HENRY JAMES

The Art o f Fictio n

1884Here is another "defense" of art, but this time it is the novel, a rela-tively new genre, that in James' view needs some serious discussion.Because Walter Besant's pamphlet on "the art of fiction" is both con-ventional and superficial, James here will "edge in a few words" onthe subject, and in so doing destroy Besant's position point for point.This rebuttal, James' best-known essay on the theory of fiction, toucheson various issues amplified and developed in his extensive criticalwriting: the relationship between fiction and life, the freedom andresponsibilities of the novelist, the task of the critic, the relationshipbetween plot and character, the importance of technique, the place ofsubject matter in fiction, the morality of fiction, and the character ofthe novelist. How James deals with these topics should be studied, forin his essays we find the beginnings of modern fictional theory. Thebasic assumption is that, like any other art form, fiction must be takenseriously by authors, readers, and critics alike.

The word "free" occurs so often in the essay that it directs our at-tention to a major theme. James rejects conventional critical labelsand distinctions; h e rejects a prior i prescriptions an d rules about ho wto write a novel; he rejects limitations on the artist's freedom of choicein respect to subject matter and technique; he rejects traditional con-cepts of plot; and, climactically, he rejects Besant's formulation con-cerning "the conscious moral purpose" of the novel. If "the province ofart is all life, all feeling, all observation, all vision . . . all experience,"the novelist cannot be handcuffed in his attempts to represent life.Throughout, James stresses the artist's necessary sensitivity to experi-

From Partial Portraits; Th e Macmilla n Company , 1888 .

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ence and the transformation of that experience by his imagination; ascritics and readers, we can judge him only by the "execution," the"treatment," the rendering of the raru multitudinous materials of lifeinto a unified work of art.

When James declares that the novel is "a living thing, all one andcontinuous, like any other organism/' the very simile reminds us ofAristotle, and how his discussion of character merges back into a dis-cussion of plot, the two being inseparable. James' theory of fictionalform is equally organic, but for him a flawed structure and a failureof execution are symptomatic of either intellectual or moral failureson the part of the novelist: The integrity of a work is a reflection ofthe artist's integrity. In this view, James denies that the novel musthave a conscious moral purpose. On the contrary, what is commonlythought of as morality he defines as timidity—that is, the avoidance ofcertain "improper" but nevertheless real subjects; to insist that a novelbe morally didactic is to restrict the artist's freedom from another direc-tion. The requisite "moral energy" liberates the novelist; thus Jamesconnects total artistic freedom, the "search for form," and morality inthe interest of rendering life in fiction.

I SHOUL D not hav e affixed so comprehensive a titl e to thesf .e w remarks,necessarily wanting in any completeness upo n a subject the ful l considera-tion of which would carry us far, di d I no t see m to discover a pretex t formy temerity in the interesting pamphlet lately published under this nameby Mr . Walte r Besant . Mr . Besant' s lectur e a t th e Royal Institution —the original form of his pamphlet—appears to indicate that many personsare interested in the art of fiction, and ar e no t indifferen t t o such remarks,as those who practise it may attemp t t o mak e about it . 1 am therefor eanxious not t o lose the benefit of this favourable association , and t o edgein a fe w words under cover o f the attentio n whic h Mr. Besan t is sure tohave excited . Ther e i s something ver y encouragin g i n hi s havin g pu tinto for m certai n of his ideas o n th e myster y o f story-telling.

It i s a proo f of life an d curiosity—curiosit y on th e par t o f the brother -hood of novelists as well as on the part of thei r readers. Onl y a short timeago it might have been supposed tha t th e Englis h novel was not what theFrench cal l discutable. I t ha d n o ai r o f havin g a theory , a conviction , aconsciousness o f itsel f behin d it—o f bein g th e expressio n o f a n artisti cfaith, th e resul t o f choice and comparison . I d o no t sa y i t wa s neces-sarily the worse for that: it would take much more courage than I possessto intimat e tha t th e for m o f th e nove l a s Dicken s and Thackera y (fo rinstance) saw it had an y taint of incompleteness. I t was , however, naif (i fI ma y help myself out with another French word) ; and evidentl y if it be

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destined t o suffe r i n an y wa y fo r havin g los t it s naivete i t ha s no w a nidea of making sure of the corresponding advantages. Durin g the perio dI have alluded to there was a comfortable, good-humoured feeling abroadthat a nove l i s a novel , a s a puddin g i s a pudding , an d tha t ou r onl ybusiness with it could be to swallow it. Bu t within a year or two, for somereason o r other, there have been signs of returning animation—the era ofdiscussion woul d appear t o hav e bee n t o a certai n exten t opened . Ar tlives upo n discussion , upon experiment , upo n curiosity , upon variet y ofattempt, upo n the exchang e of views and th e comparison o f standpoints;and ther e i s a presumptio n tha t thos e time s when n o on e ha s anythin gparticular t o say about it , and ha s no reason to give for practice or prefer-ence, though they may be times of honour, are not times of development—are times , possibly even, a little of dulness. Th e successfu l applicatio n ofany ar t i s a delightfu l spectacle , bu t th e theor y to o i s interesting ; an dthough there is a great deal of the latter without the former I suspect therehas neve r bee n a genuin e success that ha s no t ha d a laten t cor e of con-viction. Discussion , suggestion, formulation, these thing s ar e fertilisin gwhen they are frank and sincere. Mr . Besan t has set an excellent examplein sayin g wha t h e thinks , fo r hi s part , abou t th e wa y i n whic h fictio nshould be written, as well as about the way in which it should be published;for hi s view o f the "art, " carrie d o n int o a n appendix , cover s that too.Other labourer s in th e sam e fiel d wil l doubtles s take u p th e argument ,they wil l give it the ligh t of their experience, and th e effec t wil l surely beto make our interes t in the nove l a littl e more what i t had fo r some timethreatened t o fai l t o be— a serious , active, inquirin g interest, under pro-tection o f whic h thi s delightfu l stud y may , in moment s o f confidence,venture to say a little more what it thinks of itself.

It must take itself seriously for the public to take it so. Th e old supersti-tion about fiction being "wicked" has doubtless died out in England; bu tthe spiri t of it lingers in a certain oblique regard directed toward any storywhich doe s not mor e or les s admit tha t i t i s only a joke. Eve n the mos tjocular nove l feels i n some degree the weigh t of the proscription tha t wasformerly directe d agains t literar y levity : th e jocularity doe s no t alway ssucceed i n passin g for orthodoxy . I t i s stil l expected , thoug h perhap speople ar e ashame d t o say it, tha t a productio n which i s after al l only a"make-believe" (fo r what els e i s a "story"? ) shal l b e i n som e degre eapologetic—shall renounc e th e pretensio n o f attemptin g reall y t o re -present life . This , o f course, any sensible , wide-awake story decline s t odo, fo r i t quickl y perceives tha t th e toleranc e grante d t o i t o n suc h acondition is only an attempt t o stifl e i t disguised in the for m o f generosity.The ol d evangelica l hostility to the novel , which was as explicit as it wasnarrow, an d whic h regarded i t a s littl e les s favourabl e to ou r immorta lpart tha n a stage-play , was in reality far less insulting. Th e onl y reaso n

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for th e existence of a novel is that i t does attempt to represent life. Whe nit relinquishes this attempt, th e same attempt tha t we see on the canvas ofthe painter, i t will have arrived a t a very strange pass. I t i s not expectedof the picture tha t i t will make itself humble in order t o be forgiven; an dthe analogy between the art o f the painter an d the ar t o f the novelist is, sofar a s I a m abl e t o see , complete. Thei r inspiratio n i s the same , thei rprocess (allowin g fo r th e differen t qualit y o f th e vehicle) , i s th e same ,their succes s is the same . The y ma y l earn fro m eac h other , the y ma yexplain an d sustai n each other . Thei r cause is the same, and th e honourof one is the honou r of another. The Mahometan s thin k a pictur e anunholy thing, but i t is a long time since any Christia n did , and i t is there-fore th e mor e od d tha t i n th e Christia n min d th e trace s (dissimulate dthough the y ma y be ) o f a suspicio n of the siste r ar t shoul d linge r t o thisday. Th e onl y effectual wa y to lay it to res t i s to emphasise th e analog yto which I just alluded—to insist on the fact tha t as the picture i s reality,so the nove l i s history. Tha t is the onl y general description (whic h doesit justice) tha t w e may giv e o f the novel . ^ ut history als o i s allowed t orepresent life ; i t i s not, any mor e tha n painting , expecte d t o apologise .The subject-matte r o f fiction is stored up likewis e in document s an d re -cords, and if it will not giv e itself away, as the y say in California , it mustspeak- with assurance , wit h th e ton e of th e historian . Certai n accom -plished novelists have a habit o f giving themselves awa y which must ofte nbring tear s t o th e eye s of people wh o take thei r fiction seriously. I waslately struck , in reading over man y page s o f Anthony Trollope , with hiswant of discretion in this particular. I n a digression , a parenthesis or anaside, h e concedes t o the reader tha t he and thi s trusting frien d ar e only"making believe." H e admits that the events he narrates hav e not reallyhappened, an d that he can give his narrative any turn the reader may likebest. Suc h a betrayal of a sacred offic e seems to me, I confess , a terriblecrime; i t i s what I mea n b y th e attitud e o f apology, an d i t shock s meevery whit as much in Trollope as it would nave shocked me in Gibbon orMacaulay. I t implie s that the novelis t is les s occupied i n looking for thetruth (th e truth, o f course I mean , tha t he assumes , the premise s tha t wemust grant him , whatever the y may be), than the historian, an d i n doingso it deprives him at a stroke of all his standing-room. T o represen t an dillustrate the past , th e actions of men, is the tas k of either writer , an d theonly differenc e tha t I ca n se e is , i n proportion a s h e succeeds , t o th ehonour o f the novelist, consisting as it does in hi s having mor e difficult y i ncollecting hi s evidence , whic h i s so far from bein g purel y literary . I tseems t o m e to give him a grea t character , th e fac t tha t h e ha s a t onc eso much i n commo n wit h th e philosophe r an d th e painter ; thi s doubleanalogy i s a magnificen t heritage .

It is of all this evidently that Mr. Besan t is full when he insists upon the

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fact that fiction is one of the fine arts, deserving in its turn of all the honoursand emolument s tha t hav e hithert o bee n reserve d fo r th e successfu lprofession o f music , poetry, painting , architecture . I t i s impossibl e t oinsist to o much on so important a truth , an d th e plac e tha t Mr . Besan tdemands for the wor k of the novelis t may be represented , a trifl e les sabstractly, b y saying that h e demand s no t onl y tha t i t shal l b e repute dartistic, bu t tha t i t shal l b e reputed ver y artistic indeed . I t i s excellentthat h e should have struck this note, fo r his doing so indicates tha t ther ewas nee d o f it, tha t hi s proposition ma y b e t o man y peopl e a novelty .One rub s one's eye s at the thought ; but the res t of Mr. Besant' s essayconfirms th e revelation . I suspec t i n trut h tha t i t woul d b e possibl eto confirm it stil l further, an d tha t on e would not b e far wrong in sayingthat in addition to the people to whom it has never occurred tha t a novelought t o be artistic, there ar e a grea t man y other s who, i f this principl ewere urge d upo n them , woul d b e fille d wit h a n indefinabl e mistrust .They woul d fin d i t difficul t t o explai n thei r repugnance , bu t i t woul doperate strongl y to pu t the m o n thei r guard . "Art, " in ou r Protestan tcommunities, where so many things have go t so strangely twiste d about ,is supposed i n certai n circle s to have some vaguely injurious effect upo nthose wh o mak e i t a n importan t consideration , wh o le t i t weig h i n th ebalance. I t i s assume d t o b e oppose d i n som e mysteriou s manne r t omorality, to amusement, to instruction. Whe n it is embodied in the workof th e painte r (th e sculpto r i s another affair! ) yo u kno w wha t i t is : i tstands there before you, in the honesty of pink and green and a gilt frame;you ca n se e the worst of it a t a glance , an d yo u ca n b e o n you r guard .But whe n i t i s introduce d int o literatur e i t become s mor e insidious—there is danger of its hurting you before you know it. Literatur e should beeither instructiv e or amusing, and ther e i s in many minds an impressio nthat thes e artisti c preoccupations , th e searc h fo r form , contribut e t oneither end , interfer e indeed wit h both . The y ar e to o frivolou s t o b eedifying, an d too serious to be diverting ; and the y are moreove r priggis hand paradoxical an d superfluous . That , I think , represents the manne rin which the latent thought of many people who read novels as an exercisein skippin g woul d explai n itsel f if i t wer e t o becom e articulate . The ywould argue , of course, that a novel ought to be "good," but the y wouldinterpret thi s term i n a fashio n o f their own , which indee d woul d var yconsiderably from on e critic to another. On e would say that being goodmeans representing virtuous and aspiring characters, placed i n prominen tpositions; another woul d say that i t depends on a "happy ending," on adistribution a t th e las t o f prizes , pensions , husbands , wives , babies ,millions, appende d paragraphs , an d cheerfu l remarks . Anothe r stil lwould say that i t means being ful l o f incident and movement , s o that w e

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shall wish to jump ahead , to see who was the my sterious stranger , and ifthe stole n wil l wa s eve r found , an d shal l no t b e detracte d ^ rom thi spleasure b y an y tiresom e analysi s or "description." J3u t the y would al lagree that the "artistic" idea would spoil some of their fun- On e wouldhold i t accountable fo r all th e description, another wou^ see ^ revealedin th e absenc e o f sympathy. It s hostilit y t o a happ y endin g woul d b eevident, and i t might even in some cases render an y ending at al l impos-sible. Th e "ending" of a novel is, for many persons , like that °f a g°od

dinner, a course of dessert and ices, and the artist iu fi cti°n i s regarded as asort of meddlesome doctor who forbid s agreeabl e aftertastes . I t i s there-fore tru e tha t thi s conception o f Mr. Besant' s of the nove l a s a superiorform encounter s no t onl y a negativ e bu t a positive indifference . I tmatters little that as a work of art it should really be as little or as mucri °fits essenc e t o suppl y happ y endings , sympatheti c c tiaracters> an d a nobjective tone, as if it were a work of mechanics: the association of ideas,however incongruous, might easily be too much f0r it if an eloquent voicewere not sometimes raised to cal l attention to the fact tha t it is at onc e asfree an d a s serious a branch o f literature as any other .

Certainly this might sometimes be doubted in presence of the enormousnumber o f works of fiction that appeal to the credulit y of our generation,for i t might easil y seem that there could be no great character in a com"modity s o quickly and easily produced . I t mus t be admitted tha t £ood

novels ar e muc h compromise d b y bad ones , an d that th e fiel d a t larg esuffers discredi t from overcrowding . I think , however* that thi s injury isonly superficial , an d tha t th e superabundanc e of written fictio n prove snothing against the principle itself. I t has been Vulga^isedJ hke all otherkinds of literature, like everything else to-day, and it has proved more thansome kind s accessible to vulgarisation . Bu t ther e i s ^s much differenc eas there ever was between a goo d nove l and a ba d on^ '• the bad i s sweptwith all the daubed canvase s and spoiled marble into s^me unvisited lim-bo, or infinite rubbish-yar d beneath the back-window^ of the world, andthe goo d subsist s and emit s it s light and stimulate s ou** desire fo r perfec -tion. A s I shal l take the liberty o f making but a single criticism o f Mr .Besant, whose tone is so full o f the love of his art, I may as well have donewith it at once . He seem s to me to mistak e i n attemptin g to say sodefinitely beforehan d what sor t o f an affai r th e good j^ove l wil l be. T oindicate the danger of such an erro r as that ha s been tl^e purpose of thesefew pages ; t o sugges t tha t certai n tradition s o n the subject , applie d apriori, have already had much to answer for, and that th e goo d healt h ofan ar t whic h undertakes s o immediatel y to reproduc e hf e mus t deman dthat i t be perfectly free . I t live s upon exercise, and tr e very meaning ofexercise is freedom. The onl y obligatio n to whic h ir > advanc e we may

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hold a novel , withou t incurrin g th e accusatio n o f bein g arbitrary , i sthat i t b e interesting. Tha t genera l responsibilit y rests upon it , bu t i t isthe onl y on e I ca n thin k of . Th e way s in whic h i t i s at libert y t o ac -complish this result (of interesting us) strike me as innumerable, and suc has ca n onl y suffe r fro m bein g marke d ou t o r fence d i n b y prescription .They are as various as the temperament of man, and the y are successful inproportion a s the y revea l a particula r mind , differen t fro m others . Anovel i s in it s broades t definitio n a personal , a direc t impressio n o f life :that, t o begin with, constitutes its value, which is greater o r less accordingto th e intensit y of the impression . Bu t ther e wil l be n o intensit y at all,and therefor e n o value , unles s ther e i s freedo m t o fee l an d say . Th etracing o f a lin e t o b e followed , o f a ton e t o b e taken , o f a for m t o b efilled out , i s a limitatio n o f that freedo m an d a suppressio n o f the ver ything tha t w e ar e mos t curiou s about. Th e form , i t seem s t o me , i s tobe appreciated afte r th e fact : then the author's choice has been made, hisstandard ha s been indicated ; then we can follo w line s and direction s andcompare tone s and resemblances . The n i n a word w e can enjo y on e ofthe most charming of pleasures, we can estimate quality, we can apply thetest o f execution. Th e executio n belong s t o the autho r alone ; i t i s whatis most persona l t o him, and we measure hi m b y that . Th e advantage ,the luxury , a s wel l a s th e tormen t an d responsibilit y o f th e novelist , isthat ther e i s no limi t t o what h e may attemp t a s an executant—n o limi tto hi s possibl e experiments , efforts , discoveries , successes . Her e i t i sespecially tha t h e works , ste p b y step , lik e hi s brothe r o f th e brush , ofwhom we may always say that he has painted hi s picture in a manner bes tknown to himself. Hi s manner i s his secret, not necessarily a jealous one.He cannot disclose it as a general thin g if he would; he would be at a lossto teach i t to others. I say this with a due recollection of having insistedon th e communit y o f method o f the artis t wh o paint s a pictur e an d th eartist who writes a novel . Th e painte r i s able t o teach th e rudiment s ofhis practice, an d i t i s possible, from th e stud y of good wor k (grante d th eaptitude), bot h t o learn ho w to paint an d t o learn ho w to write. Ye t itremains true , withou t injur y to th e rapprochement, tha t th e literar y artis twould be obliged to say to his pupil much more than the other, "Ah, well,you mus t do it as you can! " It is a questio n of degree , a matte r ofdelicacy. I f ther e are exac t sciences , there ar e als o exac t arts , an d th egrammar o f painting is so much more definite that it makes the difference .

I ought to add, however , that i f Mr. Besan t says at th e beginning of hisessay that the "laws of fiction may b e laid down and taugh t with as muchprecision an d exactnes s a s th e law s o f harmony , perspective , an d pro-portion," h e mitigate s wha t migh t appea r t o b e a n extravaganc e b yapplying his remark to "general " laws , and by expressing mos t of these

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rules in a manner with which it would certainl y be unaccommodatin g todisagree. Tha t th e novelis t mus t \vrit e fro m hi s experience , tha t hi s"characters mus t be real an d suc h as might b e me t wit h i n actua l life,"that "a young lady brought up in a quiet country villag e shoul d avoi d de -scriptions o f garrison life, " an d " a writer whose friend s an d persona l ex-periences belon g t o th e lowe r middle-clas s should carefull y avoi d intro -ducing his characters into society;" that one should ente r one's notes in acommon-place book ; tha t one' s figures should b e clea r i n outline ; tha tmaking them clear by some trick of speech or o f carriage is a bad metho dand "describin g the m a t length " i s a wo rse one ; that Englis h Fictio nshould have a "conscious moral purpose;" that "it i s almos t impossible toestimate to o highl y the valu e o f careful wo rkmanship—that is , of style;"that "th e most importan t poin t o f al l i s th e story, " tha t "th e stor y i severything": these are principles with most of which i t is surely impossiblenot t o sympathise. Tha t remark about the lower middle-clas s write r andhis knowing his place i s perhaps rathe r chilling? bu t fo r the res t I shouldfind it difficul t t o dissent from an y one of these recommendations. A t th esame time , I should find it difficul t positivel y to assen t t o them , with th eexception, perhaps , o f th e injunctio n a s t o enterin g one' s note s i n acommon-place book . The y scarcel y seem to m e to hav e the quality thatMr. Besan t attribute s t o th e rule s o f the novelist—th e "precisio n an dexactness" o f "the law s of harmony, perspective, an d proportion. " The yare suggestive, they are even inspiring, but they are not exact , though theyare doubtles s as much s o as the cas e admits of : whic h i s a proof of thatliberty o f interpretation fo r whic h I just contended . Fo r th e valu e o fthese differen t injunctions—s o beautifu l ari d s o vague—is wholl y in th emeaning on e attache s t o them . Th e characters, th e situation , whic hstrike one as real wil l be those tha t touc h an d interes t on e most, but th emeasure o f reality is very difficul t t o fi x. Th e realit y o f Don Quixot e o rof Mr. Micawbe r is a very delicate shade ; it is a reality so coloured by theauthor's vision that, vivid as it may be , one woul d hesitate-to propose it asa model: one would expose one's sel f t0 some very embarrassing question son the par t o f a pupil . I t goe s without saying that you wil l not write agood novel unless you possess the sens e of reality; but i t will b e difficult t ogive you a recipe for calling that sens e into being. Humanit y is immense,and reality has a myriad forms; the m0st one can affir m i s that some of theflowers of fiction have the odou r o f it, and other s have not ; as for tellingyou i n advanc e ho w you r nosega y shoul d b e composed , tha t i s anothe raffair. I t i s equally excellent and inconclusive to say that one must writefrom experience ; t o ou r suppositio n aspirant suc h a declaratio n migh tsavour of mockery. Wha t kind of experience is intended, and wher e doesit begin and end ? Experienc e is never limited, and i t is never complete ;

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it i s an immens e sensibility, a kin d o f huge spider-web o f the fines t silkenthreads suspende d i n th e chambe r o f consciousness, an d catchin g ever yairborne particl e in its tissue. I t i s the very atmosphere o f the mind; andwhen the mind is imaginative—much more when it happens to be that of aman o f genius—it takes to itself the faintest hints of life, i t converts the verypulses of the ai r int o revelations. Th e youn g lady living in a village hasonly to be a damsel upon whom nothing is lost to make it quite unfai r (a sit seems to me) t o declare to her tha t sh e shall have nothin g to say aboutthe military . Greate r miracle s hav e bee n see n tha n that , imaginatio nassisting, sh e should spea k th e trut h abou t som e o f these gentlemen. Iremember a n English novelist, a woman of genius, telling me that she wasmuch commende d fo r the impression she had manage d t o give in on e ofher tale s o f the natur e an d wa y o f lif e o f the Frenc h Protestan t youth .She had bee n asked where she learned so much about this recondite being ,she ha d bee n congratulate d o n he r peculia r opportunities . Thes eopportunities consiste d i n he r havin g once , i n Paris , a s sh e ascended astaircase, passe d a n ope n doo r where , in th e househol d o f a pasteur, someof the young Protestants were seated at table round a finished meal. Th eglimpse made a picture ; i t laste d onl y a moment , bu t tha t momen t wasexperience. Sh e had go t her direc t persona l impression , and sh e turnedout he r type . Sh e knew what yout h was , and wha t Protestantism ; shealso had the advantage o f having seen what it was to be French, so that sheconverted thes e idea s int o a concret e imag e an d produce d a reality .Above all , however , sh e wa s blesse d wit h th e facult y whic h whe n yo ugive i t a n inc h take s a n ell , an d whic h fo r th e artis t i s a muc h greate rsource of strength tha n an y acciden t o f residence o r of place in the socia lscale. Th e powe r to guess the unseen from th e seen, to trace the implica-tion o f things, t o judge th e whol e piece b y the pattern , th e conditio n o ffeeling lif e i n genera l s o completel y tha t yo u ar e wel l o n you r wa y t oknowing an y particula r corne r o f it—this cluste r o f gift s ma y almos t b esaid to constitute experience, and the y occur in country and in town, an din th e mos t differin g stage s o f education . I f experienc e consist s o fimpressions, i t ma y b e said tha t impression s are experience, just a s (havewe not see n it ?) they are th e very air we breathe. Therefore , i f I shouldcertainly say to a novice , "Write fro m experienc e and experienc e only,"I should feel tha t thi s was rather a tantalising monition if I were not care-ful immediatel y to add, "Tr y to be one of the people o n whom nothing islost!"

I am far from intendin g by this to minimise the importance of exactness—of truth of detail. On e can speak best from one' s own taste, and I maytherefore ventur e t o sa y tha t th e ai r o f reality (solidit y of specification)seems to me to be the supreme virtue of a novel—the merit on which al l

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its othe r merit s (includin g that consciou s moral purpos e o f which Mr .Besant speaks) helplessly and submissivel y depend. I f it be not there theyare al l a s nothing, and i f these be there , the y owe their effec t t o the suc-cess with which the author ha s produced the illusion of life. Th e cultiva-tion o f this success, th e stud y of this exquisite process, form, t o m y taste ,the beginnin g an d th e en d o f the ar t o f the novelist . The y ar e hi s in-spiration, hi s despair, hi s reward, hi s torment, hi s delight. I t i s here invery truth tha t h e competes with life;'i t i s here that h e competes with hisbrother the painter in his attempt t o render the look of things, the look thatconveys their meaning , to catch th e colour , th e relief , th e expression , thesurface, th e substance of the human spectacle. I t i s in regard t o this thatMr. Besan t is well inspired when he bids him take notes. H e cannot pos-sibly take too many, he cannot possibly take enough. Al l life solicits him,and t o "render" the simples t surface, t o produce the mos t momentary il-lusion, is a very complicated business . Hi s case would be easier, and th erule would be more exact , i f Mr. Besan t had bee n abl e to tel l him wha tnotes to take. Bu t this, I fear, he can never learn in any manual; it is thebusiness of his life. H e ha s to take a great man y in order t o select a few,he has to work them u p a s he can, an d eve n the guides and philosopherswho might hav e most t o say to him mus t leave him alon e when i t comesto the application o f precepts, a s we leave the painter i n communion withhis palette . Tha t hi s character s "mus t b e clea r i n outline, " a s Mr .Besant says—he feels that down to his boots; but ho w he shall make themso is a secre t between his good ange l and himself . It woul d be absurdlysimple if he could be taught tha t a great deal of "description" would makethem so, or that on the contrary the absence of description and the cultiva-tion o f dialogue , o r th e absenc e o f dialogu e an d th e multiplicatio n o f"incident," would rescue him from hi s difficulties. Nothing , for instance,is mor e possibl e tha n tha t h e b e o f a tur n o f mind fo r whic h thi s odd ,literal oppositio n o f description an d dialogue , inciden t an d description ,has littl e meaning an d light . Peopl e ofte n tal k of these things as if theyhad a kin d of internecine distinctness , instead o f melting into each othe rat every breath, and bein g intimately associated parts of one general effor tof expression. I cannot imagine composition existing in a series of blocks,nor conceive , in any nove l worth discussing at all , of a passage of descrip-tion that is not i n its intention narrative , a passage of dialogue that i s notin it s intentio n descriptive , a touc h o f trut h o f an y sor t tha t doe s no tpartake o f the natur e o f incident, o r a n inciden t tha t derive s its interestfrom an y other source than th e general and onl y source of the success of awork o f art—that o f being illustrative . A novel is a living thing, al l on eand continuous , lik e any othe r organism , an d i n proportio n a s i t live swill i t b e found , I think , that i n eac h o f the part s ther e i s something of

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each o f th e othe r parts . Th e criti c wh o ove r th e clos e textur e o f afinished wor k shall pretend t o trace a geograph y o f items will mark som efrontiers a s artificial , I fear , a s an y tha t hav e bee n know n t o history .There i s an old-fashioned distinction between th e nove l o f character an dthe novel o f inciden t which must have cost many a smile to the intendingfabulist wh o was keen abou t hi s work. I t appear s t o m e a s littl e t o th epoint a s th e equall y celebrate d distinctio n betwee n th e nove l an d th eromance—to answe r a s little to an y reality . Ther e ar e ba d novel s an dgood novels , as there are ba d picture s an d goo d pictures ; bu t tha t i s theonly distinctio n in whic h I se e any meaning , an d I ca n a s little imaginespeaking of a novel of character a s I ca n imagin e speaking of a picture ofcharacter. Whe n on e say s picture on e say s of character, whe n on e saysnovel on e say s o f incident , an d th e term s ma y b e transpose d a t will .What i s character bu t th e determinatio n o f incident ? Wha t i s incidentbut th e illustration of character ? Wha t i s either a picture or a novel thatis no t of character? Wha t els e do w e seek in i t an d fin d i n it ? I t i s anincident fo r a woma n t o stand u p wit h he r han d restin g on a tabl e an dlook out at you in a certain way; or if it be not an incident I think it will behard t o say what i t is . A t the sam e tim e i t is an expressio n o f character.If you say you don' t se e it (characte r i n that —allons done! 1), thi s is exactlywhat th e artis t wh o ha s reason s o f hi s ow n fo r thinkin g h e does se e i tundertakes t o sho w you . Whe n a youn g ma n make s u p hi s mind tha the ha s no t fait h enoug h afte r al l t o ente r th e churc h a s h e intended ,that i s an incident , though yo u ma y no t hurr y t o the en d o f the chapte rto se e whethe r perhap s h e doesn' t chang e onc e more . I d o no t sa ythat thes e are extraordinar y o r startlin g incidents. I d o no t preten d t oestimate th e degre e o f interest proceeding fro m them , fo r this will depen dupon th e skil l o f the painter . I t sound s almost pueril e t o say that som eincidents ar e instrinsicall y muc h mor e importan t tha n others , an d Ineed no t tak e thi s precaution afte r havin g professe d m y sympath y fo rthe major one s in remarking that th e only classification of the novel thatI ca n understan d is into that which has lif e and tha t which has it not .

The nove l and th e romance, th e novel of incident and tha t of character—these clumsy separations appear t o me to have been made b y critics andreaders fo r their own convenience , an d t o help them ou t o f some of theiroccasional queer predicaments , bu t t o have little reality or interest for theproducer, fro m whos e point o f view it i s of course that w e are attemptin gto consider the art o f fiction . Th e cas e is the same with another shadow ycategory which Mr . Besan t apparentl y i s disposed t o se t up—that o f the"modern Englis h novel" ; unles s indeed i t b e tha t i n thi s matter h e ha sfallen int o a n accidenta l confusio n o f standpoints. I t i s not quit e clea r

1 Oh, come now !

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whether he intends the remarks in which he alludes to i t to be didacti c orhistorical. I t i s a s difficul t t o suppos e a perso n intendin g t o writ e amodern Englis h as to suppose him writing an ancien t Englis h novel : tha tis a labe l which begs the question . On e write s the novel , one paint s th epicture, of one's language and o f one's time, and callin g it modern Englis hwill not , alas ! make th e difficul t tas k any easier . N o more, unfortunately,will calling this or that work of one's fellow-artist a romance—unless it be,of course , simpl y fo r th e pleasantnes s of th e thing , a s fo r instanc e whe nHawthorne gav e thi s heading to his story of Blithedale. Th e French , wh ohave brough t th e theor y o f fiction to remarkable completeness , hav e bu tone name for the novel, and hav e not attempted smalle r things in it, that Ican see , for that. I ca n thin k of no obligation t o which the "romancer "would no t b e hel d equall y with the novelist ; the standar d o f execution isequally high fo r each. O f course it is of execution tha t w e are talking —that bein g th e onl y point o f a nove l tha t i s open t o contention . Thi s isperhaps to o ofte n los t sigh t of , only t o produc e interminabl e confusion sand cross-purposes . W e mus t gran t th e artis t hi s subject , hi s idea , hi sdonnee: ou r criticis m is applied onl y to what h e makes of it. Naturall y Ido not mean that we are boun d t o like i t or find it interesting: i n case wedo no t ou r cours e i s perfectly simple—to le t i t alone . W e ma y believ ethat o f a certai n ide a eve n th e mos t sincer e novelis t can mak e nothin gat all , an d th e even t ma y perfectl y justify ou r belief ; bu t th e failur e willhave bee n a failur e to execute , an d i t i s in th e executio n tha t th e fata lweakness is recorded. I f we pretend t o respect th e artis t a t all , w e mustallow hi m hi s freedo m o f choice , i n th e face , i n particula r cases , o f in -numerable presumption s tha t th e choice wil l not fructify . Ar t derive s aconsiderable par t o f it s beneficia l exercise fro m flyin g i n th e fac e o fpresumptions, an d som e of the mos t interesting experiments of which i t iscapable are hidde n i n th e boso m o f common things . Gustav e Flauber thas written a story about th e devotion of a servant girl to a parrot, and theproduction, highl y finishe d a s i t is , cannot o n th e whol e b, e calle d a suc -cess. W e ar e perfectl y free t o find it flat , but I thin k it might hav e bee ninteresting; and I , for my part, am extremely glad h e should have writtenit; i t i s a contributio n t o ou r knowledg e of what ca n b e done—or wha tcannot. Iva n Turgenief f ha s written a tal e abou t a dea f and dum b ser fand a lap-dog, an d the thing is touching, loving, a little masterpiece. H estruck th e not e o f life wher e Gustav e Flauber t misse d it—he fle w i n th eface o f a presumption an d achieve d a victory.

Nothing, o f course, wil l eve r tak e th e plac e of the goo d ol d fashio n of"liking" a work of art o r not liking it: the most improved criticism wil l notabolish tha t primitive , tha t ultimat e test. I mention thi s to guard myselffrom th e accusation o f intimating that the idea, the subject, of a nove l or a

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picture, does not matter . I t matters , to my sense, in the highes t degree ,and i f I might pu t u p a prayer i t would be that artist s should selec t non ebut th e richest . Some , a s I hav e alread y hastene d t o admit , ar e muc hmore remunerative tha n others , and it would be a world happil y arrange din whic h person s intending to trea t them shoul d b e exemp t fro m confu -sions and mistakes . Thi s fortunate condition wil l arrive only, I fear , onthe sam e da y tha t critic s becom e purge d fro m error . Meanwhile , Irepeat, w e do not judge th e artist with fairness unless we say to him, "Oh,I gran t yo u you r starting-point , becaus e i f I di d no t I shoul d see m t oprescribe to you, and heave n forbid I shoul d take that responsibility . I fI pretend t o tell you what you must not take, you will call upon me to tellyou the n wha t yo u mus t take ; i n which cas e I shall b e prettil y caught .Moreover, it isn' t til l I hav e accepte d you r dat a tha t I can begi n tomeasure you . I have the standard, th e pitch; I have no right t o tampe rwith your flute and the n criticis e your music . O f course I may not carefor you r idea at all; I may think it silly, or stale, or unclean; in which caseI wash my hands of you altogether. I may content mysel f with believin gthat yo u wil l no t hav e succeede d i n bein g interesting , bu t I shall , o fcourse, not attempt t o demonstrate it , and you will be as indifferent t o meas I a m t o you. I needn' t remin d yo u tha t ther e are al l sort s of tastes:who can know it better ? Som e people, fo r excellent reasons, don't like toread abou t carpenters ; others , fo r reasons even better , don' t lik e to readabout courtesans . Man y objec t t o Americans . Other s ( I believ e the yare mainly editors and publishers ) won' t loo k at Italians . Som e reader sdon't lik e quie t subjects ; others don' t lik e bustling ones . Som e enjo y acomplete illusion , other s th e consciousnes s o f large concessions . The ychoose their novels accordingly, and if they don't care about your idea theywon't, a fortiori, car e abou t you r treatment. "

So that it comes back very quickly, as I have said, to the liking: in spiteof M. Zola , who reasons less powerfully tha n h e represents, an d wh o willnot reconcil e himself to this absoluteness of taste, thinkin g that ther e ar ecertain things that people ought to like, and that they can be made to like.I a m quit e a t a los s t o imagin e anythin g (a t an y rat e i n thi s matte r o ffiction) tha t peopl e ought to lik e or to dislike. Selectio n wil l be sur e totake care of itself, fo r it has a constant motiv e behind it . Tha t motive issimply experience. A s people fee l life , so they will feel the ar t tha t i s mostclosely relate d t o it . Thi s closeness o f relation i s what w e should neve rforget i n talking of the effor t o f the novel . Man y peopl e spea k of it a s afactitious, artificia l form , a produc t o f ingenuity, th e busines s of which isto alte r an d arrang e th e thing s that surroun d us , to translat e the m int oconventional, traditional moulds . This , however, is a view of the matte rwhich carrie s u s bu t a ver y shor t way , condemn s th e ar t t o a n eterna l

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repetition o f a few familiar cliches, cuts short its development, and lead s usstraight up to a dead wall . Catchin g the very note and trick , the strangeirregular rhyth m o f life , tha t i s the attemp t whos e strenuous force keep sFiction upo n her feet . In proportio n as in what she offers us we see lif ewithout rearrangemen t d o w e fee l tha t w e ar e touchin g th e truth ; i nproportion a s we see it with rearrangement d o we fee l tha t we are bein gput of f with a substitute , a compromis e an d convention . I t i s not un -common t o hea r a n extraordinar y assuranc e o f remark i n regar d t o thi smatter of rearranging, whic h is often spoken of as if it were the las t word ofart. Mr . Besan t seems to me in danger of falling into the great error withhis rather unguarde d tal k about "selection. " Ar t i s essentially selection,but it is a selection whose main care is to be typical, to be inclusive. Formany people ar t means rose-coloured window-panes, and selection meanspicking a bouquet for Mrs. Grundy. The y will tell you glibly that artisticconsiderations hav e nothin g t o do with th e disagreeable , wit h th e ugly ;they wil l rattle of f shallow commonplaces abou t th e provinc e o f art an dthe limit s o f art til l yo u ar e move d t o som e wonde r i n retur n a s to th eprovince an d th e limit s of ignorance. I t appear s t o me tha t n o one canever have made a seriously artistic attempt withou t becoming conscious ofan immens e increase—a kind o f revelation—of freedom. On e perceivesin that case—b y the light of a heavenly ray—that the province of art i s alllife, al l feeling , al l observation , al l vision . A s Mr . Besan t so justly inti-mates, i t i s al l experience . Tha t i s a sufficien t answe r t o thos e wh omaintain tha t i t mus t no t touc h th e sa d thing s o f life, wh o stic k into it sdivine unconsciou s boso m littl e prohibitor y inscription s o n th e en d o fsticks, such a s we see in publi c gardens—"I t i s forbidden t o walk on th egrass; i t i s forbidden to touc h th e flowers ; i t i s not allowed t o introducedogs or to remain afte r dark; i t is requested t o keep t o the right." Th eyoung aspirant i n the line of fiction whom we continue to imagine will donothing without taste, for in that case his freedom would be of little use tohim; but th e first advantage o f his taste will be to reveal to him the absurd-ity o f the little sticks and tickets . I f h e have taste , I must add, o f coursehe will have ingenuity , and m y disrespectful referenc e t o that qualit y justnow was not mean t t o imply tha t i t i s useless in fiction . Bu t i t i s only asecondary aid ; th e firs t i s a capacit y fo r receivin g straigh t impressions .

Mr. Besan t ha s some remark s o n th e questio n o f "the story " whic h Ishall not attempt to criticise, thoug h the y seem to me to contain a singularam&iguity, because I do not think I understand them. I cannot see whatis meant b y talking as if there were a part of a novel which is the story andpart o f it which for mystical reasons is not—unless indeed th e distinctionbe made i n a sense in which i t is difficult t o suppose that an y on e shouldattempt t o conve y anything . "Th e story, " i f i t represent s anything ,

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represents the subject , th e idea, the donnee of the novel ; and ther e is surelyno "school"—Mr . Besan t speaks o f a school—whic h urge s tha t a nove lshould b e al l treatmen t an d n o subject . Ther e mus t assuredl y b esomething t o treat ; ever y schoo l i s intimatel y consciou s o f that . Thi ssense of the story being the idea, the starting-point, of the novel, is the onlyone tha t I see in which it can b e spoken of as something different fro m it sorganic whole ; and sinc e in proportion a s the wor k i s successful th e ideapermeates an d penetrate s it, inform s an d animate s it , s o that ever y wordand ever y punctuation-point contribut e directl y to the expression, i n thatproportion d o we lose our sens e of the stor y being a blad e which may b edrawn mor e o r les s ou t o f its sheath. Th e stor y and th e novel , the ideaand th e form , ar e the needle and thread, and I neve r hear d o f a guild oftailors who recommended th e use of the threa d withou t the needle, o r th eneedle without the thread. Mr . Besant i s not the only critic who may beobserved t o hav e spoke n a s i f ther e wer e certai n thing s i n lif e whic hconstitute stories , and certai n other s which d o not— I fin d th e sam e od dimplication i n an entertainin g articl e i n th e Pall Mall Gazette, devoted, asit happens , t o Mr . Besant' s lecture. "Th e stor y i s the thing! " say s thi sgraceful writer , a s i f wit h a ton e o f oppositio n t o som e othe r idea . Ishould think it was, as every painter who, as the tim e for "sending in " hi spicture loom s in th e distance , finds himself stil l i n ques t o f a subject—a severy belate d artis t not fixed about his theme wil l heartily agree . Ther eare som e subject s which spea k t o u s an d other s whic h d o not , bu t h ewould b e a clever ma n wh o shoul d undertak e t o giv e a rule—a n indexexpurgatorius—by whic h th e stor y an d th e no-stor y shoul d b e know napart. I t i s impossible (t o me a t least ) t o imagine an y suc h rul e whic hshall not be altogether arbitrary . Th e write r in the Pall Mall opposes thedelightful (a s I suppose ) nove l o f Margot l a Balafree t o certai n tale s i nwhich "Bostonia n nymphs " appea r t o hav e "rejecte d Englis h duke s forpsychological reasons. " I a m no t acquainte d wit h th e romanc e jus tdesignated, and can scarcely forgive the Pall Mall critic for not mentioningthe nam e o f the author, bu t th e title appears to refer to a lady who mayhave received a scar in some heroic adventure. I am inconsolable at no tbeing acquainte d wit h thi s episode , bu t a m utterl y a t a los s t o se e whyit is a story when the rejection (or acceptance) of a duke is not, and wh y areason, psychologica l o r other , i s not a subjec t when a cicatri x is . The yare al l particles of the multitudinous life wit h which th e nove l deals , an dsurely n o dogm a whic h pretends t o make i t lawfu l t o touch th e one an dunlawful t o touch th e other wil l stand fo r a moment o n its feet. I t i s thespecial picture that must stand or fall , according a s it seem to possess truthor t o lack it . Mr . Besan t does not , t o m y sense , light u p th e subjec t byintimating tha t a story must, under penalt y of not being a story, consis t of

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"adventures." Wh y o f adventures more tha n o f green spectacle s ? H ementions a categor y o f impossibl e things , an d amon g the m h e place s"fiction withou t adventure. " Wh y without adventure , mor e tha n with -out matrimony , o r celibacy, or parturition, o r cholera, o r hydropathy, o rJansenism ? Thi s seems to me to bring the novel back to the hapless littlerole o f bein g a n artificial , ingenious thing—bring i t dow n fro m it s large ,free characte r o f a n immens e an d exquisit e correspondenc e wit h life .And wha t i s adventure, whe n i t come s t o that , an d b y wha t sig n i s th elistening pupi l t o recognis e it ? I t i s an adventure—a n immens e one —for m e to write this little article; an d fo r a Bostonia n nymph t o reject a nEnglish duk e i s an adventur e onl y less stirring , I shoul d say , tha n fo r a nEnglish duke to be rejected by a Bostonian nymph. I see dramas withi ndramas i n that , and innumerabl e points of view. A psychological reaso nis, to my imagination, a n objec t adorably pictorial ; to catch th e tin t of itscomplexion—I fee l a s if that ide a might inspire one to Titianesque efforts .There are fe w things more excitin g to me, i n short , tha n a psychologica lreason, an d yet , I protest , th e nove l seem s t o m e th e mos t magnificen tform o f art. I hav e just bee n reading , a t th e sam e time , th e delightfu lstory of Treasure Island, b y Mr. Rober t Louis Stevenso n and , i n a mannerless consecutive , th e las t tal e fro m M . Edmon d d e Goncourt , whic h i sentitled Cherie. On e o f these work s treats o f murders, mysteries , island sof dreadfu l renown , hairbreadt h escapes , miraculou s coincidence s an dburied doubloons . Th e othe r treat s o f a littl e Frenc h gir l wh o live d i na fine hous e in Paris , and die d of wounded sensibilit y because no onewould marry her . I cal l Treasure Island delightful , because i t appear s t ome to have succeeded wonderfull y i n what i t attempts; and I ventur e t obestow no epithet upon Cherie, which strikes me as having failed deplorabl yin wha t i t attempts—tha t i s i n tracin g th e developmen t o f th e mora lconsciousness o f a child . Bu t on e o f thes e production s strike s m e a sexactly as much o f a nove l as the other , an d a s having a "story" quite asmuch. Th e mora l consciousnes s of a child is as much a part of life as theislands of the Spanis h Main , and th e on e sor t o f geography seem s to meto have those "surprises" o f which Mr. Besan t speaks quite as much as theother. Fo r mysel f (since it come s back i n the las t resort , a s I say , to th epreference o f the individual) , the picture o f the child' s experience ha s theadvantage tha t I ca n a t successiv e steps (a n immense luxury , near t o the"sensual pleasure " o f which Mr . Besant' s criti c i n th e Pall Mall speaks )say Yes or No , a s it ma y be , t o what th e artis t put s befor e me. I hav ebeen a child in fact, bu t I have been on a quest for a buried treasur e onl yin supposition , an d i t i s a simpl e acciden t tha t wit h M . d e Goncour t Ishould hav e for the mos t par t t o say No. Wit h Georg e Eliot , whe n shepainted tha t country wit h a far other intelligence , I always said Yes .

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The mos t interestin g part o f Mr. Besant' s lecture i s unfortunately th ebriefest passage—hi s ver y cursor y allusio n t o th e "consciou s mora lpurpose" o f the novel . Her e agai n i t i s no t ver y clea r whethe r h e b erecording a fac t o r layin g down a principle ; i t i s a grea t pit y that i n th elatter cas e h e shoul d no t hav e develope d hi s idea . Thi s branc h o f th esubject i s of immense importance , an d Mr . Besant' s fe w words poin t t oconsiderations of the wides t reach, no t t o be lightly disposed of. H e willhave treate d th e ar t o f fiction bu t superficiall y wh o i s not prepare d t o goevery inc h o f the wa y tha t thes e considerations will carr y him . I t i s forthis reason tha t a t th e beginnin g of these remarks I wa s carefu l t o notif ythe reade r tha t m y reflection s o n so large a them e hav e n o pretension tobe exhaustive. Lik e Mr. Besant , I hav e lef t th e questio n o f the moralit yof the novel till the last, and at the last I find I have used up my space. I tis a questio n surrounde d wit h difficulties , a s witnes s th e ver y firs t tha tmeets us, in the form of a definite question, on the threshold. Vagueness ,in such a discussion, is fatal, and wha t is the meaning of your morality an dyour consciou s moral purpose ? Wil l you no t defin e you r terms and ex -plain ho w ( a novel being a picture ) a picture can b e either mora l o r im-moral? Yo u wis h t o pain t a mora l pictur e o r carv e a mora l statue :will yo u no t tel l us how yo u would se t about it ? W e ar e discussin g theArt o f Fiction ; question s o f ar t ar e question s (i n th e wides t sense ) o fexecution; questions of morality are quit e another affair , an d wil l you notlet us see how it is that yo u find i t so easy to mix them u p ? Thes e thingsare so clear to Mr. Besan t that he has deduced fro m the m a law which hesees embodied i n Englis h Fiction, and whic h is "a trul y admirable thin gand a great cause for congratulation." I t i s a great cause for congratula-tion indeed when such thorny problems become as smooth as silk. I ma yadd tha t i n s o far a s Mr . Besan t perceive s tha t i n poin t o f fac t Englis hFiction ha s addressed itsel f preponderantl y t o thes e delicate question s hewill appea r t o man y peopl e t o hav e mad e a vai n discovery . The y wil lhave been positively struck, on the contrary, with the moral timidity of theusual English novelist; with his (o r with her) aversion t o face th e difficul -ties with which on ever y side the treatmen t o f reality bristles . H e i s ap tto b e extremel y sh y (wherea s th e pictur e tha t Mr . Besan t draw s i s apicture o f boldness) , an d th e sig n o f hi s work , fo r th e mos t part , i s acautious silenc e on certai n subjects . I n th e Englis h nove l (b y which ofcourse I mea n th e American a s well), more tha n i n any other , ther e i s atraditional differenc e betwee n tha t whic h peopl e kno w an d tha t whic hthey agree t o admit tha t the y know, tha t whic h the y se e and tha t whichthey speak of, that whic h they feel t o be a part o f life and tha t which theyallow t o ente r int o literature . Ther e i s th e grea t difference , i n short ,between what the y talk of in conversation an d wha t the y tal k of in print .

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The essenc e of moral energ y is to surve y the whol e field, and I shoul ddirectly revers e Mr . Besant' s remar k an d sa y not tha t th e Englis h novelhas a purpose, but that it has a diffidence. T o what degree a purpose in awork o f art i s a sourc e o f corruption I shal l no t attemp t t o inquire ; th eone that seems to me leas t dangerou s i s the purpos e o f making a perfectwork. A s for our novel , I may say lastly on this score that as we find it inEngland to-da y i t strike s me a s addresse d i n a larg e degre e t o "youn gpeople," an d tha t thi s i n itsel f constitutes a presumptio n tha t i t wil l berather shy. Ther e are certai n thing s which i t i s generally agreed no t t odiscuss, no t even t o mention , befor e youn g people . Tha t i s very well,but th e absence of discussion is not a symptom of the moral passion . Th epurpose of the English novel—"a truly admirable thing , and a great causefor congratulation"—strike s m e therefor e a s rathe r negative.

There i s one poin t a t whic h th e mora l sens e and th e artisti c sense lievery near together ; that i s in th e ligh t o f the ver y obvious truth tha t th edeepest qualit y o f a work of art wil l always be the qualit y o f the mind ofthe producer. I n proportion a s that intelligence is fine will the novel, thepicture, th e statu e partak e of the substance of beauty an d truth . T o b econstituted of such elements is, to my vision, to have purpose enough. N ogood nove l will ever proceed fro m a superficial mind; that seem s to me anaxiom which , for the artis t in fiction, will cover al l needful mora l ground:if the youthfu l aspiran t tak e i t to heart i t will illuminate for him many ofthe mysterie s o f "purpose. " Ther e ar e man y othe r usefu l thing s tha tmight be said to him, but I hav e com e to the end of my article, and canonly touc h the m a s I pass . Th e criti c i n th e Pall Mall Gazette, whom Ihave alread y quoted , draw s attentio n t o th e danger , i n speakin g of theart of fiction, of generalising. The danger tha t he has in mind is rather, Iimagine, tha t of particularising, for there are some comprehensive remarkswhich, i n additio n t o thos e embodie d i n Mr . Besant' s suggestiv e lecture,might withou t fea r o f misleadin g hi m b e addresse d t o th e ingenuou sstudent. I should remind hi m first of the magnificence of the form that isopen to him, which offers t o sight so few restrictions and suc h innumerableopportunities. Th e othe r arts , i n comparison, appea r confine d an dhampered; th e variou s condition s unde r whic h the y ar e exercise d are sorigid and definite . Bu t the only condition that I can think of attaching tothe compositio n o f the nove l is , as I hav e already said, tha t i t be sincere .This freedo m i s a splendi d privilege , an d th e firs t lesso n o f the youn gnovelist is to learn t o be worthy of it. "Enjo y i t as it deserves," I shouldsay to him; "tak e possession of it, explor e i t t o it s utmost extent , publishit, rejoic e i n it . Al l lif e belong s t o you, an d d o no t liste n either to thos ewho would shu t you up int o corner s of it and tel l you tha t i t is only her eand ther e that art inhabits , o r to those who would persuad e yo u that thi s

404 HENRY JAME S

heavenly messenge r wing s her wa y outsid e of life altogether , breathin g asuperfine air , and turnin g away her head from th e truth of things. Ther eis no impression of life, n o manner o f seeing it and feelin g it , t o which th eplan of the novelist may not offer a place; you have only to remember tha ttalents s o dissimila r a s thos e o f Alexandr e Duma s an d Jan e Austen ,Charles Dicken s an d Gustav e Flauber t hav e worke d i n thi s fiel d wit hequal glory . D o not think too much abou t optimis m an d pessimism; tryand catc h th e colou r o f life itself . I n Franc e to-da y w e see a prodigiou seffort (tha t of Emile Zola , to whose solid and seriou s work no explore r ofthe capacit y o f the nove l ca n allud e withou t respect) , w e se e an extra -ordinary effor t vitiate d b y a spiri t o f pessimism on a narro w basis . M .Zola is magnificent, but he strikes an Englis h reader as ignorant; he has anair o f working in th e dark ; i f he ha d a s much ligh t a s energy, hi s resultswould be of the highes t value. A s for the aberrations o f a shallow optim-ism, th e groun d (o f English fiction especially) is strewn with thei r brittl eparticles a s wit h broke n glass . I f yo u mus t indulg e i n conclusions , letthem have the taste of a wide knowledge. Remembe r tha t your first dutyis to be as complete as possible—to make as perfect a work. B e generousand delicat e and pursu e the prize. "