The only amount I can compute13 is the force of the author, for that is directly registered in my attention, my submission14. A hundred things naturally go to make it up; but he knows so much better than I what they are that I should blush to give him a glimpse of my inferior account of them. The anodyne is not the particular picture, it is our own act of surrender, and therefore most, for each reader, what he most surrenders to. This latter element would seem in turn to vary from case to case, were it not indeed that there are readers prepared, I believe, to limit their surrender in advance. With some, we gather, it declines for instance to operate save on an exhibition of “high life.” In others again it is proof against any solicitation15 but that of low. In many it vibrates only to “adventure”; in many only to Charlotte Bront?; in various groups, according to affinity16, only to Jane Austen, to old Dumas, to Miss Corelli, to Dostoievsky or whomever it may be. The readers easiest to conceive, however, are probably those for whom, in the whole impression, the note of sincerity17 in the artist is what most matters, what most reaches and touches. That, obviously, is the relation that gives the widest range to the anodyne.
I am afraid that, profiting by my license18, I drag forward Mr. George Gissing from an antiquity19 of several weeks. I blow the dust of oblivion from M. Pierre Loti and indeed from all the company—they have been published for days and days. I foresee, however, that I must neglect the company for the sake of the two members I have named, writers—I speak for myself—always in order, though not, I admit, on quite the same line. Mr. Gissing would have been particularly in order had he only kept for the present period the work preceding his latest; all the more that “In the Year of Jubilee” has to my perception some points of superiority to “The Whirlpool.” For this author in general, at any rate, I profess20, and have professed21 ever since reading “The New Grub Street,” a persistent22 taste—a taste that triumphs even over the fact that he almost as persistently23 disappoints me. I fail as yet to make out why exactly it is that going so far he so sturdily refuses to go further. The whole business of distribution and composition he strikes me as having cast to the winds; but just this fact of a question about him is a part of the wonder—I use the word in the sense of enjoyment—that he excites. It is not every day in the year that we meet a novelist about whom there is a question. The circumstance alone is almost sufficient to beguile24 or to enthrall25; and I seem to myself to have said almost everything in speaking of something that Mr. Gissing “goes far” enough to do. To go far enough to do anything is, in the conditions we live in, a lively achievement.
“The Whirlpool,” I crudely confess, was in a manner a grief to me, but the book has much substance, and there is no light privilege in an emotion so sustained. This emotion perhaps it is that most makes me, to the end, stick to Mr. Gissing—makes me with an almost nervous clutch quite cling to him. I shall not know how to deal with him, however, if I withhold26 the last outrage27 of calling him an interesting case. He seems to me above all a case of saturation28, and it is mainly his saturation that makes him interesting—I mean especially in the sense of making him singular. The interest would be greater were his art more complete; but we must take what we can get, and Mr. Gissing has a way of his own. The great thing is that his saturation is with elements that, presented to us in contemporary English fiction, affect us as a product of extraordinary oddity and rarity: he reeks29 with the savour, he is bowed beneath the fruits, of contact with the lower, with the lowest middle-class, and that is sufficient to make him an authority—the authority in fact—on a region vast and unexplored.
The English novel has as a general thing kept so desperately30, so nervously31 clear of it, whisking back compromised skirts and bumping frantically32 against obstacles to retreat, that we welcome as the boldest of adventurers a painter who has faced it and survived. We have had low life in plenty, for, with its sores and vices33, its crimes and penalties, misery34 has colour enough to open the door to any quantity of artistic35 patronage36. We have shuddered37 in the dens38 of thieves and the cells of murderers, and have dropped the inevitable tear over tortured childhood and purified sin. We have popped in at the damp cottage with my lady and heard the quaint11 rustic39, bless his simple heart, commit himself for our amusement. We have fraternised on the other hand with the peerage and the county families, staying at fine old houses till exhausted40 nature has, for this source of intoxication41, not a wink42 of sociability43 left. It has grown, the source in question, as stale as the sweet biscuit with pink enhancements in that familiar jar of the refreshment44 counter from which even the attendant young lady in black, with admirers and a social position, hesitates to extract it. We have recognised the humble45, the wretched, even the wicked; also we have recognised the “smart.” But save under the immense pressure of Dickens we have never done anything so dreadful as to recognise the vulgar. We have at the very most recognised it as the extravagant46, the grotesque47. The case of Dickens was absolutely special; he dealt intensely with “lower middle,” with “lowest” middle, elements, but he escaped the predicament of showing them as vulgar by showing them only as prodigiously48 droll49. When his people are not funny who shall dare to say what they are? The critic may draw breath as from a responsibility averted50 when he reflects that they almost always are funny. They belong to a walk of life that we may be ridiculous but never at all serious about. We may be tragic51, but that is often but a form of humour. I seem to hear Mr. Gissing say: “Well, dreariness52 for dreariness, let us try Brondesbury and Pinner; especially as in the first place I know them so well; as in the second they are the essence of England; and as in the third they are, artistically53 speaking, virgin54 soil. Behold55 them glitter in the morning dew.”
So he is serious—almost imperturbably—about them, and, as it turns out, even quite manfully and admirably sad. He has the great thing: his saturation (with the visible and audible common) can project itself, let him get outside of it and walk round it. I scarcely think he stays, as it were, outside quite as much as he might; and on the question of form he certainly strikes me as staying far too little. It is form above all that is talent, and if Mr. Gissing’s were proportionate to his knowledge, to what may be called his possession, we should have a larger force to reckon with. That—not to speak of the lack of intensity56 in his imagination—is the direction in which one would wish him to go further. Our Anglo-Saxon tradition of these matters remains57 surely in some respects the strangest. After the perusal58 of such a book as “The Whirlpool” I feel as if I had almost to explain that by “these matters” I mean the whole question of composition, of foreshortening, of the proportion and relation of parts. Mr. Gissing, to wind up my reserves, overdoes59 the ostensible60 report of spoken words; though I hasten to add that this abuse is so general a sign, in these days, of the English and the American novel as to deprive a challenge of every hope of credit. It is attended visibly—that is visibly to those who can see—with two or three woeful results. If it had none other it would still deserve arraignment61 on the simple ground of what it crowds out—the golden blocks themselves of the structure, the whole divine exercise and mystery of the exquisite62 art of presentation.
The ugliest trick it plays at any rate is its effect on that side of the novelist’s effort—the side of most difficulty and thereby63 of most dignity—which consists in giving the sense of duration, of the lapse64 and accumulation of time. This is altogether to my view the stiffest problem that the artist in fiction has to tackle, and nothing is more striking at present than the blankness, for the most part, of his indifference65 to it. The mere66 multiplication67 of quoted remarks is the last thing to strengthen his hand. Such an expedient68 works exactly to the opposite end, absolutely minimising, in regard to time, our impression of lapse and passage. That is so much the case that I can think of no novel in which it prevails as giving at all the sense of the gradual and the retarded—the stretch of the years in which developments really take place. The picture is nothing unless it be a picture of the conditions, and the conditions are usually hereby quite omitted. Thanks to this perversity69 everything dealt with in fiction appears at present to occur simply on the occasion of a few conversations about it; there is no other constitution of it. A few hours, a few days seem to account for it. The process, the “dark backward and abysm,” is really so little reproduced. We feel tempted70 to send many an author, to learn the rudiments71 of this secret, back to his Balzac again, the most accomplished72 master of it. He will learn also from Balzac while he is about it that nothing furthermore, as intrinsic effect, so much discounts itself as this abuse of the element of colloquy73.
“Dialogue,” as it is commonly called, is singularly suicidal from the moment it is not directly illustrative of something given us by another method, something constituted and presented. It is impossible to read work even as interesting as Mr. Gissing’s without recognising the impossibility of making people both talk “all the time” and talk with the needful differences. The thing, so far as we have got, is simply too hard. There is always at the best the author’s voice to be kept out. It can be kept out for occasions, it can not be kept out always. The solution therefore is to leave it its function, for it has the supreme one. This function, properly exercised, averts74 the disaster of the blight75 of the colloquy really in place—illustrative and indispensable. Nothing is more inevitable than such a blight when antecedently the general effect of the process has been undermined. We then want the report of the spoken word—want that only. But, proportionately, it doesn’t come, doesn’t count. It has been fatally cheapened. There is no effect, no relief.
I am writing a treatise76 when I meant only to give a glance; and it may be asked if the best thing I find in Mr. Gissing is after all then but an opportunity to denounce. The answer to that is that I find two other things—or should find them rather had I not deprived myself as usual of proper space. One of these is the pretext77 for speaking, by absolute rebound78, as it were, and in the interest of vivid contrast, of Pierre Loti; the other is a better occasion still, an occasion for the liveliest sympathy. It is impossible not to be affected79 by the frankness and straightness of Mr. Gissing’s feeling for his subject, a subject almost always distinctly remunerative80 to the ironic81 and even to the dramatic mind. He has the strongest deepest sense of common humanity, of the general struggle and the general grey grim comedy. He loves the real, he renders it, and though he has a tendency to drift too much with his tide, he gives us, in the great welter of the savourless, an individual manly82 strain. If he only had distinction he would make the suburbs “hum.” I don’t mean of course by his circulation there—the effect Ibsen is supposed to have on them; I mean objectively and as a rounded whole, as a great theme treated.
I am ashamed of having postponed83 “Ramuntcho,” for “Ramuntcho” is a direct recall of the beauty of “Pêcheur d’Islande” and “Mon Frère Yves”—in other words a literary impression of the most exquisite order. Perhaps indeed it is as well that a critic should postpone—and quite indefinitely—an author as to whom he is ready to confess that his critical instinct is quite suspended. Oh the blessing84 of a book, the luxury of a talent, that one is only anxious not to reason about, only anxious to turn over in the mind and to taste! It is a poor business perhaps, but I have nothing more responsible to say of Loti than that I adore him. I love him when he is bad—and heaven knows he has occasionally been so—more than I love other writers when they are good. If therefore he is on the whole quite at his best in “Ramuntcho” I fear my appreciation85 is an undertaking86 too merely active for indirect expression. I can give it no more coherent form than to say that he makes the act of partaking one of the joys that, as things mainly go, a reader must be pretty well provided to be able not to jump at. And yet there are readers, apparently, who are so provided. There are readers who don’t jump and are cocksure they can do without it. My sense of the situation is that they are wrong—that with famine stalking so abroad literally87 no one can. I defy it not to tell somewhere—become a gap one can immediately “spot.”
It is well to content one’s self, at all events, with affection; so stiff a job, in such a case, is understanding or, still more, explanation. There is a kind of finality in Loti’s simplicity88—if it even be simplicity. He performs in an air in which, on the part of the spectator, analysis withers89 and only submission lives. Has it anything to do with literature? Has it anything to do with nature? It must be, we should suppose, the last refinement90 either of one or of the other. Is it all emotion, is it all calculation, is it all truth, is it all humbug91? All we can say as readers is that it is for ourselves all experience, and of the most personal intensity. The great question is whether it be emotion “neat” or emotion rendered and reduced. If it be resolved into art why hasn’t it more of the chill? If it be sensibility pure why isn’t it cruder and clumsier? What is exquisite is the contact of sensibility made somehow so convenient—with only the beauty preserved. It is not too much to say of Loti that his sensibility begins where that of most of those who use the article ends. If moreover in effect he represents the triumph of instinct, when was instinct ever so sustained and so unerring? It keeps him unfailingly, in the matter of “dialogue,” out of the overflow92 and the waste. It is a joy to see how his looseness is pervaded93 after all by proportion.
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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muffles
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的第三人称单数 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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computing
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| n.计算 | |
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compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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enthrall
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| vt.迷住，吸引住；使感到非常愉快 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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overdoes
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| v.做得过分( overdo的第三人称单数 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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averts
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| 防止，避免( avert的第三人称单数 )； 转移 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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78
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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81
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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82
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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84
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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85
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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86
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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87
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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88
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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89
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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92
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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