Notes on Life and Letters | Page 6

by creating for himself a world, great or little, in which he can honestly
believe. This world cannot be made otherwise than in his own image: it
is fated to remain individual and a little mysterious, and yet it must
resemble something already familiar to the experience, the thoughts
and the sensations of his readers. At the heart of fiction, even the least
worthy of the name, some sort of truth can be found--if only the truth
of a childish theatrical ardour in the game of life, as in the novels of
Dumas the father. But the fair truth of human delicacy can be found in
Mr. Henry James's novels; and the comical, appalling truth of human
rapacity let loose amongst the spoils of existence lives in the monstrous
world created by Balzac. The pursuit of happiness by means lawful and
unlawful, through resignation or revolt, by the clever manipulation of
conventions or by solemn hanging on to the skirts of the latest scientific
theory, is the only theme that can be legitimately developed by the
novelist who is the chronicler of the adventures of mankind amongst
the dangers of the kingdom of the earth. And the kingdom of this earth
itself, the ground upon which his individualities stand, stumble, or die,
must enter into his scheme of faithful record. To encompass all this in
one harmonious conception is a great feat; and even to attempt it
deliberately with serious intention, not from the senseless prompting of
an ignorant heart, is an honourable ambition. For it requires some
courage to step in calmly where fools may be eager to rush. As a
distinguished and successful French novelist once observed of fiction,
"C'est un art TROP difficile."
It is natural that the novelist should doubt his ability to cope with his

task. He imagines it more gigantic than it is. And yet literary creation
being only one of the legitimate forms of human activity has no value
but on the condition of not excluding the fullest recognition of all the
more distinct forms of action. This condition is sometimes forgotten by
the man of letters, who often, especially in his youth, is inclined to lay
a claim of exclusive superiority for his own amongst all the other tasks
of the human mind. The mass of verse and prose may glimmer here and
there with the glow of a divine spark, but in the sum of human effort it
has no special importance. There is no justificative formula for its
existence any more than for any other artistic achievement. With the
rest of them it is destined to be forgotten, without, perhaps, leaving the
faintest trace. Where a novelist has an advantage over the workers in
other fields of thought is in his privilege of freedom--the freedom of
expression and the freedom of confessing his innermost beliefs--which
should console him for the hard slavery of the pen.
III.
Liberty of imagination should be the most precious possession of a
novelist. To try voluntarily to discover the fettering dogmas of some
romantic, realistic, or naturalistic creed in the free work of its own
inspiration, is a trick worthy of human perverseness which, after
inventing an absurdity, endeavours to find for it a pedigree of
distinguished ancestors. It is a weakness of inferior minds when it is
not the cunning device of those who, uncertain of their talent, would
seek to add lustre to it by the authority of a school. Such, for instance,
are the high priests who have proclaimed Stendhal for a prophet of
Naturalism. But Stendhal himself would have accepted no limitation of
his freedom. Stendhal's mind was of the first order. His spirit above
must be raging with a peculiarly Stendhalesque scorn and indignation.
For the truth is that more than one kind of intellectual cowardice hides
behind the literary formulas. And Stendhal was pre-eminently
courageous. He wrote his two great novels, which so few people have
read, in a spirit of fearless liberty.
It must not be supposed that I claim for the artist in fiction the freedom
of moral Nihilism. I would require from him many acts of faith of

which the first would be the cherishing of an undying hope; and hope,
it will not be contested, implies all the piety of effort and renunciation.
It is the God-sent form of trust in the magic force and inspiration
belonging to the life of this earth. We are inclined to forget that the way
of excellence is in the intellectual, as distinguished from emotional,
humility. What one feels so hopelessly barren in declared pessimism is
just its arrogance. It seems as if the discovery made by many men at
various times that there is much evil in the world were a source of
proud and unholy joy unto some of