Dedicated to the classic books on fiction writing. Learn to write short stories, novels, and plays by studying the classic how-to books.
I believe fiction writing is a Craft.
In the hands of a writer who has mastered the Craft, it can become more than that. It can become Art.
Art = Talent + Craft
But the bedrock is Craft. There are fundamental techniques to be studied, unfamiliar tools to be mastered, tricks of the trade to be learned. And it all takes time. (Writing Mastery) (Writing Craft)
Encouragement and Criticism: The Yin and Yang of a Writer's Journey
by Olivia Salter
As a writer, it can often feel like a solitary journey filled with ups and downs. The highs are when inspiration strikes and the words flow effortlessly, and the lows are when self-doubt creeps in and the dreaded writer's block sets in. In these moments, two things become crucial for a writer's growth and development: encouragement and criticism.
Encouragement acts as fuel for a writer's passion and motivation. It provides the necessary push to keep going, even when faced with rejection or setbacks. Whether it's a kind word from a friend or family member, a positive review from a reader, or a supportive message from a fellow writer, encouragement reminds us that our words have value and meaning. Without it, the road to becoming a successful writer can seem daunting and insurmountable.
On the other hand, criticism is equally important in a writer's journey. It serves as a mirror that reflects our strengths and weaknesses, highlighting areas for improvement and growth. While receiving criticism can be tough, especially when it feels like a personal attack on our work, it is essential for pushing us out of our comfort zones and spurring us on to reach higher levels of creativity and skill.
Without criticism, we would never learn from our mistakes or strive to do better. It challenges us to think outside the box, experiment with different styles and techniques, and ultimately become better storytellers. Embracing criticism, rather than shying away from it, is key to honing our craft and evolving as writers.
Encouragement and criticism are not mutually exclusive; they work hand in hand to shape our writing journey. Too much encouragement without constructive criticism can lead to complacency and stagnation, while too much criticism without encouragement can crush our spirit and extinguish our creative spark. Finding the right balance between the two is essential for your growth and progress as a writer.
So, the next time you receive feedback on your writing, whether it's praise or criticism, embrace it wholeheartedly. Use it as an opportunity to learn, grow, and evolve as a writer. Remember that both encouragement and criticism are essential elements in the path towards becoming the best storyteller you can be.
The art of writing fiction has of late years
been made the subject of innumerable
articles by persons most, if not quite
all, of whom are doubtless competent and
well-informed; and it seems to be pretty
generally agreed upon between them, as a
nice, definite sort of dogma to start with,
that “the main thing is to have a story to
tell.” Possibly that may be the main thing:
possibly also the main thing—if, indeed,
there be one where several things are indispensable—may
be, not that the writer should
have a story to tell, but that he should be
able to tell it. To tell it, that is, after a
fashion which shall move, interest or amuse
the great novel-reading public, which, patient
and tolerant though it may be—patient and
tolerant as some of us must needs acknowledge,
with a due sense of contrite gratitude,
though it is—nevertheless demands something[Pg 2]
more than a bald narration of supposed
events.
[The
beginner]
The beginner, therefore (for it is only
to beginners that the present dogmatiser
has the effrontery to address himself),
will do well to bear in mind that it is not
enough to be equipped with an admirable
plot, nor even to have clearly realised in his
or her inner consciousness the circumstances
and personages involved therein: both have
to be made real to the reader; both, moreover,
have to be so treated of as, in one way or
another, to tickle the reader’s mental palate.
This is much the same as saying that the
beginner, in order to be a successful beginner,
has to acquire a style. Not necessarily, it
must be owned, a correct style; still at least
a distinctive one. Otherwise he cannot hope
to make his audience see people and things
as he sees them.
[Acquiring
a style]
But why talk about “acquiring” a style?
Does not every human being already
possess a style?—dormant, no doubt, yet
plainly perceptible in his accustomed turns
of speech and methods of expressing himself.
And can he do better than utilise this
when he sits down with pen and paper to[Pg 3]
write his story? Perhaps he might do rather
better; but there is no need to raise the
point at the outset, because the beginner
who essays, without preparation or apprenticeship,
to tell his story in his own way
will very soon discover that that is precisely
what he cannot do. The words, somehow,
will not come; or, if they do, they come in
a manner palpably and grotesquely inadequate;
the sentences are clumsy, tautological,
badly rounded and jar upon the ear; the
effect produced is very far from being the
effect contemplated. The tyro, in short,
finds out to his sorrow that writing is not in
the least the same thing as talking, and that
even so modest an achievement as the production
of a novel is, after all, an art, the
inexorable requirements of which do not
greatly differ from those claimed by other
arts.
[Writing an
Art to be
learnt]
And, indeed, why should they? Nobody
would ever dream that they did, were
it not that the literary art has no schools,
colleges, paid professors, no system of
salutary checks to intervene between the
student and his public. To one who is
conscious of ability it seems so simple to
seize a pen and go ahead! In a certain[Pg 4]
country-house there was a Scotch cook
whose scones were beyond all praise. Implored
by a Southern lady to reveal the
secret of her unvarying success, she replied,
after long consideration, “Aweel, mem, ye
just take your girdle, ye see, and—and make
a scone.” Quite so: you just take pen and
paper and—and write a novel. No directions
could be more beautifully succinct; but, unfortunately,
it is almost as difficult for a
writer who has reached a point of moderate
proficiency in his calling to say how this is
to be done as it was for the cook to explain
how scones ought to be made. He may,
however, be bold enough to affirm that the
thing cannot be done off-hand—that the
knack of manipulating language has to be
mastered, just as that of swimming, riding,
shooting and playing cricket has to be
mastered, and that preliminary failures are
more or less a matter of course. Swimming
is very easy; yet if you take a boy by the
scruff of his neck and fling him into deep
water, nothing can be more certain than that
he will flounder, struggle desperately for
a few seconds and then sink like a stone.
Probably there are but a very few people
who cannot learn to swim; there are many
who cannot learn to shoot or ride; it seems[Pg 5]
doubtful whether an equal number
cannot—if only they will condescend to
take the necessary pains—learn how to
write.
But the trouble is that plenty of men and
women who cannot really do these things
nevertheless do them after a fashion. Have
not the lives of most of us been placed in
jeopardy through the erratic performances
of some worthy gentleman who is fond of
shooting, but who is obviously unfit to be
trusted with a gun? Is there an M.F.H. in
England whose soul is not vexed every year
by the hopeless, good-humoured, dangerous
incapacity of certain members of the hunt?
Every now and again one sees a steeplechase
won by a horse who has carried off the
victory in spite of his well-meaning rider;
and in like manner it would be an easy,
though an ungracious, task to name authors
whose books have commanded a prodigious
sale without being, in the true sense of the
word, books at all.
[Pleasing
the public]
Well, the neophyte may say, it does
not particularly matter to me whether
you are pleased to call my book a book or
not; so long as I can please the public,
and thereby make sure of receiving a handsome[Pg 6]
cheque from the publishers, I shall be
satisfied. To such a reply no rejoinder can
be made, save a warning that successes of
the kind alluded to have been achieved
under heavy handicap penalties. They prove
no more than that, as a good horse will
occasionally win a race, although he be badly
ridden, so a large section of the novel-reading
public will tolerate inartistic work and slipshod
English for the sake of a good story.
And, since you are supposed to be beginning,
why should you wish to carry extra weight,
or imagine that you are able to do so? It
is not given to everybody—alas! it is by no
means given to everybody—to conceive a
really good and original plot; yet some
among us, whose pretensions to excel in that
direction are as scanty as need be, may contrive
to give pleasure, may to a certain
extent please ourselves with our handling of
the vocation for which we believe that we
are best fitted, may even pocket the cheques
which we have earned without feeling that
we have robbed anybody.
[Infinite
variety of
the Novel]
In other words, novels do not give pleasure
or meet with acceptance simply and solely
by virtue of their subject-matter. The novel,
at least so far as England, which is the
great novel-producing country, is concerned,[Pg 7]
may be regarded as a sort of literary omnibus—a
vehicle adapted for the carrying of all
manner of incongruous freights, heavy and
light. Descriptions of every grade of contemporary
society have their places in it;
descriptions of scenery and very little else
have a right of entry; history is not excluded:
its springs are even strong enough
to bear the weight of amateur theology and
psychical research. Perhaps, strictly speaking,
this ought not to be so; but it is so, and
if, after so many years of laxity, we were to
go in for strict rules and principles, we should
be all the poorer for our pedantic exactitude.
According to Tennyson, England is a desirable
land in which to reside, because it is
“The land where, girt by friends or foes,
A man may speak the thing he will;”
and so the English novel affords a fine,
broad field for a man to stretch his limbs in,
the sole condition of admittance into it being
that he should do so with some approach to
grace and symmetry.
[The
average
Reader]
It shall not be asserted or pretended that
the average reader consciously exacts
these things, that he is conscious of having
them when he has secured them, or of[Pg 8]
resenting their absence when he has been
defrauded of them. But when he tosses a
book across the room, with his accustomed
cruelly concise criticism that it is “bosh” or
“rot,” the above-mentioned species of resentment
is, in most cases, what he unconsciously
feels. We ourselves, from the
moment that we cease to be average writers,
become average readers, and are no whit less
unmerciful than the rest of the would. We
are not going to be bored by anybody, if we
can help it. Possibly, from being in the
trade, we may know a little better than those
who are not in the trade why we are bored;
but that does not soften our hearts, nor are
we likely to purchase a second work by an
author who has bored us once. Therefore
it is worth while to conciliate us, and to
consider how this may best be done.
[The value
of Style]
Doubtless, as has been admitted all
along, there are more methods than
one of capturing and retaining the public
ear; but this brief paper professes to deal
only with one—that of style. The beginner,
we will take it for granted, wants to have a
style of his own, wants to make the most
that he can of his mother-tongue, wants to
clothe his thoughts in readable language,[Pg 9]
wants above all to send them forth with the
stamp of his individuality upon them. And
he is confronted at starting by the annoying
discovery that he is unable to do this. How
is he to do it?
“My dear,” said an experienced chaperon
to a young débutante, “study to be
natural.” Whereupon everybody who heard
her laughed. Yet the old lady knew what
she was talking about and had not really
been guilty of a contradiction in terms.
Under artificial social conditions it is not
possible to be natural until the rules of the
game have been learnt. Situations are continually
cropping up in which Nature, unassisted
by Art, will play you the shabby trick
of turning her back upon you and leaving you
to demean yourself in a ludicrously unnatural
manner. No débutante, however great may be
her inborn grace and ease of deportment,
would venture to be presented at Court without
having gone through some preliminary
rehearsal; scarcely would she face a first
ball or a first dinner-party unless a few
previous hints and instructions had been
conveyed to her. But, fortified by an exact
knowledge of what is the right thing to do,
she sails forth confidently, she dares to be
herself, and she makes, let us hope, the[Pg 10]
desired impression in quarters where it is
desirable that an impression should be made.
[Study how
to please]
Not dissimilar is the case of the budding
novelist; although there is no
denying that it is easier to show a young
lady how to carry herself than to show a
would-be prose-writer how to please. His
apprenticeship must needs be a longer and
a less definite one. Rules, indeed, there are
for him—cut and dried rules, relating to
accuracy of grammar and punctuation, avoidance
of involved sentences, neologisms,
catch phrases and the like; but these will
not take him quite the length that he wishes
to go. They will not take him quite that
length; yet they will help him on his way,
and he must condescend to study them.
Furthermore, he should study slowly and
carefully the works of those who have attained
renown chiefly by reason of their
style. Addison, Gibbon, Macaulay, Carlyle,
Ruskin, Sterne—to select at random half a
dozen names out of the throng which at
once presents itself—he ought not only to
be familiar with the writings of all these and
other masters of English prose, but to
scrutinise closely their several methods, so
that he may come by degrees to understand[Pg 11]
what the capabilities of the language are and
what admirable, though widely divergent,
results have been arrived at by those who
have vanquished its difficulties.
With that language it is true that some of
the writers just cited have taken liberties:
one, in particular, has allowed himself
enormous and audacious liberties. But that
is only because he had made the language
so completely his servant that he was in a
certain sense entitled to do as he pleased
with it. The student is not recommended to
imitate Carlyle; for the matter of that, he
is not recommended to imitate anybody,
direct, deliberate imitation being as surely
foredoomed to failure in literature as in all
other arts. But he may be advised to
dissect, to analyse, to search patiently for
the secrets of proportion, of balance, of
rhythmical, harmonious diction. Haply he
will discover these; in any event he will
reap the benefit of having mixed with good
company, just as, in playing no matter what
game, we all insensibly improve when we
are associated with or pitted against our
superiors. And the stricter the rules by
which he determines to bind himself down
the better it will be for him in the long run.
In musical composition many things are[Pg 12]
said to be “forbidden”—so many that the
bewildered student of harmony and counterpoint,
knowing how frequently great composers
have transgressed the limits within
which he is cramped, is apt to exclaim in
despair, “But you won’t let me do anything!
Why may I not do what Bach has done?”
The only answer that can be returned is,
“Because you are not Bach.” Ultimate ease
and liberty are the outcome, as dexterity is
the outcome, of early discipline; it may be
that they are never truly or certainly acquired
by any other means.
[The
necessity of
“infinite
pains”]
It is, in short, the old story of “infinite
pains.” Whether “the capacity for
taking infinite pains” is or is not satisfactory
as a definition of genius is another question;
but we may at least be sure that infinite
pains are never wasted. Not that we have
any right to expect an immediate and
abundant harvest. It is the slow, but sure,
education of the taste and the ear that has
to be aimed at, and this will only come to
us by imperceptible degrees. Gustave
Flaubert, than whom no more painstaking
writer ever lived, was so persuaded of the
artistic compulsion that lay upon him to use
the right word or the right phrase, so convinced[Pg 13]
that for every idea there is but one absolutely
fitting word or phrase, that he would
spend hours in tormenting himself over a
single sentence. Often at the end of all he
remained dissatisfied—could not but be dissatisfied.
In one of his letters he draws a
pathetic parallel between himself and a
violinist who plays false, being well aware
that he is playing false, yet lacking the power
to correct his faulty execution. The tears roll
down the unhappy fiddler’s cheeks, the bow
falls from his hand....
[Writers too
lenient with
themselves]
Ah, well! we cannot all be artists like
Flaubert. We are mediocrities at best,
most of us; we know that we are mediocrities,
and we are not going to cry about it.
But let us acknowledge, with the humility
which beseems us, how immeasurably he
was our superior, not in genius alone, but
in industry, in conscientiousness, in self-sacrifice.
We mediocre folks, who have
acquired a certain facility of expression, are
apt to be only too lenient with ourselves.
The exact word that we want, the precise
phrase suitable to our purpose, are not
forthcoming; but others are ready and will
serve well enough. We take the others,
hoping that nobody will notice their ineptitude.
The beginner also will, in process[Pg 14]
of time, arrive at this fatal facility, and it is
not in the least likely that he will have
strength to resist a temptation to which
ninety-nine authors out of a hundred succumb.
All the more important, therefore, is
it that he should adopt and observe the
strictest rules at starting; so that he may
form a style of which, once formed, he will
never be able to divest himself. We made
a comparison just now between the arts of
literature and equitation. They have not a
great deal in common; but they are so far
alike that early training has the first and
last word in each. There are men who are
almost in the front rank amongst riders, but
who have never reached, and never will
quite reach, that rank, because of the errors
of those who instructed them in their youth.
Heavy-handed they are, and heavy-handed
they will remain till the end of the chapter.
So it is, not only with mediocre writers, but
even with some who belong to the first class.
These have taken up tricks and mannerisms,
pretty enough and pleasing enough while
the charm of novelty still hung about them,
but provoking and perilous from the moment
that they have lost that charm, that
they have ceased to be servants and have
become masters. Macaulay, for example,[Pg 15]
had an admirable style; yet after a time one
grows irritated with it, knowing so well in
what manner he will deal with any given
subject under the sun. At the opening of
some sonorous, well-balanced paragraph the
reader is prone to say to himself, with a
sigh, “Ah, I see you coming with your
distressing antitheses!” And there, sure
enough, they are, neat, polished, brilliant,
turned out to order—wearisome. But if,
during his lifetime, some reader of his had
had the impudence to point this out to him,
and if, with the modesty which is a part of
true greatness, he had admitted that the
criticism was not unjust, could he, do you
think, have written otherwise than as he did?
[Success
attained]
Therefore, let the tyro put away
from him all insidious temptations to
be brilliant or original; let him think chiefly,
if not solely, of being lucid; let him store
up for himself a vocabulary from which all
ambiguous terms shall be rigorously excluded.
So, having studied, he will be able,
like the débutante, to be natural, and will
have gained possession of a style which
will, at any rate, be correct and his own.
So, too, he may perhaps be able to look
back not discontentedly upon a measure of[Pg 16]
good, solid work accomplished, when the
time shall come to hang up the fiddle and
the bow, to lay aside the worn-out old pen
and make his final bow to a public by
whom he may anticipate with some confidence
that he will be speedily and mercifully
forgotten.
A STORY TO TELL
Louisa Parr
[The first
essential]
To feel that you have a story to tell,
seems to me a primary essential for a
novice in the art of novel-writing, especially
with beginners young in years and experience.
I know that there are masters in
fiction, who tell us that their method is to
create one or several characters, and round
them build up a story; but I doubt if this
applies to first efforts, unless those efforts
are not made until the writers have gained
that insight into men and things, which only
comes with years of life and observation.
Now, to any beginning under conditions
such as these, the few suggestions and
remarks I shall offer will not apply. My
object is to be of service to young beginners,[Pg 17]
and to try and give them some little help
and encouragement to surmount the difficulties
which usually appear when we first
venture to commit our fancies and ideas to
paper. I feel somewhat timid in undertaking
this task, because its success seems to me
doubtful, for the reason that no hard and
fast rules can be laid down for the fictionist,
who, generally, leaves on each production
the impress of individuality. Frequently it
is individuality, when combined with originality,
which is the charm of a new writer,
and gives to a story which we have had
repeated a dozen times, and to characters
whom we have met again and again, the
freshness of a new setting.
[A story to
tell]
To start, then, we will suppose that you
are the possessor of a story which
for some time has dwelt in your mind, and
has taken such a hold of you, that you are
engrossed with the plot and the actors in it.
These creatures of your brain become so
familiar to you, that they stand out in your
imagination like real persons. You give
them names, you invest them with qualities,
you decree that they shall be happy or
miserable, and, having sealed their fate, you
are seized with the desire to make others[Pg 18]
acquainted with them. Then comes the
eventful moment, when success is imperilled
by over-anxiety and a distrust of your own
powers.
[Faults of
beginners]
Too frequently the young writer is not
content to set down what is to be said with
the straightforward simplicity that would be
used if this story had to be told vivâ voce.
There is a desire to explain, to digress, to
elaborate. It is thought necessary to tell
the reader that this person is very clever
and witty, that that one is stupid and odious,
much in the same way that a child draws
some strange creature, under which it writes,
“this is a cow—this is a horse.” We smile
at its being necessary to inform us of what
we ought to see for ourselves. Yet it is the
same in fiction—the dramatis personæ of
your tale should themselves discover to us
their idiosyncrasies, and by their actions
and conversation reveal to the reader their
dispositions and characters. Young authors
often write very good dialogue, there is a
freshness, a crispness about it which more
practised hands may seem to have lost. In
this form the new ideas of the rising generation
come pleasantly to us, which is seldom
the case when they give way to digression,
explanation, and the dissection of motives[Pg 19]
and propensities. The novel of character—the
able study of an inner life—is almost
always the outcome of deep thought added
to the gift of acute observation. This is not
to be expected of a young beginner. Indeed,
for my own part, were I to learn that one of
these clever analytical studies was the work
of an author young in years, I should be
filled with regret. If you possess the capacity,
the fitness of age will come all too
soon, and, believe me, when it does come,
you will not regret that you have not forestalled
the proper time.
[How to
write]
Thus you will see that my theory is
that the young should write young.
We all know the pleasure we derive from
the fresh, natural, unaffected conversation
of an unspoilt girl. Well, then, I want you
to write as you talk, and remember this
does not mean that you are to have no
ambition; on the contrary, aim at the topmost
point, or you will never rise. Neither
do I mean the slipshod scribbling of ungrammatical
nonsense which would offend
the eye as much as it would the ear; but,
starting with the supposition that you have
well thought out your plot, have conceived
your characters, and some of the situations[Pg 20]
in which they are to be placed, my advice is
that you endeavour to give a graphic relation
of your story in words to a friend, so that
you may hear how the arrangement of the
incidents and events stand, and bear in
mind while doing this that it is not done so
much for your friend’s criticism as it is for
your own. And while dealing with this
part of the subject, let me say in parenthesis
that I know of few exercises more useful to
the would-be novel-writer than the telling of
stories. Many writers of romance have
been distinguished in the nursery and in
the schoolroom as delightful story-tellers,
and most of us can recall some dear long-lost
magician who kept us spell-bound with
romances for which we had petitioned.
“Make it up as you go.” We need not tax
your imagination to this extent, it will
answer every purpose if you repeat a story
that you have read, and you may gauge
your success by the interest which your
hearers show. But to return to our embryo
novel; suppose that from circumstances
connected with your surroundings or your
temperament you are not able to carry out
this suggestion, then I would say, write out
your plot as a short story, and so have
clearly before you what you mean to tell.[Pg 21]
This done, try to divide it into chapters, and
arrange your incidents and your dialogue;
always bearing in mind the different dispositions
and natures with which you invested
your characters at starting, and
endeavouring, as much as you possibly can,
to let all they say and do push the story on
to its climax.
[The story
completed]
About the length of a novel it is best
that you should not trouble. When
you feel that you have told all you have to
tell, the book should come to an end. New
pens should know nothing of padding, which
is distasteful to every good writer and
reader. Later in your career the demands
of a magazine or a circulating library may
compel you to give a greater amount of
copy than your story has strength to bear,
but at starting you are not bound by any of
these trammels, and, as a rule, young brains
are very fertile and brimming over with
incidents and plots, therefore you can afford
to be generous. And now we may suppose
that your story completed lies before you in
manuscript, clearly and carefully written
with the pains we bestow on a thing we
value and feel is our very own. If you are
a true author your creation will have become[Pg 22]
very dear to you, and in launching it into
the world you will suffer a hundred hopes
and fears, and, perhaps, disappointments.
Your friends may have judged your efforts
with their hearts rather than their heads.
Few beginners are good critics of their own
work, and true talent and modesty generally
go hand in hand. The clouds of distrust
are certain to cast their shadows over you,
but if you have the assurance that you have
spared no pains, that you have given your
best, do not fear that they will overwhelm
you; there is a moral satisfaction in having
done good work which no one can rob us of.
A dozen other reasons than want of merit
lead to a MS. being rejected. Have patience
and courage, and some day, when perhaps
it is least expected, the success I heartily
wish for all earnest young authors will most
surely come to you.
THE NOVEL OF MANNERS
L. B. Walford
[The fault
of the age]
Hurry and scamper, the result of a
feverish desire to reap the fruits of
every undertaking before the seed is well-nigh[Pg 23]
sown, is one of the characteristics of
the times in which we live. Few can endure
to bestow upon their work a moment more
of time, or a hair’s-breadth more of pains
than will carry it through to the goal on
which their ambition—often a very poor and
low one—is set; while, as for the greater
proportion of our present day aspirants to
fame, if they ever pause to reflect upon the
infinitude of loving care and anxiety lavished
upon the products of bygone days, it is with
a sensation of contempt and a pluming of
themselves upon their superior smartness
and activity.
[A
mischievous
mistake]
Now there is of course a great deal to be
said in favour of energetic composition, and
it cannot be denied that many of the best
things ever done, or written, or painted, have
been flashed off, as it were, red-hot from the
brain. We cannot believe, for instance, that
Mr. Rudyard Kipling is ever long over his
burning sketches of human life, wherein
every word tells; and we know that Lord
Byron penned canto after canto of Childe
Harold with scarce a correction or a hesitation;
but it is a mistake so mischievous for
beginners in the fields of literature to fall
into (and it is, moreover, one that so many
do fall into), that of imagining that they too[Pg 24]
can dash down straightway their own crude
thoughts—even when the thoughts themselves
are good and original—and send them
to the press, all unrevised and un-thought-out,
that I am going to begin this brief paper
addressed to young readers and would-be
writers by the single word “Hold!” Pause.
Consider what you want to do, and whether
you have indeed strength and patience to
do it.
[An author’s
experience]
This is the sort of thing that often
happens; that has happened in my
experience scores of times. A boy, or girl—usually
a girl—comes up with shy diffidence
and much assumed modesty of demeanour
to beg for just one word of encouragement—or
discouragement—anent a roll of manuscript
she holds in her timid hand. Is it any
good at all? She knows it is very badly written;
she is afraid she will only be laughed
at; but still it would be so kind, so very kind,
if I would just glance over it when I have
a spare moment—oh, any moment will do;
she is only ashamed of taking up my valuable
time with her foolish attempts. All the
time I can see she is on the tenterhooks of
impatience, and that while half-alarmed by
her own boldness, there is an underlying[Pg 25]
sense of having rushed into the battle-field
in which laurels are to be won, and wherein
a special wreath awaits her own fair brow.
[The vanity
of young
writers]
Perhaps the manuscript is really full of
promise. With some alterations and amendments,
with an idea worked out here, and a
digression omitted there, with, in short, a
general revision and re-casting of the whole,
it would be worth while offering to the
public through the medium of an editor or
publisher. But when I proceed to point out
all that is to be done, and when, thinking to
please and encourage, I suggest, “Now,
after you have gone carefully through the
whole, and written it out afresh, bring it
back, and we will see what can be done to
get it into print,” I am amazed to find my
young littérateur on the verge of tears! She
doesn’t want to go all through “the horrid
thing” again. She is “sick of the sight of
it.” She is sure I don’t think she will ever
write, or I “would never have said what I
did!” It is impossible to describe the
disgust with which she eyes the poor MS.
her hands have reluctantly received from
mine. I can scarcely believe those orbs
which regarded me so beseechingly a few
hours before, can be the same which now
brim with sullen moisture. Possibly I am[Pg 26]
informed at this juncture that my young
friend would never have thought of writing,
and would never have supposed she could
write, but for seeing what “rubbish” is
accepted and put into print at the present
time. She felt she could do at least as well
as that, or that; and she is evidently surprised
that I do not at once declare she could
do a great deal better. Now, the awkward
part of the business is, perchance, that I
have seen—have fully recognised the fact
that, could the ideal be raised, the effort
would rise in proportion; but perceiving no
desire on the part of my young writer to do
better and worthier things than those she
herself condemns, only to rival them and to
attain their infinitesimal measure of success, I
hardly know how to proceed. The case is hopeless.
A hundred to one I never hear of any
further literary aspirations from that quarter.
My young readers must of course understand
that the above refers solely to a
certain class of would-be writers, namely,
to those who write in order to have written,
in order to gratify secret vanity, and make
contemporaries stare; neither from love of
the thing for itself, nor because of the
pressure of poverty—the two main causes of
earnest literary effort.
[Pg 27]
[The secret
of success]
Let me now, however, suppose that I
have to deal with a young author in
embryo of another sort, one who has real
talent, combined with patience, perseverance,
and modesty. George Eliot’s saying, that
distinction in authorship is not to be won
without “a patient renunciation of small
desires”—(I quote from memory, but fancy
those are the exact words)—has an acute
meaning for those who have struggled in the
contest. It is not enough to be possessed
of the true yearning to give vent to the pent-up
stores of imagination and observation
within the breast; there must be a resolute
turning aside from every hindrance, and a
steadfast purpose to grudge neither time nor
thought, nor strength nor opportunity, in
perfecting the work which desire or necessity
begot. This holds good of every species of
authorship, but the warning is especially
needed in the realms of fiction, because
fiction (of a sort) is so easy to write; and it
is most of all needed with the novel of
“manners”—the novel which aims to depict
our present generation, with all its habits,
customs, whims, and foibles—because the
novel of “manners” is the one apparently
most within the reach of every ordinary
writer.
[Pg 28]
And yet, if you will believe me, dear young
girl, who might write and write well, if you
would only take the pains, and not set your
standard so terribly low, and not be thirsting
to see your name in print, and hear what
your companions have to say about it—if
you will believe me, scamped work is absolutely
fatal to the novel of “manners.”
Listen, and I will tell you why. When a
messenger who has witnessed with his own
eyes some terrible scene, dashes into the
midst of an awe-struck circle, and pours
forth the tale of woe with sobbing breath
and bursting bombshells of words, who cares
what those words are? Their meaning is
enough. But at another time, when in
cheerful, social intercourse, the same voice
is raised to tell a quiet tale, or recount a
simple reminiscence, the tone, the look by
which the narration is accompanied, the
phrases in which it is presented to the listening
audience, are everything to its success.
Thus, although a great scene in romance
may be enormously heightened and accentuated
by well-chosen language (as all famous
romancists know), a novel which relies
mainly for its interest on a well-constructed
plot, or on a thrilling life of adventure, or on
passionate inward contests (we have all of[Pg 29]
these and many more varieties at the present
day), will be better able to dispense with the
careful finish and polished style than the
novel of “manners,” to which they are
absolutely indispensable.
[The perfection
of art]
The novel of “manners” reaches its
highest perfection in the products of
Thackeray and Jane Austen. I may be
laughed at for naming these two together,
but I know who would not have laughed—Lord
Macaulay would not have laughed,
neither would Sir Walter Scott, nor some
more of the greatest of our literary critics.
What I mean is that neither Thackeray nor
Miss Austen have plots—in the accepted
sense of the word—at all. They alike take
a page of human life and place it beneath the
microscope. We perceive all the creatures,
large and small, wriggling about. We have
no breathless interest to learn whither they
will ultimately wriggle: we are simply
content to study their movements and requirements—yet
it is a study of the most
absorbing kind.
And although of course it was the marvellous
knowledge of human nature displayed
by these two writers which placed them on
the summit of their sphere, the beauty of[Pg 30]
Esmond, and the charm of Mansfield Park,
are so heightened by the exquisitely picked
phraseology in which even the most trifling
episodes are conveyed, that after long lapses
of time memory will often supply the very
words, finding them incapable of alteration
or of improvement. I doubt if any reader
could supply half a dozen sentences on end
from, we will say, Wilkie Collins, or Charles
Reade, or R. D. Blackmore. Their admirable
novels, full of spirit-stirring scenes, are
not novels of “manners”; a precise and
formal arrangement of words would be
almost out of place in them, and would try
the reader’s patience still more perhaps than
the writer’s.
[Distinguished
Novelists]
In penning the above do not let me be
mistaken. Thackeray was not by any
means a master of style—his style was often
faulty; he often repeated himself; he seldom
rounded off his sentences as Miss Austen
did. But he was careful with a most minute
and elaborate care to present every movement
of his characters beneath the microscope
so as to fasten upon them the attention
of the “great, stupid public,” who, he
averred, needed “catching by the ears to
make it look!”
[Pg 31]
Of the present day no writer has more
happily combined the delineation of
“manners” with the narration of beautiful
and pathetic stories than Mr. Thomas Hardy.
One reads Far from the Madding Crowd first
with hurried eagerness to learn its incidents
and close, and again with delighted lingering
over its homely by-waters, when rustics sit
and chat. Mr. Barrie essays to follow in
the same line, but in Mr. Barrie the gift of
depicting rural “manners” far surpasses the
gift of manipulating incident. Even The
Little Minister is nothing but a string of
characteristic scenes illustrative of the
“manners” of the Scottish parish.
Americans succeed wonderfully with novels
of “manners,” as witness Mr. Henry James
and Mr. W. D. Howells. These distinguished
novelists may almost be said to dispense
altogether with incident, and to rest their
claim on our sympathies entirely on the
interest all thinking men and women take
in the emotions, agitations, ambitions, and
distractions of each other’s daily life.
[One
drawback
to contend
with]
And at this point let me note one drawback
which every delineator of “manners,”
pure and simple, has to contend with.
He, or she, is absolutely sure to be accused[Pg 32]
of drawing scenes and characters from
personal experience. The fidelity with
which such a writer seeks to depict life as
it presents itself in its homely, every-day
aspect, raises the inevitable outcry, which,
when once set a-going, can never be silenced;
until such of us as labour in this special field
are literally tripped up at every turn; and
people we have never seen, and whose very
names are unknown to us, are asserted with
the most positive authority to be our prototypes
for heroes and heroines!
To such an extent has this craze for
fitting on caps been carried, that before the
publication of some of my own novels in
“Maga” I have been reasoned with by Mr.
Blackwood, the courteous and thoughtful
editor, on the question of satirising certain
people whom he did not for a moment doubt
were the originals of my leading characters.
To his almost incredulous amazement I was
unaware of the very existence of those so-called
“originals”!
An idea may be caught or a long train of
thought may be fired by the idiosyncrasy
of some one present in person before the
writer; but to say that the whole character
when completely developed is drawn from
life because of the hint, as it were, which[Pg 33]
began it, is like saying that an animal is
copied from life because a single bone has
been placed in the hands of the artist, from
which he has been enabled—as anatomists
know can be done—to piece together the entire
creature, and in his mind’s eye behold it.
[Fame slow
but lasting]
The novel of “manners” rarely meets
with sudden appreciation. Miss
Burney’s Evelina, to be sure, was an exception;
but then Evelina was so broadly
humorous, so farcical, and, moreover, came
out at a time when so few competitors were
in the field, that it can hardly be reckoned
with. Miss Ferrier, that delightful Scotchwoman,
whose novels are all “manners”
together, had only, and still has only, a
limited if an enthusiastic clientèle; whereas
Miss Austen was ridiculously overlooked
until she was dead. Her quiet, keen,
unerring insight into the hearts of men and
women had to work itself by slow degrees
into the abiding recognition wherewith it is
at last crowned.
But if slowly won, such laurels never
fade. Human nature being the same in
every age, the student of human nature can
never be really out of date; his or her
production must always appeal to something[Pg 34]
within the thoughtful reader’s breast, and
awaken a response. The habits and customs
of every generation may vary, but these are
only like to the faces of the different timepieces
made in different periods; the mainsprings
are the same, the object of the timepiece
is the same; wherefore, recognising
our own passions, pursuits, and aims beneath
the different exterior of our forefathers, we
can never regard them with indifference.
Thus, the novel of “manners,” which
caught the essence of its own times, must as
a natural sequence amuse and instruct ours.
Other kinds of fiction may catch people’s
fancy more quickly at the outset; other and
more brilliant varieties may outshine the
sober tints and slender texture of its woof;
but the tapestry pictures in the novel of
“manners,” with every stitch complete, and
every thread in its right place, will be found
giving delight to new generations of readers,
when many of the showy and striking works
of fiction which now meet the eye at every
turn are mouldering on the shelf, their very
names forgotten.
[Pg 35]
COLOUR IN COMPOSITION
S. Baring-Gould
[Novels and
novels]
There are novels and novels. A society
novel has its special type: there are
the conventionalities of social life, the routine,
the courtesies, the absence of startling
events, a general smoothness. It requires
no local colour. Society is the same throughout
England. One town-house is much like
another, one country-house may differ from
another, in that one is Elizabethan and
another Georgian, but social life is the
same, eminently nineteenth century in all,
and in all alike. It really matters nothing
where the scene is laid, whether in Cumberland
or in Cornwall, in Yorkshire or in Kent.
The dramatis personæ talk the same conventionalities,
dress alike, behave in a similar
manner everywhere. Social life rubs down
eccentricities, almost abolishes individuality.
In an American social novel there is a certain
American flavour, and in an English social
novel a certain English flavour, that is all.
A social novel does not need local colour,
and local colour least of all enters into the
composition of the characters.
[The social
novel]
[Pg 36]
There are certain conventionalities in the
social novel: the purse-proud new man,
who drops his H’s: the haughty lady of
rank, and so on; just as there is the conventional
lawyer on the stage, who is a
rogue. If we want to be bold and original,
we vary or change our pieces, and make the
nouveau riche all that is desirable, and the
lady of rank all that is humble; but the
range of alteration in this respect is not
great, and the range of varieties in character
is not great, and of local colours influencing
the characters there can be none at
all.
The novel
of country
life
It is quite another matter when we come
to a lower phase of life, when we step
down out of the social sphere into genuine
country life. Then colour becomes an
essential element in the composition. The
ladies and gentlemen in the hall at one end
of England are like the ladies and gentlemen
in the hall at the other end of England;
and it is the same with the sweet girls and
the honest, frank boys of the rectory and
vicarage—they are as fresh and delightful
everywhere, in all parts of England, and all
very much the same. But it is not so with the
peasantry. They have their type in Northumberland,[Pg 37]
which is not the type in Devon,
and the type in Yorkshire is not the type of
Sussex. The peasantry represent racial
differences much more than those in a class
above them. No racial differences are
observable in the most cultured class.
Then, again, surroundings have much to do
with the formation of type; and so naturally
has the occupation. Look, for instance, in
Yorkshire at the mill-hand and at the
agricultural labourer. They are different as
different can be, and yet of the same stock.
The manner of life, the variety of occupation,
have differentiated them. And in appearance
it is also true. The coal-miner,
shuffling along with an habitual stoop, is a
different man, not in gait only but in face,
and different in habits as well, from the
wool-picker or the foreman at the mill. It
is the same with the girls. The factory-girl
is distinct, as a specimen, from the
farm-girl. They think differently, they
comport themselves differently, they look
different. Their complexions are not the
same, their eyes have a different light in
them, they move in a different manner.
An observant eye is necessary to note all
this, and to draw distinctions.
[Pg 38]
[Dialect]
Then, again, in writing a story dealing
with life in the working-class, dialect
has to be taken into consideration. In
some parts of England there is hardly any
dialect at all, the voices have a certain
intonation in one county which is different
from the intonation elsewhere, but there are
not many linguistic peculiarities. In the
Midlands, in Essex, in Middlesex, the dialect
is vulgar; but it can hardly be said that it
is so in Northumberland, in Yorkshire, in
Cornwall, in Dorset. In Somerset it is unpleasant,
but that is another thing from the
vulgarity of the Cockney twang. It does
not do to accentuate the brogue too much in
a book that is for general readers. It
puzzles, irritates them. What is needed is
to hint the dialect rather than render it in
full flavour. Such a hint is a necessary
element in giving local colour.
Folk-sayings
Differences
to be
studied
Houses
In addition to dialect, it is well to get at
the folk wisdom as revealed by common
sayings, proverbs, and the like. This helps
to measure the character of the people,
their sense of humour, their appreciation of
what is beautiful, their powers of observation,
and their imaginative faculties. We
generally find that there is more poetry
among the peasantry—by this I mean a[Pg 39]
picturesqueness and grace—a quality lending
itself to fiction, where there is Celtic
blood. This wonderfully effervescent, unpractical
element is very lovable, very entertaining,
where it is found. In my own
county of Devon we have on one side of
Dartmoor a people in which this volatile
sparkling ichor exists to a good extent—in
fact, the people are more than half Celts;
on the other side of the moor the population
is heavy, unimaginative, and prosaic—the
dreadfully dull Saxon prevails there. A
story of the people in the one district would
be out of place if told of those in the other
district. Then there are peculiarities of
custom, all of which should be observed
and noted; they help wonderfully to give
reality to a tale. The houses the people
inhabit are different in one county from
another, differ in one district from those in
another ten miles away. Here, where I
write, the cottages are of stone; often in
them may be found a granite carved doorway,
sometimes with a date. Five miles off,
all is different. The farms and cottages are
of clay, kneaded with straw, and the windows
and doors of oak. In Surrey, the
cottages are of red brick and tiled; on the
Essex coast of timber from broken-up ships.
[Pg 40]
[Costume]
It is not often now that we have a chance
of coming on anything like costume,
but we do sometimes. In Yorkshire, what
else is the scarlet or pink kerchief round the
mill-girl’s head, and the clean white pinafore
in which she goes to the factory? The
bright tin she swings in her hand that
contains her dinner is not to be omitted.
Every item helps to give realism, and every
one is picturesque. When I was in the
Essex marshes I saw women and boys in
scarlet military coats. In fact, old soldier-uniforms
were sold cheap when soiled at
Colchester; and these were readily bought
and worn. It was a characteristic feature.
I seized on it at once in my Mehalah, and
put an old woman into a soldier’s jacket.
She gave me what I wanted—a bit of bright
colour in the midst of a sombre picture.
[Pictorial
effect]
In story-writing it is always well, I may
almost say essential, to see your scenes
in your mind’s eye, and to make of them
pictures, so that your figures group and
pose, artistically but naturally, and that
there shall be colour introduced. The
reader has thus a pleasant picture presented
to his imagination. In one of my stories I
sketched a girl in a white frock leaning[Pg 41]
against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses.
I had some burnished gold-green
flies on the old wall, preening in the sun;
so, to complete the scene, I put her on gold-green
leather shoes, and made the girl’s
eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had
a picture where the colour was carried
through, and, if painted, would have been
artistic and satisfying. A red sash would
have spoiled all, so I gave her one that was
green. So we had the white dress, the
guelder-rose balls greeny white, and through
the ranges of green-gold were led up to her
hair, which was red-gold.
I lay some stress on this formation of picture
in tones of colour, because it pleases
myself when writing, it satisfies my artistic
sense. A thousand readers may not observe
it; but those who have any art in
them will at once receive therefrom a
pleasant impression.
[Character
of scenery
and people
determine
character
of tale]
With regard to the general tone of a
story, my own feeling is that the
character of the scenery and character of
the people determine the character of the
tale. A certain type is almost always found
among the people that harmonises with the
scenery. Nature never makes harsh contrasts.[Pg 42]
Where, in a stone and slate district,
a London architect builds a brick house and
covers it with tiles, it looks incongruous. I
was at one time in Yorkshire, near Thirsk.
In the village all the farms and cottages were
of brick and tiles; a London architect built
a church of white stone, and covered it with
blue slate. That church never would look
as if it belonged to the people, it will never
harmonise with the surroundings. So some
architects transport Norman buildings into
old English towns—the effect is hateful. In
Nature everything tones together. In the
Fens of Ely the people are in character very
suitable to the fenland—silent, somewhat
morose; on the moorland, wherever it is,
they are independent, wayward, fresh, and
hearty. In my judgment, then, the aspect of
the country has much to do with determining
the character of the story told concerning it.
In writing a novel you are drawing a picture,
and your background must harmonise
with your figures in the forefront, the colours
must not be incongruous. You would not
paint a pirate under a maypole, nor put
village dancers among rocks and caverns.
[Pg 43]
[Illustrations]
I do not like to appear egotistical, but in
writing for young beginners, I think
that nothing could more illustrate my meaning
than to tell them how I have worked
myself.
One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in
the Coastguard, invited me to accompany
him on a cruise among the creeks in the
estuary of the Maldon river—the Blackwater.
I went out, and we spent the day
running among mud-flats and low holms,
covered with coarse grass and wild lavender,
and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a
ruined farm built on arches above this marsh
to eat some lunch; no glass was in the
windows, and the raw wind howled in and
swept round us. That night I was laid up
with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed, and was
in the marshes in imagination, listening to
the wind and the lap of the tide; and
Mehalah naturally rose out of it all, a tragic,
gloomy tale. But what else could it be in
such desolation with nothing bright therein?
[Contrast
and
harmony]
Some little while ago I went to Cheshire,
and visited the salt region. It vividly impressed
my imagination—the subsidences of
land, the dull monotony of brine-“wallers’”
cottages, the barges on the Weaver, the
blasted trees. Well, then, in contrast, hard[Pg 44]
by was Delamere forest, with its sea of pines,
its sandy soil and heathery openings, the
Watling Street crossing it, the noble mansions
and parks about it. The whole aspect
of the salt district on one hand, and the wild
forest on the other, seemed as if it could produce
in my mind only one kind of story; and
with the story, the characters came; but they
came out of the salt factories on one side,
out of the merry greenwood on the other,
artificiality and some squalor on one side,
freshness and simplicity on the other. It
may not be with others as with myself,
but with me it is always the scenery and
surroundings that develop the plot and
characters. Others may work from the
opposite point, but then, it seems to me, they
must find it hard to fit their landscape to
their dramatis personæ and to their dénouement.
[Imagination
Its limits]
Another point I may mention. Erckmann
and Chatrien could never write
a novel of Alsace and the Jura on the spot.
After a visit to the scenes they were going
to people with fictitious characters, they
wrote, but wrote in Paris. They found that
imagination failed when on the spot. I find
very much the same, myself. I do not believe[Pg 45]
I could write a novel of the valley in
which I live, the house I occupy. I must lay
my scene somewhere that I have been, but
have left. When in Rome one winter, impatient
at being confined within walls, weary
of the basaltic pavement, my heart went out
to the wilds of Dartmoor, and I wrote Urith.
I breathed moor air, smelt the gorse, heard
the rush of the torrents, scrambled the
granite rocks in imagination, and forgot the
surroundings of an Italian pension.
[Its strength]
The secret
of doing
well
I repeat, my experiences may not, and
probably are not, those of others. When
engaged on a novel, I live in that world
about which I am writing. Whilst writing
a Cheshire novel, I have tasted the salt
crystallising on my lips, smelt the smoke
from the chimneys, walked warily among the
subsidences, and have had the factory before
my eyes, for a while, and then dashed away
to smell the pines, and lie in the heather
and hear the bees hum. It has been so real
to me, that if I wake for a moment at night
I have found myself in Cheshire, my mind
there. When I am at my meals, I am eating
in Cheshire, though at the other end of England;
when in conversation with friends,
directly there is a pause, my mind reverts to
Cheshire; and, alas! I am sorry to own it,[Pg 46]
too often, in church, at my prayers—I find
my mind drifting to Cheshire. This I believe
to be a secret of doing a thing well—that
is to say, as well as one’s poor abilities
go—to lose oneself in one’s subject, or at all
events in the surroundings.
ON VISION IN LITERATURE
Katharine S. Macquoid
[Popular
ideas
concerning
fiction]
A popular opinion seems to exist that
the art of writing Fiction can be acquired
without any natural gift for the profession
of Literature; the wish to become a
writer is thought a sufficient proof of vocation,
although such a wish, accompanied
with fluency in pen and ink, is very apt to
mislead those who can express their thoughts
easily in writing. Diligent study and persevering
labour will of course do much to
further progress in any art, but it is unlikely
that the art of writing fiction can be acquired
in the same way that the mere mechanical
knowledge of Music, or of Painting, or of
Sculpture can be learned by a beginner.
Some experienced writers own that they
find it difficult to give a definite account of[Pg 47]
the processes by which they themselves have
arrived at the production of their ideas; at
the outset, I fancy, many of them worked
without settled method, or distinct consciousness
of their own processes, and this
unconsciousness of the method followed, and
of the way in which images reveal themselves
to the writer, seems to indicate that a
systematic plan, a set of rules to be implicitly
followed, would be useless to most
learners, and would defeat the desired end.
[The principles
of
literature]
It seems to me that the principles of
Literature, or, to speak simply, the ways
in which writing should be done, reveal
themselves during its practice, and probably
much of the originality which, whatever
may be their shortcomings as novelists,
distinguishes many English writers, is due
in a measure to this personal, unaided way
of groping after truth. Writers who possess
a natural faculty often work for years with
an intuitive rather than a conscious adherence
to distinct principles; without these
principles, whether possessed consciously or
intuitively, it is, I think, impossible to write
that which can be called Literature. It appears
to me therefore that would-be writers,
without a certain innate faculty, may read[Pg 48]
and study and acquaint themselves with all
the literary canons laid down by critics, and
yet fail in producing literature, while others
who have the true gift will be able to produce
good and spontaneous bits of writing.
I do not, however, think that mere natural
faculty will enable persons to continue to
write well without constant, self-denying
study, and they must work up to their
abilities, if they would attain success.
It would therefore seem wiser for beginners,
instead of trying at the outset to learn how
to write, to apply some test to their own
powers of writing; let them, in fact, make
sure that they have a real literary gift.
[The power
of vision]
The power of Vision, the subject of my
paper, is necessary for all Literature,
but it is completely indispensable to a
novelist. Many novels are undoubtedly
written without it, but it may be asked for
what purpose are they written? except it be
to waste time; they pass into the limbo of
useless and forgotten things; there is even a
tradition that the Head of a great circulating
library said he used these ineffectual novels
for garden manure!
There are, however, many young writers
very much in earnest, with too much reverence[Pg 49]
for Literature to attempt novel-writing
for mere pastime, and they are often tormented
by doubts of their capacity for success;
it is better to tell them frankly, that
although such doubts may not be justly
founded, they are very hard to lay, and they
may possibly abide with the writers till long
after the public has begun to listen to their
utterances, may indeed remain till writers
and their hopes and fears have come to the
last chapter of life.
[Certain
tests]
But earnest literary students may greatly
help themselves at the outset by using
certain tests in trying to make sure whether
they have or have not any portion of the
gift, without which perseverance will only
lead to disappointment. It may not be possible
to teach the art of writing novels, but
one may try, as well as one can, to help beginners
to find out for themselves whether
they have or have not “natural faculty” for
this calling.
It is said that exactness of proportion can
only be proved by measurement, and it is
perhaps only by the application of certain
principles that beginners in the art of Fiction
can learn whether they should persevere or
whether they will not save themselves bitter[Pg 50]
disappointment by wisely giving up a profession
for which they have proved themselves
unfitted. The effort required by any
attempt at real Literature argues an absence
of idle-mindedness in those who make it, and
encourages a hope that beginners may be
willing to apply test-principles to their
methods and power of work. Of these principles,
the power of Vision seems to be the
most useful as a test of true vocation for the
art of writing Fiction.
[Imagination
and
realism]
IT was said many years ago of a distinguished
writer, who has since passed
away, that she lacked imaginative power,
that she only described that which she had
seen and known. The accusation was refuted
as an ignorant one, it was proved that
the writer had not seen with her outward
eyes all that she so vividly described; it is,
however, evident that in making such a statement,
the critic forgot the existence of the
power of Vision, the power which enables a
writer not only to see vividly and distinctly
characters, actions, and scenes, but also
enables him to see the especial features
in these several images which will help
to reproduce them with the greatest vigour
and with perfect truth. The absence of this[Pg 51]
power in its truest form makes some so-called
realistic work wearisome, and even
nauseous, because it contains such a superabundance
of detail that breadth of treatment
and truth of effect are lost, while tone is
lowered by too much familiarity with the
objects presented.
[The art of
selection]
True Vision sees vividly that which it describes,
sees it in perfect proportion and perspective,
and with this clear eyesight has a
power of selecting from surrounding details
the chief and most impressive points of its
picture; it thereby enables its possessor—according
to his power of utterance—to impress
the picture he has called up with
vigour and distinctness on his reader.
The power of Vision may and does exist
with lack of ability to sing or to say, even
faintly, that which it so plainly sees, but for
all that it is a real gift, not a mere effort of
memory, when it calls up a character or a
scene. Memory of course helps it, for perhaps
all we write or try to write, even that
which seems to us newly evolved from our
original consciousness, may only be a recreation
of forgotten experiences.
The practical working of the power of
Vision is apt to vary; the object or scene is
sometimes not at once clearly discerned, a[Pg 52]
fragment is perhaps first seen, but patient
waiting is often rewarded by a distinct and
vivid sight of all the other parts which have
been simmering in the brain, at first but
dimly apprehended, shapeless, lacking alike
form and colour.
It may be said that the power of Selection
in a writer is a distinct principle, and should
of itself form the subject of a paper on
creative work, instead of being classed with
Vision; but the power of Selection appears
to me to be inseparable from any one literary
principle—it is an essential part of true
Vision.
[A natural
not acquired
gift]
There are some parts of the whole
which constitutes the power of novel-writing
that seem as though they might be
acquired by dint of hard study, without the
possession of a natural gift for them. Style
is one of these, another is the careful construction
of a story; but unless the power
of Vision be intuitive in a beginner, it is, as
I have said, almost useless to attempt Fiction.
For instance, it is useless to try to describe,
unless the person or thing in question is as
clearly seen by the mental eyes as the would-be
writer’s face is seen by his physical eyes
when he looks in the glass; even when the[Pg 53]
image is distinct, power to present it may
not exist in sufficient vigour to enable readers
to see the picture as the writer does. This
is, however, almost a matter of course. I
am inclined to think that probably few
writers, if any, have ever satisfied themselves
in painting the pictures they have mentally
created. To take the highest example, we
cannot know how far keener the power of
Vision was in the pictures seen by Shakespeare
than in those which he has revealed
to the world. It is this want of proportion
between the power to see and the power to
execute that has made the despair of artists
of all time, whether painters or poets,
sculptors or prose-writers, so dissatisfied
must they ever be with their own productions
compared with the creations they see so
vividly.
[Observation
not
sufficient]
IT may be said that all this art-study is
unnecessary, that it is sufficient carefully
to observe life and scenery, and then
to write down all that the eye has noted,
woven into the form of a story. This is not
easy work, our very faculty of observation
is qualified by our power of true mental
vision; without mental vision, and the
selecting power that belongs to it, the[Pg 54]
objects noted down, instead of forming a
coherent and lifelike picture in the mind of
a reader or listener, will produce a dry
catalogue of persons and things, there will
be a want of proportion and perspective, of
efficient light and shade. “No one knows
what he can do till he tries” is a very true
saying which fits our case. Let persons
without the literary faculty try to write off a
description of the office or counting-house
in which they work, of the room, whether it
be study or drawing-room, in which they
dwell, of the persons among whom they live,
and they will see what the results of such
attempts are from a literary standpoint.
[Silas
Marner]
Many passages might be quoted to
illustrate the vigour and distinctness
with which this power of Vision manifests
itself, and in a few words creates a picture
which remains impressed on the mind of
the reader, but I have not space for them.
Here is one, however, which stands out by
itself in intensity of distinctness and direct
presentation.
Silas Marner, standing at his cottage door,
has had a fit of unconsciousness, during
which the child, little Eppie, has found her
way into his hut.
[Pg 55]
“Turning towards the hearth, where the
two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth
only a red, uncertain glimmer, he seated
himself in his fireside chair, and was stooping
to push his logs together, when, to his
blurred vision, it seemed as if there were
gold on the floor in front of the hearth.
Gold!—his own gold brought back to him
as mysteriously as it had been taken away!
He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and
for a few moments he was unable to stretch
out his hand and grasp the restored treasure.
The heap of gold seemed to glow and get
larger beneath his agitated gaze. He leaned
forward at last, and stretched forth his hand;
but instead of the hard coin with the familiar
resisting outline, his fingers encountered
soft, warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas
fell on his knees, and bent his head low to
examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child—a
round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings
all over its head.”
Let the reader try to picture this scene
to himself, and then consider the marvellous
power with which it is here brought before
him, the intense power of Vision, and of
Selection evinced not only by the points
chosen for representation, but in the omitted
details which an ungifted writer would have[Pg 56]
dragged into the foreground. The strange
agitation of the lonely man is seen as vividly
as the head of the little golden-haired
intruder lying before the red, uncertain
glimmer of the burning logs; this picture
is more than an incident in the story, it is
the key which lets us in and acquaints
us with the unhappy weaver who till
then had seemed outside our sympathies.
[George
Eliot]
As we read her work, we know that
unless this writer’s power of Vision
had been of a high order, she could not have
placed so many living pictures in our
memories, pictures not of mere scenes, but
bits of actual life, in which the rude passions,
and also the gentler qualities of men and
women, are set before us.
[Mrs.
Gaskell]
I will mention yet another illustration of
truth of Vision, rendered, because seen in a
sudden flash, with so much vigour that it is
difficult to believe it is not a record of human
experience. The incident is too long to
transcribe, but it occurs in the fourth chapter
of the third volume of Sylvia’s Lovers, the
scene in which Charlie Kinraid, Sylvia’s old
lover, returns, and tells her that her husband
has deceived her. There is a desperate[Pg 57]
simplicity in the pathos of the poor girl’s
words, “I thought yo’ were dead”; and the
vivid image of the shuddering, conscience-stricken
husband is more moving than any
elaborate description could have made it.
It is truth; one seems to know that it was
all seen and heard distinctly by the writer
before a word of it was set down.
[Some
masters of
fiction]
In Kidnapped, the defence of the cabin on
board the privateer strongly evidences
the power of Vision; still earlier in the book
is a more sudden effect in the ghastly discovery
the hero makes at the top of the
steps up which his treacherous uncle had
sent him. In The Black Arrow, by the
same master-hand, the scene of the apparition
of the supposed leper is a marvellous instance
of this faculty.
I might quote many remarkable examples
from Oliver Twist, from The Ordeal of Richard
Feverel, from The Cloister and the Hearth, and
other masterpieces, in illustration of my
meaning. There is more than one wonderful
instance in John Inglesant, notably the passage
in which the reader is made to see Strafford
almost without a description of his apparition.
These illustrations are more or less evidences
of direct Vision, the pictures presented[Pg 58]
seem to have been at once photographed on
the mental sight; but many remarkable
instances could be cited in which the effects
are produced by a series of touches so
exquisitely blended together, that the impression
produced is that of a solid whole.
In The Woodlanders there are examples of
almost unrivalled truth of Vision, presented
by a series of richly coloured touches. In
the first chapter of Pride and Prejudice
we have another feature of the power of
Vision, the incisive presentation of character
in the dialogue between Mr. and Mrs.
Bennet; this so completely impresses both
characters on the reader’s mind, that the
concluding words of the chapter seem superfluous.
In A Foregone Conclusion, by Mr. Howells,
we recognise an extremely subtle power of
Vision; we can scarcely say how the persons
have become familiar to us, yet we seem to
know that they are alive, and that they were
distinctly seen by the writer; there is the
same power in Silas Lapham. It may be
said that I have only given examples from
the Masters of Fiction. I could have given
many others from the books of far less
popular writers, but I believe in a high
ideal, for one can never reach one’s aim,[Pg 59]
and it is well always to be striving upwards.
[Essential
qualities for
writing
fiction]
The outcome of the question, then,
seems to be that beginners in the art
of novel-writing are able to test themselves
as to their power of Vision with regard to
Fiction; they will soon discover whether
they can master the difficulty of creating a
forcible and distinct picture in their minds
of the subject they propose to treat; they
must see it distinctly, and it must be lasting;
they must see not only the outer forms of
characters, but their inner feelings; they
must think their thoughts, they must try to
hear their words.
It is possible that the picture may not all
be seen at once; the earnest student may
have to wait days before he sees anything,
weeks before he vividly and truthfully sees
the whole. I can only say, let him wait with
patience and hope, and above all let him
firmly believe that novel-writing is not easy;
possibly, in spite of earnestness and diligence,
the beginner has made a mistake, and
has not the necessary gifts for success in
Fiction. Well then, if after many trials he
cannot call up a picture which is at the same
time distinct and true to Nature, he had[Pg 60]
better bring himself to believe that his
attempt is not a creation of the imagination,
it is at best but a passing fancy, not worth
the trouble of writing down. One more
counsel. There are three qualities as essential
to success in novel-writing as the power
of Vision: they are Patience, Perseverance,
and an untiring habit of taking pains.
ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF
CHARACTER IN FICTION
Maxwell Gray
[The climax
of art]
This is the climax, the finest flowering
of the fictive art. It is the crux,
whereby may be determined the vital reality
of the beings presented to the reader by the
novelist. Growth is the first condition of
life; only the character that develops with the
course of the story is really alive; if it be
stationary, then it is dead. Many an interesting
and amusing writer is without this
power of creating and developing character,
the rarest and the highest given to mortal
man. It is the lack of this singular gift that
fills the every-day story-teller’s pages with
puppets and labelled bundles of qualities in[Pg 61]
place of human beings. It is possible to tell
a very good story without creating or developing
character, but it is scarcely possible
to create and develop character without telling
a good story. For it is story—that is,
linked incident, changing circumstance—that
moulds the plastic yet unchangeable character
of man.
“Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille,
Ein Karacter sich in dem Sturm der Welt.”
There is nothing so constant, and in one
sense so unchanging, as human character:
every baby born into the world receives
certain characteristics, due in part to
heredity, in part to climate and physical
conditions, in part, possibly, to pre-natal
mental surroundings, which characteristics
remain with him to the day of his death.
A rose-tree may be trained and developed
in different ways, it may become a bush,
a tree or a creeper, but it can never become
a peach—St. Peter is always Peter,
and St. Paul, Saul, though the fisher has become
a saint and martyr, and the strict and
fierce Pharisee the Apostle of the Gentiles.
[Incident
affects
character]
Though in fiction, as in life, character
creates incident, still it is incident,[Pg 62]
which is dramatic circumstance, or circumstance,
which may be called stationary incident,
that chiefly carves and shapes character,
calls out latent and often unsuspected
vice, and evokes equally unlooked-for virtue.
Incident, or dramatic situation, may be called
the touchstone of character. Many an excellently
written and clever novel fails to
enchain because the people in it do exactly
what they could not possibly do in real life.
They develop wrongly because they are not
alive, not living organisms, and some secret
instinct in the reader is revolted by a feeling
of unreality, he has a secret anger at being
cheated into temporary belief in a made-up
figure, in whose nostrils the breath of life is
not.
[Maggie
Tulliver]
Many critics, but I fancy chiefly males,
and therefore incapable of weighing female
character, think this the weak point in The
Mill on the Floss. Maggie Tulliver, they
say, high-minded Maggie, would never have
wasted her treasure of noble passion on such
a barber’s block as Stephen Guest. Yet that
to my mind is one of the finest points in that
very fine novel. It is artistically as well as
naturally inevitable that the impulsive, imaginative,
warm-hearted Maggie, who ran
away to live with the gipsies, so greatly[Pg 63]
admired little Lucy’s doll-face and trim curls,
who idealised everything she saw and lived
in a constant transition from heaven to hell,
never abiding in one stay on the firm level
earth in her stormy childhood, should see an
Apollo in the first comely and well-conducted
youth she met, and that her imagination
should invest him with a blinding glamour,
which in turn kindled so strong a passion as
swept her off her feet. Her passionate and
exaggerated repentance, too, though as exasperating
to the reader as it would be in
real life, is equally true, the natural sequence
of all that went before. Still, Maggie ought
not to have been drowned, she was but beginning
to develop; Stephen Guest should
have been but an incident in the Sturm-und-Drang-Periode
inevitable to a nature so turbulent
and so complex as hers. Maggie’s
death, which is an accident and a climax to
nothing, must be regarded as an artistic
murder, for the wanton slaying of a personage
whose death is not artistically necessary
in a fiction, is more than a blunder, it is
a capital crime. But the charm and interest
of The Mill on the Floss are not in the
development of Maggie so much as in that
of her father and mother and those matchless
aunts and uncles of hers.
[Pg 64]
[Power to
create
character]
If the power to create and develop character
is great, it is also rare, and discoverable
only in fiction of the highest order.
It is this that makes Hawthorne so incomparably
grand; this that gives his chief,
though not his whole, magic to that master
of English fiction, Thackeray, and his peer,
George Eliot; that impresses in Manzoni’s
splendid romance, I Promessi Sposi; that
enchains in Jane Austen, though she does
but brush the surface of character, leaving
the depths unplumbed; that fascinates
in Charlotte Brontë and in Mrs. Gaskell, that
powerful, wholesome, and but half-appreciated
writer; and the lack of which sends so
marvellous a genius as Dickens, in spite of
all his witchery of fancy and fun and youthful
mastery of language, lost later in affectation,
to the second rank. It was Dickens’ inability
to recognise his own limitation in this respect
which chiefly contributed, with his outrageous
vanity, to wreck his later works; for
he always aimed at developing character,
probably because it was the only thing he
could not do. Because the gods, as a sort
of make-weight, with their gifts of genius
and talent, always throw in a perverse blindness
to the nature and limits of those endowments.
[Pg 65]
[Characters
should
develop]
Michael Angelo, at first sight of it,
said to Donatello’s statue of St.
George, “March!” and the young figure
always seems, in its breathing vitality, to be
on the point of obeying the order. So it is
with the finest creations in fiction: they
march, they develop, they achieve an immortal
existence, like the lovers in Keats’
Grecian Urn—
“For ever shalt thou love, and she be fair.”
We expect them to go on living; we look
out for Colonel Newcome’s noble and pathetic
face among the pensioners in the chapel, and
expect to see that delightful old sinner,
Major Pendennis, ogle us from his club-window
as we pass. How sadly do the
characters of Amelia Sedley’s kind and
easy-going parents develop under the stress
of ill-fortune, and yet how truly! The
indulgent and affectionate merchant, and
his comfortable, commonplace spouse, who
caress and fondle Amelia’s girlhood, pass
with saddest ease into the selfish and
querulous tyrants of her widowed maturity;
the harshness of their soured and unlovely
old age is but the other side of natures to
which ease and material comfort are the first
conditions of existence. And poor dear[Pg 66]
Amelia, how naturally she glides through the
bitter trials and keen sorrows of her womanhood,
losing the self-complacency and regardlessness
of others, fostered by her
caressed and guarded girlhood, and emerging
mellowed and sweetened from the flame!
People run Amelia down. I love her; I
should like to have known her. Don’t we all
know and love, and feel the better for
knowing and loving, some Amelia? My
heart aches now as if from a fresh stab
whenever I read the immortal sentence which
describes the falling of night on battle-field
and city, on the town without, and Emmy’s
desolate chamber within, where she “was
praying for George, who was lying on his
face dead, with a bullet through his heart.”
Of course we all adore that good-for-nothing
Becky Sharpe, whose complex and subtle
nature is so terribly warped and contorted
by the wrongs of her youth. How delightful
is the unexpected tenderness developed in
that great, clumsy, big-hearted blackguard,
Rawdon Crawley, by his dainty, clever little
witch of a wife and his neglected child.
This Rawdon is essentially virile all the way
through. It was not only a fine brain, but a
great and generous and very tender heart
that conceived and developed all these intensely[Pg 67]
human creatures in Thackeray’s great
romance.
[Living
examples
in fiction]
What fine development there is in
Lucia and Renzo, those very commonplace
and unromantic young country-folk
in the first chapters of I Promessi Sposi.
Yet Lucia does not surprise us when, under
stress of the terrible events which tear their
tranquil lives apart, she comports herself with
such signal heroism, and overawes and disarms
the lawless brigands who have carried
her off, by the dignity of her gentle yet
strong rectitude. Nor are we astonished
when the honest and simple-minded Renzo,
by his single-hearted loyalty and devotion
to plain duty, becomes a hero in his turn.
It is a matchless stroke of Manzoni’s genius
thus from such every-day and unromantic
material to evolve stuff so heroic and full of
romantic interest as in the characters of
these Promessi Sposi, who were not even
romantically in love, but were merely going
to marry because they were at marrying age
and thought each other suitable.
This subtle and inevitable development
which follows from the creation of a living
character in fiction, as from the birth of a
living organism in nature, gives a distinct[Pg 68]
charm to Malory’s version of Arthurian
legend, the one centre of interest around
which the whole body of the romance Morte
d’Arthur plays, being the development of Sir
Lancelot, that very live and captivating man,
whom once to know is always to love.
Chaucer, fettered and cramped though he
was, yet in the narrow limits his art imposed
gives subtle suggestions of spiritual growth,
while the immortal people painted in the
Prologue, though of necessity debarred from
movement, are like Donatello’s St. George,
we involuntarily tell them to march, they are
so alert and so much alive. And even in the
Nibelungen Lied, which would at first seem
but a poetic welding together of myth, tradition
and romance, the main point of the story
and the hinge upon which the whole tragedy
plays, is the terrible direction taken by
Chriemhild’s naturally sweet and noble
nature under the warping influence of deadly
wrong.
[A bad
tendency]
Macbeth, aweary of the sun, is another
man than the gallant Scottish chief who consults
the witches; and what a change passes
over the warm-hearted and devoted wife, who
is so eager for her husband’s advancement.
Hamlet and Faust (especially Hamlet),
being not so much a Danish prince and[Pg 69]
a German philosopher as representatives of
the human race, are the first and finest
instances of character-development in fiction.
Yet the same Goethe, who, by the spontaneous
play of his great genius, created the
living Faust, also composed that nauseous
study of morbid anatomy, Wahlverwandtschaften,
in which there is no true development
upwards or downwards, but a sort of
stagnant and hopeless decay, and by the
composition of which he became the father
of a great and gruesome school of fiction,
the noxious influence of which is spreading
everywhere like a leprous growth over the
fair face of fictive art, especially in France,
where the novel has been reduced to a study
of the gutter and the city sewer, and poetry
to the open worship of decay, and where a
great artist like Zola devotes marvellous
powers of observation and description and
analysis of character through the whole of the
celebrated Assommoir to impressing upon
the reader that dirty linen is dirty, which
Falstaff knew by sad experience, but did not
dwell upon, long ago. There is much morbid
anatomy of stagnant character in L’Assommoir
but no development; the characters do not
even degenerate, they simply rot as if from
some mysterious, irresistible corruption.
[Pg 70]
[Tess]
A great, perhaps the greatest, living
English novelist is, like his lesser brothers,
touched by this mysterious blight. Hence
Tess has an artistically impossible climax.
Mr. Hardy’s fine genius created a noble
character in Tess, but his Paganism (for the
blight has its origin in Paganism) blinded him
to the full grandeur of his own creation. He
sees clearly how the tragedy of Tess’s
girlhood, the horrible cruelty of which she
is the innocent victim, moulds her nature,
first stunning her to a degradation from
which she quickly revolts, and ultimately
leading her through suffering and knowledge
of good and evil to a higher purity than that
of ignorant innocence, but he cannot see,
perhaps because he does not believe in, the
impossibility of the final actions he imputes
to her, in a nature that had grown to such a
height. Vainly is the ivory parasol flourished
in the face of the reader, who rejects it as an
unreality. But I speak under correction.
[Paganism]
Whatever Paganism may be to art—and
the late Mr. J. A. Symonds thinks it is very
good for it—there is no doubt that it is
absolutely fatal to creative literature. The
pure Pagan, the denying spirit, can have no
ideal; it is not that he asserts there is no
God, but that he says there is no good; he[Pg 71]
knows no inward vivifying spirit to produce
moral progress; therefore for him character
cannot grow, it can only decay, like
geraniums touched by frost. This denying
spirit, this Paganism, which acknowledges
matter because itself is material, and which
denies soul and the supernatural, sees in
man a mere organism, bound in an eternal
ring of sense, a being whose deepest
emotions are but animal instincts, variously
developed, and whose subtlest thoughts are
but emanations from an organ resembling
curds; therefore it has only the human
animal for its subject in art and literature,
and can depict nothing in moral life but
its decay. It has no clue to the growth of
the living organism, acknowledging not life
but only death. Human character is to
this Paganism as the rapidly decomposing
corpse under the knife and microscope. It
is this which in politics produces Nihilism,
Socialism, Anarchy, in literature what is
known as Zolaism, though Zola is but one
of its products, and in France the poetry of
the decadence, the acknowledged idolatry
of corruption; and it is this which fills
European fiction with unsavoury studies in
morbid anatomy in place of wholesome,
vivifying pictures of living and growing[Pg 72]
character. One can trace this sterilising
influence in Goethe’s life as well as in his
works; one sees it beginning in George
Eliot, and continuing in the most ambitious
English writers of the day; but not in Mr.
Hall Caine, whose work, with all its shortcomings,
is a protest against it, and who
resolutely proclaims the soul of man and
his power to rise above his passions and
make a stepping-stone of his dead self to
something nobler.
[The art of
developing
character]
But how acquire the art of developing
character in fiction? We may as well
try to acquire blue eyes and straight noses,
nature having endowed us with aquiline
features and black orbs. It is, like the gifts
of poetry and cookery, born with us or
unattainable, though, like those sources of
so much solace to mankind, it may and
must be cultivated when present. The
means whereto are study and observation
of life, and of great literary masterpieces.
That pleasant and light-hearted writer,
Mr. James Payn, probably beguiled by the
whisper of some tricksy demon, once, to
his subsequent acknowledged sorrow, sat
down and airily indited an essay in a leading[Pg 73]
periodical on fiction as a profession, in
which he asserted in that gentle and joyous
fashion of his that, like any other craft, that
of novel-writing can be acquired by study
and practice. With a thoughtlessness that
Christian charity would fain assume to be
devoid of guile, he even expressed an innocent
wonder that a profession so easy and
inexpensive to acquire, and so delightful as
well as lucrative to exercise, was not more
sought after by the parents of British youth,
who, worthy folk, to do them strict justice,
have never been backward in repressing the
vice of scribbling in their offspring. It
would be unkind to dwell upon the error of
Mr. Payn’s ways. Nemesis, in the shape of
letters during the next few days from half
the parents in the three kingdoms, demanding
instant instruction for sons (especially
those who had failed in most other things)
in the elements of novel-writing, overtook
that poor man, and he did fit penance in a
subsequent number of the periodical, appearing
there in all the humiliation of white
sheet, ashes, and taper, and duly confessing,
if not his sins, at least his sorrow for their
results.
[Pg 74]
[Those who
should
write]
The art of novel-writing is not to be
picked up along the primrose path,
even when the gift is present; nor is literature,
especially in its higher walks, a lucrative
profession; it is, as of old, a crutch, but not
a staff. It is doubtless comparatively easy,
a certain knack being inborn and skill having
been acquired, to reel off story after story at
the same dead level of mediocrity, but no
writer has produced many good novels, or
ever will. The world is flooded with
fiction, chiefly worthless, but able by sheer
volume to swamp the few good novels that
appear from time to time. People should
never write a novel or indite a poem of malice
prepense. The only justification for doing
either is being unable to help it. Those
novel-writers who can create characters will
develop them and thank heaven; those who
cannot will not, and let us hope they will
thank heaven too.
[Pg 75]
THE SHORT STORY
Lanoe Falconer
[The art
of writing
a short
story]
The art of writing a short story is like
the art of managing a small allowance.
It requires the same care, self-restraint, and
ingenuity, and, like the small allowance, it
affords excellent practice for the beginner, as
by the very limitations it imposes on her
ambition, it preserves her from errors of
judgment and tastes into which she might
be hurried by fancy or fashion.
[What to
avoid]
There are many things lawful, if not
expedient, in the three-volume novel
that in the short story are forbidden—moralising,
for instance, or comments of any
kind, personal confidences or confessions.
These can indeed be made so entrancing that
the narrative itself may be willingly foregone.
The wit of a Thackeray, the wisdom of a
George Eliot, has done as much: but these
gifts are rare, so rare that the beginner
will do well to assume that she has them
not, and to stick fast to her story, especially
if it be a short one; since on that tiny stage
where there is hardly room for the puppets[Pg 76]
and their manœuvres, there is plainly no
space for the wire-puller.
[Explanations]
Even more cheerfully may be renounced
those dreary addenda called explanations.
Nowhere in a story can they possibly be
welcome. At the end they would be preposterous;
at the beginning they scare away
the reader; in the middle they exasperate
him. Who does not know the chill of
disappointment with which, having finished
one lively and promising chapter, one reads
at the beginning of the next, “And now we
must retrace our steps a little to explain,”
or words to the same depressing effect?
Explain what?—the situation? That should
have explained itself. Or the relation of the
actors? A word or two in the dialogue
might do as much. More I, as the reader,
do not wish to learn. I am fully interested,
I am caught in the current of the tale, I am
burning to know if the hero recovered, if
the heroine forgave, if the parents at last
consented: I am in no mood to listen to a
précis—for it is never more—of the past
events that prepared this dilemma, or of the
legal, financial, or genealogical complications
by which it is prolonged. With these dry
details the author may do well to be acquainted,
for the due direction and confirmation[Pg 77]
of his plot; but the reader has nothing
to do with them, and in a work of art they
are as needless and as unsightly as the
scaffolding round a completed building, or
the tacking threads in a piece of finished
needlework.
[Redundancy]
Equally incompatible with the short story
is that fertile source of tedium, redundancy.
“The secret of being wearisome,” says the
French proverb, “is to tell everything.”
What then is the end of those who tell not
merely everything, but—if an Irish turn of
expression may be permitted—a great deal
more? It is to encourage the practice of
skipping in the general reader, and—much
to the detriment of more parsimonious
writers—in the reviewers as well. A large
number of novels picturesquely described as
weak and washy, might be converted into
very readable stories by the simple process
of leaving out about two volumes and a half
of entirely superfluous and unentertaining
matter.
[“Phillup
Bosch.”]
On the staff of an amateur magazine to
which in early youth the writer contributed,
there was one most obliging and useful
member whose business it was to provide
“copy” for the odd corners and inevitable
spaces between the more important papers.[Pg 78]
He wrote, you will observe, not because he
had anything in the world to say or tell, but
because a certain amount of space must at
all costs be covered; and the effusions thus
inspired he signed with the modest and
appropriate pseudonym of “Phillup Bosch.”
How often in fiction of a certain class may
even now be recognised the handiwork of
this industrious writer, always unsigned,
indeed, at least by the old familiar name.
The sparkle of his early touch is gone, but
his unmistakable purpose is the same. The
glamour of “auld lang syne” may to his
old friends endear these interpolations, but
from a literary point of view it is much to
be desired that he would lay aside his pen
for ever. And yet it must be acknowledged
that without his aid there are three-volume
novels that could never have been written.
Fortunately, the short story is independent
of him.
[Disadvantages]
The disadvantages of the short story
become more distinct when we consider
its possible theme. The crowded
stage and wide perspective of the novel
proper; all transformations of character and
circumstance in which length of time is an
essential element; even the intricately[Pg 79]
tangled plot, deliberately and knot by knot
unfolded—these are beyond its reach. The
design of the short story must itself be short—and
simple. A single, not too complicated,
incident is best; in short, the one entire and
perfect action, that Aristotle—I quote from
Buckley’s translation—considered the best
subject of fable or poem. To the writer
might well be repeated the stage-manager’s
advice to aspiring dramatists, quoted by
Coppée in his Contes en Prose:
“If they come to me with their plays
when I am at breakfast, I say—‘Look here,
can you tell me the plot in the time it takes
me to eat this boiled egg? If not—away
with it—it is useless.’” The author of a
short story submitted to the same kind
of test would have to be even more expeditious.
[The art of
omission]
It may be observed that all these suggestions
are of a negative order, and concerned
with “the tact of omission.” It is
indeed of the first importance in the composition
of the short story. As a famous
etcher once said to the writer while she stood
entranced before a study of river, trees, and
cattle, that his magic touch had converted
into a very poem, an exquisite picture of[Pg 80]
pastoral repose—“The great thing is to
know what to leave out.” It is part of that
economy already insisted upon, “to express
only the characteristic traits of succeeding
actions,” and, as Mr. Besant exhorts us, to
suppress “all descriptions which hinder
instead of helping the action, all episodes of
whatever kind, all conversation which does
not either advance the story or illustrate the
characters.”
[Grasp of
point
Dramatic
instinct]
How this “essential and characteristic”
is to be distinguished from all around it is
another matter. It is a work that a great
French master of the art described as a
travail acharné. But it is also very often
made easy by native instinct, like that
which directs these born story-tellers—their
name is legion—of both sexes and all conditions,
who never put pen to paper, but who
in hall or cottage, drawing-room or kitchen,
nursery or smoking-room, whenever they
unfold a tale, hold all their audience attentive
and engrossed. Their method when analysed
appears to chiefly depend, first on their
firm grasp of the main point and purport of
their story, next on their liberal use of dialogue
in the telling of it. At least thus do
the listeners to one enchanting story-teller
endeavour to explain the dramatic flavour[Pg 81]
she imparted to the commonest incidents of
domestic life. For instance, this is what she
would have made of a theme so ungrateful
as the fact that, the butcher having sent too
large a joint, she had returned it to him.
For the benefit of inexperienced housekeepers,
it is perhaps as well to explain that
a fair average weight for a leg of mutton is
declared by experts to be nine pounds.
“Directly I went into the larder, I said,
‘Jane, what on earth is that?’
“‘Why, ma’am,’ she said, ‘it is the leg
of mutton you ordered.’
“‘What!’ I said, ‘the small leg of
mutton? Where is the ticket?’
“‘Please, ma’am, the butcher’s boy has
not brought it.’
“I said, ‘Tell him to come into the
kitchen.’
“When he came I made her weigh that
leg of mutton before him. It weighed
eleven pounds four ounces!
“I said, ‘Take that back to your master,
and ask him from me if he calls that a small
leg of mutton?’”
The expression, the intonation, and the,
at times, almost tragic emphasis, it is, unfortunately,
impossible to reproduce; but
even in this colourless record we may[Pg 82]
admire the terseness and vigour, the masterly
beginning that at once arouses curiosity,
and the truly artistic reserve that
does not by outcry or comment detract from
the force of the climax! Consider, too,
how in some hands this simple tale might
have been embroidered and interrupted:
by description of the scenery outside the
kitchen-window; by a minute account of
the lady’s family and connections, or of the
previous history of the cook; by a dissertation
on joints in general and the story-teller’s
favourite dishes in particular, with
other digressions too numerous to mention;
and by comparison you may divine what
constitutes “the characteristic” of a story.
[Points to
aim at]
If now, seriously speaking, you review
the tablets of your memory and mark
the scenes imprinted there, you will see that
whereas some figures, incidents, speeches,
and even details of the background are
vivid as ever, others have vanished away.
Again, you will find that a conversation may
be often best reported, in fidelity to the
spirit rather than the word, by suppressing
all the repetitions and superfluous
phrases that encumbered the actual dialogue.
Lastly, if you attentively consider the character[Pg 83]
of some one you know and understand,
you may discover that it is revealed and
epitomised in certain particular words and
actions, and that by repeating these you
might present a much more striking portrait
of the original than by a lengthy memoir of
all that he, or she, did and said in common
with other people. Thus from your own
experience you may gather useful hints as
to the kind of condensation desirable for
the short story. Others may, and ought to,
be acquired by the study of the best literature;
but in this, as in every form of
creative work, the artist, in the beginning
as at the end, must draw his chief inspiration
from life itself.
[Literary
capabilities]
There is one thing that the shortest
story does not exclude, and that is the
highest artistic ambition. That the length
of any work can be no measure of its importance
or effect is best illustrated by such
masterpieces as the minor poems of Milton,
Wordsworth, Shelley, or Tennyson. The
literary capabilities of the short story, still
in its infancy, have yet to be discovered,
probably by the very generation of those to
whom this paper is especially addressed.
Therefore one must the more earnestly[Pg 84]
entreat them to cherish the highest aims in
their writing, to lavish on it the greatest
care. Nowhere can “signs of weariness,
of haste, in fact of scamping,” be so inexcusable
as on the miniature canvas, or
ivory, of the short story. Rather it deserves
the finish of the finest cameo, of the
most highly polished gem.
Finally, with that uncomfortable feeling
that is apt to overtake one after preaching,
the writer is obliged to confess that all this
advice is easier to give than to follow, and
concludes with the wish that her young
readers may
“Better reck the rede
Than ever did the adviser.”
ON THE ART OF WRITING
FICTION FOR CHILDREN
Mrs. Molesworth
[No royal
road]
There is, we are told, no royal road to
learning. Is there a royal road to
any good thing? Are not hard work, more
or less drudgery, perseverance, self-control,
and self-restraint the unavoidable travelling
companions, the only trustworthy couriers[Pg 85]
through the journey to the country of success?
I think so.
But the way is not always the same.
None of the paths are “royal,” in the sense
of being smooth and flower-bestrewn; but
beyond this, similarity no longer necessarily
holds good. To literary success, even in its
humbler departments, there are many and
varying roads. Were it not so indeed, the
thing itself would be infinitely less worthy of
achievement. For if literary work is to be in
any sense admirable, it must be individual
and characteristic; it is not of the nature of
manufactured goods; its essence must be of
the author’s personality.
[Writing for
the young]
I wish thus to preface the little I have
to say of possible service to others on
that branch of writing as to which I am
credited with some experience—fiction for
the young, more especially for children—because,
underlying any information or advice
I can give, is the very strongest belief
in every writer taking his or her own path,
trusting to his or her own intuitions. Yet
these intuitions, if I may be forgiven an
apparent paradox, must be those of a cultivated
taste, a thoughtful intellect, an imagination
all the more luxuriant from having been[Pg 86]
well pruned. Therefore before beginning to
write, even for childish minds, I would urge
upon young authors to see well to their own
mental possessions. You cannot “give” out
of nothing, and if you would give of the
best, with the best must you be furnished.
Read the best books, study the best models,
till in a sense they become your own.
“Originality,” if originality you have, will
never be crushed by real study; and if the
result of your self-training should be to
prove to you, by comparison with its undoubted
owners, that this incommunicable
gift is not yours, the sooner, for yourself and
for others, that you make the discovery
the better, though you will have been far
from a loser in the process of making it.
There is nothing “original” in this advice,
I well know. But it seems to be not uncalled
for in the present instance, because so many
young writers, too modest to aspire very
high, think they can “write for children.”
And often this is a mistake. Writing for
children calls for a peculiar gift. It is not
so much a question of taking up one’s stand
on the lower rungs of the literary ladder, as
of standing on another ladder altogether—one
which has its own steps, its higher and
lower positions of excellence.
[Pg 87]
[Special
gifts
demanded]
It is very difficult to define this gift. It
is more than the love of children.
Many people love children dearly who could
not write for, or about them even, at all. It
is to some extent the power of clothing your
own personality with theirs, of seeing as they
see, feeling as they feel, realising the intensity
of their hopes and fears, their
unutterably pathetic sorrows, their sometimes
even more pathetic joys, and yet—not
becoming one of them: remaining yourself,
in full possession of your matured judgment,
your wider and deeper views. Never for
one instant forgetting the exquisite delicacy
of the instruments you are playing upon, the
marvellous impressionableness of the little
hearts and minds; never, in commonplace
words, losing sight of what is in the best
sense good for them. Yet all this so skilfully,
so unobtrusively, that the presence of
the teacher is never suspected. Not perhaps
till your readers are parents and guardians
themselves—possibly writers!—need they,
nor should they, suspect how in every line,
far more than their passing entertainment or
amusement was considered, how scrupulous
was the loving care with which, like a fairy
gardener, you banished from the playground
which you were preparing for their enjoyment,[Pg 88]
all things unsightly, or terrifying, or in any
sense hurtful—all false or exaggerated sentiment
in any form.
And yet you must be true to nature.
Save in an occasional flight to fairyland (and
is true fairyland unreal after all?) children’s
stories should be real—true, that is to say,
to what may be or are actual experiences in
this always chequered, often sorrowful, world
of ours. It would be very false love for
children—it would be repellent to their own
true instincts—to represent life to them as a
garden of roses without thorns, a song with
no jarring notes. But underlying the sad
things, and the wrong things, and the perplexing
things which must be touched upon
in the little dramas, however simple, there
must be belief in the brighter side—in goodness,
happiness, and beauty—as the real
background after all. And any one who does
not feel down in the bottom of their hearts
that this “optimism” is well-founded, had
better leave writing for children alone.
[Childhood
and
youth]
It is not always those who are nearest
childhood who are the best fitted to
deal with it. There is a phase of melancholy
and hopelessness which youth often has to
pass through, and though much mingled with[Pg 89]
false sentimentality, it is a real enough thing
while it lasts. It is those who have outgrown
this, who while not closing their eyes
to the dark and sad side of things, yet have
faith in the sunlight behind and beyond, who,
to my mind, are the best story-tellers for the
little ones, whose own experience of life is all
to come.
[A point to
consider]
Before passing on to a few questions of
practical detail, I should like to dwell a little
on a point which it seems to me is too often
disregarded or confused. It is this—writing
about children is by no means the same thing
as writing for them. So much the contrary is
it indeed, that I could instance several storybooks
almost entirely about children which
are far less advisable reading for them than
others of which the characters are not
children at all. This distinction is constantly
overlooked and forgotten, and yet it
is surely based on common sense? The
very last thing a wise mother would allow
would be the children’s presence at any
necessary consultation with doctor or teacher
about their health, physical or mental. And
the interest of many of the charming and
delightful stories about children, which in our
days have almost come to constitute a new
department in literature, depends very greatly[Pg 90]
on the depicting and description of childish
peculiarities and idiosyncrasies which it
would not be wholesome for their compeers
to discuss or realise. The questions too of
judicious or injudicious management of little
people on the part of their elders, of over-care
or more culpable neglect, of misunderstanding
of their complex and often strangely
reserved and perplexing characters, must
come much to the fore in this class of fiction.
And though it would not be right, because it
would not be sincere, to make of our stories
for children a fool’s paradise, where all the
big people are perfect, and only the boys and
girls in fault, still the obtruding or emphasising
parental mistakes and failings should
surely be avoided when writing for the tender
little ones, whose lovely belief in “mother”
is the very breath and sunshine of their lives—and
the greatest possible incentive to
mother herself to be in some faint degree
worthy of this exquisite trust.
[Unsuitable
subjects]
Nor is this faith a false one. It is God-given,
as a shelter and support to the infant
character till the day comes when the man
or woman must stand alone and see things
with full-grown vision. And when that day
comes, and the gradual discovery is realised
that neither father nor mother, best of[Pg 91]
teachers or dearest of friends, is infallible,
something else comes too; a still deeper
faith, which draws the bonds of the old
childish love and trust yet closer, by the
addition of that of understanding sympathy.
[Style]
As to questions of “style” in writing for
children, general rules hold good, with
the addition of a few special ones. Your
language should of course be the very best
you can use. Good English, terse and
clear, with perhaps a little more repetition,
a little more making sure you are understood
than is allowable in ordinary fiction. Keep
to the rule of never using a long word
where a short one will express your meaning
as well; but do not be too slavishly afraid
of using a long word—a word even which,
but for the context, your young readers would
fail to take in the meaning of. In such a
case you can often skilfully lead up to the
meaning, and children must learn new
words. It does them no harm now and
then to have to exercise their minds as to
what the long or strange word can mean,
and at worst they can always apply to some
older friend for an explanation, and the
effort will impress the new acquisition on
their memory.
[Pg 92]
[Training
in style]
To help you to the acquirement of a good
style in this branch of writing, as in others,
I would like to repeat the advice I have
often given privately. Drill yourself well
by translating. It is capital training. You
know what you have to say, and there is
not for the moment the strain of inventing
upon you. The facts and ideas are there
ready cut and dry; your business is to
clothe them fittingly and gracefully, and to
this you can give your whole attention.
Young writers are usually so full of what
they want to say, that they give too little
care to how they say it—ideas come
tumbling over each other till the way is
blocked, and precision and elegance are
thrown to the winds. Translation is voted
dull work by some—they want to see their
own creations in form—but do believe me,
unless you are willing to go through some
dull work, some drudgery, the chances are
small that you will succeed. It may seem
to you that some writers you know have
reached the position they occupy by sheer
genius; but, not to repeat the well-known
definition of what genius really is, if you
could retrace the whole steps trodden by
these apparently exceptional beings, you
would find, I think, that the “taking pains”[Pg 93]
has been there. They have been perhaps
peculiarly well-drilled, accustomed to much
brooding over the very best authors,
but their present perfection of style has
not come all of itself, you may be sure,
however dazzling the brilliance that undoubted
genius throws over the materials
supplied by long and careful cultivation.
It is a simple but valuable test of your
writing to read it aloud when finished, even
if you have no audience but yourself! In
writing for children the criticism, which you
may be pretty sure will not be too flattering,
of a group of intelligent boys and girls is
invaluable.
[Method of
composition]
And now as to the subject-matter itself.
What is the best way of composing a
story for children? “Should we think it
all out first, and sketch it out, and jot down
the heads, and the chapters, and—and—?”
a hundred more “ands.” “Should one
wait till something strikes one, or should
one draw from one’s own experience, or—or—?”
“or’s” to match the “and’s.”
My dear young friends, I am afraid I
cannot tell you. Everybody, it seems to
me, has his or her own way, and as I said[Pg 94]
at the beginning of this little paper, I think
it must be best so.
But if you care to listen I will tell you
my own way—or ways, though by no means
with any idea that you would do well to
follow my example.
[A good rule]
To me it seems, as a rule, that in writing
stories for either old or young, the great
thing is to make the acquaintance of your
characters, and get to know them as well
and intimately as you possibly can. Some
of course take much more knowing than
others; some are quickly read through;
some are interesting because they are meant
apparently not to be thoroughly known, and
in this light you truthfully depict them,
though this last class is hardly the type of
character to be introduced into a story for
children. I dare say you will think me
very childish myself, when I tell you that I
generally begin by finding names for all my
personages. I marshal them before me and
call the roll, to which each answers in turn,
and then I feel I have my “troupe” complete,
and I proceed to take them more in
detail. I live with them as much as I can,
often for weeks, before I have done more
than write down their names. I listen to
what they talk about to each other and in[Pg 95]
their own homes, not with the intention of
writing it down, but by way of, as I said,
getting to know them well. And by degrees
I feel them becoming very real. I can say
to myself sometimes, when sitting idly doing
nothing in particular, “Now whom shall I go
to see for a little—the So-and-so’s, or little
somebody?”—whatever the names may be
that I have given; and so day by day I seem
to be more in their lives, more able to tell
how, in certain circumstances, my characters
would comport themselves. And by degrees
these circumstances stretch themselves out
and take vague shape, which like the at first
far-off and dimly perceived heights above
one in climbing a mountain, grow distinct
and defined as one approaches them more
nearly. I seldom care to look very far
ahead, though at the same time a certain
grasp of the whole situation is, and has been,
I think, there from the first. It never seems
to me that my characters come into existence,
like phantoms, merely for the time I
want them. Rather do I feel that I am
selecting certain incidents out of real lives.
And this, especially in writing of children,
seems to me to give substantiality and
actuality to the little actors in the drama.
I always feel as if somewhere the children I[Pg 96]
have learnt to love are living, growing into
men and women like my own real sons and
daughters. I always feel as if there were
ever so much more to hear about them and
to tell about them if I liked to tell, and my
readers to hear.
[Unexpected
suggestions]
This general rule, however, of first getting
to know your characters is not without
exceptions. There are instances in which
the most trivial incident or impression suggests
a whole story—a glance at a picture,
the words of a song, a picturesque name,
the wind in an old chimney—anything or
nothing will sometimes “start” the whole,
and then the characters you need have to
be sought for and thought about, and in
some sense chosen for their parts. And
these often entirely unexpected suggestions
of a story are very valuable, and should
decidedly, when they occur, be “made a
note of.”
Remembrances of one’s own childhood,
not merely of surroundings and events, but
of one’s own inner childish life, one’s ways
of looking at things, one’s queer perplexities
and little suspected intensities of feeling, it
is well to recall and dwell much upon. Not
altogether or principally for the sake of[Pg 97]
recording them directly, for a literal autobiography
of oneself even up to the age of
twelve would be much fitter reading for a
child-loving adult than for children themselves
(the “best” and most amusing
anecdotes about children are seldom such
as it would be wise to relate to their compeers);
but because these memories revive
and quicken the sympathy, which as time
goes on, and we grow away from our childselves,
cannot but to some extent be lost;
such reminiscences put us “in touch” again
with child-world. And constant, daily,
unconstrained intercourse with children,
even if the innocently egotistical inquiry,
“Are you going to make a story about us?”
may be honestly answered in the negative,
is indirectly a great help and source of
“inspiration.”
But if you have any serious intention of
making stories for children a part of
your life-work, beware of “waiting for inspiration,”
as it is called. You must go at
it steadily, nay, even plod at it, if you want
to do good and consistent work, always
remembering that your audience will be of
the most critical, though all the better worth
satisfying on that account. And rarely, if[Pg 98]
ever, does work carefully and lovingly done
meet with a sweeter reward than comes to
the writer of children’s books when fresh
young voices exclaim how interested they
have been in perhaps the very story which
had often filled its author with discouragement.
For this “flattering unction” we
may lay to our souls—neither Nellie nor
Tom—assuredly not Tom—will say so if he
and she do not really mean it!
ON THE HISTORICAL NOVEL
Prof. A. J. Church
[The
historical
novel]
I must confess to having experienced
a certain feeling of astonishment, not
unmixed with alarm, when I was asked to
write a paper on the “Historical Novel,”
for the series “On the Art of Writing
Fiction.” The phrase had an impressive
sound. It reminded me of Ivanhoe and
Quentin Durward, of Hypatia and Westward
Ho! It seemed idle to think of such
humble ventures as I had launched upon
the world, in connection with the masterpieces
of Scott and Kingsley. However, I
comforted myself by reflecting that the[Pg 99]
very humility and limitation of my experiences
might make them useful to beginners.
I will try to be practical, but I am afraid
that I shall have to be, at the same time,
somewhat egotistic. If I can give any useful
lessons, these must be drawn from my own
practice.
[Size]
[Some
business
considerations]
To begin at the beginning—what is the
best size for the historical novel?—or,
as we had better perhaps call it, historical
tale? All my own have been of the one-volume
kind, varying from fifty thousand to
eighty thousand words, to employ the prosaic
but useful measurement now in vogue among
editors and publishers. And now, as my
readers desire, I suppose, to earn their
bread, or at least their butter, by writing,
some business considerations may profitably
come in. The demand for books in this
country comes either from the circulating
libraries or from private purchasers. It is
the first of these only that, as a rule, buy
the three or two volumed novel. There
are a few exceptions, as, for example, Mrs.
Humphry Ward’s Robert Elsmere. Hence
novels are commonly published at a fictitious
price—a price, I mean, that bears no practical[Pg 100]
relation to the cost of production, but is
adapted to the circumstances of a temporary
and limited demand. Some two score of
writers, not of the first rank, have a public
of readers sufficiently large to make such
a demand on the libraries, that, at the fictitious
price above described, a remunerative
sale is obtained. A certain number of
novels just pay their way. Many cost their
authors sums more or less considerable.
Now for the private purchaser. In the
matter of buying books, the average Englishman,
and still more the average Englishwoman,
is parsimonious in the extreme.
His or her purchases in this direction are
commonly limited to a Bible, a Prayer-book,
a book of devotion, possibly a volume of
some popular author whom it is fashionable
to have on one’s drawing-room table. Still,
the average Englishman is not a stingy
creature. He is generous in giving. Hence
the books which he would not think of buying
for himself, he will buy to give to others.
Hence the institution of “Christmas Books.”
After all, there is no present so easy, so
convenient, so harmless, and so cheap as
a book. Five shillings, and less, a sum for
which one could not buy the cheapest of
cheap jewellery, will purchase a quite respectable-looking[Pg 101]
volume. And as Christmas
is the time for giving presents, so Christmas
is the time for selling books. It is a fact
which any publisher dealing in this kind of
ware will confirm, that books of precisely
the same character and merit, published in
May and October (for the Christmas book
has to be finished in July, or even earlier,
to be published in October), have a very
different sale. And a book, to be sold in
any numbers, must be a single volume. Of
course publishers have overstocked the
market. The supply of late years has
enormously increased, and now surpasses
any possible demand. Still the fact remains,
that the most hopeful prospect for a young
writer is to produce a one-volumed tale that
will take its chance among the crowd of
“Christmas books.” And here, I think, the
“historical tale” has a somewhat better
chance of success than most of its competitors.
The father, the mother, the uncle, the aunt,
who is choosing a present of this kind,
will often give a preference to a book that
behind its first and obvious purpose of
amusing, has, or is supposed to have, another
more or less latent purpose of instructing.
There is also a very important
demand for school prizes, and the “historical[Pg 102]
tale” has a manifest fitness for supplying
this.
[Choice of
subject]
The dimensions of the book, then,
being settled, the next question is,
what shall be the subject? Greek and
Roman history supply a large choice. And
they have this advantage, that the authorities
which have to be consulted are limited
in number and extent. If I am writing a
tale of the Athenian expedition against
Syracuse, for instance, I know that the
contemporary writers are few, Thucydides,
Xenophon, Aristophanes, two or
three early Orators, while Diodorus Siculus,
Plutarch, and Cornelius Nepos may
also be consulted as secondary authorities.
Acquainted with these, one cannot
be confronted with any neglected authors.
Similarly, for a tale of the days of Nero,
we have Seneca and the elder Pliny
contemporary, and Tacitus nearly so, Suetonius
and Plutarch a generation further
off, and Dio Cassius more remote, but one
who had access to good sources of information.
Here again the limits are narrow.
Still I could not recommend any one not
well provided with classical scholarship to
choose such a theme. There are numberless[Pg 103]
pitfalls. Even authors of ability and
repute are apt to fall into some of them. I
have seldom, for instance, read a story of
Roman life in which the names were not all
confusion.
[Technical
knowledge
necessary]
Something of the same kind of technical
knowledge would be wanted for a tale of
Egyptian or Assyrian life. In these cases
the interest is remote, and the preliminary
knowledge required in the reader rare.
Where nine people know something about
Miltiades, or Pericles, or Alexander, Julius
Cæsar, or Trajan, or Belisarius, scarcely
one has ever heard of Rameses II., or
Amenophis III., or Queen Hatasu.
Jewish history has a fascination; but the
risk of falling below the standard of dignity
required is vast.
[Modern
history]
I suppose the general impulse will be to
take some subject from modern, preferably
from English history; nor do I doubt
that on the whole this will be the best
course for most of those for whom I am
writing. The authorities are accessible,
and with proper industry can be mastered.
Besides industry, however, there must be
facility of access. Private libraries do not
contain the necessary books. And I must[Pg 104]
warn my readers that to make sure of adequate
acquaintance with any period of
English history a very large amount of
reading is needed. And if the acquaintance
is not adequate, there are plenty of experts—and
experts are commonly impatient of
such frivolities as tales—ready to point out
the fact.
Epochs of special interest, as, e.g., the
War of the Roses, the struggle between
Charles I. and his Parliament, the Revolution
of 1688, the Jacobite rebellion, the
Napoleonic wars, offer special attractions.
As a rule, the more recent the time the
easier it is to give an air of reality to the
story.
[Locality]
It will often be found a good plan to take
some locality with which the writer
may happen to be well acquainted, to make
this the scene of the story, and to group the
characters and incidents about some distinguished
person connected with the place.
The story of Wyclif, for instance, in his
latter days, might have the scene laid at
Lutterworth.
[Characters]
Here comes in the question, How far is
the distinguished person to take a part in
the story? The answer will depend a good[Pg 105]
deal upon who he is. A great soldier can
be clearly introduced much more freely than
a great poet. The speech of the man of
action need not have anything very remarkable
about it. It will suffice if it be concise
and vigorous. A poet, on the contrary,
must not be allowed to talk commonplaces.
As a matter of fact, poets often do so talk—non
semper arcum—but they must not
do so in a tale-writer’s pages. If I were
to write a story of Stratford-on-Avon, I
should not venture to do more than let
Shakespeare be seen in his garden.
[Method of
telling]
This suggests the question, Should the
story be told in the first person or the
third? The first person is the more difficult
to manage. Heroines, for instance,
who tell their own stories are often, I have
observed, sadly self-conscious and affected.
They commonly begin by depreciating their
own good looks, and then go on to tell us of
the conquests which their plain faces make.
Young heroes find it equally difficult to
speak of themselves without either bragging
or “’umbleness.” On the other hand, the
first person, if tolerably well managed,
allows greater freedom. I may be permitted
to illustrate this by an experience of my[Pg 106]
own. I once wrote a tale of which the
hero is a young Royalist gentleman who
fought for Charles I. This book being sent
for review to one of the critical journals,
came by some ill chance into the hands of
an historical expert, who has a strong leaning
to the Parliamentary side. The expert
was pleased to say that I did not understand
the nature of the struggle between
Charles and his Parliament. He may have
been right, but there was nothing in the
book to show that I did not understand, for
I had purposely made the young Cavalier
tell his own story. A serene omniscient
person writing in his study at Oxford
doubtless knows all about it, about the belli
causas et vitia et modos; but a hot-headed
young man, who is supposed to give the
impressions of the moment, fresh from exchanging
blows with some equally hot-headed
young Roundhead, being neither
serene nor omniscient, is likely to know
very little. The real mistake would have
been to make him far-seeing and philosophical.
The author will not escape the
critics, at least if these are of the purblind
expert sort, but he will have a good answer
to them. And he will be able also to give a
peculiar liveliness and a spirit to his narrative.[Pg 107]
I remember a story, by the author of
the Schönberg Cotta Family, unless my
memory deceives me, in which the tale is told
in letters by two persons alternately, these
belonging to the factions opposing. But
letters are not a happy vehicle for fiction,
though they have been employed by more
than one great master.
[Style]
From the matter it is an easy transition
to the question of style. In style
it is impossible to be consistent or logical.
If I write a tale of the first Jacobite Rebellion,
I naturally make my characters talk
as people talked in the early years of the
eighteenth century. For this there are
models in abundance, a few of the best kind.
The Spectator papers, for instance, give a
writer exactly what he wants in this respect.
And if he wishes to see how admirably they
can be imitated, let him study Thackeray’s
Esmond, one of the very finest masterpieces
of style that is to be found in English literature.
Go a century back, and the task, if
not quite so easy, is not difficult. The
Authorised Version of the Bible is at hand
for serious writing, and there are pamphlets
and plays for what is lighter. A century
more alters the case. Sir Thomas More’s[Pg 108]
Utopia is available, but to model your style
strictly on the Utopia would be to make it
too archaic. This is, of course, even more
true of time still earlier. The characters in
a tale of Wat Tyler’s rebellion would be
half unintelligible if they talked in the
English of their day, supposing that English
could be reproduced, in itself no easy
matter. One has to take a standard that is
really arbitrary, but still practically keeps
the mean between the modern and the
archaic. For pure dignified English it is
impossible to have a better model than the
Authorised Version, and it may be used
even for times earlier than the seventeenth
century.
The notion of a “whitewashing” some well-known
historical character is attractive to
a writer, but it commonly makes a book
somewhat tiresome. Writing up this or
that theological or ecclesiastical view is
still more to be avoided. This, however,
will not prevent the employment of dramatic
presentation of partisan views.
[Accessories]
You cannot be too careful about accessories,
even of the most trifling character.
I remember making the deplorable
blunder of introducing forks among the[Pg 109]
belongings of an Oxford student of the
fifteenth century. They were not used till
long after that time. With this eminently
practical caution I will conclude my
advice.
ETHICAL NOVELS
Prof. Robert K. Douglas
[Romance
ancient and
modern]
The ethical novel is a natural product
of modern times. In the days when
the world was young, men gave vent to
their fancies in poetical romances, in which
the deeds of gods, goddesses, and heroes
formed the staple themes. Homer’s inspired
verses and Eastern romances, in which gods
in the intervals of their amours battle with
demons for the possession of mankind,
exist to remind us of the kind of heroic
pageants which interested and entranced the
warlike Greek and the swarthy warriors of
Asia. As civilisation advanced, doubts crept
in as to the very existence of the heroes in
which earlier generations had delighted, and
minstrels and writers descended from the
clouds, and tuned their harps and guided
their pens to record the doughty deeds of[Pg 110]
their leaders on the hard-fought fields of
their nations’ records. At such a time men
desired rather to be startled and thrilled
than to be taught to reflect and discriminate,
and the old blood-and-thunder novel exactly
suited their taste.
[Painting]
The history of painting runs a nearly
parallel course with that of literature.
Like fiction, the painter’s art received its first
glowing inspirations from the current legends
of celestial beings, and passed through
successive stages until the comparatively
modern phase was reached in which striking
effects and startling situations became the
principal stocks-in-trade. As in literature,
this intermediate condition gave way to the
expression of ideas rather than of physical
force, and artists, like novelists, were led to
aim at representing carefully drawn characters
and suggestive surroundings. In
the novels of the last century we see a
gradual development of this stage of the
novelist’s art. Any one who takes the
trouble to compare Richardson’s Pamela
with Fielding’s Joseph Andrews and
Smollett’s Peregrine Pickle, will recognise
the advance which took its rise when
Queen Anne sat on the throne, and which[Pg 111]
has continued in obedience to the law of
progress unchecked to the present day.
[Early
writers of
ethical
romance]
[Scott]
A wide gulf, however, separates these
writers from the novelists of the beginning
of the nineteenth century. The whole method
of Miss Edgeworth and Jane Austen, for
example, is different from that employed by
the earlier generation of authors. Instead of
exciting interest by indelicacies and maintaining
it by ribaldry, they sought to win
attention by careful delineation of character
and genuine humour. It was this new
development of romance which made the
ethical novel possible. Amid the hurly-burly
of strife and the warlike deeds of
gods and men, there was no room for philosophical
musings or ethical teachings. But
when the scenes were changed to ladies’
drawing-rooms, the parsonage-house, and
the course of daily life, it became easy to
point a moral while adorning a tale. Miss
Edgeworth may claim to be the first writer
of ethical romance, and in her quiet and
humorous pages she succeeds in levelling
many a home-thrust against the evils which
beset her time. In her Castle Rackrent
she lays bare the mischief of Irish extravagance
and absenteeism, while in her
Tales from Fashionable Life she holds up[Pg 112]
to ridicule and scorn the empty frivolities and
the manifest absurdities which pervaded the
higher ranks of society. Jane Austen in a
less obtrusive way succeeds in adding equally
effective morals to her delightful stories.
The bitter consequences which follow evil
doings are plainly set out in her pages, and
the needless misery inflicted by the indulgence
of the mean passions is portrayed
with singular felicity. It is, however, impossible
not to recognise that both Miss
Austen’s and Miss Edgeworth’s novels suffer,
as works of art, by the prominent motives
which guided the pens of their authors. It
is not every one who is able so to subordinate
the intended moral to the due working out
of the story as in no way to interfere with
the plot. The greatest novelists have unquestionably
been those who set themselves
directly to describe men and women as
nature has made them, without any undue
regard to the goal to which the instincts and
actions of the characters may lead them.
Sir Walter Scott is an instance in point.
No one will deny the extent of the influence
which he has exercised in all four continents
of the world, and yet it is difficult to point
to a single passage in his works in which
he expressed any direct ethical teaching[Pg 113]
Only once, so far as we recollect, he chose
to tack a moral on to one of his novels, and
that was when at the end of The Heart of
Midlothian he addressed these words to
the reader. “This tale will not be told in
vain, if it shall be found to illustrate the
great truth, that guilt, though it may attain
temporal splendour can never confer real
happiness; that the evil consequences of
our crimes long survive their commission,
and, like the ghosts of the murdered,
forever haunt the steps of the malefactor;
and that the paths of virtue, though seldom
those of worldly greatness are always those
of pleasantness and peace.”
[Dickens]
It perhaps may be advanced in opposition
to what has been said that Dickens, one
of the greatest novelists of the century,
wrote several of his novels with an ethical
intention. But he was one of a happy few
who wrote fiction, as Hogarth painted and
drew moral lessons on his canvas, with a
skill which excites the admiration of all
those who rightly understand the difficulty
of the task. Many artists have attempted
to follow in Hogarth’s steps, and have failed
ignominiously, just as writers without end
have attempted to imitate the methods of[Pg 114]
Dickens and have fallen lamentably short of
their great exemplar. Who but Dickens
could have drawn the pathetic picture of
Oliver Twist, and the bumptious and ignorant
tyranny of Bumble and the guardians without
losing the perspective of the story
which is so well maintained throughout.
After all, however, his best novels are
those which are written without any distinctly
ethical motive. Pickwick Papers
and Martin Chuzzlewit are unquestionably
his masterpieces; and though Nicholas
Nickleby dealt an effective blow at Yorkshire
schools, and Bleak House pilloried
the evils of the Court of Chancery, and
Hard Times showed up the fallacies of
the Manchester School, they all, as literary
works of art, pay the penalty of the good
that is in them.
[Thackeray]
Like his great contemporary, though
in a very different style, Thackeray
throughout his writings strove to enforce
a sound ethical teaching as Mr. Leslie
Stephen writes of him:—“In short his
writings mean if they mean anything, that
the love of a wife and child and friend is
the one sacred element in our nature, of
infinitely higher price than anything that[Pg 115]
can come into competition with it; and
that “Vanity Fair” is what it is precisely
because it stimulates the pursuit of objects
frivolous and unsatisfying just so far as they
imply indifference to these emotions.
As every reader of Thackeray knows his
pages are full of moralisings on the failings
and faults of mankind. But only in one
passage does he treat his subject in a
directly ethical way. At the close of a
long conversation between Warrington and
Arthur, the latter is convicted of being an
apostle of general scepticism and sneering
acquiescence in the world as it is. “And
to what does this easy and sceptical life lead
a man?” adds the novelist. “Friend Arthur
was a Sadducee, and the Baptist might be
in the wilderness shouting to the poor, who
were listening with all their might and faith to
the preacher’s awful accents and denunciation
of wrath or woe or salvation; and our friend
the Sadducee would turn his sleek mule with
a shrug and a smile from the crowd and go
home to the shade of his terrace, and muse
over preacher and audience, and turn to his
roll of Plato or his pleasant Greek song-book
babbling of honey and Hybla, and nymphs
and fountains and love. To what we say
does this scepticism lead? It leads a man[Pg 116]
to a shameful loneliness and selfishness, so
to speak—the more shameful because it is so
good-humoured and conscienceless and serene.
Conscience! What is Conscience? Why
accept remorse? What is public or private
faith? Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous
tradition. If seeing and acknowledging
the lives of the world, Arthur, as see them
you can, with only too fatal a clearness, you
submit to them without any protest farther
than a laugh: if plunged yourself in easy
sensuality, you allow the wretched world to
pass groaning by you unmoved: if the fight
for the truth is taking place, and all men of
honour are on the ground armed on the one
side or the other, and you alone are to lie on
your balcony and smoke your pipe out of the
noise and the danger, you had better have
died, or never have been at all, than such a
sensual coward.”
But for the most part Thackeray rather
allows his ethical teachings to be implied
than directly enforced. For every kind of
meanness he has nothing but words of
scathing scorn and all wrong doers and
wrong doings he castigates with merciless
indignation. He exposes all that is untrue
with quiet and bitter sarcasm, and in the
inimitable pictures which he draws of life[Pg 117]
and character, indicates an honest and
wholesome moral for all of those who care to
discover it.
[Charles
Kingsley]
Of a very different temper and disposition
was that great ethical
novelist Charles Kingsley. A devoted
apostle of humanity he preached and spoke
and wrote incessantly on the wrongs which
he saw being inflicted on the weakest and
least helpful of his fellow-men. The sight
of contractors and manufacturers sweating
their employés, and of starving their vital
force by crowding them into unwholesome
and insufficient rooms; of farmers beating
their labourers down to the very lowest
wages and of housing them in insanitary and
in indecent cottages, roused his indignation
to the full. In burning eloquence whether
in the pulpit or on the platform or at his
study table he denounced the oppression of
the weak and the wrongs which were being
inflicted on those who were least able to help
themselves. His novels were, as his sermons,
mainly directed to this great object.
In them he tried to impress upon landlords
and employers that their dependants were
men and brothers, and with exquisite tenderness
and sympathy he described over and[Pg 118]
over again the horrors of those slums of
which we hear so much now; of the evils of
those door-posts which stand sentry over
those squalid alleys, the gin palace and the
pawnbroker’s shop.
[Kingsley’s
creed]
But he had another lesson to teach, and
there he sympathised with Thackeray. The
sanctity of family life was to him a leading
feature in his religion. As he writes in his
dedicatory preface in Hypatia “family and
national life are the two divine roots of the
church, severed from which she is sure to
wither away into that most godless and cruel
of spectres, a religious world.” The neo-Platonism
with which he was so strongly
imbued introduced many strange mystic ideas
into his religious and social creeds. That
the human relations of husband and wife,
and parent and child were eternal implied to
his mind that they had existed from all time
and would extend to the end of all things.
They were therefore in his faith spiritual,
sacramental, divine, eternal. The influence
which his writings exercised on high and low,
on rich and poor was great and far-reaching.
He achieved, therefore, the one object he
sought when he wrote Alton Locke and his
other masterpieces. But it must be admitted
that in the eagerness with which he[Pg 119]
preached he forgot at times the novelist’s art,
and though some of the passages in which
he points his morals read almost as though
they were inspired, there is not one of his
novels which does not suffer from his ecstatic
moods.
[The novel
of Reform]
To men and women of sympathetic temperaments
and ready pens, the temptation
to sermonise on the evils and wrongs
of the world around them must be well nigh
irresistible, and what more easy and telling
way can there possibly be than by haranguing
their fellow-men in fiction! To seriously
minded novelists, the unbelief which they see
spreading like a flood about them, suggests
at once an object-lesson romance, in which
the heretical young curate who has strayed
into the paths of Buddhism or wandered
with the lost sheep into the by-ways of
Deism or Dissent shall be restored to the
true fold by arguments which are urged with
the full energy of conviction and are combated
with weak and halting rejoinders. The
unprejudiced reader may consider the method
faulty, and that art has been sacrificed to
exposition, but the author and his friends
insist on the public swallowing the dose with
all the severity of Mrs. Squeers. The[Pg 120]
English public are not altogether averse to
the presence of a modicum of moral teaching,
but they like to have the powder well
concealed or only half revealed in the preserve
of plot and interest, and have reason
to complain if that which was meant to
be the less proves to be equal to the
whole.
[The
naturalistic
school]
Drunkenness and vice are often common
themes of the ethical novelist. An older
generation of writers devoted their energies
to gibbeting the inequalities and maladministration
of the laws; and to picturing
the evils and cruelties of game preserving.
Dickens, as we have seen, denounced in
his novels the administration of the workhouse
and the delays of the Courts of
Chancery; and Charles Reade inveighed
through the mouths of his characters
against the Prison system and the Lunacy
enactments. These motives are too abstract
for the present-day novelist. He, or
more commonly she, delights to descend
from the general to the particular, and to
follow the drunkard into the gin palace,
and the most abandoned profligates into
the lowest haunts of vice. These are
unquestionable evils and should on all
accounts be rather indicated than described[Pg 121]
in detail. What good can it do to analyse
and dwell upon every disgusting feature
in a drunken debauch, and every prurient
phase in the downward course of sin?
The naturalistic school has much to answer
for in this regard. Zola and his followers,
especially his followers, have brought into
fashion a style of novel which has become
a plague spot in our civilisation, and
through their instrumentality young girls
and boys are, under the guise of moral
teaching, made acquainted with forms of
vice of which, but for their ethical teachers,
they would be entirely ignorant. Subjects
are now discussed in ladies’ drawing-rooms
and at dinner-tables, which were never so
much as hinted at a couple of decades ago.
Blasphemous views of religion, theories of
creation and evolution, analyses of the
passions, and strange doctrines concerning
the sexual instinct, are all discussed with a
freedom which leaves little to the imagination.
It is true that the authors bring the unholy
subjects on the stage with the professed
purpose of annihilating them one after the
other; but as in the process sometimes
followed by vivisectionists of introducing
poisons into the system of the animals
experimented on, for the purpose of proving[Pg 122]
the effects of antidotes, it sometimes happens
that the views of evil suggested in the sort
of novel we are speaking of resist the
counterbalancing influences of the moral
strictures of the authors. In a recent
number of the Nineteenth Century Mr.
Frederick Greenwood describes a novel up
to date which an authoress has been induced
much against her will to write, and
in which she appears in the frontispiece
covering her face with her hands for very
shame, and on the last page is represented
kneeling at her infant’s bed praying for
forgiveness. If all who wrote on the unsavoury
subjects indicated by Mr. Greenwood
observed the attitude of his authoress we
should see little of the features of a good
many ladies who are at present evidently
quite unconscious of any desire to veil their
countenances. Such writers are bad enough,
but a lower level is reached by those who
deliberately write on more than risky
matters because they pay. It is difficult to
exchange compliments with such mercenary
providers of social garbage, and they are
best left to the rebukes of such consciences
as they possess.
[Pg 123]
Naturalism and irreverence are unquestionably
the crying evils of
modern fiction. And it by no means follows
that they are essential to the construction
of the ethical novel. Mr. Leslie Stephen
has said that to be a good writer a man
must be a preacher; and surely there are
enough subjects to preach about without
touching on unsavoury topics. Are not
men and women prone to faults of character,
besides those of unlawful passion and open
rebellion against God; and are there not
social wrongs and inequalities to be inveighed
against. It is not every one who
can hope to see a palace arise in response
to a discourse on the evils which beset all
sorts and conditions of men, but every
novelist worthy of his fame can do something
to warn his fellow-men of the faults
and failings which lead to the downward
paths of sin and misery, and to throw a light
on the way of those who are fighting manfully
for all that is true, honest, and of good
report.
[Pg 124]
FROM THE EDITOR’S
STANDPOINT
L. T. Meade
[A
practical
point]
I feel a particular pleasure in writing
this paper. In the articles which have
preceded mine, valuable hints have been
given for the guidance of the fictionist.
Broad rules have been laid down, and some
of that personal experience, far more valuable
than mere empty rules, has been related
for the benefit of the student. I have
written stories of all sorts, and can endorse
the excellence of the suggestions given.
But in this paper I want to touch on a very
practical point indeed, namely, how best the
fiction writer, when he has produced his
work, can dispose of it.
To effect this most desirable end, he has
got to please either a publisher or an editor.
I have had a great deal to do with publishers,
and find them most kind and encouraging
when they are approached in a proper business
spirit. But as I am not a publisher,
and have been an editor, I can perhaps best
help my readers by telling them a few of my
own experiences during several years.
[Pg 125]
[Writing for
magazines]
Articles of all sorts, written by all
classes of people, are offered to magazines.
A comparatively small number are
accepted, for the simple reason that a magazine
can only hold a certain amount of
letter-press; and not all the cramming and
pushing and squeezing in the world will
allow an extra line to be printed, if the pages
of the magazine are already full.
This patent fact is quite forgotten by
would-be contributors, who feel themselves
aggrieved when this most truthful reason is
given for the return of their articles. In
exceptional cases of striking brilliancy
room of course is made for the article, but
brilliant articles, like brilliant people, interfere
but seldom with the ordinary routine. Magazines,
however, are so numerous that the
chances of average work being accepted become
greater day by day, and as there is no
better opening for a young writer than to
become a contributor to a good magazine,
he ought to leave no stone unturned to
effect this desirable end. By so doing, he
has the opportunity of having his work
immediately presented to an assured public.
A book, however clever, has to find its own
public, and this—except in a few cases—is a
slow and laborious process. It is a mistaken[Pg 126]
idea that books are sold in thousands. This
is only the case with authors who have made
a very wide reputation. The magazine is,
therefore, the best opening for the young
writer, and the sooner he knows the right
way to set to work to get his articles taken,
the better.
[Pitfalls to
avoid]
Primarily, of course, he must have
the necessary talent, or, at least, the
knack of gauging popular taste, but, granted
that he possesses this important gift, it is
well for him to know certain pitfalls into
which he may stumble.
To quote from my own Editorial experience
may be the best method of showing
some of these.
[Rejected
contributions]
A contribution like the following was not
accepted, although the author had a great
deal of learning, and other valuable qualifications
to recommend him. An epic poem to
run as a serial through six months of the
magazine—to occupy six pages monthly, printed
double column; the subject to be devoted to a
description of Indian life. For quite different
reasons the following proposal was also rejected—a
series of six papers on “Rogues,”
in which every type of wickedness was elaborately
discussed. Neither of these subjects[Pg 127]
was in the least suitable for the magazine to
which they were offered, and the writers who
sent them made the grand mistake of knowing
nothing of the periodical to which they
offered their contributions. Their work,
however excellent it may have been, was
useless to us, and a glance at our magazine
would have told them this, for themselves.
[Different
classes of
contributors]
Another class of would-be contributor
is the utterly silly person who thinks
that it would be great fun to have something
in print, and imagines that this desirable
result can be attained with no labour or previous
study. On a certain summer’s afternoon,
my co-editor and I were startled by
hearing violent giggles outside the office
door. Presently two blushing, rosy-faced
girls entered. The spokeswoman said she
didn’t know our magazine at all—she had
never written anything before in her life,
but she and her friend thought they would
like to make an attempt, if we would give
them something to do. We were to suggest
a subject, they did not mind in the least what
they wrote about. I need scarcely say that
the services of these accomplished ladies
were not secured.
[The obtuse]
The obtuse, though earnest-minded aspirant[Pg 128]
is also a hopeless example. Her utter
lack of perception as to what is necessary
for periodical literature makes it useless to
argue with her, and hopeless to advise her.
I recall a case in point. I was asked to give
advice on the desirability of the applicant’s
resigning a good post as resident governess
with a large salary, in favour of literature.
I inquired if she had had much experience
as a writer, and if she had been encouraged
by the success of her books.
The lady in question stared at me with
round eyes.
“I have never printed a word in my life,”
she said; “but I am tired of teaching, and
should like to take up literature. I have
brought a little article with me, which you
may care to see. The subject I am sure
ought to interest—it is on Hamlet.”
I gently begged my would-be contributor
not to throw up the certainty of earning a
comfortable living as a governess until she
had tested her powers a little further. I
promised to read her expositions on Hamlet,
and she withdrew. I need scarcely say
what the result of my perusal was.
An amateur’s treatment of Hamlet was
scarcely likely to possess anything fresh to
recommend it. I was obliged to return the[Pg 129]
Paper with the mildest of hints that this
subject was rather used up. Why must
beginners in the great Art of Literature try
to give their puny ideas on those giant
problems over which the greatest minds have
thought and puzzled, and thought and puzzled
in vain? Nobody wants their poor little ideas,
which are after all only feeble reflections of
the thoughts of greater minds. Such papers
are only suited for Amateur Essay Societies.
[Three
requisites]
Equally silly are the writers who
choose hackneyed topics that have been
discussed and worn threadbare years ago.
Such is the writer who offers a series of
twelve Papers on the Higher Education of
Women, or Woman’s Suffrage, or the Poetry
of Wordsworth. The Papers that find favour
with Editors must first be fresh as regards
Subject, second, be fresh as regards Style,
third, fresh as regards Idea. The writer
who possesses this triple gift, requires no
further hints to tell him how and where to
succeed. Success with him is a certainty.
[What not
to do]
Perhaps the best way to emphasise the
above remarks is to tell my readers
what to do and what not to do.
Do not send an article to a magazine until[Pg 130]
you have first looked through at least one of
its numbers; carefully observe its tone, try
to gather for yourself what its motive is, and
to what sort of public it appeals. If after
a short or a long perusal you discover that
you and it are not in touch—that its scope
is too wide for you, or your thoughts are too
big for its limits, leave it alone, and try your
luck somewhere else.
When you write, don’t fly too high. Get
a subject into your head and feel that, small
as this subject may be, you have something
either useful or amusing to say about it.
Do not write a poem on April, and send
it for insertion in the April number of a
magazine on the day that number issues
from the press. This has been a constant
experience in my Editorial life. Try to remember,
if you know it already, and try to
learn the fact if you do not, that magazines
take a certain number of days to print, and
that, as a rule, the number is practically
made up weeks, and sometimes months before
publication.
[False
humility]
When you offer a contribution to sin
Editor, do not have resource to a
sort of false humility, which some writers
are fond of adopting. For instance, I have[Pg 131]
received letters with offers of verses which
the writer deprecates as “unworthy of publication,
and only fit for the waste-paper
basket,” nevertheless, I am expected to read
them, and give a critical opinion, because the
friends of the writer in question have urged
him or her as the case may be, to forward
them. This false humility is always prejudicial
to the would-be contributor.
[Be
business-like]
In offering contributions be as terse and
business-like as possible. Editors have
hearts, and sometimes these hearts are
made to ache pretty considerably. But first
and foremost an Editor, if he is a good one,
must be business-like. He has to place the
interests of the magazine before your private
wants, however pressing and painful they
may be to yourself. I feel that I am saying
cruel things when I write like this, but they
are true, and if I would really help you, you
must know the truth.
There would be no magazines worth
reading if MSS. were accepted on such
pleas, and yet they are constantly being
urged.
Try to think of yourself as a merchant
who has something of value for sale. The
Editor represents the public, who want to[Pg 132]
buy. He will quickly appreciate you if he
sees that you can give him what his readers
want, and, believe me, he will never care
for you, as a writer, on any other grounds,
whatever.
“My dear,” an old lady and a very celebrated
author said to me many years ago,
“please bear one fact in mind. Your Publisher
or your Editor may love you as well
as himself, but he will never love you
better.”
Now the Editor or Publisher who takes
unsuitable work from a mere sense of pity,
inevitably courts financial disaster, and he
can scarcely be expected to love the would-be
contributor to that extent.
[Introductions]
I should like to say a word here with
regard to Introductions. Many people
who wish to write have an idea that an introduction
from a successful author is “Open
Sesame!” to the world of literature. This
is a vast mistake. You stand or fall on your
own merits, and on those only. The utmost
your influential friends can do for you is to
get your MS. looked at. If it is silly or
unsuitable, back it goes just as surely as if
it had not been supported by any great
name. This is a fact which is worth knowing.
[Pg 133]
I am afraid I must mention one more
don’t.
One last
don’t
Don’t send a MS. to a very busy Editor,
with the remark that you know it is unsuitable,
but you would be so much obliged if
he would read it carefully, and give you his
candid opinion as to whether you have got
the literary faculty or not. Editors are
usually kind-hearted, and don’t like to refuse
requests of this sort. But do the people
who worry them with ill-written, bulky and
all but illegible MSS., realise what a large
demand they are making upon valuable
time, and by what right they demand a
professional opinion from, in many cases, a
total stranger? The same people would
be much shocked if they were told that
they expected advice from their doctor or
lawyer for nothing, and yet the Author or
Editor who has amassed his knowledge
through years of patient toil, must give it
away to any one who has the impertinence
to ask for it. I feel strongly on this point,
for in very truth it is, as a rule, casting
pearls before swine, as those who could be
really helped with advantage are generally
far too modest to ask for such assistance.
[Pg 134]
[The short
story]
I should recommend all those fiction-writers
who are anxious to obtain
magazine work, to turn their attention to
the short complete story, and to avoid for
many a day all attempts at Serial fiction.
A Short Story, if good, is likely to find a
market somewhere—but then it must be
good—by this I mean terse and full of plot,
without a single unnecessary word, and with
the whole range of subject clearly mapped
out in the author’s mind before a word is
written. The short story can be a character
sketch, although this is very often intensely
stupid, and has a by-way of clever air about
it, which quickly vanishes as you approach
it, or it can be a good exciting incident with
plenty of movement.
The
“pretty-pretty”
school
For Heaven’s sake don’t let your friends
say of your short story, “How pretty!”
The “goody-goody” school has had its day,
and is laughed out of fashion, but the
“pretty-pretty” still flourishes in full vigour,
though in its own way it is quite as objectionable.
Avoid mere prettiness as you do all
those things which lead to destruction. The
merely pretty writer gets weaker and weaker
the older he grows, until at last he is sheer
inanity. It is a good plan to be in a certain[Pg 135]
sense a specialist, and to take up a line
which has not already been done to death.
Whatever you are, be true; write about
things you know of; don’t sit in your drawing-room
and invent an impossible scene in
a London garret. If you want to talk of
hunger and cold and the depths of sordid
privation, go at least and see them, if you
cannot feel them. Don’t write high-flown
sentiments. It would be far more interesting
to the world if you told quite simply what
you really know. Tell of the life that you
have lived—let others see it from your point
of view. Each one who has the power to
write has also a lesson to deliver. However
small that lesson may be tell it with simplicity.
If it rings true, you have done your
part well.
It is a good plan to avoid morbid writing.
This is a failing often to be seen in the
works of the very young. Be as cheerful
as you can; we want all the sunshine we
can get.
[Fiction as a
profession]
If you want to take up fiction as a profession,
write a little bit every day,
whether you are in the mood or not. Put
your story into a frame—by this I mean
make up your mind in advance what length it[Pg 136]
shall be, and stick to that length, whether
you feel inclined to go farther or not. This
is very good practice.
[Methods of
work]
Try, if possible, to see the end of your
story before you begin to write it. This is
a good plan, for it keeps the motive clear
and unwavering. It is also the surest way
of exciting a strong interest. Avoid long
descriptive bits, more particularly descriptions
of scenery. You need to be a Richard
Jeffries to do your scenery descriptions so
that other people shall see them, shall feel
the breezes blowing, and hear the singing
of the birds. To write in this style is a
special gift, given to very few.
[Character
drawing]
I have always found in writing my own
stories, that there came a certain point
when the characters ceased to be machines,
and began to live. They were flesh and
blood, creations as real as those I lived with.
I hated some of them, and loved others.
All those characters that remained merely
puppets I eliminated from the story; they
were useless to its progress, they took from
its effect. When your characters become
alive to you, as they will to all those who
have even the slightest touch of inspiration
in writing, you will find a strange thing[Pg 137]
happen. They will begin to dominate you,
not you them. They will grow in spite of
you, and take a certain direction and fulfil
their destinies just as surely as if they really
lived. You may wish to make a villain of a
certain character, but in spite of you he may
turn out a saint or vice-versâ. This is a
mystery which I cannot pretend to account
for, but I think all fiction writers have felt it
more or less. And what is more, the better
and stronger the story grows, the more will
the characters dominate their author, and
turn him whither they will.
[Daily
practice]
Inspiration is the grandest of all
gifts for the fiction writer, but he must
not suppose that it comes daily, and if he
never writes except when he thinks it has
visited him, he will seldom or never write
at all. Again I repeat that daily practice
in writing is the best of all training. It is
wonderful how this daily practice overcomes
difficulties, one by one. How supple the
mind becomes, how easy is the flow of
language, how completely the writer masters
the difficult problem of concentration of
thought.
But I could go on talking indefinitely
and, after all, although a few broad rules are[Pg 138]
necessary and useful, each man must be his
own teacher—each life must inculcate its
own lessons, and bring forth its own fruit.
“The end
crowns all”
If to ability is added courage, and to
courage perseverance, you will succeed;
and I hope to shake hands with you in
spirit over the good work you have accomplished.
Printed byBallantyne, Hanson & Co. London & Edinburgh.