It is nearly twenty years since I proposed to myself to write a history of English prose fiction. I shall never do it now, but the subject is so good a one that I recommend it heartily1 to some man of letters, who shall at the same time be indefatigable2 and light-handed. I acknowledge that I broke down in the task, because I could not endure the labour in addition to the other labours of my life. Though the book might be charming, the work was very much the reverse. It came to have a terrible aspect to me, as did that proposition that I should sit out all the May meetings of a season. According to my plan of such a history it would be necessary to read an infinity3 of novels, and not only to read them, but so to read them as to point out the excellences5 of those which are most excellent, and to explain the defects of those which, though defective6, had still reached sufficient reputation to make them worthy7 of notice. I did read many after this fashion — and here and there I have the criticisms which I wrote. In regard to many, they were written on some blank page within the book; I have not, however, even a list of the books so criticised. I think that the Arcadia was the first, and Ivanhoe the last. My plan, as I settled it at last, had been to begin with Robinson Crusoe, which is the earliest really popular novel which we have in our language, and to continue the review so as to include the works of all English novelists of reputation, except those who might still be living when my task should be completed. But when Dickens and Bulwer died, my spirit flagged, and that which I had already found to be very difficult had become almost impossible to me at my then period of life.
I began my own studies on the subject with works much earlier than Robinson Crusoe, and made my way through a variety of novels which were necessary for my purpose, but which in the reading gave me no pleasure whatever. I never worked harder than at the Arcadia, or read more detestable trash than the stories written by Mrs. Aphra Behn; but these two were necessary to my purpose, which was not only to give an estimate of the novels as I found them, but to describe how it had come to pass that the English novels of the present day have become what they are, to point out the effects which they have produced, and to inquire whether their great popularity has on the whole done good or evil to the people who read them. I still think that the book is one well worthy to be written.
I intended to write that book to vindicate8 my own profession as a novelist, and also to vindicate that public taste in literature which has created and nourished the profession which I follow. And I was stirred up to make such an attempt by a conviction that there still exists among us Englishmen a prejudice in respect to novels which might, perhaps, be lessened9 by such a work. This prejudice is not against the reading of novels, as is proved by their general acceptance among us. But it exists strongly in reference to the appreciation10 in which they are professed11 to be held; and it robs them of much of that high character which they may claim to have earned by their grace, their honesty, and good teaching.
No man can work long at any trade without being brought to consider much, whether that which he is daily doing tends to evil or to good. I have written many novels, and have known many writers of novels, and I can assert that such thoughts have been strong with them and with myself. But in acknowledging that these writers have received from the public a full measure of credit for such genius, ingenuity12, or perseverance13 as each may have displayed, I feel that there is still wanting to them a just appreciation of the excellence4 of their calling, and a general understanding of the high nature of the work which they perform.
By the common consent of all mankind who have read, poetry takes the highest place in literature. That nobility of expression, and all but divine grace of words, which she is bound to attain14 before she can make her footing good, is not compatible with prose. Indeed it is that which turns prose into poetry. When that has been in truth achieved, the reader knows that the writer has soared above the earth, and can teach his lessons somewhat as a god might teach. He who sits down to write his tale in prose makes no such attempt, nor does he dream that the poet’s honour is within his reach — but his teaching is of the same nature, and his lessons all tend to the same end. By either, false sentiments may be fostered; false notions of humanity may be engendered15; false honour, false love, false worship may be created; by either, vice16 instead of virtue17 may be taught. But by each, equally, may true honour, true love; true worship, and true humanity be inculcated; and that will be the greatest teacher who will spread such truth the widest. But at present, much as novels, as novels, are bought and read, there exists still an idea, a feeling which is very prevalent, that novels at their best are but innocent. Young men and women — and old men and women too — read more of them than of poetry, because such reading is easier than the reading of poetry; but they read them — as men eat pastry18 after dinner — not without some inward conviction that the taste is vain if not vicious. I take upon myself to say that it is neither vicious nor vain.
But all writers of fiction who have desired to think well of their own work, will probably have had doubts on their minds before they have arrived at this conclusion. Thinking much of my own daily labour and of its nature, I felt myself at first to be much afflicted19 and then to be deeply grieved by the opinion expressed by wise and thinking men as to the work done by novelists. But when, by degrees, I dared to examine and sift20 the sayings of such men, I found them to be sometimes silly and often arrogant21. I began to inquire what had been the nature of English novels since they first became common in our own language, and to be desirous of ascertaining22 whether they had done harm or good. I could well remember that, in my own young days, they had not taken that undisputed possession of drawing-rooms which they now hold. Fifty years ago, when George IV. was king, they were not indeed treated as Lydia had been forced to treat them in the preceding reign23, when, on the approach of elders, Peregrine Pickle24 was hidden beneath the bolster25, and Lord Ainsworth put away under the sofa. But the families in which an unrestricted permission was given for the reading of novels were very few, and from many they were altogether banished26. The high poetic27 genius and correct morality of Walter Scott had not altogether succeeded in making men and women understand that lessons which were good in poetry could not be bad in prose. I remember that in those days an embargo28 was laid upon novel-reading as a pursuit, which was to the novelist a much heavier tax than that want of full appreciation of which I now complain.
There is, we all know, no such embargo now. May we not say that people of an age to read have got too much power into their own hands to endure any very complete embargo? Novels are read right and left, above stairs and below, in town houses and in country parsonages, by young countesses and by farmers’ daughters, by old lawyers and by young students. It has not only come to pass that a special provision of them has to be made for the godly, but that the provision so made must now include books which a few years since the godly would have thought to be profane29. It was this necessity which, a few years since, induced the editor of Good Words to apply to me for a novel — which, indeed, when supplied was rejected, but which now, probably, owing to further change in the same direction, would have been accepted.
If such be the case — if the extension of novel-reading be so wide as I have described it — then very much good or harm must be done by novels. The amusement of the time can hardly be the only result of any book that is read, and certainly not so with a novel, which appeals especially to the imagination, and solicits31 the sympathy of the young. A vast proportion of the teaching of the day — greater probably than many of us have acknowledged to ourselves — comes from these books, which are in the hands of all readers. It is from them that girls learn what is expected from them, and what they are to expect when lovers come; and also from them that young men unconsciously learn what are, or should be, or may be, the charms of love — though I fancy that few young men will think so little of their natural instincts and powers as to believe that I am right in saying so. Many other lessons also are taught. In these times, when the desire to be honest is pressed so hard, is so violently assaulted by the ambition to be great; in which riches are the easiest road to greatness; when the temptations to which men are subjected dull their eyes to the perfected iniquities32 of others; when it is so hard for a man to decide vigorously that the pitch, which so many are handling, will defile33 him if it be touched — men’s conduct will be actuated much by that which is from day to day depicted34 to them as leading to glorious or inglorious results. The woman who is described as having obtained all that the world holds to be precious, by lavishing35 her charms and her caresses36 unworthily and heartlessly, will induce other women to do the same with theirs — as will she who is made interesting by exhibitions of bold passion teach others to be spuriously passionate37. The young man who in a novel becomes a hero, perhaps a Member of Parliament, and almost a Prime Minister, by trickery, falsehood, and flash cleverness, will have many followers38, whose attempts to rise in the world ought to lie heavily on the conscience of the novelists who create fictitious39 Cagliostros. There are Jack40 Sheppards other than those who break into houses and out of prisons — Macheaths, who deserve the gallows41 more than Gay’s hero.
Thinking of all this, as a novelist surely must do — as I certainly have done through my whole career — it becomes to him a matter of deep conscience how he shall handle those characters by whose words and doings he hopes to interest his readers. It will very frequently be the case that he will be tempted42 to sacrifice something for effect, to say a word or two here, or to draw a picture there, for which he feels that he has the power, and which when spoken or drawn43 would be alluring44. The regions of absolute vice are foul45 and odious46. The savour of them, till custom has hardened the palate and the nose, is disgusting. In these he will hardly tread. But there are outskirts47 on these regions, on which sweet-smelling flowers seem to grow; and grass to be green. It is in these border-lands that the danger lies. The novelist may not be dull. If he commit that fault he can do neither harm nor good. He must please, and the flowers and the grass in these neutral territories sometimes seem to give him so easy an opportunity of pleasing!
The writer of stories must please, or he will be nothing. And he must teach whether he wish to teach or no. How shall he teach lessons of virtue and at the same time make himself a delight to his readers? That sermons are not in themselves often thought to be agreeable we all know. Nor are disquisitions on moral philosophy supposed to be pleasant reading for our idle hours. But the novelist, if he have a conscience, must preach his sermons with the same purpose as the clergyman, and must have his own system of ethics48. If he can do this efficiently49, if he can make virtue alluring and vice ugly, while he charms his readers instead of wearying them, then I think Mr. Carlyle need not call him distressed51, nor talk of that long ear of fiction, nor question whether he be or not the most foolish of existing mortals.
I think that many have done so; so many that we English novelists may boast as a class that has been the general result of our own work. Looking back to the past generation, I may say with certainty that such was the operation of the novels of Miss Edgeworth, Miss Austen, and Walter Scott. Coming down to my own times, I find such to have been the teaching of Thackeray, of Dickens, and of George Eliot. Speaking, as I shall speak to any who may read these words, with that absence of self-personality which the dead may claim, I will boast that such has been the result of my own writing. Can any one by search through the works of the six great English novelists I have named, find a scene, a passage, or a word that would teach a girl to be immodest, or a man to be dishonest? When men in their pages have been described as dishonest and women as immodest, have they not ever been punished? It is not for the novelist to say, baldly and simply: “Because you lied here, or were heartless there, because you Lydia Bennet forgot the lessons of your honest home, or you Earl Leicester were false through your ambition, or you Beatrix loved too well the glitter of the world, therefore you shall be scourged52 with scourges53 either in this world or in the next;” but it is for him to show, as he carries on his tale, that his Lydia, or his Leicester, or his Beatrix, will be dishonoured54 in the estimation of all readers by his or her vices55. Let a woman be drawn clever, beautiful, attractive — so as to make men love her, and women almost envy her — and let her be made also heartless, unfeminine, and ambitious of evil grandeur56, as was Beatrix, what a danger is there not in such a character! To the novelist who shall handle it, what peril57 of doing harm! But if at last it have been so handled that every girl who reads of Beatrix shall say: “Oh! not like that — let me not be like that!” and that every youth shall say: “Let me not have such a one as that to press my bosom58, anything rather than that!”— then will not the novelist have preached his sermon as perhaps no clergyman can preach it?
Very much of a novelist’s work must appertain to the intercourse59 between young men and young women. It is admitted that a novel can hardly be made interesting or successful without love. Some few might be named, but even in those the attempt breaks down, and the softness of love is found to be necessary to complete the story. Pickwick has been named as an exception to the rule, but even in Pickwick there are three or four sets of lovers, whose little amatory longings61 give a softness to the work. I tried it once with Miss Mackenzie, but I had to make her fall in love at last. In this frequent allusion62 to the passion which most stirs the imagination of the young, there must be danger. Of that the writer of fiction is probably well aware. Then the question has to be asked, whether the danger may not be so averted63 that good may be the result — and to be answered.
respect the necessity of dealing64 with love is advantageous65 — advantageous from the very circumstance which has made love necessary to all novelists. It is necessary because the passion is one which interests or has interested all. Every one feels it, has felt it, or expects to feel it — or else rejects it with an eagerness which still perpetuates66 the interest. If the novelist, therefore, can so handle the subject as to do good by his handling, as to teach wholesome67 lessons in regard to love, the good which he does will be very wide. If I can teach politicians that they can do their business better by truth than by falsehood, I do a great service; but it is done to a limited number of persons. But if I can make young men and women believe that truth in love will make them happy, then, if my writings be popular, I shall have a very large class of pupils. No doubt the cause for that fear which did exist as to novels arose from an idea that the matter of love would be treated in an inflammatory and generally unwholesome manner. “Madam,” says Sir Anthony in the play, “a circulating library in a town is an evergreen68 tree of diabolical69 knowledge. It blossoms through the year; and depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves will long for the fruit at last.” Sir Anthony was no doubt right. But he takes it for granted that the longing60 for the fruit is an evil. The novelist who writes of love thinks differently, and thinks that the honest love of an honest man is a treasure which a good girl may fairly hope to win — and that if she can be taught to wish only for that, she will have been taught to entertain only wholesome wishes.
I can easily believe that a girl should be taught to wish to love by reading how Laura Bell loved Pendennis. Pendennis was not in truth a very worthy man, nor did he make a very good husband; but the girl’s love was so beautiful, and the wife’s love when she became a wife so womanlike, and at the same time so sweet, so unselfish, so wifely, so worshipful — in the sense in which wives are told that they ought to worship their husband — that I cannot believe that any girl can be injured, or even not benefited, by reading of Laura’s love.
There once used to be many who thought, and probably there still are some, even here in England, who think that a girl should hear nothing of love till the time come in which she is to be married. That, no doubt, was the opinion of Sir Anthony Absolute and of Mrs. Malaprop. But I am hardly disposed to believe that the old system was more favourable70 than ours to the purity of manners. Lydia Languish71, though she was constrained72 by fear of her aunt to hide the book, yet had Peregrine Pickle in her collection. While human nature talks of love so forcibly it can hardly serve our turn to be silent on the subject. “Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret.” There are countries in which it has been in accordance with the manners of the upper classes that the girl should be brought to marry the man almost out of the nursery — or rather perhaps out of the convent — without having enjoyed that freedom of thought which the reading of novels and of poetry will certainly produce; but I do not know that the marriages so made have been thought to be happier than our own.
Among English novels of the present day, and among English novelists, a great division is made. There are sensational73 novels and anti-sensational, sensational novelists and anti-sensational, sensational readers and anti-sensational. The novelists who are considered to be anti-sensational are generally called realistic. I am realistic. My friend Wilkie Collins is generally supposed to be sensational. The readers who prefer the one are supposed to take delight in the elucidation74 of character. Those who hold by the other are charmed by the continuation and gradual development of a plot. All this is, I think, a mistake — which mistake arises from the inability of the imperfect artist to be at the same time realistic and sensational. A good novel should be both, and both in the highest degree. If a novel fail in either, there is a failure in art. Let those readers who believe that they do not like sensational scenes in novels think of some of those passages from our great novelists which have charmed them most:— of Rebecca in the castle with Ivanhoe; of Burley in the cave with Morton; of the mad lady tearing the veil of the expectant bride, in Jane Eyre; of Lady Castlewood as, in her indignation, she explains to the Duke of Hamilton Henry Esmond’s right to be present at the marriage of his Grace with Beatrix — may I add of Lady Mason, as she makes her confession75 at the feet of Sir Peregrine Orme? Will any one say that the authors of these passages have sinned in being over-sensational? No doubt, a string of horrible incidents, bound together without truth in detail, and told as affecting personages without character — wooden blocks, who cannot make themselves known to the reader as men and women, does not instruct or amuse, or even fill the mind with awe76. Horrors heaped upon horrors, and which are horrors only in themselves, and not as touching77 any recognised and known person, are not tragic78, and soon cease even to horrify79. And such would-be tragic elements of a story may be increased without end, and without difficulty. I may tell you of a woman murdered — murdered in the same street with you, in the next house — that she was a wife murdered by her husband — a bride not yet a week a wife. I may add to it for ever. I may say that the murderer roasted her alive. There is no end to it. I may declare that a former wife was treated with equal barbarity; and may assert that, as the murderer was led away to execution, he declared his only sorrow, his only regret to be, that he could not live to treat a third wife after the same fashion. There is nothing so easy as the creation and the cumulation of fearful incidents after this fashion. If such creation and cumulation be the beginning and the end of the novelist’s work — and novels have been written which seem to be without other attractions — nothing can be more dull or more useless. But not on that account are we averse80 to tragedy in prose fiction. As in poetry, so in prose, he who can deal adequately with tragic elements is a greater artist and reaches a higher aim than the writer whose efforts never carry him above the mild walks of everyday life. The Bride of Lammermoor is a tragedy throughout, in spite of its comic elements. The life of Lady Castlewood, of whom I have spoken, is a tragedy. Rochester’s wretched thraldom81 to his mad wife, in Jane Eyre, is a tragedy. But these stories charm us not simply because they are tragic, but because we feel that men and women with flesh and blood, creatures with whom we can sympathise, are struggling amidst their woes82. It all lies in that. No novel is anything, for the purposes either of comedy or tragedy, unless the reader can sympathise with the characters whose names he finds upon the pages. Let an author so tell his tale as to touch his reader’s heart and draw his tears, and he has, so far, done his work well. Truth let there be — truth of description, truth of character, human truth as to men and women. If there be such truth, I do not know that a novel can be too sensational.
I did intend when I meditated83 that history of English fiction to include within its pages some rules for the writing of novels — or I might perhaps say, with more modesty84, to offer some advice on the art to such tyros85 in it as might be willing to take advantage of the experience of an old hand. But the matter would, I fear, be too long for this episode, and I am not sure that I have as yet got the rules quite settled in my own mind. I will, however, say a few words on one or two points which my own practice has pointed86 out to me.
I have from the first felt sure that the writer, when he sits down to commence his novel, should do so, not because he has to tell a story, but because he has a story to tell. The novelist’s first novel will generally have sprung from the right cause. Some series of events, or some development of character, will have presented itself to his imagination — and this he feels so strongly that he thinks he can present his picture in strong and agreeable language to others. He sits down and tells his story because he has a story to tell; as you, my friend, when you have heard something which has at once tickled87 your fancy or moved your pathos88, will hurry to tell it to the first person you meet. But when that first novel has been received graciously by the public and has made for itself a success, then the writer naturally feeling that the writing of novels is within his grasp, looks about for something to tell in another. He cudgels his brains, not always successfully, and sits down to write, not because he has something which he burns to tell, but because be feels it to be incumbent89 on him to be telling something. As you, my friend, if you are very successful in the telling of that first story, will become ambitious of further storytelling, and will look out for anecdotes90 — in the narration91 of which you will not improbably sometimes distress50 your audience.
So it has been with many novelists, who, after some good work, perhaps after very much good work, have distressed their audience because they have gone on with their work till their work has become simply a trade with them. Need I make a list of such, seeing that it would contain the names of those who have been greatest in the art of British novel-writing? They have at last become weary of that portion of a novelist’s work which is of all the most essential to success. That a man as he grows old should feel the labour of writing to be a fatigue92 is natural enough. But a man to whom writing has become a habit may write well though he be fatigued93. But the weary novelist refuses any longer to give his mind to that work of observation and reception from which has come his power, without which work his power cannot be continued — which work should be going on not only when he is at his desk, but in all his walks abroad, in all his movements through the world, in all his intercourse with his fellow-creatures. He has become a novelist, as another has become a poet, because he has in those walks abroad, unconsciously for the most part, been drawing in matter from all that he has seen and heard. But this has not been done without labour, even when the labour has been unconscious. Then there comes a time when he shuts his eyes and shuts his ears. When we talk of memory fading as age comes on, it is such shutting of eyes and ears that we mean. The things around cease to interest us, and we cannot exercise our minds upon them. To the novelist thus wearied there comes the demand for further novels. He does not know his own defect, and even if he did he does not wish to abandon his own profession. He still writes; but he writes because he has to tell a story, not because he has a story to tell. What reader of novels has not felt the “woodenness” of this mode of telling? The characters do not live and move, but are cut out of blocks and are propped94 against the wall. The incidents are arranged in certain lines — the arrangement being as palpable to the reader as it has been to the writer — but do not follow each other as results naturally demanded by previous action. The reader can never feel — as he ought to feel — that only for that flame of the eye, only for that angry word, only for that moment of weakness, all might have been different. The course of the tale is one piece of stiff mechanism95, in which there is no room for a doubt.
These, it may be said, are reflections which I, being an old novelist, might make useful to myself for discontinuing my work, but can hardly be needed by those tyros of whom I have spoken. That they are applicable to myself I readily admit, but I also find that they apply to many beginners. Some of us who are old fail at last because we are old. It would be well that each of us should say to himself,
“Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne
Peccet ad extremum ridendus.”
But many young fail also, because they endeavour to tell stories when they have none to tell. And this comes from idleness rather than from innate96 incapacity. The mind has not been sufficiently97 at work when the tale has been commenced, nor is it kept sufficiently at work as the tale is continued. I have never troubled myself much about the construction of plots, and am not now insisting specially30 on thoroughness in a branch of work in which I myself have not been very thorough. I am not sure that the construction of a perfected plot has been at any period within my power. But the novelist has other aims than the elucidation of his plot. He desires to make his readers so intimately acquainted with his characters that the creatures of his brain should be to them speaking, moving, living, human creatures. This he can never do unless he know those fictitious personages himself, and he can never know them unless he can live with them in the full reality of established intimacy98. They must be with him as he lies down to sleep, and as he wakes from his dreams. He must learn to hate them and to love them. He must argue with them, quarrel with them, forgive them, and even submit to them. He must know of them whether they be cold-blooded or passionate, whether true or false, and how far true, and how far false. The depth and the breadth, and the narrowness and the shallowness of each should be clear to him. And, as here, in our outer world, we know that men and women change — become worse or better as temptation or conscience may guide them — so should these creations of his change, and every change should be noted99 by him. On the last day of each month recorded, every person in his novel should be a month older than on the first. If the would-be novelist have aptitudes100 that way, all this will come to him without much struggling — but if it do not come, I think he can only make novels of wood.
It is so that I have lived with my characters, and thence has come whatever success I have obtained. There is a gallery of them, and of all in that gallery I may say that I know the tone of the voice, and the colour of the hair, every flame of the eye, and the very clothes they wear. Of each man I could assert whether he would have said these or the other words; of every woman, whether she would then have smiled or so have frowned. When I shall feel that this intimacy ceases, then I shall know that the old horse should be turned out to grass. That I shall feel it when I ought to feel it, I will by no means say. I do not know that I am at all wiser than Gil Blas’ canon; but I do know that the power indicated is one without which the teller102 of tales cannot tell them to any good effect.
The language in which the novelist is to put forth103 his story, the colours with which he is to paint his picture, must of course be to him matter of much consideration. Let him have all other possible gifts — imagination, observation, erudition, and industry — they will avail him nothing for his purpose, unless he can put forth his work in pleasant words. If he be confused, tedious, harsh, or unharmonious, readers will certainly reject him. The reading of a volume of history or on science may represent itself as a duty; and though the duty may by a bad style be made very disagreeable, the conscientious105 reader will perhaps perform it. But the novelist will be assisted by no such feeling. Any reader may reject his work without the burden of a sin. It is the first necessity of his position that he make himself pleasant. To do this, much more is necessary than to write correctly. He may indeed be pleasant without being correct — as I think can be proved by the works of more than one distinguished106 novelist. But he must be intelligible107 — intelligible without trouble; and he must be harmonious104.
Any writer who has read even a little will know what is meant by the word intelligible. It is not sufficient that there be a meaning that may be hammered out of the sentence, but that the language should be so pellucid108 that the meaning should be rendered without an effort of the reader — and not only some proposition of meaning, but the very sense, no more and no less, which the writer has intended to put into his words. What Macaulay says should be remembered by all writers: “How little the all-important art of making meaning pellucid is studied now! Hardly any popular author except myself thinks of it.” The language used should be as ready and as efficient a conductor of the mind of the writer to the mind of the reader as is the electric spark which passes from one battery to another battery. In all written matter the spark should carry everything; but in matters recondite109 the recipient110 will search to see that he misses nothing, and that he takes nothing away too much. The novelist cannot expect that any such search will be made. A young writer, who will acknowledge the truth of what I am saying, will often feel himself tempted by the difficulties of language to tell himself that some one little doubtful passage, some single collocation of words, which is not quite what it ought to be, will not matter. I know well what a stumbling-block such a passage may be. But he should leave none such behind him as he goes on. The habit of writing clearly soon comes to the writer who is a severe critic to himself.
As to that harmonious expression which I think is required, I shall find it more difficult to express my meaning. It will be granted, I think, by readers that a style may be rough, and yet both forcible and intelligible; but it will seldom come to pass that a novel written in a rough style will be popular — and less often that a novelist who habitually111 uses such a style will become so. The harmony which is required must come from the practice of the ear. There are few ears naturally so dull that they cannot, if time be allowed to them, decide whether a sentence, when read, be or be not harmonious. And the sense of such harmony grows on the ear, when the intelligence has once informed itself as to what is, and what is not harmonious. The boy, for instance, who learns with accuracy the prosody113 of a Sapphic stanza114, and has received through his intelligence a knowledge of its parts, will soon tell by his ear whether a Sapphic stanza be or be not correct. Take a girl, endowed with gifts of music, well instructed in her art, with perfect ear, and read to her such a stanza with two words transposed, as, for instance —
Mercuri, nam te docilis magistro
Movit Amphion CANENDO LAPIDES,
Tuque testudo resonare septem
Callida nervis —
and she will find no halt in the rhythm. But a schoolboy with none of her musical acquirements or capacities, who has, however, become familiar with the metres of the poet, will at once discover the fault. And so will the writer become familiar with what is harmonious in prose. But in order that familiarity may serve him in his business, he must so train his ear that he shall be able to weigh the rhythm of every word as it falls from his pen. This, when it has been done for a time, even for a short time, will become so habitual112 to him that he will have appreciated the metrical duration of every syllable115 before it shall have dared to show itself upon paper. The art of the orator116 is the same. He knows beforehand how each sound which he is about to utter will affect the force of his climax117. If a writer will do so he will charm his readers, though his readers will probably not know how they have been charmed.
In writing a novel the author soon becomes aware that a burden of many pages is before him. Circumstances require that he should cover a certain and generally not a very confined space. Short novels are not popular with readers generally. Critics often complain of the ordinary length of novels — of the three volumes to which they are subjected; but few novels which have attained118 great success in England have been told in fewer pages. The novel-writer who sticks to novel-writing as his profession will certainly find that this burden of length is incumbent on him. How shall he carry his burden to the end? How shall he cover his space? Many great artists have by their practice opposed the doctrine119 which I now propose to preach — but they have succeeded I think in spite of their fault and by dint120 of their greatness. There should be no episodes in a novel. Every sentence, every word, through all those pages, should tend to the telling of the story. Such episodes distract the attention of the reader, and always do so disagreeably. Who has not felt this to be the case even with The Curious Impertinent and with the History of the Man of the Hill. And if it be so with Cervantes and Fielding, who can hope to succeed? Though the novel which you have to write must be long, let it be all one. And this exclusion121 of episodes should be carried down into the smallest details. Every sentence and every word used should tend to the telling of the story. “But,” the young novelist will say, “with so many pages before me to be filled, how shall I succeed if I thus confine myself — how am I to know beforehand what space this story of mine will require? There must be the three volumes, or the certain number of magazine pages which I have contracted to supply. If I may not be discursive122 should occasion require, how shall I complete my task? The painter suits the size of his canvas to his subject, and must I in my art stretch my subject to my canas?” This undoubtedly123 must be done by the novelist; and if he will learn his business, may be done without injury to his effect. He may not paint different pictures on the same canvas, which he will do if he allow himself to wander away to matters outside his own story; but by studying proportion in his work, he may teach himself so to tell his story that it shall naturally fall into the required length. Though his story should be all one, yet it may have many parts. Though the plot itself may require but few characters, it may be so enlarged as to find its full development in many. There may be subsidiary plots, which shall all tend to the elucidation of the main story, and which will take their places as part of one and the same work — as there may be many figures on a canvas which shall not to the spectator seem to form themselves into separate pictures.
There is no portion of a novelist’s work in which this fault of episodes is so common as in the dialogue. It is so easy to make any two persons talk on any casual subject with which the writer presumes himself to be conversant124! Literature, philosophy, politics, or sport, may thus be handled in a loosely discursive style; and the writer, while indulging himself and filling his pages, is apt to think that he is pleasing his reader. I think he can make no greater mistake. The dialogue is generally the most agreeable part of a novel; but it is only so as long as it tends in some way to the telling of the main story. It need not seem to be confined to that, but it should always have a tendency in that direction. The unconscious critical acumen125 of a reader is both just and severe. When a long dialogue on extraneous126 matter reaches his mind, he at once feels that he is being cheated into taking something which he did not bargain to accept when he took up that novel. He does not at that moment require politics or philosophy, but he wants his story. He will not perhaps be able to say in so many words that at some certain point the dialogue has deviated127 from the story; but when it does so he will feel it, and the feeling will be unpleasant. Let the intending novel-writer, if he doubt this, read one of Bulwer’s novels — in which there is very much to charm — and then ask himself whether he has not been offended by devious128 conversations.
And the dialogue, on which the modern novelist in consulting the taste of his probable readers must depend most, has to be constrained also by other rules. The writer may tell much of his story in conversations, but he may only do so by putting such words into the mouths of his personages as persons so situated129 would probably use. He is not allowed for the sake of his tale to make his characters give utterance130 to long speeches, such as are not customarily heard from men and women. The ordinary talk of ordinary people is carried on in short, sharp, expressive131 sentences, which very frequently are never completed — the language of which even among educated people is often incorrect. The novel-writer in constructing his dialogue must so steer132 between absolute accuracy of language — which would give to his conversation an air of pedantry133, and the slovenly134 inaccuracy of ordinary talkers, which if closely followed would offend by an appearance of grimace135 — as to produce upon the ear of his readers a sense of reality. If he be quite real he will seem to attempt to be funny. If he be quite correct he will seem to be unreal. And above all, let the speeches be short. No character should utter much above a dozen words at a breath — unless the writer can justify136 to himself a longer flood of speech by the specialty137 of the occasion.
In all this human nature must be the novel-writer’s guide. No doubt effective novels have been written in which human nature has been set at defiance138. I might name Caleb Williams as one and Adam Blair as another. But the exceptions are not more than enough to prove the rule. But in following human nature he must remember that he does so with a pen in his hand, and that the reader who will appreciate human nature will also demand artistic139 ability and literary aptitude101.
The young novelist will probably ask, or more probably bethink himself how he is to acquire that knowledge of human nature which will tell him with accuracy what men and women would say in this or that position. He must acquire it as the compositor, who is to print his words, has learned the art of distributing his type — by constant and intelligent practice. Unless it be given to him to listen and to observe — so to carry away, as it were, the manners of people in his memory as to be able to say to himself with assurance that these words might have been said in a given position, and that those other words could not have been said — I do not think that in these days he can succeed as a novelist.
And then let him beware of creating tedium140! Who has not felt the charm of a spoken story up to a certain point, and then suddenly become aware that it has become too long and is the reverse of charming. It is not only that the entire book may have this fault, but that this fault may occur in chapters, in passages, in pages, in paragraphs. I know no guard against this so likely to be effective as the feeling of the writer himself. When once the sense that the thing is becoming long has grown upon him, he may be sure that it will grow upon his readers. I see the smile of some who will declare to themselves that the words of a writer will never be tedious to himself. Of the writer of whom this may be truly said, it may be said with equal truth that he will always be tedious to his reader.
收听单词发音 |
1
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
indefatigable
|
|
| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
infinity
|
|
| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
excellence
|
|
| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
excellences
|
|
| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
defective
|
|
| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
vindicate
|
|
| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
lessened
|
|
| 减少的，减弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
ingenuity
|
|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
perseverance
|
|
| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
attain
|
|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
engendered
|
|
| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
pastry
|
|
| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
afflicted
|
|
| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
sift
|
|
| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
arrogant
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
ascertaining
|
|
| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
reign
|
|
| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pickle
|
|
| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
bolster
|
|
| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
embargo
|
|
| n.禁运（令）；vt.对...实行禁运，禁止（通商） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
profane
|
|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
solicits
|
|
| 恳请 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
iniquities
|
|
| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
defile
|
|
| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
depicted
|
|
| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
lavishing
|
|
| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
caresses
|
|
| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
followers
|
|
| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
fictitious
|
|
| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
gallows
|
|
| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
alluring
|
|
| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
foul
|
|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
outskirts
|
|
| n.郊外，郊区 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
ethics
|
|
| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
efficiently
|
|
| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
distressed
|
|
| 痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
scourged
|
|
| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
scourges
|
|
| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
dishonoured
|
|
| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
vices
|
|
| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
grandeur
|
|
| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
longings
|
|
| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
averted
|
|
| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
dealing
|
|
| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
advantageous
|
|
| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
perpetuates
|
|
| n.使永存，使人记住不忘( perpetuate的名词复数 )；使永久化，使持久化，使持续 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
evergreen
|
|
| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
diabolical
|
|
| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
favourable
|
|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
languish
|
|
| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
constrained
|
|
| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
sensational
|
|
| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
elucidation
|
|
| n.说明，阐明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
horrify
|
|
| vt.使恐怖，使恐惧，使惊骇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
averse
|
|
| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
thraldom
|
|
| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
82
woes
|
|
| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
meditated
|
|
| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
modesty
|
|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
tyros
|
|
| n.初学者，新手，生手( tyro的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
86
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
tickled
|
|
| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
pathos
|
|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
incumbent
|
|
| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
anecdotes
|
|
| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
narration
|
|
| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
fatigued
|
|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
propped
|
|
| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
mechanism
|
|
| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
innate
|
|
| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
aptitudes
|
|
| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
aptitude
|
|
| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
teller
|
|
| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
harmonious
|
|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
intelligible
|
|
| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
pellucid
|
|
| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
recondite
|
|
| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
recipient
|
|
| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
prosody
|
|
| n.诗体论，作诗法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
stanza
|
|
| n.（诗）节，段 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
syllable
|
|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
orator
|
|
| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
climax
|
|
| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
attained
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
doctrine
|
|
| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
dint
|
|
| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
exclusion
|
|
| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
discursive
|
|
| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
conversant
|
|
| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
acumen
|
|
| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
extraneous
|
|
| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
deviated
|
|
| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
devious
|
|
| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
expressive
|
|
| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
steer
|
|
| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
pedantry
|
|
| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
slovenly
|
|
| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
grimace
|
|
| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
specialty
|
|
| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
tedium
|
|
| n.单调；烦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |