The Certain Hour | Page 5

was moved to write?through long consideration of the drama already?suggested--that immemorial drama of the desire to write?perfectly of beautiful happenings, and the obscure?martyrdom to which this desire solicits its possessor.
Now, clearly, the struggle of a special temperament?with a fixed force does not forthwith begin another?story when the locale of combat shifts. The case is,?rather, as when--with certainly an intervening change?of apparel--Pompey fights Caesar at both Dyrrachium and?Pharsalus, or as when General Grant successively?encounters General Lee at the Wilderness,?Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor and Appomattox. The?combatants remain unchanged, the question at issue is?the same, the tragedy has continuity. And even so,?from the time of Sire Raimbaut to that of John?Charteris has a special temperament heart-hungrily?confronted an ageless problem: at what cost now, in?this fleet hour of my vigor, may one write perfectly of?beautiful happenings?
Thus logic urges, with pathetic futility, inasmuch?as we average-novel-readers are profoundly indifferent?to both logic and good writing. And always the fact?remains that to the mentally indolent this book may?well seem a volume of disconnected short stories. All?of us being more or less mentally indolent, this?possibility constitutes a dire fault.
Three other damning objections will readily obtrude?themselves: The Certain Hour deals with past?epochs--beginning before the introduction of dinnerforks,?and ending at that remote quaint period when?people used to waltz and two-step--dead eras in which?we average-novel-readers are not interested; The?Certain Hour assumes an appreciable amount of culture?and information on its purchaser's part, which we?average-novel-readers either lack or, else, are?unaccustomed to employ in connection with reading for?pastime; and--in our eyes the crowning misdemeanor--?The Certain Hour is not "vital."
Having thus candidly confessed these faults?committed as the writer of this book, it is still?possible in human multifariousness to consider their?enormity, not merely in this book, but in fictional?reading-matter at large, as viewed by an average-novelreader?--by a representative of that potent class whose?preferences dictate the nature and main trend of modern?American literature. And to do this, it may be, throws?no unsalutary sidelight upon the still-existent?problem: at what cost, now, may one attempt to write?perfectly of beautiful happenings?
III
Indisputably the most striking defect of this?modern American literature is the fact that the?production of anything at all resembling literature is?scarcely anywhere apparent. Innumerable printingpresses,?instead, are turning out a vast quantity of?reading-matter, the candidly recognized purpose of?which is to kill time, and which--it has been asserted,?though perhaps too sweepingly--ought not to be vended?over book-counters, but rather in drugstores along with?the other narcotics.
It is begging the question to protest that the?class of people who a generation ago read nothing now?at least read novels, and to regard this as a change?for the better. By similar logic it would be more?wholesome to breakfast off laudanum than to omit the?meal entirely. The nineteenth century, in fact, by?making education popular, has produced in America the?curious spectacle of a reading-public with essentially?nonliterary tastes. Formerly, better books were?published, because they were intended for persons who?turned to reading through a natural bent of mind;?whereas the modern American novel of commerce is?addressed to us average people who read, when we read?at all, in violation of every innate instinct.
Such grounds as yet exist for hopefulness on the?part of those who cordially care for belles lettres?are to be found elsewhere than in the crowded marketplaces?of fiction, where genuine intelligence panders?on all sides to ignorance and indolence. The phrase?may seem to have no very civil ring; but reflection?will assure the fair-minded that two indispensable?requisites nowadays of a pecuniarily successful novel?are, really, that it make no demand upon the reader's?imagination, and that it rigorously refrain from?assuming its reader to possess any particular?information on any subject whatever. The author who?writes over the head of the public is the most?dangerous enemy of his publisher--and the most?insidious as well, because so many publishers are in?private life interested in literary matters, and would?readily permit this personal foible to influence the?exercise of their vocation were it possible to do so?upon the preferable side of bankruptcy.
But publishers, among innumerable other conditions,?must weigh the fact that no novel which does not deal?with modern times is ever really popular among the?serious-minded. It is difficult to imagine a tale?whose action developed under the rule of the Caesars or?the Merovingians being treated as more than a literary?hors d'oeuvre. We purchasers of "vital" novels know?nothing about the period, beyond a hazy association?of it with the restrictions of the schoolroom; our?sluggish imaginations instinctively rebel against the?exertion of forming any notion of such a period; and?all the human nature that exists even in serious-minded?persons is stirred up to resentment against the book's?author for presuming to know more than a potential?patron. The book, in fine, simply irritates the?serious-minded person; and she--for it is only women?who willingly brave the terrors of department-stores,?where most of our new books are bought nowadays--quite?naturally puts it aside in favor of some keen and?daring study of American life that is warranted to grip?the reader. So, modernity of scene is everywhere?necessitated as an essential qualification for