The Certain Hour | Page 8

all?whether afterward they be soothed or harrowed. To?implicate our prejudices somehow, to raise in us a?partizanship in the tale's progress, is our sole?request. Whether this consummation be brought about?through an arraignment of some social condition which?we personally either advocate or reprehend--the?attitude weighs little--or whether this interest be?purchased with placidly driveling preachments of?generally "uplifting" tendencies--vaguely titillating?that vague intention which exists in us all of becoming?immaculate as soon as it is perfectly convenient--the?personal prejudices of us average-novel-readers are?not lightly lulled again to sleep.
In fact, the jealousy of any human prejudice?against hinted encroachment may safely be depended upon?to spur us through an astonishing number of pages--for?all that it has of late been complained among us, with?some show of extenuation, that our original intent in?beginning certain of the recent "vital" novels was to?kill time, rather than eternity. And so, we average--?novel-readers plod on jealously to the end, whether we?advance (to cite examples already somewhat of?yesterday) under the leadership of Mr. Upton Sinclair?aspersing the integrity of modern sausages and?millionaires, or of Mr. Hall Caine saying about Roman?Catholics what ordinary people would hesitate to impute?to their relatives by marriage--or whether we be more?suavely allured onward by Mrs. Florence Barclay, or Mr.?Sydnor Harrison, with ingenuous indorsements of the New?Testament and the inherent womanliness of women.
The "vital" theme, then, let it be repeated, has?two inestimable advantages which should commend it to?all novelists: first, it spares us average-novelreaders?any preliminary orientation, and thereby?mitigates the mental exertion of reading; and secondly,?it appeals to our prejudices, which we naturally prefer?to exercise, and are accustomed to exercise, rather?than our mental or idealistic faculties. The novelist?who conscientiously bears these two facts in mind is?reasonably sure of his reward, not merely in pecuniary?form, but in those higher fields wherein he?harvests his chosen public's honest gratitude and?affection.
For we average-novel-readers are quite frequently?reduced by circumstances to self-entrustment to the?resources of the novelist, as to those of the dentist.?Our latter-day conditions, as we cannot but recognize,?necessitate the employment of both artists upon?occasion. And with both, we average-novel-readers, we?average people, are most grateful when they make the?process of resorting to them as easy and unirritating?as may be possible.
V
So much for the plea of us average-novel-readers;?and our plea, we think, is rational. We are "in the?market" for a specified article; and human ingenuity,?co-operating with human nature, will inevitably insure?the manufacture of that article as long as any general?demand for it endures.
Meanwhile, it is small cause for grief that the?purchaser of American novels prefers Central Park to?any "wood near Athens," and is more at home in the?Tenderloin than in Camelot. People whose tastes happen?to be literary are entirely too prone to too much longfaced?prattle about literature, which, when all is?said, is never a controlling factor in anybody's life.?The automobile and the telephone, the accomplishments?of Mr. Edison and Mr. Burbank, and it would be?permissible to add of Mr. Rockefeller, influence?nowadays, in one fashion or another, every moment of?every living American's existence; whereas had America?produced, instead, a second Milton or a Dante, it would?at most have caused a few of us to spend a few spare?evenings rather differently.
Besides, we know--even we average-novel-readers--?that America is in fact producing her enduring?literature day by day, although, as rarely fails to be?the case, those who are contemporaneous with the makers?of this literature cannot with any certainty point them?out. To voice a hoary truism, time alone is the test?of "vitality." In our present flood of books, as in?any other flood, it is the froth and scum which shows?most prominently. And the possession of "vitality,"?here as elsewhere, postulates that its possessor must?ultimately perish.
Nay, by the time these printed pages are first read?as printed pages, allusion to those modern authors whom?these pages cite--the pre-eminent literary personages?of that hour wherein these pages were written--will?inevitably have come to savor somewhat of antiquity: so?that sundry references herein to the "vital" books now?most in vogue will rouse much that vague shrugging?recollection as wakens, say, at a mention of Dorothy?Vernon or Three Weeks or Beverly of Graustark.?And while at first glance it might seem expedient--in?revising the last proof-sheets of these pages--somewhat?to "freshen them up" by substituting, for the books?herein referred to, the "vital" and more widely talkedof?novels of the summer of 1916, the task would be but?wasted labor; since even these fascinating chronicles,?one comprehends forlornly, must needs be equally?obsolete by the time these proof-sheets have been made?into a volume. With malice aforethought, therefore,?the books and authors named herein stay those which all?of three years back our reviewers and advertising?pages, with perfect gravity, acclaimed as of?enduring importance. For the quaintness of that?opinion, nowadays, may profitably round the moral that?there is really nothing whereto one may fittingly?compare a successful contribution to "vital" readingmatter,?as touches evanescence.
And this is as it should be. Tout passe.--L'art?robust seul a l'eternite, precisely as Gautier points?out, with bracing common-sense; and it is excellent?thus to comprehend that to-day, as always, only through?exercise of the