The Certain Hour | Page 6

a book's?discussion at the literary evenings of the local?woman's club; and modernity of scene, of course, is?almost always fatal to the permanent worth of?fictitious narrative.
It may seem banal here to recall the truism that?first-class art never reproduces its surroundings; but?such banality is often justified by our human proneness?to shuffle over the fact that many truisms are true.?And this one is pre-eminently indisputable: that what?mankind has generally agreed to accept as first-class?art in any of the varied forms of fictitious narrative?has never been a truthful reproduction of the artist's?era. Indeed, in the higher walks of fiction art has?never reproduced anything, but has always dealt with?the facts and laws of life as so much crude material?which must be transmuted into comeliness. When?Shakespeare pronounced his celebrated dictum about?art's holding the mirror up to nature, he was no doubt?alluding to the circumstance that a mirror reverses?everything which it reflects.
Nourishment for much wildish speculation, in fact,?can be got by considering what the world's literature?would be, had its authors restricted themselves, as do?we Americans so sedulously--and unavoidably--to writing?of contemporaneous happenings. In fiction-making no?author of the first class since Homer's infancy has?ever in his happier efforts concerned himself at all?with the great "problems" of his particular day; and?among geniuses of the second rank you will find such?ephemeralities adroitly utilized only when they are?distorted into enduring parodies of their actual selves?by the broad humor of a Dickens or the colossal fantasy?of a Balzac. In such cases as the latter two writers,?however, we have an otherwise competent artist?handicapped by a personality so marked that, whatever?he may nominally write about, the result is, above all?else, an exposure of the writer's idiosyncrasies.?Then, too, the laws of any locale wherein Mr.?Pickwick achieves a competence in business, or of a?society wherein Vautrin becomes chief of police, are?upon the face of it extra-mundane. It suffices that,?as a general rule, in fiction-making the true artist?finds an ample, if restricted, field wherein the proper?functions of the preacher, or the ventriloquist, or the?photographer, or of the public prosecutor, are?exercised with equal lack of grace.
Besides, in dealing with contemporary life a?novelist is goaded into too many pusillanimous?concessions to plausibility. He no longer moves with?the gait of omnipotence. It was very different in the?palmy days when Dumas was free to play at ducks and?drakes with history, and Victor Hugo to reconstruct the?whole system of English government, and Scott to compel?the sun to set in the east, whenever such minor changes?caused to flow more smoothly the progress of the tale?these giants had in hand. These freedoms are not?tolerated in American noveldom, and only a few futile?"high-brows" sigh in vain for Thackeray's "happy?harmless Fableland, where these things are." The?majority of us are deep in "vital" novels. Nor is the?reason far to seek.
IV
One hears a great deal nowadays concerning "vital"?books. Their authors have been widely praised on very?various grounds. Oddly enough, however, the writers of?these books have rarely been commended for the really?praiseworthy charity evinced therein toward that large?long-suffering class loosely describable as the?average-novel-reader.
Yet, in connection with this fact, it is worthy of?more than passing note that no great while ago the New?York Times' carefully selected committee, in picking?out the hundred best books published during a?particular year, declared as to novels--"a `best' book,?in our opinion, is one that raises an important?question, or recurs to a vital theme and pronounces?upon it what in some sense is a last word." Now this?definition is not likely ever to receive more praise?than it deserves. Cavilers may, of course, complain?that actually to write the last word on any subject is?a feat reserved for the Recording Angel's unique?performance on judgment Day. Even setting that?objection aside, it is undeniable that no work of?fiction published of late in America corresponds?quite so accurately to the terms of this definition as?do the multiplication tables. Yet the multiplication?tables are not without their claims to applause as?examples of straightforward narrative. It is, also, at?least permissible to consider that therein the numeral?five, say, where it figures as protagonist, unfolds?under the stress of its varying adventures as opulent a?development of real human nature as does, through?similar ups-and-downs, the Reverend John Hodder in The?Inside of the Cup. It is equally allowable to find?the less simple evolution of the digit seven more?sympathetic, upon the whole, than those of Undine?Spragg in The Custom of the Country. But, even so,?this definition of what may now, authoritatively, be?ranked as a "best novel" is an honest and noteworthy?severance from misleading literary associations such as?have too long befogged our notions about readingmatter.?It points with emphasis toward the altruistic?obligations of tale-tellers to be "vital."
For we average-novel-readers--we average people, in?a word--are now, as always, rather pathetically hungry?for "vital" themes, such themes as appeal directly to?our everyday observation and prejudices. Did the?decision rest with us all novelists would be put under?bond to confine themselves forevermore to themes like?these.
As touches the appeal to everyday observation, it?is an