also by other rules. The writer may tell much of his story in
conversations, but he may only do so by putting such words into
the mouths of his personages as persons so situated would probably
use. He is not allowed for the sake of his tale to make his characters
give utterance to long speeches, such as are not customarily heard
from men and women. The ordinary talk of ordinary people is carried
on in short, sharp, expressive sentences, which very frequently are
never completed,--the language of which even among educated people
is often incorrect. The novel-writer in constructing his dialogue
must so steer between absolute accuracy of language--which would
give to his conversation an air of pedantry, and the slovenly
inaccuracy of ordinary talkers, which if closely followed would
offend by an appearance of grimace--as to produce upon the ear of
his readers a sense of reality. If he be quite real he will seem
to attempt to be funny. If he be quite correct he will seem to
be unreal. And above all, let the speeches be short. No character
should utter much above a dozen words at a breath,--unless the writer
can justify to himself a longer flood of speech by the specialty
of the occasion.
In all this human nature must be the novel-writer's guide. No doubt
effective novels have been written in which human nature has been
set at defiance. I might name Caleb Williams as one and Adam Blair
as another. But the exceptions are not more than enough to prove
the rule. But in following human nature he must remember that he does
so with a pen in his hand, and that the reader who will appreciate
human nature will also demand artistic ability and literary aptitude.
The young novelist will probably ask, or more probably bethink
himself how he is to acquire that knowledge of human nature which
will tell him with accuracy what men and women would say in this
or that position. He must acquire it as the compositor, who is to
print his words, has learned the art of distributing his type--by
constant and intelligent practice. Unless it be given to him to
listen and to observe,--so to carry away, as it were, the manners
of people in his memory as to be able to say to himself with assurance
that these words might have been said in a given position, and that
those other words could not have been said,--I do not think that
in these days he can succeed as a novelist.
And then let him beware of creating tedium! Who has not felt the
charm of a spoken story up to a certain point, and then suddenly
become aware that it has become too long and is the reverse of
charming. It is not only that the entire book may have this fault,
but that this fault may occur in chapters, in passages, in pages,
in paragraphs. I know no guard against this so likely to be effective
as the feeling of the writer himself. When once the sense that the
thing is becoming long has grown upon him, he may be sure that it
will grow upon his readers. I see the smile of some who will declare
to themselves that the words of a writer will never be tedious to
himself. Of the writer of whom this may be truly said, it may be
said with equal truth that he will always be tedious to his reader.
CHAPTER XIII ON ENGLISH NOVELISTS OF THE PRESENT DAY
In this chapter I will venture to name a few successful novelists
of my own time, with whose works I am acquainted; and will endeavour
to point whence their success has come, and why they have failed
when there has been failure.
I do not hesitate to name Thackeray the first. His knowledge of
human nature was supreme, and his characters stand out as human
beings, with a force and a truth which has not, I think, been
within the reach of any other English novelist in any period. I know
no character in fiction, unless it be Don Quixote, with whom the
reader becomes so intimately acquainted as with Colonel Newcombe.
How great a thing it is to be a gentleman at all parts! How we
admire the man of whom so much may be said with truth! Is there
any one of whom we feel more sure in this respect than of Colonel
Newcombe? It is not because Colonel Newcombe is a perfect gentleman
that we think Thackeray's work to have been so excellent, but
because he has had the power to describe him as such, and to force
us to love him, a weak and silly old man, on account of this grace
of character. It is evident from all Thackeray's best work that he
lived with the characters he was creating. He had always a story
to tell until quite late in life; and he shows us that this was
so, not by the interest which be had in his own plots,--for I doubt
whether his plots did occupy much of his mind,--but by convincing
us that his characters were alive to himself. With Becky Sharpe,
with Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and with Esmond, with
Warrington, Pendennis, and the Major, with Colonel Newcombe, and
with Barry Lynon, he must have lived in perpetual intercourse.
Therefore he has made these personages real to us.
Among all our novelists his style is the purest, as to my ear it is
also the most harmonious. Sometimes it is disfigured by a slight
touch of affectation, by little conceits which smell of the oil;--but
the language is always lucid. The reader, without labour, knows what
he means, and knows all that he means. As well as I can remember,
he deals with no episodes. I think that any critic, examining
his work minutely, would find that every scene, and every part of
every scene, adds something to the clearness with which the story
is told. Among all his stories there is not one which does not
leave on the mind a feeling of distress that women should ever
be immodest or men dishonest,--and of joy that women should be so
devoted and men so honest. How we hate the idle selfishness of
Pendennis, the worldliness of Beatrix, the craft of Becky Sharpe!--how
we love the honesty of Colonel Newcombe, the nobility of Esmond,
and the devoted affection of Mrs. Pendennis! The hatred of evil
and love of good can hardly have come upon so many readers without
doing much good.
Late in Thackeray's life,--he never was an old man, but towards the
end of his career,--he failed in his power of charming, because he
allowed his mind to become idle. In the plots which he conceived,
and in the language which he used; I do not know that there is any
perceptible change; but in The Virginians and in Philip the reader
is introduced to no character with which he makes a close and undying
acquaintance. And this, I have no doubt, is so because Thackeray
himself had no such intimacy. His mind had come to be weary of
that fictitious life which is always demanding the labour of new
creation, and he troubled himself with his two Virginians and his
Philip only when he was seated at his desk.
At the present moment George Eliot is the first of English novelists,
and I am disposed to place her second of those of my time. She
is best known to the literary world as a writer of prose fiction,
and not improbably whatever of permanent fame she may acquire will
come from her novels. But the nature of her intellect is very far
removed indeed from that which is common to the tellers of stories.
Her imagination is no doubt strong, but it acts in analysing rather
than in creating. Everything that comes before her is pulled