memories and portraits-第27章

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with　life〃：　not　even　history；　built　indeed　of　indisputable　facts；　

but　these　facts　robbed　of　their　vivacity　and　sting；　so　that　even　

when　we　read　of　the　sack　of　a　city　or　the　fall　of　an　empire；　we　are　

surprised；　and　justly　commend　the　author's　talent；　if　our　pulse　be　

quickened。　　And　mark；　for　a　last　differentia；　that　this　quickening　

of　the　pulse　is；　in　almost　every　case；　purely　agreeable；　that　these　

phantom　reproductions　of　experience；　even　at　their　most　acute；　

convey　decided　pleasure；　while　experience　itself；　in　the　cockpit　of　

life；　can　torture　and　slay。



What；　then；　is　the　object；　what　the　method；　of　an　art；　and　what　the　

source　of　its　power？　　The　whole　secret　is　that　no　art　does　〃compete　

with　life。〃　　Man's　one　method；　whether　he　reasons　or　creates；　is　to　

half…shut　his　eyes　against　the　dazzle　and　confusion　of　reality。　　

The　arts；　like　arithmetic　and　geometry；　turn　away　their　eyes　from　

the　gross；　coloured　and　mobile　nature　at　our　feet；　and　regard　

instead　a　certain　figmentary　abstraction。　　Geometry　will　tell　us　of　

a　circle；　a　thing　never　seen　in　nature；　asked　about　a　green　circle　

or　an　iron　circle；　it　lays　its　hand　upon　its　mouth。　　So　with　the　

arts。　　Painting；　ruefully　comparing　sunshine　and　flake…white；　gives　

up　truth　of　colour；　as　it　had　already　given　up　relief　and　movement；　

and　instead　of　vying　with　nature；　arranges　a　scheme　of　harmonious　

tints。　　Literature；　above　all　in　its　most　typical　mood；　the　mood　of　

narrative；　similarly　flees　the　direct　challenge　and　pursues　instead　

an　independent　and　creative　aim。　　So　far　as　it　imitates　at　all；　it　

imitates　not　life　but　speech：　not　the　facts　of　human　destiny；　but　

the　emphasis　and　the　suppressions　with　which　the　human　actor　tells　

of　them。　　The　real　art　that　dealt　with　life　directly　was　that　of　

the　first　men　who　told　their　stories　round　the　savage　camp…fire。　　

Our　art　is　occupied；　and　bound　to　be　occupied；　not　so　much　in　

making　stories　true　as　in　making　them　typical；　not　so　much　in　

capturing　the　lineaments　of　each　fact；　as　in　marshalling　all　of　

them　towards　a　common　end。　　For　the　welter　of　impressions；　all　

forcible　but　all　discreet；　which　life　presents；　it　substitutes　a　

certain　artificial　series　of　impressions；　all　indeed　most　feebly　

represented；　but　all　aiming　at　the　same　effect；　all　eloquent　of　the　

same　idea；　all　chiming　together　like　consonant　notes　in　music　or　

like　the　graduated　tints　in　a　good　picture。　　From　all　its　chapters；　

from　all　its　pages；　from　all　its　sentences；　the　well…written　novel　

echoes　and　re…echoes　its　one　creative　and　controlling　thought；　to　

this　must　every　incident　and　character　contribute；　the　style　must　

have　been　pitched　in　unison　with　this；　and　if　there　is　anywhere　a　

word　that　looks　another　way；　the　book　would　be　stronger；　clearer；　

and　（I　had　almost　said）　fuller　without　it。　　Life　is　monstrous；　

infinite；　illogical；　abrupt　and　poignant；　a　work　of　art；　in　

comparison；　is　neat；　finite；　self…contained；　rational；　flowing　and　

emasculate。　　Life　imposes　by　brute　energy；　like　inarticulate　

thunder；　art　catches　the　ear；　among　the　far　louder　noises　of　

experience；　like　an　air　artificially　made　by　a　discreet　musician。　　

A　proposition　of　geometry　does　not　compete　with　life；　and　a　

proposition　of　geometry　is　a　fair　and　luminous　parallel　for　a　work　

of　art。　　Both　are　reasonable；　both　untrue　to　the　crude　fact；　both　

inhere　in　nature；　neither　represents　it。　　The　novel；　which　is　a　

work　of　art；　exists；　not　by　its　resemblances　to　life；　which　are　

forced　and　material；　as　a　shoe　must　still　consist　of　leather；　but　

by　its　immeasurable　difference　from　life；　which　is　designed　and　

significant；　and　is　both　the　method　and　the　meaning　of　the　work。



The　life　of　man　is　not　the　subject　of　novels；　but　the　inexhaustible　

magazine　from　which　subjects　are　to　be　selected；　the　name　of　these　

is　legion；　and　with　each　new　subject　…　for　here　again　I　must　differ　

by　the　whole　width　of　heaven　from　Mr。　James　…　the　true　artist　will　

vary　his　method　and　change　the　point　of　attack。　　That　which　was　in　

one　case　an　excellence；　will　become　a　defect　in　another；　what　was　

the　making　of　one　book；　will　in　the　next　be　impertinent　or　dull。　　

First　each　novel；　and　then　each　class　of　novels；　exists　by　and　for　

itself。　　I　will　take；　for　instance；　three　main　classes；　which　are　

fairly　distinct：　first；　the　novel　of　adventure；　which　appeals　to　

certain　almost　sensual　and　quite　illogical　tendencies　in　man；　

second；　the　novel　of　character；　which　appeals　to　our　intellectual　

appreciation　of　man's　foibles　and　mingled　and　inconstant　motives；　

and　third；　the　dramatic　novel；　which　deals　with　the　same　stuff　as　

the　serious　theatre；　and　appeals　to　our　emotional　nature　and　moral　

judgment。



And　first　for　the　novel　of　adventure。　　Mr。　James　refers；　with　

singular　generosity　of　praise；　to　a　little　book　about　a　quest　for　

hidden　treasure；　but　he　lets　fall；　by　the　way；　some　rather　

startling　words。　　In　this　book　he　misses　what　he　calls　the　〃immense　

luxury〃　of　being　able　to　quarrel　with　his　author。　　The　luxury；　to　

most　of　us；　is　to　lay　by　our　judgment；　to　be　submerged　by　the　tale　

as　by　a　billow；　and　only　to　awake；　and　begin　to　distinguish　and　

find　fault；　when　the　piece　is　over　and　the　volume　laid　aside。　　

Still　more　remarkable　is　Mr。　James's　reason。　　He　cannot　criticise　

the　author；　as　he　goes；　〃because；〃　says　he；　comparing　it　with　

another　work；　〃I　HAVE　BEEN　A　CHILD；　BUT　I　HAVE　NEVER　BEEN　ON　A　

QUEST　FOR　BURIED　TREASURE。〃　　Here　is；　indeed；　a　wilful　paradox；　for　

if　he　has　never　been　on　a　quest　for　buried　treasure；　it　can　be　

demonstrated　that　he　has　never　been　a　child。　　There　never　was　a　

child　（unless　Master　James）　but　has　hunted　gold；　and　been　a　pirate；　

and　a　military　commander；　and　a　bandit　of　the　mountains；　but　has　

fought；　and　suffered　shipwreck　and　prison；　and　imbrued　its　little　

hands　in　gore；　and　gallantly　retrieved　the　lost　battle；　and　

triumphantly　protected　innocence　and　beauty。　　Elsewhere　in　his　

essay　Mr。　James　has　protested　with　excellent　reason　against　too　

narrow　a　conception　of　experience；　for　the　born　artist；　he　

contends；　the　〃faintest　hints　of　life〃　are　converted　into　

revelations；　and　it　will　be　found　true；　I　believe；　in　a　majority　of　

cases；　that　the　artist　writes　with　more　gusto　and　effect　of　those　

things　which　he　has　only　wished　to　do；　than　of　those　which　he　has　

done。　　Desire　is　a　wonderful　telescope；　and　Pisgah　the　best　

observatory。　　Now；　while　it　is　true　that　neither　Mr。　James　nor　the　

author　of　the　work　in　question　has　ever；　in　the　fleshly　sense；　gone　

questing　after　gold；　it　is　probable　that　both　have　ardently　desired　

and　fondly　imagined　the　details　of　such　a　life　in　youthful　day…

dreams；　and　the　author；　counting　upon　that；　and　well　aware　（cunning　

and　low…minded　man！）　that　this　class　of　interest；　having　been　

frequently　treated；　finds　a　readily　accessible　and　beaten　road　to　

the　sympathies　of　the　reader；　addressed　himself　throughout　to　the　

building　up　and　circumstantiation　of　this　boyish　dream。　　Character　

to　the　boy　is　a　sealed　book；　for　him；　a　pirate　is　a　beard；　a　pair　

of　wide　trousers　and　a　liberal　complement　of　pistols。　　The　author；　

for　the　sake　of　circumstantiation　and　because　he　was　himself　more　

or　less　grown　up；　admitted　character；　within　certain　limits；　into　

his　design；　but　only　within　certain　limits。　　Had　the　same　puppets　

figured　in　a　scheme　of　another　sort；　they　had　been　drawn　to　very　

different　purpose；　for　in　this　elementary　novel　of　adventure；　the　

characters　need　to　be　presented　with　but　one　class　of　qualities　…　

the　warlike　and　formidable。　　So　as　they　appear　insidious　in　deceit　

and　fatal　in　the　combat；　they　have　served　their　end。　　Danger　is　the　

matter　with　which　this　class　of　novel　deals；　fear；　the　passion　with　

which　it　idly　trifles；　and　the　characters　are　portrayed　only　so　far　

as　they　realise　the　sense　of　danger　and　provoke　the　sympathy　of　

fear。　　To　add　more　traits；　to　be　too　clever；　to　start　the　hare　of　

moral　or　intellectual　interest　while　we　are　running　the　fox　of　

material　interest；　is　not　to　enrich　but　to　stultify　your　tale。　　The　

stupid　reader　will　only　be　offended；　and　the　clever　reader　lose　the　

scent。



The　novel　of　character　has　this　difference　from　all　others：　that　it　

requires　no　coherency　of　plot；　and　for　this　reason；　as　in　the　case　

of　GIL　BLAS；　it　is　sometimes　called　the　novel　of　adventure。　　It　

turns　on　the　humours　of　the　persons　represented；　these　are；　to　be　

sure；　embodied　in　incidents；　but　the　incidents　themselves；　being　

tributary；　need　not　march　in　a　progression；　and　the　characters　may　

be　statically　shown。　　As　they　enter；　so　they　may　go　out；　they　must　

be　consistent；　but　they　need　not　grow。　　Here　Mr。　James　will　

recognise　the　note　of　much　of　his　own　work：　he　treats；　for　the　most　

part；　the　statics　of　character；　studying　it　at　rest　or　only　gently　

moved；　and；　with　his　usual　delicate　and　just　artistic　instinct；　he　

avoids　those　stronger　passions　which　would　deform　the　attitudes　he　

loves　to　study；　and　change　his　sitters　from　the　humorists　of　

ordinary　life　to　the　brute　forces　and　bare　types　of　more　emotional　

moments。　　In　his　recent　AUTHOR　OF　BELTRAFFIO；　so　just　in　

conception；　so　nimble　and　neat　in　workmanship；　strong　passion　is　

indeed　employed；　but　observe　that　it　is　not　displayed。　　Even　in　the　

heroine　the　working　of　the　passion　is　suppressed；　and　the　great　

struggle；　the　true　tragedy；　the　SCENE…A…FAIRE　passes　unseen　behind　

the　panels　of　a　locked　door。　　The　delectable　invention　of　the　young　

visitor　is　introduced；　consciously　or　not；　to　this　end：　that　Mr。　

James；　true　to　his　method；　might　avoid　the　scene　of　passion。　　I　

trust　no　reader　will　suppose　me　guilty　of　undervaluing　this　little　

masterpiece。　　I　mean　merely　that　it　belongs　to　one　marked　class　of　

novel；　and　that　it　would　have　been　very　differently　conceived　and　

treated　had　it　belonged　to　that　other　marked　class；　of　which　I　now　

proceed　to　speak。



I　take　pleasure　in　calling　the　dramatic　novel　by　that　name；　because　

it　enables　me　to　point　out　by　the　way　a　strange　and　peculiarly　

English　misconception。　　It　is　sometimes　supposed　that　the　drama　

consists　of　incident。　　It　consists　of　passion；　which　gives　the　

actor　his　opportunity；　and　that　passion　must　progressively　

increase；　or　the　actor；　as　the　piece　proceeded；　would　be　unable　to　

carry　the　audience　from　a　lower　to　a　higher　pitch　of　interest　and　

emotion。　　A　good　serious　play　must　therefore　be　founded　on　one　of　

the　passionate　CRUCES　of　life；　where　duty　and　inclination　come　

nobly　to　the　grapple；　and　the　same　is　true　of　what　I　call；　for　that　

reason；　the　dramatic　novel。　　I　will　instance　a　few　worthy　

specimens；　all　of　our　own　day　and　language；　Meredith's　RHODA　

FLEMING；　that　wonderful　and　painful　book；　long　out　of　print；　（13）　

and　hunted　for　at　bookstalls　like　an　Aldine；　Hardy's　PAIR　OF　BLUE　

EYES；　and　two　of　Charles　Read