The Certain Hour | Page 7

old story, at least coeval with Mr. Crummles' not?uncelebrated pumps and tubs, if not with the grapes?of Zeuxis, how unfailingly in art we delight to?recognize the familiar. A novel whose scene of action?is explicit will always interest the people of that?locality, whatever the book's other pretensions to?consideration. Given simultaneously a photograph of?Murillo's rendering of The Virgin Crowned Queen of?Heaven and a photograph of a governor's installation?in our State capital, there is no one of us but will?quite naturally look at the latter first, in order to?see if in it some familiar countenance be recognizable.?And thus, upon a larger scale, the twentieth century?is, pre-eminently, interested in the twentieth century.
It is all very well to describe our average-novelreaders'?dislike of Romanticism as "the rage of Caliban?not seeing his own face in a glass." It is even within?the scope of human dunderheadedness again to point out?here that the supreme artists in literature have?precisely this in common, and this alone, that in their?masterworks they have avoided the "vital" themes of?their day with such circumspection as lesser folk?reserve for the smallpox. The answer, of course, in?either case, is that the "vital" novel, the novel which?peculiarly appeals to us average-novel-readers, has?nothing to do with literature. There is between these?two no more intelligent connection than links the paint?Mr. Sargent puts on canvas and the paint Mr. Dockstader?puts on his face.
Literature is made up of the re-readable books, the?books which it is possible--for the people so?constituted as to care for that sort of thing--to read?again and yet again with pleasure. Therefore, in?literature a book's subject is of astonishingly minor?importance, and its style nearly everything: whereas in?books intended to be read for pastime, and forthwith to?be consigned at random to the wastebasket or to the?inmates of some charitable institute, the theme is of?paramount importance, and ought to be a serious one.?The modern novelist owes it to his public to select a?"vital" theme which in itself will fix the reader's?attention by reason of its familiarity in the reader's?everyday life.
Thus, a lady with whose more candid opinions the?writer of this is more frequently favored nowadays than?of old, formerly confessed to having only one set rule?when it came to investment in new reading-matter--?always to buy the Williamsons' last book. Her reason?was the perfectly sensible one that the Williamsons'?plots used invariably to pivot upon motor-trips, and?she is an ardent automobilist. Since, as of late, the?Williamsons have seen fit to exercise their typewriter?upon other topics, they have as a matter of course lost?her patronage.
This principle of selection, when you come to?appraise it sanely, is the sole intelligent method of?dealing with reading-matter. It seems here expedient?again to state the peculiar problem that we average--?novel-readers have of necessity set the modern?novelist--namely, that his books must in the main?appeal to people who read for pastime, to people who?read books only under protest and only when they?have no other employment for that particular half-hour.
Now, reading for pastime is immensely simplified?when the book's theme is some familiar matter of the?reader's workaday life, because at outset the reader is?spared considerable mental effort. The motorist above?referred to, and indeed any average-novel-reader, can?without exertion conceive of the Williamsons' people in?their automobiles. Contrariwise, were these fictitious?characters embarked in palankeens or droshkies or?jinrikishas, more or less intellectual exercise would?be necessitated on the reader's part to form a notion?of the conveyance. And we average-novel-readers do not?open a book with the intention of making a mental?effort. The author has no right to expect of us an act?so unhabitual, we very poignantly feel. Our prejudices?he is freely chartered to stir up--if, lucky rogue, he?can!--but he ought with deliberation to recognize that?it is precisely in order to avoid mental effort that we?purchase, or borrow, his book, and afterward discuss?it.
Hence arises our heartfelt gratitude toward such?novels as deal with "vital" themes, with the questions?we average-novel-readers confront or make talk about in?those happier hours of our existence wherein we are not?reduced to reading. Thus, a tale, for example, dealing?either with "feminism" or "white slavery" as the?handiest makeshift of spinsterdom--or with the divorce?habit and plutocratic iniquity in general, or with the?probable benefits of converting clergymen to?Christianity, or with how much more than she knows a?desirable mother will tell her children--finds the?book's tentative explorer, just now, amply equipped?with prejudices, whether acquired by second thought or?second hand, concerning the book's topic. As?endurability goes, reading the book rises forthwith?almost to the level of an afternoon-call where there is?gossip about the neighbors and Germany's future. We?average-novel-readers may not, in either case, agree?with the opinions advanced; but at least our prejudices?are aroused, and we are interested.
And these "vital" themes awake our prejudices at?the cost of a minimum--if not always, as when Miss?Corelli guides us, with a positively negligible--?tasking of our mental faculties. For such exemption we?average-novel-readers cannot but be properly grateful.?Nay, more than this: provided the novelist contrive to?rouse our prejudices, it matters with us not at