When it was Dark_, but implies that the
Bishop of London was not justified in liking it, and saying that he
liked it in public.
It is quite within Mr. Roget’s right not to like the book--thousands
of people didn’t like it. But what are his functions for sneering at
it with confidence and weight?
First of all his age is thirty-six, and he is the editor of _The
Thesaurus_.
We can dismiss those qualifications at once.
Then he is the Vicar of a Worcestershire church, and a well-known
writer of light verse.
He began his journalistic career in 1890 by contributing “turnovers”
to the _Globe_, has contributed to _Punch_ and _The Nineteenth
Century_, is a leader writer on a Church paper, and reviews
theological books.
This is his journalistic career, and he has written seven little books
in all, mostly verse. I take these particulars from _Who’s Who_.
All this is very well. It is a good thing for all of us to be in
_Who’s Who_, though, by the way, it does the latter-day “celebrity”
more harm to be out of it than it does him good to be in it!
Mr. Roget’s record for a young clergyman of thirty-six is honourable
enough. He has done better for himself than most young priests of that
age. But this does not constitute him “An author whom the public
love,” etc.
I am very glad to find my own name in the fat red book, which is so
useful, though in my little autobiography I never thought it necessary
to mention the first “turnover.” I certainly did venture to say that
one of my stories had sold 300,000 copies; but that was probably
vanity, and I regret it.
But, to be serious, has my critic done as much in journalism or the
literary world as your deponent? I’m not going to catalogue my work
any more, but, frankly, he has not. All I ask, with proper humility,
is just this--Is this gentleman qualified to sneer at me--not to
_criticize_ me, which is quite another thing--just because the public
have approved of what I have tried to sell them and have bought it?
In sneering at me he sneers at the public, whose taste I have been
fortunate enough to please, and whose opinion of what I have to sell
has lifted me and those who are dear to me from poverty to comfort. I
have worked enormously. I have put all I have got in me into my work,
and I feel that work honestly done has been honestly rewarded. If I
could write better than I do, I should be very happy. I know perfectly
well how inadequate my work is, but I know what this “critic” of mine
does not know, and has not inquired into, how much it costs me to do
it and how deeply I believe in what I say.
And does not Mr. Roget also seek the suffrages of the public? In the
same issue of _The Thesaurus_ to which I have referred above, he uses
the phrase “...us who are trying to make an income out of literature.”
Of course, he is trying to be “one of those authors,” etc. He admits
it. He tells us he is trying to make an income out of the public. And
yet, while he is doing this, he insults the public for preferring
“those other authors”--or, at least, that’s how one can hardly help
taking it!
Moreover he is a priest as well as a literary man. As a literary man,
I attack one who has not yet shown himself to have the slightest right
to sneer at people who write--whatever their literary faults may seem
to him--always on the side of good, with a belief in the saving power
of the Christian faith, and in the same hope as that in which he
writes.
A million people read one of Miss Corelli’s books, and they pay her to
do so.
Two hundred people listen to one of Mr. Roget’s sermons, and he is
paid to preach them. But do authors go down into Worcestershire and
sneer at the sermon of the priest because his own congregation love to
hear him?
This is the first time in my life that I have ever answered any one
who has written unkindly of me. And it will be the last. _Literary_
criticism is a thing done by specialists, and with every right on
their side. _Literary_ criticism is in the main correct. When I
publish a book, and a literary writer points out this or that fault, I
am myself literary man enough to know that he has put his finger on
the weak spot nine times out of ten. Then I try again. I have said
this before.
But mere unqualified contempt on the part of one who has not been able
to qualify himself to express any contempt of value for public
judgment deserves remark.
And now it is necessary to say a word about this gentleman’s
reprobation of the Bishop of London’s sermons about _When it was
Dark_. It is not a nice thing to have to say, but this young clergyman
is typical of a small tribe which make it necessary for me to say it.
The obvious suggestion is that I went out of my way to induce the
Bishop of London to advertise one of my books. That is not the case.
I have never met the Bishop of London in my life. I have never even
seen him. I have had one letter from him about my book, which I will
not quote here, but which I will send Mr. Roget whenever he asks for
it. It is the only communication I have ever had from him. Neither
directly nor indirectly did I attempt to get the bishop to advertise
me.
Yet his lordship preached about the book six or seven times--once in
Westminster Abbey. He advised his ordination candidates to read it,
and in his addresses to these gentlemen--subsequently published in
book form--the passage remains.
The late Bishop of Truro advised the clergy to read it in several
diocesan meetings. He also wrote a long signed article in a great
London daily paper about my books, in which he said:--
“A story written by Guy Thorne, who has proved his gift and its
purpose, may well touch the sore place of our race with a hand
that is more human than statistics and more sympathetic than
many organizations.”
Dr. Gott is just dead as I write this. I have many letters from him.
In one of them--which again I will not quote, but which I will send my
critic for his private reading when he asks for it--his lordship said
that the book had helped him greatly.
There have been thousands of personal letters from readers about this
one book. Dozens of them were from clergymen, from pastors of the
Nonconformist and also the Anglican Churches. All this also I have
said before, and the half-dozen letters which I have quoted have their
own value, bear their own witness.
One of the greatest Nonconformist divines of England preached about
the book.
There--I have said enough. It is sickening to have to say it. But Mr.
Roget leaves one no alternative. He is not fair. For some reason or
other--I do not know or care what it is, for he is an utter stranger
to me--he takes this line. In the same issue of his magazine he
writes of the President of the Congregational Union--“Mr. Jowett’s
presidential address, as well as the speeches which followed it, were
not remarkable, to say the least, for the charity of language used
about the Church. All the old sectarian bitterness was expressed in
the usual way.”
...I have been writing for many hours. The snow was blowing in from
the Channel over the South Foreland when I began. The sky was a great
pewter-coloured dome from which Mother Hulda’s feathers were falling,
when I took up the pen.
As the day waxed there came a faint, yellow, and almost menacing gleam
of sunshine, and as it waned the leaden-grey grew black, and night
came silently over the landscape until at last she opened her great
funereal black fan.
They brought me lamps and set them on my table. Those who love me and
look after me came noiselessly up the stairs, silently into the room
and put logs upon the study fire and left me alone once more.
It is nearly midnight, and the winter wind pipes sadly outside this
old Kentish house, so remote from other habitations, so renowned in
the annals of the Channel cliffs. With all its faults, all its
egoisms, take this last essay in my first book of essays, and do not
think hardly of me. Forgive what you discern here of petulance, of
arrogance, and of conceit. I have done my day’s labour, and I have
tried to be sincere. I have done my day’s labour, and now I am going
to descend to an old room, with its oaken beams and aroma of the past,
to take the supper of a man who has toiled. The dear people, and
unfortunate ones! who wait upon the erratic hours of an author are
waiting for me there.
And then to bed, and may the humble supplication I shall send up to
Almighty God for myself and those I love, for those who read what I
have written, have its hearing in the place where “hearts and wills
are weighed.” May I become a better and worthier man because I have
the opportunity of addressing you who read. And may God grant me to
mend a faulty life.
Good-night and Amen.
_Wanstone Court,
December, 1906._
* * * * *
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND
BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.