distresses never man knew less. A great romantic - an idle child.
CHAPTER XVI. A HUMBLE REMONSTRANCE (11)

WE have recently (12) enjoyed a quite peculiar pleasure: hearing,
in some detail, the opinions, about the art they practise, of Mr.

Walter Besant and Mr. Henry James; two men certainly of very
different calibre: Mr. James so precise of outline, so cunning of

fence, so scrupulous of finish, and Mr. Besant so genial, so
friendly, with so persuasive and humorous a vein of whim: Mr. James

the very type of the deliberate artist, Mr. Besant the
impersonation of good nature. That such doctors should differ will

excite no great surprise; but one point in which they seem to agree
fills me, I confess, with wonder. For they are both content to

talk about the "art of fiction"; and Mr. Besant, waxing exceedingly
bold, goes on to oppose this so-called "art of fiction" to the "art

of poetry." By the art of poetry he can mean nothing but the art
of verse, an art of handicraft, and only comparable with the art of

prose. For that heat and height of sane emotion which we agree to
call by the name of poetry, is but a libertine and vagrant quality;

present, at times, in any art, more often absent from them all; too
seldom present in the prose novel, too frequently absent from the

ode and epic. Fiction is the same case; it is no substantive art,
but an element which enters largely into all the arts but

architecture. Homer, Wordsworth, Phidias, Hogarth, and Salvini,
all deal in fiction; and yet I do not suppose that either Hogarth

or Salvini, to mention but these two, entered in any degree into
the scope of Mr. Besant's interesting lecture or Mr. James's

charming essay. The art of fiction, then, regarded as a
definition, is both too ample and too scanty. Let me suggest

another; let me suggest that what both Mr. James and Mr. Besant had
in view was neither more nor less than the art of narrative.

But Mr. Besant is anxious to speak solely of "the modern English
novel," the stay and bread-winner of Mr. Mudie; and in the author

of the most pleasing novel on that roll, ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS
OF MEN, the desire is natural enough. I can conceive, then, that

he would hasten to propose two additions, and read thus: the art of
FICTITIOUS narrative IN PROSE.

Now the fact of the existence of the modern English novel is not to
be denied; materially, with its three volumes, leaded type, and

gilded lettering, it is easily distinguishable from other forms of
literature; but to talk at all fruitfully of any branch of art, it

is needful to build our definitions on some more fundamental ground
then binding. Why, then, are we to add "in prose"? THE ODYSSEY

appears to me the best of romances; THE LADY OF THE LAKE to stand
high in the second order; and Chaucer's tales and prologues to

contain more of the matter and art of the modern English novel than
the whole treasury of Mr. Mudie. Whether a narrative be written in

blank verse or the Spenserian stanza, in the long period of Gibbon
or the chipped phrase of Charles Reade, the principles of the art

of narrative must be equally observed. The choice of a noble and
swelling style in prose affects the problem of narration in the

same way, if not to the same degree, as the choice of measured
verse; for both imply a closer synthesis of events, a higher key of

dialogue, and a more picked and statelystrain of words. If you
are to refuse DON JUAN, it is hard to see why you should include

ZANONI or (to bracket works of very different value) THE SCARLET
LETTER; and by what discrimination are you to open your doors TO

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS and close them on THE FAERY QUEEN? To bring
things closer home, I will here propound to Mr. Besant a conundrum.

A narrative called PARADISE LOST was written in English verse by
one John Milton; what was it then? It was next translated by

Chateaubriand into French prose; and what was it then? Lastly, the
French translation was, by some inspired compatriot of George

Gilfillan (and of mine) turned bodily into an English novel; and,
in the name of clearness, what was it then?

But, once more, why should we add "fictitious"? The reason why is
obvious. The reason why not, if something more recondite, does not

want for weight. The art of narrative, in fact, is the same,
whether it is applied to the selection and illustration of a real

series of events or of an imaginaryseries. Boswell's LIFE OF
JOHNSON (a work of cunning and inimitable art) owes its success to

the same technical manoeuvres as (let us say) TOM JONES: the clear
conception of certain characters of man, the choice and

presentation of certain incidents out of a great number that
offered, and the invention (yes, invention) and preservation of a

certain key in dialogue. In which these things are done with the
more art - in which with the greater air of nature - readers will

differently judge. Boswell's is, indeed, a very special case, and
almost a generic; but it is not only in Boswell, it is in every

biography with any salt of life, it is in every history where
events and men, rather than ideas, are presented - in Tacitus, in

Carlyle, in Michelet, in Macaulay - that the novelist will find
many of his own methods most conspicuously and adroitly handled.

He will find besides that he, who is free - who has the right to
invent or steal a missingincident, who has the right, more

precious still, of wholesaleomission - is frequently defeated,
and, with all his advantages, leaves a less strong impression of

reality and passion. Mr. James utters his mind with a becoming
fervour on the sanctity of truth to the novelist; on a more careful

examination truth will seem a word of very debateable propriety,
not only for the labours of the novelist, but for those of the

historian. No art - to use the daringphrase of Mr. James - can
successfully "compete with life"; and the art that seeks to do so

is condemned to perish MONTIBUS AVIIS. Life goes before us,
infinite in complication; attended by the most various and

surprising meteors; appealing at once to the eye, to the ear, to
the mind - the seat of wonder, to the touch - so thrillingly

delicate, and to the belly - so imperious when starved. It
combines and employs in its manifestation the method and material,

not of one art only, but of all the arts, Music is but an arbitrary
trifling with a few of life's majestic chords; painting is but a

shadow of its pageantry of light and colour; literature does but
drily indicate that wealth of incident, of moral obligation, of

virtue, vice, action, rapture and agony, with which it teems. To
"compete with life," whose sun we cannot look upon, whose passions

and diseases waste and slay us - to compete with the flavour of
wine, the beauty of the dawn, the scorching of fire, the bitterness

of death and separation - here is, indeed, a projected escalade of
heaven; here are, indeed, labours for a Hercules in a dress coat,

armed with a pen and a dictionary to depict the passions, armed
with a tube of superior flake-white to paint the portrait of the

insufferable sun. No art is true in this sense: none can "compete
with life": not even history, built indeed of indisputable facts,

but these facts robbed of their vivacity and sting; so that even
when we read of the sack of a city or the fall of an empire, we are

surprised, and justlycommend the author's talent, if our pulse be
quickened. And mark, for a last differentia, that this quickening

of the pulse is, in almost every case, purelyagreeable; that these
phantom reproductions of experience, even at their most acute,

convey decided pleasure; while experience itself, in the cockpit of
life, can torture and slay.

What, then, is the object, what the method, of an art, and what the
source of its power? The whole secret is that no art does "compete

with life." Man's one method, whether he reasons or creates, is to
half-shut his eyes against the dazzle and confusion of reality.

The arts, like arithmetic and geometry, turn away their eyes from
the gross, coloured and mobile nature at our feet, and regard

instead a certain figmentary abstraction. Geometry will tell us of
a circle, a thing never seen in nature; asked about a green circle

or an iron circle, it lays its hand upon its mouth. So with the
arts. Painting, ruefully comparing sunshine and flake-white, gives

up truth of colour, as it had already given up relief and movement;
and instead of vying with nature, arranges a scheme of harmonious

tints. Literature, above all in its most typical mood, the mood of
narrative, similarly flees the direct challenge and pursues instead

an independent and creative aim. So far as it imitates at all, it
imitates not life but speech: not the facts of human destiny, but

the emphasis and the suppressions with which the human actor tells
of them. The real art that dealt with life directly was that of

the first men who told their stories round the savage camp-fire.
Our art is occupied, and bound to be occupied, not so much in

making stories true as in making them typical; not so much in
capturing the lineaments of each fact, as in marshalling all of

them towards a common end. For the welter of impressions, all
forcible but all discreet, which life presents, it substitutes a

certain artificialseries of impressions, all indeed most feebly
represented, but all aiming at the same effect, all eloquent of the