The Certain Hour | Page 4

FELLOW?--What matter names??He is only a scribbler who is content.
FELIX KENNASTON. The Toy-Maker .
AUCTORIAL INDUCTION
WHICH (AFTER SOME BRIEF DISCOURSE OF FIRES AND?FRYING-PANS) ELUCIDATES THE INEXPEDIENCY OF?PUBLISHING THIS BOOK, AS WELL AS THE NECESSITY?OF WRITING IT: AND THENCE PASSES TO A MODEST?DEFENSE OF MORE VITAL THEMES.
The desire to write perfectly of beautiful happenings?is, as the saying runs, old as the hills--and as?immortal. Questionless, there was many a serviceable?brick wasted in Nineveh because finicky persons must?needs be deleting here and there a phrase in favor of?its cuneatic synonym; and it is not improbable that?when the outworn sun expires in clinkers its final ray?will gild such zealots tinkering with their "style."?Some few there must be in every age and every land of?whom life claims nothing very insistently save that?they write perfectly of beautiful happenings.
Yet, that the work of a man of letters is almost?always a congenial product of his day and environment,?is a contention as lacking in novelty as it is in?the need of any upholding here. Nor is the rationality?of that axiom far to seek; for a man of genuine?literary genius, since he possesses a temperament whose?susceptibilities are of wider area than those of any?other, is inevitably of all people the one most?variously affected by his surroundings. And it is he,?in consequence, who of all people most faithfully and?compactly exhibits the impress of his times and his?times' tendencies, not merely in his writings--where it?conceivably might be just predetermined affectation--?but in his personality.
Such being the assumption upon which this volume is?builded, it appears only equitable for the architect?frankly to indicate his cornerstone. Hereinafter you?have an attempt to depict a special temperament--one in?essence "literary"--as very variously molded by diverse?eras and as responding in proportion with its ability?to the demands of a certain hour.
In proportion with its ability, be it repeated,?since its ability is singularly hampered. For, apart?from any ticklish temporal considerations, be it?remembered, life is always claiming of this?temperament's possessor that he write perfectly of?beautiful happenings.
To disregard this vital longing, and flatly to?stifle the innate striving toward artistic creation, is?to become (as with Wycherley and Sheridan) a man who?waives, however laughingly, his sole apology for?existence. The proceeding is paltry enough, in all?conscience; and yet, upon the other side, there is?much positive danger in giving to the instinct a?loose rein. For in that event the familiar?circumstances of sedate and wholesome living cannot but?seem, like paintings viewed too near, to lose in gusto?and winsomeness. Desire, perhaps a craving hunger,?awakens for the impossible. No emotion, whatever be?its sincerity, is endured without a side-glance toward?its capabilities for being written about. The world,?in short, inclines to appear an ill-lit mine, wherein?one quarries gingerly amidst an abiding loneliness (as?with Pope and Ufford and Sire Raimbaut)--and wherein?one very often is allured into unsavory alleys (as with?Herrick and Alessandro de Medici)--in search of that?raw material which loving labor will transshape into?comeliness.
Such, if it be allowed to shift the metaphor, are?the treacherous by-paths of that admirably policed?highway whereon the well-groomed and well-bitted Pegasi?of Vanderhoffen and Charteris (in his later manner)?trot stolidly and safely toward oblivion. And the?result of wandering afield is of necessity a tragedy,?in that the deviator's life, if not as an artist's?quite certainly as a human being's, must in the outcome?be adjudged a failure.
Hereinafter, then, you have an attempt to depict a?special temperament--one in essence "literary"--as very?variously molded by diverse eras and as responding in?proportion with its ability to the demands of a certain?hour.
II
And this much said, it is permissible to hope, at?least, that here and there some reader may be found not?wholly blind to this book's goal, whatever be his?opinion as to this book's success in reaching it. Yet?many honest souls there be among us average-novelreaders?in whose eyes this volume must rest content to?figure as a collection of short stories having naught?in common beyond the feature that each deals with the?affaires du coeur of a poet.
Such must always be the book's interpretation by?mental indolence. The fact is incontestable; and this?fact in itself may be taken as sufficient to establish?the inexpediency of publishing The Certain Hour. For?that "people will not buy a volume of short stories" is?notorious to all publishers. To offset the axiom there?are no doubt incongruous phenomena--ranging from the?continued popularity of the Bible to the present?general esteem of Mr. Kipling, and embracing the rather?unaccountable vogue of "O. Henry";--but, none the?less, the superstition has its force.
Here intervenes the multifariousness of man,?pointed out somewhere by Mr. Gilbert Chesterton,?which enables the individual to be at once a?vegetarian, a golfer, a vestryman, a blond, a mammal, a?Democrat, and an immortal spirit. As a rational?person, one may debonairly consider The Certain Hour?possesses as large license to look like a volume of?short stories as, say, a backgammon-board has to its?customary guise of a two-volume history; but as an?average-novel-reader, one must vote otherwise. As an?average-novel-reader, one must condemn the very book?which, as a seasoned scribbler, one