Though I am mad with self-reproach, I feel _that_--it was all so
inevitable. If he were alive and well before me this instant my
feeling towards him wouldn't have changed. If he spoke to me, he would
say 'My dear'--and I should _loathe_ him. Oh, I know! It is _that_
that makes it so awful."
"But if you acknowledge it," Broomhurst struck in eagerly, "will you
wreck both of our lives for the sake of vain regrets? Kathleen, you
never will."
He waited breathlessly for her answer.
"I won't wreck both our lives by marrying again without love on my
side," she replied firmly.
"I will take the risk," he said. "You _have_ loved me--you will love
me again. You are crushed and dazed now with brooding over this--this
trouble, but----"
"But I will not allow you to take the risk," Kathleen answered. "What
sort of woman should I be to be willing again to live with a man I
don't love? I have come to know that there are things one owes to
_oneself_. Self-respect is one of them. I don't know how it has come
to be so, but all my old feeling for you has _gone_. It is as though
it had burnt itself out. I will not offer grey ashes to any man."
Broomhurst looking up at her pale, set face, knew that her words were
final, and turned his own aside with a groan.
"Ah!" cried Kathleen with a little break in her voice, "_don't._ Go
away and be happy and strong, and all that I loved in you. I am so
sorry--so sorry to hurt you. I----" her voice faltered miserably.
"I--I only bring trouble to people."
There was a long pause.
"Did you never think that there is a terrible vein of irony running
through the ordering of this world?" she said presently. "It is a
mistake to think our prayers are not answered--they are. In due time
we get our heart's desire--when we have ceased to care for it."
"I haven't yet got mine," Broomhurst answered doggedly, "and I shall
never cease to care for it."
She smiled a little with infinite sadness.
"Listen, Kathleen," he said. They had both risen and he stood before
her, looking down at her. "I will go now, but in a year's time I shall
come back. I will not give you up. You shall love me yet."
"Perhaps--I don't think so," she answered wearily.
Broomhurst looked at her trembling lips a moment in silence, then he
stooped and kissed both her hands instead.
"I will wait till you tell me you love me," he said.
She stood watching him out of sight. He did not look back, and she
turned with swimming eyes to the grey sea and the transient gleams of
sunlight that swept like tender smiles across its face.
An Idyll
By W. Brown MacDougal
[Illustration: An Idyll]
Reticence in Literature
Some Roundabout Remarks
By Hubert Crackanthorpe
During the past fifty years, as everyone knows, the art of fiction has
been expanding in a manner exceedingly remarkable, till it has grown
to be the predominant branch of imaginative literature. But the other
day we were assured that poetry only thrives in limited and exquisite
editions; that the drama, here in England at least, has practically
ceased to be literature at all. Each epoch instinctively chooses that
literary vehicle which is best adapted for the expression of its
particular temper: just as the drama flourished in the robust age of
Shakespeare and Ben Jonson; just as that outburst of lyrical poetry,
at the beginning of the century in France, coincided with a period of
extreme emotional exaltation; so the novel, facile and flexible in its
conventions, with its endless opportunities for accurate delineation
of reality, becomes supreme in a time of democracy and of science--to
note but these two salient characteristics.
And, if we pursue this light of thought, we find that, on all sides,
the novel is being approached in one especial spirit, that it would
seem to be striving, for the moment at any rate, to perfect itself
within certain definite limitations. To employ a hackneyed, and often
quite unintelligent, catchword--the novel is becoming realistic.
Throughout the history of literature, the jealous worship of
beauty--which we term idealism--and the jealous worship of
truth--which we term realism--have alternately prevailed. Indeed, it
is within the compass of these alternations that lies the whole
fundamental diversity of literary temper.
Still, the classification is a clumsy one, for no hard and fast line
can be drawn between the one spirit and the other. The so-called
idealist must take as his point of departure the facts of Nature; the
so-called realist must be sensitive to some one or other of the forms
of beauty, if each would achieve the fineness of great art. And the
pendulum of production is continually swinging, from degenerate
idealism to degenerate realism, from effete vapidity to slavish
sordidity.
Either term, then, can only be employed in a purely limited and
relative sense. Completely idealistic art--art that has no point of
contact with the facts of the universe, as we know them--is, of
course, an impossible absurdity; similarly, a complete reproduction of
Nature by means of words is an absurd impossibility. Neither
emphasization nor abstraction can be dispensed with: the one,
eliminating the details of no import; the other, exaggerating those
which the artist has selected. And, even were such a thing possible,
it would not be Art. The invention of a highly perfected system of
coloured photography, for instance, or a skilful recording by means of
the phonograph of scenes in real life, would not subtract one whit
from the value of the painter's or the playwright's interpretation.
Art is not invested with the futile function of perpetually striving
after imitation or reproduction of Nature; she endeavours to produce,
through the adaptation of a restricted number of natural facts, an
harmonious and satisfactory whole. Indeed, in this very process of
adaptation and blending together, lies the main and greater task of
the artist. And the novel, the short story, even the impression of a
mere incident, convey each of them, the imprint of the temper in which
their creator has achieved this process of adaptation and blending
together of his material. They are inevitably stamped with the
hall-mark of his personality. A work of art can never be more than a
corner of Nature, seen through the temperament of a single man. Thus,
all literature is, must be, essentially subjective; for style is but
the power of individual expression. The disparity which separates
literature from the reporter's transcript is ineradicable. There is a
quality of ultimate suggestiveness to be achieved; for the business of
art is, not to explain or to describe, but to suggest. That attitude
of objectivity, or of impersonality towards his subject, consciously
or unconsciously, assumed by the artist, and which nowadays provokes
so considerable an admiration, can be attained only in a limited
degree. Every piece of imaginative work must be a kind of
autobiography of its creator--significant, if not of the actual facts
of his existence, at least of the inner working of his soul. We are
each of us conscious, not of the whole world, but of our own world;
not of naked reality, but of that aspect of reality which our peculiar
temperament enables us to appropriate. Thus, every narrative of an
external circumstance is never anything else than the transcript of
the impression produced upon ourselves by that circumstance, and,
invariably, a degree of individual interpretation is insinuated into
every picture, real or imaginary, however objective it may be. So
then, the disparity between the so-called idealist and the so-called
realist is a matter, not of æsthetic philosophy, but of individual
temperament. Each is at work, according to the especial bent of his
genius, within precisely the same limits. Realism, as a creed, is as
ridiculous as any other literary creed.
Now, it would have been exceedingly curious if this recent
specialisation of the art of fiction, this passion for draining from
the life, as it were, born, in due season, of the general spirit of
the latter half of the nineteenth century, had not provoked a
considerable amount of opposition--opposition of just that kind which
every new evolution in art inevitably encounters. Between the vanguard
and the main body there is perpetual friction.
But time flits quickly in this hurried age of ours, and the opposition
to the renascence of fiction as a conscientious interpretation of life
is not what it was; its opponents are not the men they were. It is not
so long since a publisher was sent to prison for issuing English
translations of celebrated specimens of French realism; yet, only the
other day, we vied with each other in doing honour to the chief
figure-head of that tendency across the Channel, and there was heard
but the belated protest of a few worthy individuals, inadequately
equipped with the jaunty courage of ignorance, or the insufferable
confidence of second-hand knowledge.
And during the past year things have been moving very rapidly. The
position of the literary artist towards Nature, his great inspirer,
has become more definite, more secure. A sound, organised opinion of
men of letters is being acquired; and in the little bouts with the
_bourgeois_--if I may be pardoned the use of that wearisome word--no
one has to fight single-handed. Heroism is at a discount; Mrs. Grundy
is becoming mythological; a crowd of unsuspected supporters collect
from all sides, and the deadly conflict of which we had been warned
becomes but an interesting skirmish. Books are published, stories are
printed, in old-established reviews, which would never have been
tolerated a few years ago. On all sides, deference to the tendency of
the time is spreading. The truth must be admitted: the roar of
unthinking prejudice is dying away.
All this is exceedingly comforting: and yet, perhaps, it is not a
matter for absolute congratulation. For, if the enemy are not dying as
gamely as we had expected, if they are, as I am afraid, losing heart,
and in danger of sinking into a condition of passive indifference, it
should be to us a matter of not inconsiderable apprehension. If this
new evolution in the art of fiction--this general return of the
literary artist towards Nature, on the brink of which we are to-day
hesitating--is to achieve any definite, ultimate fineness of
expression, it will benefit enormously by the continued presence of a
healthy, vigorous, if not wholly intelligent, body of opponents.
Directly or indirectly, they will knock a lot of nonsense out of us,
will these opponents;--why should we be ashamed to admit it? They will
enable us to find our level, they will spur us on to bring out the
best--and only the best--that is within us.
Take, for instance, the gentleman who objects to realistic fiction on
moral grounds. If he does not stand the most conspicuous to-day, at
least he was pre-eminent the day before yesterday. He is a hard case,
and it is on his especial behalf that I would appeal. For he has been
dislodged from the hill top, he has become a target for all manner of
unkind chaff, from the ribald youth of Fleet Street and Chelsea. He
has been labelled a Philistine: he has been twitted with his
middle-age; he has been reported to have compromised himself with that
indecent old person, Mrs. Grundy. It is confidently asserted that he
comes from Putney, or from Sheffield, and that, when he is not busy
abolishing the art of English literature, he is employed in
safeguarding the interests of the grocery or tallow-chandler's trade.
Strange and cruel tales of him have been printed in the monthly
reviews; how, but for him, certain well-known popular writers would
have written masterpieces; how, like the ogre in the fairy tale, he
consumes every morning at breakfast a hundred pot-boiled young
geniuses. For the most part they have been excellently well told,
these tales of this moral ogre of ours; but why start to shatter
brutally their dainty charm by a soulless process of investigation?
No, let us be shamed rather into a more charitable spirit, into making
generous amends, into rehabilitating the greatness of our moral ogre.
He is the backbone of our nation; the guardian of our mediocrity; the
very foil of our intelligence. Once, you fancied that you could argue
with him, that you could dispute his dictum. Ah! how we cherished that
day-dream of our extreme youth. But it was not to be. He is still
immense; for he is unassailable; he is flawless, for he is complete
within himself; his lucidity is yet unimpaired; his impartiality is
yet supreme. Who amongst us could judge with a like impartiality the
productions of Scandinavia and Charpentier, Walt Whitman, and the
Independent Theatre? Let us remember that he has never professed to
understand Art, and the deep debt of gratitude that every artist in
the land should consequently owe to him; let us remember that he is
above us, for he belongs to the great middle classes; let us remember
that he commands votes, that he is candidate for the County Council;
let us remember that he is delightful, because he is intelligible.
Yes, he is intelligible; and of how many of us can that be said? His
is no complex programme, no subtly exacting demand. A plain moral
lesson is all that he asks, and his voice is as of one crying in the
ever fertile wilderness of Smith and of Mudie.
And he is right, after all--if he only knew it. The business of art is
to create for us fine interests, to make of our human nature a more
complete thing: and thus, all great art is moral in the wider and the
truer sense of the word. It is precisely on this point of the meaning
of the word "moral" that we and our ogre part company. To him,
morality is concerned only with the established relations between the
sexes and with fair dealing between man and man: to him the subtle,
indirect morality of Art is incomprehensible.
Theoretically, Art is non-moral. She is not interested in any ethical
code of any age or any nation, except in so far as the breach or
observance of that code may furnish her with material on which to
work. But, unfortunately, in this complex world of ours, we cannot
satisfactorily pursue one interest--no, not even the interest of Art,
at the expense of all others--let us look that fact in the face,
doggedly, whatever pangs it may cost us--pleading magnanimously for
the survival of our moral ogre, for there will be danger to our cause
when his voice is no more heard.
If imitation be the sincerest form of flattery, then our moral ogre
must indeed have experienced a proud moment, when a follower came to
him from the camp of the lovers of Art, and the artistic objector to
realistic fiction started on his timid career. I use the word timid in
no disparaging sense, but because our artistic objector, had he
ventured a little farther from the vicinity of the coat-tails of his
powerful protector, might have secured a more adequate recognition of
his performances. For he is by no means devoid of adroitness. He can
patter to us glibly of the "gospel of ugliness"; of the "cheerlessness
of modern literature"; he can even juggle with that honourable
property-piece, the maxim of Art for Art's sake. But there have been
moments when even this feat has proved ineffective, and some one has
started scoffing at his pretended "delight in pure rhythm or music of
the phrase," and flippantly assured him that he is talking nonsense,
and that style is a mere matter of psychological suggestion. You fancy
our performer nonplussed, or at least boldly bracing himself to brazen
the matter out. No, he passes dexterously to his curtain effect--a
fervid denunciation of express trains, evening newspapers, Parisian
novels, or the first number of THE YELLOW BOOK. Verily, he is a
versatile person.
Sometimes, to listen to him you would imagine that pessimism and
regular meals were incompatible; that the world is only ameliorated by
those whom it completely satisfies, that good predominates over evil,
that the problem of our destiny had been solved long ago. You begin to
doubt whether any good thing can come out of this miserable,
inadequate age of ours, unless it be a doctored survival of the
vocabulary of a past century. The language of the coster and cadger
resound in our midst, and, though Velasquez tried to paint like
Whistler, Rudyard Kipling cannot write like Pope. And a weird word has
been invented to explain the whole business. Decadence, decadence: you
are all decadent nowadays. Ibsen, Degas, and the New English Art Club;
Zola, Oscar Wilde, and the Second Mrs. Tanqueray. Mr. Richard Le
Gallienne is hoist with his own petard; even the British playwright
has not escaped the taint. Ah, what a hideous spectacle. All whirling
along towards one common end. And the elegant voice of the artistic
objector floating behind: "_Après vous le déluge_." A wholesale
abusing of the tendencies of the age has ever proved, for the superior
mind, an inexhaustible source of relief. Few things breed such inward
comfort as the contemplation of one's own pessimism--few things
produce such discomfort as the remembrance of our neighbour's
optimism.
And yet, pessimists though we may be dubbed, some of us, on this point
at least, how can we compete with the hopelessness enjoyed by our
artistic objector, when the spectacle of his despondency makes us
insufferably replete with hope and confidence, so that while he is
loftily bewailing or prettily denouncing the completeness of our
degradation, we continue to delight in the evil of our ways? Oh, if we
could only be sure that he would persevere in reprimanding this
persistent study of the pitiable aspects of life, how our hearts would
go out towards him? For the man who said that joy is essentially,
regrettably inartistic, admitted in the same breath that misery lends
itself to artistic treatment twice as easily as joy, and resumed the
whole question in a single phrase. Let our artistic objector but weary
the world sufficiently with his despair concerning the permanence of
the cheerlessness of modern realism, and some day a man will arise who
will give us a study of human happiness, as fine, as vital as anything
we owe to Guy de Maupassant or to Ibsen. That man will have
accomplished the infinitely difficult, and in admiration and in awe
shall we bow down our heads before him.
In one radical respect the art of fiction is not in the same position
as the other arts. They--music, poetry, painting, sculpture, and the
drama--possess a magnificent fabric of accumulated tradition. The
great traditions of the art of fiction have yet to be made. Ours is a
young art, struggling desperately to reach expression, with no great
past to guide it. Thus, it should be a matter for wonder, not that we
stumble into certain pitfalls, but that we do not fall headlong into a
hundred more.
But, if we have no great past, we have the present and the future--the
one abundant in facilities, the other abundant in possibilities. Young
men of to-day have enormous chances: we are working under exceedingly
favourable conditions. Possibly we stand on the threshold of a very
great period. I know, of course, that the literary artist is
shamefully ill-paid, and that the man who merely caters for the public
taste, amasses a rapid and respectable fortune. But how is it that
such an arrangement seems other than entirely equitable? The essential
conditions of the two cases are entirely distinct. The one man is free
to give untrammelled expression to his own soul, free to fan to the
full the flame that burns in his heart: the other is a seller of
wares, a unit in national commerce. To the one is allotted liberty and
a living wage; to the other, captivity and a consolation in Consols.
Let us whine, then, no more concerning the prejudice and the
persecution of the Philistine, when even that misanthrope, Mr. Robert
Buchanan, admits that there is no power in England to prevent a man
writing exactly as he pleases. Before long the battle for literary
freedom will be won. A new public has been created--appreciative,
eager and determined; a public which, as Mr. Gosse puts it, in one of
those admirable essays of his, "has eaten of the apple of knowledge,
and will not be satisfied with mere marionnettes. Whatever comes
next," Mr. Gosse continues, "we cannot return, in serious novels, to
the inanities and impossibilities of the old well-made plot, to the
children changed at nurse, to the madonna-heroine and the god-like
hero, to the impossible virtues and melodramatic vices. In future,
even those who sneer at realism and misrepresent it most wilfully,
will be obliged to put their productions more in accordance with
veritable experience. There will still be novel-writers who address
the gallery, and who will keep up the gaudy old convention, and the
clumsy _Family Herald_ evolution, but they will no longer be
distinguished men of genius. They will no longer sign themselves
George Sand or Charles Dickens."
Fiction has taken her place amongst the arts. The theory that writing
resembles the blacking of boots, the more boots you black, the better
you do it, is busy evaporating. The excessive admiration for the mere
idea of a book or a story is dwindling; so is the comparative
indifference to slovenly treatment. True is it that the society lady,
dazzled by the brilliancy of her own conversation, and the
serious-minded spinster, bitten by some sociological theory, still
decide in the old jaunty spirit, that fiction is the obvious medium
through which to astonish or improve the world. Let us beware of the
despotism of the intelligent amateur, and cease our toying with that
quaint and winsome bogey of ours, the British Philistine, whilst the
intelligent amateur, the deadliest of Art's enemies, is creeping up in
our midst.
For the familiarity of the man in the street with the material
employed by the artist in fiction, will ever militate against the
acquisition of a sound, fine, and genuine standard of workmanship.
Unlike the musician, the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the
artist in fiction enjoys no monopoly in his medium. The word and the
phrase are, of necessity, the common property of everybody; the
ordinary use of them demands no special training. Hence the popular
mind, while willingly acknowledging that there are technical
difficulties to be surmounted in the creation of the sonata, the
landscape, the statue, the building, in the case of the short story,
or of the longer novel, declines to believe even in their existence,
persuaded that in order to produce good fiction, an ingenious idea, or
"plot," as it is termed, is the one thing needed. The rest is a mere
matter of handwriting.
The truth is, and, despite Mr. Waugh, we are near recognition of it,
that nowadays there is but scanty merit in the mere selection of any
particular subject, however ingenious or daring it may appear at first
sight; that a man is not an artist, simply because he writes about
heredity or the _demi-monde_, that to call a spade a spade requires no
extraordinary literary gift, and that the essential is contained in
the frank, fearless acceptance by every man of his entire artistic
temperament, with its qualities and its flaws.
Two Drawings
By E. J. Sullivan
I. The Old Man's Garden
II. The Quick and the Dead
[Illustration: The Old Man's Garden]
[Illustration: The Quick and the Dead]
My Study
By Alfred Hayes
Let others strive for wealth or praise
Who care to win;
I count myself full blest, if He,
Who made my study fair to see,
Grant me but length of quiet days
To muse therein.
Its walls, with peach and cherry clad,
From yonder wold
Unbosomed, seem as if thereon
September sunbeams ever shone;
They make the air look warm and glad
When winds are cold.
Around its door a clematis
Her arms doth tie;
Through leafy lattices I view
Its endless corridors of blue
Curtained with clouds; its ceiling is
The marbled sky.
A verdant carpet smoothly laid
Doth oft invite
My silent steps; thereon the sun
With silver thread of dew hath spun
Devices rare--the warp of shade,
The weft of light.
Here dwell my chosen books, whose leaves
With healing breath
The ache of discontent assuage,
And speak from each illumined page
The patience that my soul reprieves
From inward death;