THE AR T O F FICTIO N

HENRY JAMES

The Art o f Fictio n

1884
Here is another "defense" of art, but this time it is the novel, a relatively new genre, that in James' view needs some serious discussion.
Because Walter Besant's pamphlet on "the art of fiction" is both conventional and superficial, James here will "edge in a few words" on
the subject, and in so doing destroy Besant's position point for point.
This rebuttal, James' best-known essay on the theory of fiction, touches
on various issues amplified and developed in his extensive critical
writing: the relationship between fiction and life, the freedom and
responsibilities of the novelist, the task of the critic, the relationship
between plot and character, the importance of technique, the place of
subject matter in fiction, the morality of fiction, and the character of
the novelist. How James deals with these topics should be studied, for
in his essays we find the beginnings of modern fictional theory. The
basic assumption is that, like any other art form, fiction must be taken
seriously by authors, readers, and critics alike.
The word "free" occurs so often in the essay that it directs our attention to a major theme. James rejects conventional critical labels
and distinctions; h e rejects a prior i prescriptions an d rules about ho w
to write a novel; he rejects limitations on the artist's freedom of choice
in respect to subject matter and technique; he rejects traditional concepts of plot; and, climactically, he rejects Besant's formulation concerning "the conscious moral purpose" of the novel. If "the province of
art is all life, all feeling, all observation, all vision . . . all experience,"
the novelist cannot be handcuffed in his attempts to represent life.
Throughout, James stresses the artist's necessary sensitivity to experiFrom Partial Portraits; Th e Macmilla n Company , 1888 .
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ence and the transformation of that experience by his imagination; as

critics and readers, we can judge him only by the "execution," the
"treatment," the rendering of the raru multitudinous materials of life
into a unified work of art.
When James declares that the novel is "a living thing, all one and
continuous, like any other organism/' the very simile reminds us of
Aristotle, and how his discussion of character merges back into a discussion of plot, the two being inseparable. James' theory of fictional
form is equally organic, but for him a flawed structure and a failure
of execution are symptomatic of either intellectual or moral failures
on the part of the novelist: The integrity of a work is a reflection of
the artist's integrity. In this view, James denies that the novel must
have a conscious moral purpose. On the contrary, what is commonly
thought of as morality he defines as timiditythat is, the avoidance of
certain "improper" but nevertheless real subjects; to insist that a novel
be morally didactic is to restrict the artist's freedom from another direction. The requisite "moral energy" liberates the novelist; thus James
connects total artistic freedom, the "search for form," and morality in
the interest of rendering life in fiction.
I SHOUL D not hav e affixed so comprehensive a titl e to thesf .e w remarks,
necessarily wanting in any completeness upo n a subject th e full consideration of which would carry us far, di d I no t see m to discover a pretex t for
my temerity in the interesting pamphlet lately published under this name
by Mr . Walte r Besant . Mr . Besant' s lectur e a t th e Royal Institution
the original form o f his pamphletappears to indicate that many persons
are interested in the art of fiction, and ar e no t indifferent t o such remarks,
as those who practise it may attemp t t o mak e about it. 1 am therefor e
anxious not t o lose the benefit of this favourable association , and t o edge
in a fe w words under cover o f the attentio n whic h Mr. Besan t is sure to
have excited . Ther e i s something ver y encouragin g i n hi s havin g pu t
into for m certai n of his ideas o n th e myster y o f story-telling.
It i s a proo f of life an d curiositycuriosit y on th e par t o f the brother hood of novelists as well as on the part of thei r readers. Onl y a short time
ago it might have been supposed tha t th e Englis h novel was not what the
French cal l discutable. I t ha d n o ai r o f havin g a theory , a conviction , a
consciousness o f itsel f behin d ito f bein g th e expressio n o f a n artisti c
faith, th e resul t o f choice an d comparison . I d o no t sa y i t wa s necessarily the worse for that: it would take much more courage than I possess
to intimat e tha t th e for m o f th e nove l a s Dicken s and Thackera y (fo r
instance) saw it had an y taint of incompleteness. I t was , however, naif (i f
I ma y hel p myself out with another Frenc h word) ; and evidentl y if it b e

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HENRY JAME S

destined t o suffe r i n an y wa y fo r havin g los t it s naivete i t ha s no w a n

idea of making sure of the corresponding advantages. Durin g the perio d
I hav e alluded to there was a comfortable, good-humoured feeling abroad
that a nove l i s a novel , a s a puddin g i s a pudding , an d tha t ou r onl y
business with it could be to swallow it. Bu t within a year or two, for some
reason o r other, there have been signs of returning animationthe era of
discussion woul d appea r t o hav e bee n t o a certai n exten t opened . Ar t
lives upo n discussion , upon experiment , upo n curiosity , upon variet y of
attempt, upo n th e exchang e of views and th e compariso n o f standpoints;
and ther e i s a presumptio n tha t thos e time s when n o on e ha s anythin g
particular t o say about it , and ha s no reason to give for practice or preference, though they may be times of honour, are not times of development
are times , possibly even, a little of dulness. Th e successfu l applicatio n of
any ar t i s a delightfu l spectacle , bu t th e theor y to o i s interesting ; an d
though there is a great deal of the latter without the former I suspect there
has neve r bee n a genuin e succes s that ha s no t ha d a laten t cor e of conviction. Discussion , suggestion, formulation, these thing s ar e fertilisin g
when they are frank and sincere. Mr . Besan t has set an excellent example
in sayin g wha t h e thinks , fo r hi s part, abou t th e wa y i n whic h fictio n
should be written, as well as about the way in which it should be published;
for hi s vie w o f the "art, " carrie d o n int o a n appendix , cover s that too.
Other labourer s in th e sam e fiel d wil l doubtles s take u p th e argument ,
they will give it th e ligh t of their experience, and th e effec t wil l surely be
to mak e our interes t in th e nove l a littl e more what i t ha d fo r some tim e
threatened t o fai l t o be a serious , active, inquirin g interest, under protection o f whic h thi s delightfu l stud y may , in moment s o f confidence,
venture to say a little more what it thinks of itself.
It must take itself seriously for the public to take it so. Th e old superstition about fiction being "wicked " has doubtless died ou t in England; bu t
the spirit of it lingers in a certain oblique regard directed toward any story
which doe s not mor e or les s admit tha t i t i s only a joke. Eve n the mos t
jocular nove l feels i n some degree the weigh t of the proscriptio n tha t wa s
formerly directe d agains t literar y levity : th e jocularity doe s no t alway s
succeed i n passin g fo r orthodoxy . I t i s stil l expected , thoug h perhap s
people ar e ashame d t o sa y it, tha t a productio n which i s after al l onl y a
"make-believe" (fo r what els e i s a "story"? ) shal l b e i n som e degre e
apologeticshall renounc e th e pretensio n o f attemptin g reall y t o re present life . This , o f course, any sensible , wide-awake story decline s t o
do, fo r i t quickl y perceive s tha t th e toleranc e grante d t o i t o n suc h a
condition is only an attemp t t o stifl e i t disguised in the for m o f generosity.
The ol d evangelica l hostility to th e novel , which was as explicit as it was
narrow, an d whic h regarded i t a s littl e les s favourabl e to ou r immorta l
part tha n a stage-play , was in realit y far less insulting. Th e onl y reaso n

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for th e existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life. Whe n

it relinquishes this attempt, th e same attempt tha t w e see on the canvas of
the painter, i t will have arrived a t a very strange pass. I t i s not expecte d
of the pictur e tha t i t will make itself humble in order t o be forgiven; an d
the analogy betwee n the art o f the painter an d th e art o f the novelist is, so
far a s I a m abl e t o see , complete. Thei r inspiratio n i s the same , thei r
process (allowin g fo r th e differen t qualit y o f th e vehicle) , i s th e same ,
their succes s i s the same . The y ma y l earn fro m eac h other , the y ma y
explain an d sustai n each other . Thei r caus e is the same, an d th e honour
of one is the honou r of another. The Mahometan s thin k a pictur e an
unholy thing, but i t is a long time since any Christia n did , and i t is therefore th e mor e od d tha t i n th e Christia n min d th e trace s (dissimulate d
though the y ma y be ) o f a suspicio n of the siste r ar t shoul d linge r t o this
day. Th e onl y effectual wa y t o lay it to res t i s to emphasise th e analog y
to which I just alludedt o insist on the fact tha t as the pictur e i s reality,
so the nove l is history. Tha t is the onl y general description (whic h does
it justice) tha t w e may giv e o f the novel . ^ ut histor y als o i s allowed t o
represent life ; i t i s not, any mor e tha n painting , expecte d t o apologise .
The subject-matte r o f fiction is stored up likewis e in document s an d re cords, and if it will not giv e itself away, as the y say in California , it must
speak- with assurance , wit h th e ton e o f th e historian . Certai n accom plished novelists have a habit o f giving themselves awa y which must ofte n
bring tear s t o th e eye s of people wh o take thei r fiction seriously. I was
lately struck , i n readin g over man y page s o f Anthony Trollope , with his
want o f discretion i n this particular. I n a digression , a parenthesis or an
aside, h e concedes t o the reader tha t h e and thi s trusting frien d ar e only
"making believe." H e admits that the events he narrates hav e not really
happened, an d that he can give his narrative an y turn th e reader may like
best. Suc h a betrayal of a sacred offic e seem s to me, I confess , a terribl e
crime; i t i s what I mea n b y th e attitud e o f apology, an d i t shock s me
every whit as much in Trollope as it would nave shocked me in Gibbon or
Macaulay. I t implie s that the novelis t is les s occupied i n looking for the
truth (th e truth, o f course I mean , tha t he assumes , the premise s tha t we
must grant him , whatever the y may be), than th e historian, an d i n doing
so it deprives him at a stroke of all his standing-room. T o represen t an d
illustrate the past, th e actions of men, is the tas k of either writer , an d the
only differenc e tha t I ca n se e is , i n proportion a s h e succeeds , t o th e
honour o f the novelist, consisting as it does in hi s having mor e difficult y i n
collecting hi s evidence , whic h i s s o far from bein g purel y literary . I t
seems t o m e t o giv e hi m a grea t character , th e fac t tha t h e ha s at onc e
so muc h i n commo n wit h th e philosophe r an d th e painter ; thi s double
analogy i s a magnificen t heritage .
It is of all this evidently that Mr. Besan t is full whe n he insists upon the

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HENRY JAME S

fact that fictio n is one of the fine arts, deserving in its turn of all the honours
and emolument s tha t hav e hithert o bee n reserve d fo r th e successfu l
profession o f music , poetry, painting , architecture . I t i s impossibl e t o
insist to o much o n s o important a truth , an d th e plac e tha t Mr . Besan t
demands for the wor k of the novelis t may be represented , a trifl e les s
abstractly, b y sayin g that h e demand s no t onl y tha t i t shal l b e repute d
artistic, bu t tha t i t shal l b e repute d ver y artistic indeed . I t i s excellent
that h e should have struck this note, fo r his doing so indicates tha t ther e
was nee d o f it, tha t hi s propositio n ma y b e t o man y peopl e a novelty .
One rub s one's eye s at the thought ; but the res t of Mr. Besant' s essa y
confirms th e revelation . I suspec t i n trut h tha t i t woul d b e possibl e
to confirm it still further, an d tha t on e would not b e far wrong in saying
that i n addition t o the people to whom it has never occurred tha t a novel
ought t o b e artistic, ther e ar e a grea t man y other s who, i f this principl e
were urge d upo n them , woul d b e fille d wit h a n indefinabl e mistrust .
They woul d fin d i t difficul t t o explai n thei r repugnance , bu t i t woul d
operate strongl y to pu t the m o n thei r guard . "Art, " in ou r Protestan t
communities, where so many thing s have go t s o strangely twiste d about ,
is supposed i n certai n circle s to hav e som e vaguely injurious effect upo n
those wh o mak e i t a n importan t consideration , wh o le t i t weig h i n th e
balance. I t i s assume d t o b e oppose d i n som e mysteriou s manne r t o
morality, to amusement, to instruction. Whe n it is embodied i n the work
of th e painte r (th e sculpto r i s anothe r affair! ) yo u kno w wha t i t is : i t
stands there before you, in the honesty of pink and green and a gilt frame;
you ca n se e the worst of it a t a glance , an d yo u ca n b e o n you r guard .
But whe n i t i s introduce d int o literatur e i t become s mor e insidious
there is danger of its hurting you before you know it. Literatur e should be
either instructiv e or amusing , an d ther e i s in many mind s an impressio n
that thes e artisti c preoccupations , th e searc h fo r form , contribut e t o
neither end , interfer e indeed wit h both . The y ar e to o frivolou s t o b e
edifying, an d to o serious to be diverting ; and the y are moreove r priggis h
and paradoxical an d superfluous . That , I think , represents th e manne r
in which the latent thought of many people who read novels as an exercise
in skippin g woul d explai n itsel f if i t wer e t o becom e articulate . The y
would argue , o f course, that a novel ought to be "good," but the y would
interpret thi s ter m i n a fashio n o f their own , whic h indee d woul d var y
considerably from on e critic to another. On e would say that being good
means representing virtuous and aspiring characters, placed i n prominen t
positions; another woul d say that i t depend s o n a "happ y ending," on a
distribution a t th e las t o f prizes , pensions , husbands , wives , babies ,
millions, appende d paragraphs , an d cheerfu l remarks . Anothe r stil l
would sa y that i t mean s being ful l o f incident an d movement , s o that w e

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shall wish to jump ahead , t o see who was the my sterious stranger, and if
the stole n wil l wa s eve r found , an d shal l no t b e detracte d ^ rom thi s
pleasure b y an y tiresom e analysi s or "description." J3u t the y would al l
agree tha t the "artistic " idea would spoil some of their fun - On e would
hold i t accountable fo r all th e description, another wo u^ see ^ revealed
in th e absenc e o f sympathy. It s hostilit y t o a happ y endin g woul d b e
evident, an d i t might even in some cases render an y ending at al l impossible. Th e "ending" of a novel is, for many persons , like that f a god
dinner, a course of dessert and ices, and the artist iu fi ctin i s regarded as a
sort of meddlesome doctor who forbid s agreeabl e aftertastes . I t i s therefore tru e tha t thi s conception o f Mr. Besant' s of the nove l a s a superio r
form encounter s no t onl y a negativ e bu t a positive indifference . I t
matters little that as a work of art it should really be as little or as mucri f
its essenc e t o suppl y happ y endings , sympatheti c c tiaracters> an d a n
objective tone, as if it were a work of mechanics: the association o f ideas,
however incongruous, might easily be too much f 0r i t if an eloquent voice
were not sometimes raised to call attention to the f ac t tha t it is at onc e as
free an d a s serious a branch o f literature as any other .
Certainly this might sometimes be doubted in presence of the enormous
number o f works of fiction that appeal to the credulit y of our generation,
for i t might easil y seem that ther e could b e no great character in a com"
modity s o quickly and easil y produced . I t mus t be admitted tha t ood
novels ar e muc h compromise d b y ba d ones , an d that th e fiel d a t larg e
suffers discredi t from overcrowding . I think , however* that thi s injury is
only superficial , an d tha t th e superabundanc e of written fictio n prove s
nothing against th e principle itself. I t ha s been Vulga^isedJ hk e all other
kinds of literature, like everything else to-day, and it has proved more than
some kind s accessible to vulgarisation . Bu t ther e i s ^s muc h differenc e
as there eve r was between a goo d nove l an d a ba d on^ ' the bad i s swept
with all the daubed canvase s and spoile d marble into s^me unvisited limbo, or infinite rubbish-yar d beneath the back-window^ of the world, and
the goo d subsist s and emit s its light and stimulate s ou* * de sire fo r perfec tion. A s I shal l take the liberty o f making but a single criticism o f Mr .
Besant, whose tone is so full o f the lov e of his art, I may as well have done
with it at once . He seem s to me to mistak e i n attemptin g to say so
definitely beforehan d what sor t o f an affai r th e g ood j^ove l will be. T o
indicate the dange r of such a n erro r as that ha s been tl^e purpose of these
few pages ; t o sugges t tha t certai n tradition s o n the subject , applie d a
priori, have already had much t o answer for, and that th e goo d healt h of
an ar t whic h undertakes s o immediatel y to reproduc e hf e mus t deman d
that i t be perfectl y free . I t live s upon exercise, and tr^e very meaning of
exercise is freedom. The onl y obligatio n to whic h ir > advanc e we may

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HENRY JAME S

hold a novel , withou t incurrin g th e accusatio n o f bein g arbitrary , i s

that i t b e interesting. Tha t genera l responsibilit y rests upon it , bu t i t is
the onl y on e I ca n thin k of . Th e way s in whic h i t i s at libert y t o ac complish this result (of interesting us) strike me as innumerable, and suc h
as ca n onl y suffe r fro m bein g marke d ou t o r fence d i n b y prescription .
They are as various as the temperament of man, and the y are successful i n
proportion a s the y revea l a particula r mind , differen t fro m others . A
novel i s in it s broades t definitio n a personal , a direc t impressio n o f life :
that, t o begin with, constitutes its value, which is greater o r less according
to th e intensit y of the impression . Bu t ther e wil l be n o intensit y at all,
and therefor e n o value , unles s ther e i s freedo m t o fee l an d say . Th e
tracing o f a lin e t o b e followed , o f a ton e t o b e taken , o f a for m t o b e
filled out, i s a limitatio n o f that freedo m an d a suppressio n o f the ver y
thing tha t w e ar e mos t curiou s about. Th e form , i t seem s t o me , i s to
be appreciated afte r th e fact: the n th e author's choice has been made, his
standard ha s been indicated ; then we can follo w line s and direction s and
compare tone s and resemblances . The n i n a wor d w e can enjo y on e of
the most charming of pleasures, we can estimate quality, we can apply the
test o f execution. Th e executio n belong s t o th e autho r alone ; i t i s what
is most persona l t o him, and we measure hi m b y that . Th e advantage ,
the luxury , a s wel l a s th e tormen t an d responsibilit y o f th e novelist , is
that ther e i s no limi t t o what h e may attemp t a s an executantn o limi t
to hi s possibl e experiments , efforts , discoveries , successes . Her e i t i s
especially tha t h e works , ste p b y step , lik e hi s brothe r o f th e brush , of
whom we may always say that he has painted hi s picture in a manner bes t
known to himself. Hi s manner i s his secret, not necessarily a jealous one.
He canno t disclos e it as a general thin g if he would; he would be at a loss
to teach i t to others. I say this with a due recollectio n of having insisted
on th e communit y o f method o f the artis t wh o paint s a pictur e an d th e
artist who writes a novel . Th e painte r i s able t o teach th e rudiment s of
his practice, an d i t i s possible, from th e stud y of good wor k (grante d th e
aptitude), bot h t o learn ho w to paint an d t o learn ho w to write. Ye t it
remains true , withou t injur y t o th e rapprochement, tha t th e literar y artis t
would be obliged to say to his pupil much more than the other, "Ah , well,
you mus t do it as you can! " It is a questio n of degree , a matte r of
delicacy. I f ther e are exac t sciences , there ar e als o exac t arts , an d th e
grammar o f painting is so much more definite that it makes the difference .
I ought t o add, however , that i f Mr. Besan t says at th e beginnin g of his
essay that the "laws of fiction may b e laid down and taugh t wit h as much
precision an d exactnes s a s th e law s o f harmony , perspective , an d proportion," h e mitigate s wha t migh t appea r t o b e a n extravaganc e b y
applying his remark to "general " laws , and by expressing mos t of these

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rules in a manner wit h which it would certainl y b e unaccommodatin g t o

disagree. Tha t th e novelis t mus t \vrit e fro m hi s experience , tha t hi s
"characters mus t be real an d suc h as might b e me t wit h i n actua l life,"
that "a youn g lady brought up in a quiet country villag e shoul d avoi d de scriptions o f garrison life, " an d " a writer whose friend s an d persona l experiences belon g t o th e lowe r middle-clas s should carefull y avoi d intro ducing his characters into society;" that one should ente r one's notes in a
common-place book ; tha t one' s figures should b e clea r i n outline ; tha t
making them clear by some trick of speech or o f carriage is a bad metho d
and "describin g the m a t length " i s a wo rse one ; tha t Englis h Fictio n
should have a "conscious moral purpose;" that "it i s almos t impossibl e to
estimate to o highl y the valu e o f careful wo rkmanshipthat is , of style;"
that "th e most importan t poin t o f al l i s th e story, " tha t "th e stor y i s
everything": these are principles with most of which i t is surely impossible
not t o sympathise. Tha t remark about the lower middle-clas s write r and
his knowing his place i s perhaps rathe r chilling? bu t fo r the res t I shoul d
find it difficult t o dissent from an y one of these recommendations. A t th e
same time , I shoul d find it difficul t positivel y to assen t t o them , with th e
exception, perhaps , o f th e injunctio n a s t o enterin g one' s note s i n a
common-place book . The y scarcel y seem t o m e to hav e the qualit y that
Mr. Besan t attribute s t o th e rule s o f the novelistth e "precisio n an d
exactness" o f "the law s of harmony, perspective, an d proportion. " The y
are suggestive, they are even inspiring, but they are not exact , though they
are doubtles s as much s o as th e cas e admits of : whic h i s a proof of that
liberty o f interpretatio n fo r whic h I just contended . Fo r th e valu e o f
these differen t injunctionss o beautifu l ari d s o vagueis wholl y in th e
meaning on e attache s t o them . Th e characters, th e situation , whic h
strike on e as real wil l b e those tha t touc h an d interes t on e most, but th e
measure o f reality is very difficul t t o fi x. Th e realit y o f Don Quixot e o r
of Mr. Micawbe r is a very delicate shade ; it is a reality so coloured by the
author's visio n that, vivi d as it may be , one woul d hesitate-t o propose it as
a model: one would expose one's sel f t0 some very embarrassin g question s
on th e par t o f a pupil . I t goe s without sayin g that yo u wil l not writ e a
good nove l unless you possess the sens e of reality; but i t will b e difficult t o
give you a recipe for calling that sens e into being. Humanit y is immense,
and reality has a myriad forms; th e m 0st one can affir m i s that some of the
flowers of fiction have th e odou r o f it, and other s hav e not ; a s for telling
you i n advanc e ho w you r nosega y shoul d b e composed , tha t i s anothe r
affair. I t i s equally excellent and inconclusiv e to say that one must write
from experience ; t o ou r suppositio n aspirant suc h a declaratio n migh t
savour of mockery. Wha t kin d of experience is intended, and wher e does
it begin and end ? Experienc e is never limited, and i t is never complete ;

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it i s an immens e sensibility, a kin d o f huge spider-we b o f the fines t silken

threads suspende d i n th e chambe r o f consciousness, an d catchin g ever y
airborne particl e in its tissue. I t i s the very atmosphere o f the mind; an d
when the mind is imaginativemuch more when it happens to be that of a
man o f geniusit takes to itself the faintest hints of life, it converts the very
pulses of the ai r int o revelations. Th e youn g lady livin g in a village has
only to be a damsel upon whom nothing is lost to make it quite unfair (a s
it seems to me) t o declare to her tha t sh e shall have nothin g to say about
the military . Greate r miracle s hav e bee n see n tha n that , imaginatio n
assisting, sh e should spea k th e trut h abou t som e o f these gentlemen . I
remember a n Englis h novelist, a woman of genius, telling me that she was
much commende d fo r the impression sh e had manage d t o give in on e of
her tale s o f th e natur e an d wa y o f lif e o f the Frenc h Protestan t youth .
She had bee n asked where she learned so much about thi s recondite being ,
she ha d bee n congratulate d o n he r peculia r opportunities . Thes e
opportunities consiste d i n he r havin g once , i n Paris , a s sh e ascende d a
staircase, passe d a n ope n doo r where , i n th e househol d o f a pasteur, some
of the young Protestants were seated at table round a finished meal. Th e
glimpse mad e a picture ; i t laste d onl y a moment , bu t tha t momen t wa s
experience. Sh e had go t her direc t persona l impression , an d sh e turned
out he r type . Sh e kne w what yout h was , an d wha t Protestantism ; she
also had th e advantage o f having seen what it was to be French, so that she
converted thes e idea s int o a concret e imag e an d produce d a reality .
Above all , however , sh e wa s blesse d wit h th e facult y whic h whe n yo u
give i t a n inc h take s a n ell , an d whic h fo r th e artis t i s a muc h greate r
source of strength tha n an y acciden t o f residence o r o f place in th e socia l
scale. Th e powe r t o guess the unseen from th e seen, to trace the implication o f things, t o judge th e whol e piec e b y th e pattern , th e conditio n o f
feeling lif e i n genera l s o completel y tha t yo u ar e wel l o n you r wa y t o
knowing an y particula r corne r o f itthis cluste r o f gifts ma y almos t b e
said to constitute experience, and the y occur in country and i n town, an d
in th e mos t differin g stage s o f education . I f experienc e consist s o f
impressions, i t ma y b e sai d tha t impression s are experience, just a s (have
we not see n it ?) they are th e ver y air w e breathe. Therefore , i f I should
certainly say to a novice , "Writ e fro m experienc e an d experienc e only,"
I should feel tha t thi s was rather a tantalising monition if I were not careful immediatel y to add, "Tr y to be one of the people o n whom nothing is
lost!"
I am far from intendin g by this to minimise the importance of exactness
of truth of detail. On e can speak best from one' s own taste, and I ma y
therefore ventur e t o sa y tha t th e ai r o f reality (solidit y of specification)
seems to me to be the suprem e virtue of a novelth e merit o n which al l

its othe r merit s (includin g that consciou s moral purpos e o f whic h Mr .

Besant speaks) helplessly and submissivel y depend. I f it be not there they
are al l a s nothing, and i f these be there , the y owe their effec t t o th e success with which the author ha s produced the illusio n of life. Th e cultivation o f this success, th e stud y of this exquisite process, form, t o m y taste ,
the beginnin g an d th e en d o f the ar t o f the novelist . The y ar e hi s inspiration, hi s despair, hi s reward, hi s torment, hi s delight. I t i s here i n
very truth tha t h e competes wit h life;'it i s here that h e competes with his
brother the painter in his attempt t o render the look of things, the look that
conveys their meaning , t o catc h th e colour , th e relief , th e expression , the
surface, th e substance of the huma n spectacle. I t i s in regard t o this that
Mr. Besan t is well inspired when he bids him take notes. H e cannot possibly take too many, he cannot possibly take enough. Al l life solicits him,
and t o "render" the simplest surface, t o produce th e mos t momentary illusion, is a very complicated business . Hi s case would be easier, and th e
rule would b e more exact , i f Mr. Besan t ha d bee n abl e t o tel l hi m wha t
notes to take. Bu t this, I fear, he can never learn in any manual; it is the
business of his life. H e ha s t o take a great man y in order t o select a few,
he has to work them u p a s he can, an d eve n th e guides and philosophers
who might hav e mos t t o say to him mus t leave him alon e whe n i t comes
to the application o f precepts, a s we leave the painter i n communion with
his palette . Tha t hi s character s "mus t b e clea r i n outline, " a s Mr .
Besant sayshe feels tha t down to his boots; but ho w he shall make them
so is a secre t betwee n his good ange l and himself . It woul d be absurdly
simple if he could be taught tha t a great dea l of "description" would make
them so, or that on the contrary the absence of description and th e cultivation o f dialogue , o r th e absenc e o f dialogu e an d th e multiplicatio n o f
"incident," would rescue him from hi s difficulties. Nothing , for instance,
is mor e possibl e tha n tha t h e b e o f a tur n o f mind fo r whic h thi s odd ,
literal oppositio n o f description an d dialogue , inciden t an d description ,
has littl e meanin g an d light . Peopl e ofte n tal k o f these thing s as if they
had a kin d of internecine distinctness, instead o f melting into eac h othe r
at every breath, and bein g intimately associated parts of one general effor t
of expression. I cannot imagine composition existing in a series of blocks,
nor conceive , in any nove l worth discussing at all , of a passage of description that is not i n its intention narrative , a passage of dialogue that i s not
in it s intentio n descriptive , a touc h o f trut h o f an y sor t tha t doe s no t
partake o f the natur e o f incident, o r a n inciden t tha t derive s its interest
from an y othe r source than th e general and onl y source of the succes s of a
work o f artthat o f being illustrative . A novel is a livin g thing, all on e
and continuous , lik e an y othe r organism , an d i n proportio n a s i t live s
will i t b e found , I think , tha t i n eac h o f the part s ther e i s something of

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THE AR T O F FICTIO N

each o f th e othe r parts . Th e criti c wh o ove r th e clos e textur e o f a

finished wor k shall pretend t o trac e a geograph y o f items will mar k som e
frontiers a s artificial , I fear , a s an y tha t hav e bee n know n t o history .
There i s an old-fashione d distinction between th e nove l o f character an d
the nove l o f inciden t which must have cost many a smile to the intending
fabulist wh o wa s kee n abou t hi s work. I t appear s t o m e a s littl e t o th e
point a s th e equall y celebrate d distinctio n betwee n th e nove l an d th e
romanceto answe r a s little t o an y reality . Ther e ar e ba d novel s an d
good novels , as there are ba d picture s an d goo d pictures ; bu t tha t i s the
only distinctio n in whic h I se e any meaning , an d I ca n a s little imagine
speaking of a nove l of character a s I ca n imagin e speaking of a pictur e of
character. Whe n on e say s picture on e say s of character, whe n on e says
novel on e say s o f incident , an d th e term s ma y b e transpose d a t will .
What i s character bu t th e determinatio n o f incident ? Wha t i s incident
but th e illustration of character ? Wha t i s either a picture or a novel that
is no t of character? Wha t els e do w e see k in i t an d fin d i n it ? I t i s a n
incident fo r a woma n t o stan d u p wit h he r han d restin g on a tabl e an d
look out at you in a certain way; or if it be not an incident I think it will be
hard t o say what i t is . A t th e sam e tim e i t is an expressio n o f character.
If you sa y you don't se e it (characte r i n that allons done! 1), thi s is exactly
what th e artis t wh o ha s reason s o f hi s ow n fo r thinkin g h e does se e i t
undertakes t o sho w you . Whe n a youn g ma n make s u p hi s mind tha t
he ha s no t fait h enoug h afte r al l t o ente r th e churc h a s h e intended ,
that i s an incident , though yo u ma y no t hurr y t o the en d o f the chapte r
to se e whethe r perhap s h e doesn' t chang e onc e more . I d o no t sa y
that thes e are extraordinar y o r startlin g incidents. I d o no t preten d t o
estimate th e degre e o f interest proceeding fro m them , fo r this will depen d
upon th e skil l o f the painter . I t sound s almost pueril e t o sa y that som e
incidents ar e instrinsicall y muc h mor e importan t tha n others , an d I
need no t tak e thi s precaution afte r havin g professe d m y sympath y fo r
the major one s in remarking that th e onl y classification of the novel that
I ca n understan d is into that whic h has lif e an d tha t whic h has it not .
The nove l and th e romance, th e novel of incident and tha t of character
these clumsy separations appear t o me to have been mad e b y critics and
readers fo r their ow n convenience , an d t o hel p them ou t o f some of their
occasional queer predicaments , bu t t o have little reality or interest for the
producer, fro m whos e point o f view it i s of course that w e are attemptin g
to consider the art o f fiction . Th e cas e is the same with another shadow y
category which Mr . Besan t apparentl y i s disposed t o se t uptha t o f th e
"modern Englis h novel" ; unles s indeed i t b e tha t i n thi s matter h e ha s
fallen int o a n accidenta l confusio n o f standpoints. I t i s not quit e clea r

whether he intends the remarks in which he alludes to it to be didacti c or

historical. I t i s a s difficul t t o suppos e a perso n intendin g t o writ e a
modern Englis h as to suppose him writin g an ancien t Englis h novel: tha t
is a labe l which begs the question . On e write s the novel , on e paint s th e
picture, of one's language an d o f one's time, and callin g it modern Englis h
will not, alas ! make th e difficul t tas k any easier . N o more, unfortunately,
will calling this or that wor k of one's fellow-artist a romanceunless it be,
of course, simpl y fo r th e pleasantnes s of th e thing , a s fo r instanc e whe n
Hawthorne gav e thi s heading to his story of Blithedale. Th e French , wh o
have brough t th e theor y o f fiction to remarkable completeness , hav e bu t
one name for the novel, and hav e not attempted smalle r things in it, that I
can see , for that. I ca n thin k of no obligation t o which th e "romancer "
would no t b e hel d equall y wit h the novelist ; the standar d o f execution is
equally hig h fo r each. O f cours e it is of execution tha t w e are talking
that bein g th e onl y point o f a nove l tha t i s open t o contention . Thi s is
perhaps to o ofte n los t sigh t of , only t o produc e interminabl e confusion s
and cross-purposes . W e mus t gran t th e artis t hi s subject , hi s idea , hi s
donnee: ou r criticis m is applied onl y to what h e makes of it. Naturall y I
do not mean that we are boun d t o like i t or find it interesting: i n case we
do no t ou r cours e i s perfectly simpleto le t i t alone . W e ma y believ e
that o f a certai n ide a eve n th e mos t sincer e novelis t ca n mak e nothin g
at all , an d th e even t ma y perfectl y justify ou r belief ; bu t th e failur e will
have bee n a failur e to execute , an d i t i s in th e executio n tha t th e fata l
weakness is recorded. I f we pretend t o respect th e artis t a t all , w e must
allow hi m hi s freedo m o f choice , i n th e face , i n particula r cases , o f in numerable presumption s tha t th e choic e wil l not fructify . Ar t derive s a
considerable par t o f it s beneficia l exercise fro m flyin g i n th e fac e o f
presumptions, an d som e of the mos t interesting experiments of which it is
capable ar e hidde n i n th e boso m o f common things . Gustav e Flauber t
has written a story about th e devotion of a servant girl to a parrot, and the
production, highl y finishe d a s it is , cannot o n th e whol e b, e calle d a suc cess. W e ar e perfectl y free t o find it flat, but I thin k it might hav e bee n
interesting; and I , for my part, am extremely glad h e should have written
it; i t i s a contributio n t o ou r knowledg e of what ca n b e doneo r wha t
cannot. Iva n Turgenief f ha s written a tal e abou t a dea f and dum b ser f
and a lap-dog, an d th e thing is touching, loving, a little masterpiece. H e
struck th e not e o f life wher e Gustav e Flauber t misse d ithe fle w i n th e
face o f a presumptio n an d achieve d a victory.
Nothing, o f course, wil l eve r tak e th e plac e of the goo d ol d fashio n of
"liking" a work of art o r not liking it: the most improved criticism wil l not
abolish tha t primitive , tha t ultimat e test. I mention thi s to guard myself
from th e accusation o f intimating that the idea, the subject, of a nove l or a

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Oh, com e now !

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picture, does not matter . I t matters , t o my sense, in th e highes t degree ,

and i f I might pu t u p a prayer i t would b e that artist s shoul d selec t non e
but th e richest . Some , a s I hav e alread y hastene d t o admit , ar e muc h
more remunerative tha n others , and it would be a world happil y arrange d
in whic h person s intendin g t o trea t the m shoul d b e exemp t fro m confu sions and mistakes . Thi s fortunate conditio n wil l arrive only, I fear , o n
the sam e da y tha t critic s becom e purge d fro m error . Meanwhile , I
repeat, w e do not judge th e artist with fairness unless we say to him, "Oh ,
I gran t yo u you r starting-point , becaus e i f I di d no t I shoul d see m t o
prescribe to you, and heave n forbid I shoul d take that responsibility . I f
I pretend t o tell you what you must not take, you will call upon me to tell
you the n wha t yo u mus t take ; i n whic h cas e I shall b e prettil y caught .
Moreover, it isn' t til l I hav e accepte d you r dat a tha t I can begi n to
measure you . I hav e the standard, th e pitch; I hav e n o right t o tampe r
with your flute and the n criticis e you r music . O f course I may not care
for you r idea at all; I may think it silly, or stale, or unclean; in which case
I wash my hands of you altogether. I may content mysel f with believin g
that yo u wil l no t hav e succeede d i n bein g interesting , bu t I shall , o f
course, not attempt t o demonstrate it, and you will be as indifferent t o me
as I a m t o you. I needn' t remin d yo u tha t ther e are al l sort s of tastes:
who can know it better ? Som e people, fo r excellent reasons, don't like to
read abou t carpenters ; others , fo r reasons eve n better , don' t lik e t o read
about courtesans . Man y objec t t o Americans . Other s ( I believ e the y
are mainl y editors and publishers ) won' t loo k at Italians . Som e reader s
don't lik e quie t subjects ; others don' t lik e bustling ones . Som e enjo y a
complete illusion , other s th e consciousnes s o f larg e concessions . The y
choose their novels accordingly, and if they don't car e about your idea they
won't, a fortiori, car e abou t you r treatment. "
So that it comes back very quickly, as I have said, to the liking: in spite
of M. Zola , who reasons less powerfully tha n h e represents, an d wh o will
not reconcil e himself to thi s absoluteness of taste, thinkin g that ther e ar e
certain things that peopl e ought to like, and that the y can be made to like.
I a m quit e a t a los s t o imagin e anythin g (a t an y rat e i n thi s matte r o f
fiction) tha t peopl e ought to lik e or to dislike. Selectio n wil l be sur e to
take car e o f itself, fo r it has a constant motiv e behin d it . Tha t motive is
simply experience. A s people fee l life , so they will feel th e ar t tha t i s most
closely relate d t o it . Thi s closenes s o f relation i s what w e should neve r
forget i n talking of the effor t o f the novel . Man y peopl e spea k of it a s a
factitious, artificia l form , a produc t o f ingenuity, th e busines s of which is
to alte r an d arrang e th e thing s that surroun d us , to translat e the m int o
conventional, traditional moulds . This , however, is a view of the matte r
which carrie s u s bu t a ver y shor t way , condemn s th e ar t t o a n eterna l

repetition o f a few familiar cliches, cuts short its development, and lead s us
straight up to a dead wall . Catchin g the very note and trick , the strange
irregular rhyth m o f life, tha t i s the attemp t whos e strenuous force keep s
Fiction upo n her feet . In proportio n as in what she offers us we see lif e
without rearrangemen t d o w e fee l tha t w e ar e touchin g th e truth ; i n
proportion a s we see it with rearrangement d o w e fee l tha t w e are bein g
put of f with a substitute , a compromis e an d convention . I t i s not un common t o hea r a n extraordinar y assuranc e o f remark i n regar d t o thi s
matter of rearranging, whic h is often spoke n of as if it were the las t word of
art. Mr . Besan t seems to me in danger of falling into the great error with
his rather unguarde d tal k about "selection. " Ar t i s essentially selection,
but it is a selection whose main car e is to be typical, to be inclusive. For
many people art mean s rose-coloured window-panes, and selectio n means
picking a bouquet for Mrs. Grundy. The y will tell you glibly that artistic
considerations hav e nothin g t o d o wit h th e disagreeable , wit h th e ugly ;
they will rattle of f shallow commonplace s abou t th e provinc e o f art an d
the limit s o f art til l yo u ar e move d t o som e wonde r i n retur n a s to th e
province an d th e limit s of ignorance. I t appear s t o me tha t n o one can
ever have made a seriously artistic attempt withou t becoming conscious of
an immens e increase a kin d o f revelationof freedom . On e perceives
in that caseb y the light of a heavenly raythat the province of art i s all
life, al l feeling , al l observation , al l vision . A s Mr . Besan t so justly intimates, i t i s al l experience . Tha t i s a sufficien t answe r t o thos e wh o
maintain tha t i t mus t no t touc h th e sa d thing s o f life, wh o stic k into it s
divine unconsciou s boso m littl e prohibitor y inscription s o n th e en d o f
sticks, suc h a s we see in publi c gardens"I t i s forbidden t o wal k o n th e
grass; i t i s forbidden t o touc h th e flowers ; i t i s not allowed t o introduc e
dogs or to remain afte r dark ; it is requested t o keep t o th e right." Th e
young aspirant i n the lin e of fiction whom we continue to imagine will do
nothing without taste, for in that cas e his freedom would be of little use to
him; but th e first advantage o f his taste will be to reveal to him the absurdity o f the little sticks and tickets . I f h e have taste, I must add, o f course
he will have ingenuity , and m y disrespectful referenc e t o that qualit y just
now was not mean t t o impl y tha t i t i s useless i n fiction . Bu t i t i s only a
secondary aid ; th e firs t i s a capacit y fo r receivin g straigh t impressions .
Mr. Besan t ha s som e remark s o n th e questio n o f "the story " whic h I
shall not attempt to criticise, thoug h the y seem to me to contain a singular
am&iguity, because I do not think I understand them . I cannot see what
is meant b y talking as if there were a part of a novel which is the story and
part o f it which fo r mystical reasons is notunless indee d th e distinction
be made i n a sens e in which i t is difficult t o suppose that an y on e should
attempt t o conve y anything . "Th e story, " i f i t represent s anything ,

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represents the subject , th e idea, the donnee of the novel ; and ther e is surely
no "school"Mr . Besan t speaks o f a schoolwhic h urge s tha t a nove l
should b e al l treatmen t an d n o subject . Ther e mus t assuredl y b e
something t o treat ; ever y schoo l i s intimatel y consciou s o f that . Thi s
sense of the story being the idea, the starting-point, of the novel, is the only
one tha t I see in which it can b e spoken of as something different fro m it s
organic whole ; and sinc e in proportio n a s the wor k i s successful th e idea
permeates an d penetrate s it, inform s an d animate s it , s o that ever y wor d
and ever y punctuation-point contribut e directl y to the expression, i n that
proportion d o we lose our sens e of the stor y being a blad e whic h may b e
drawn mor e o r les s ou t o f its sheath. Th e stor y and th e novel , th e idea
and th e form , ar e th e needle and thread, an d I neve r hear d o f a guil d of
tailors who recommended th e use of the threa d withou t the needle, o r th e
needle without the thread. Mr . Besant i s not the only critic who may be
observed t o hav e spoke n a s i f ther e wer e certai n thing s i n lif e whic h
constitute stories , and certai n other s which d o not I fin d th e sam e od d
implication i n an entertainin g articl e i n th e Pall Mall Gazette, devoted, as
it happens , t o Mr . Besant' s lecture. "Th e stor y i s the thing! " say s thi s
graceful writer , a s i f wit h a ton e o f oppositio n t o som e othe r idea . I
should thin k it was, as every painter who, as the tim e for "sending in " hi s
picture loom s i n th e distance , finds himself stil l i n ques t o f a subjecta s
every belate d artis t not fixed about his theme wil l heartily agree . Ther e
are som e subject s which spea k t o u s an d other s whic h d o not , bu t h e
would b e a clever ma n wh o shoul d undertak e t o giv e a rulea n index
expurgatoriusby whic h th e stor y an d th e no-stor y shoul d b e know n
apart. I t i s impossible (t o me a t least ) t o imagine an y suc h rul e whic h
shall not be altogether arbitrary . Th e write r i n the Pall Mall opposes the
delightful (a s I suppose ) nove l o f Margot l a Balafree t o certai n tale s i n
which "Bostonia n nymphs " appea r t o hav e "rejecte d Englis h duke s for
psychological reasons. " I a m no t acquainte d wit h th e romanc e jus t
designated, and ca n scarcely forgive the Pall Mall critic for not mentionin g
the nam e o f the author, bu t th e title appears to refer to a lad y wh o may
have received a scar in some heroic adventure. I am inconsolabl e at no t
being acquainte d wit h thi s episode , bu t a m utterl y a t a los s t o se e why
it is a story when the rejection (or acceptance) o f a duke is not, and wh y a
reason, psychologica l o r other, i s not a subjec t when a cicatri x is . The y
are al l particles o f the multitudinou s life wit h which th e nove l deals, an d
surely n o dogm a whic h pretend s t o make i t lawfu l t o touc h th e one an d
unlawful t o touch th e other wil l stand fo r a moment o n its feet. I t i s the
special picture that must stand or fall, accordin g a s it seem to possess truth
or t o lac k it . Mr . Besan t doe s not , t o m y sense , light u p th e subjec t b y
intimating tha t a story must, under penalt y of not being a story, consis t of

"adventures." Wh y o f adventures mor e tha n o f green spectacle s ? H e

mentions a categor y o f impossibl e things , an d amon g the m h e place s
"fiction withou t adventure. " Wh y without adventure, mor e tha n with out matrimony , o r celibacy, or parturition, o r cholera, o r hydropathy, o r
Jansenism ? Thi s seem s to me to bring the novel back to the hapless little
role o f bein g a n artificial , ingenious thingbring i t dow n fro m it s large ,
free characte r o f a n immens e an d exquisit e correspondenc e wit h life .
And wha t i s adventure, whe n i t come s t o that , an d b y wha t sig n i s th e
listening pupi l t o recognis e it ? I t i s an adventurea n immens e one
for m e t o writ e this little article; an d fo r a Bostonia n nymp h t o reject a n
English duk e i s an adventur e onl y less stirring , I shoul d say , tha n fo r a n
English duk e to be rejected b y a Bostonian nymph. I see dramas withi n
dramas i n that , an d innumerabl e points of view. A psychological reaso n
is, to my imagination, a n objec t adorably pictorial ; to catch th e tin t of its
complexionI fee l a s if that ide a might inspire one to Titianesque efforts .
There are fe w things more excitin g t o me, i n short, tha n a psychologica l
reason, an d yet , I protest , th e nove l seem s t o m e th e mos t magnificen t
form o f art. I hav e just bee n reading , a t th e sam e time , th e delightfu l
story of Treasure Island, b y Mr . Rober t Louis Stevenso n and , i n a manner
less consecutive , th e las t tal e fro m M . Edmon d d e Goncourt , whic h i s
entitled Cherie. On e o f these work s treats o f murders, mysteries , island s
of dreadfu l renown , hairbreadt h escapes , miraculou s coincidence s an d
buried doubloons . Th e othe r treat s o f a littl e Frenc h gir l wh o live d i n
a fine hous e in Paris , and die d of wounded sensibilit y because no one
would marr y her . I cal l Treasure Island delightful , because i t appear s t o
me t o have succeeded wonderfull y i n what i t attempts; and I ventur e t o
bestow no epithet upon Cherie, which strikes me as having failed deplorabl y
in wha t i t attemptstha t i s i n tracin g th e developmen t o f th e mora l
consciousness o f a child . Bu t on e o f thes e production s strike s m e a s
exactly as muc h o f a nove l as the other, an d a s having a "story" quite as
much. Th e mora l consciousnes s of a child is as much a part of life a s the
islands of th e Spanis h Main , an d th e on e sor t o f geography seem s t o m e
to have those "surprises" o f which Mr. Besan t speaks quite as much a s the
other. Fo r mysel f (since it come s back i n th e las t resort, a s I say , t o th e
preference o f the individual), the pictur e o f the child' s experience ha s th e
advantage tha t I ca n a t successiv e steps (a n immense luxury , near t o th e
"sensual pleasure " o f which Mr . Besant' s criti c i n th e Pall Mall speaks )
say Ye s or No , a s it ma y be , t o wha t th e artis t put s befor e me. I hav e
been a child in fact, bu t I have bee n o n a quest for a buried treasur e onl y
in supposition , an d i t i s a simpl e acciden t tha t wit h M . d e Goncour t I
should hav e for the mos t par t t o sa y No. Wit h Georg e Eliot , whe n sh e
painted tha t country wit h a far other intelligence , I always sai d Yes .

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THE AR T O F FICTION

The mos t interestin g part o f Mr. Besant' s lectur e i s unfortunately th e

briefest passagehi s ver y cursor y allusio n t o th e "consciou s mora l
purpose" o f th e novel . Her e agai n i t i s no t ver y clea r whethe r h e b e
recording a fac t o r layin g down a principle ; it i s a grea t pit y that i n th e
latter cas e h e shoul d no t hav e develope d hi s idea . Thi s branc h o f th e
subject i s of immense importance , an d Mr . Besant' s fe w words poin t t o
considerations of the wides t reach, no t t o b e lightly disposed of. H e will
have treate d th e ar t o f fiction bu t superficiall y wh o i s not prepare d t o go
every inc h o f the wa y tha t thes e considerations will carr y him . I t i s for
this reaso n tha t a t th e beginnin g of these remarks I wa s careful t o notif y
the reade r tha t m y reflection s o n s o large a them e hav e n o pretension t o
be exhaustive. Lik e Mr. Besant , I hav e lef t th e questio n o f the moralit y
of the novel till the last, and at the last I find I have used up my space. I t
is a questio n surrounde d wit h difficulties , a s witnes s th e ver y firs t tha t
meets us, in the form o f a definite question, on the threshold. Vagueness ,
in such a discussion, is fatal, and wha t is the meaning of your morality an d
your consciou s moral purpose ? Wil l you no t defin e you r term s and ex plain ho w ( a novel being a picture ) a pictur e ca n b e either mora l o r immoral? Yo u wis h t o pain t a mora l pictur e o r carv e a mora l statue :
will yo u no t tel l u s how yo u would se t about it ? W e ar e discussin g the
Art o f Fiction ; question s o f ar t ar e question s (i n th e wides t sense ) o f
execution; questions of morality are quit e another affair , an d wil l you not
let us see how it is that yo u find it so easy to mix them u p ? Thes e thing s
are so clear to Mr. Besan t that h e has deduced fro m the m a law which he
sees embodie d i n Englis h Fiction, and whic h i s "a trul y admirable thin g
and a great cause for congratulation." I t i s a great cause for congratulation indeed when such thorny problems become as smooth as silk. I ma y
add tha t i n s o far a s Mr . Besan t perceive s tha t i n poin t o f fac t Englis h
Fiction ha s addressed itsel f preponderantl y t o thes e delicat e question s he
will appea r t o man y peopl e t o hav e mad e a vai n discovery . The y wil l
have been positively struck, on the contrary, with the moral timidit y of the
usual Englis h novelist; with his (o r with her) aversio n t o face th e difficul ties with which on ever y side the treatmen t o f reality bristles . H e i s ap t
to b e extremel y sh y (wherea s th e pictur e tha t Mr . Besan t draw s i s a
picture o f boldness) , an d th e sig n o f hi s work , fo r th e mos t part , i s a
cautious silenc e on certai n subjects . I n th e Englis h nove l (b y whic h o f
course I mea n th e America n a s well), more tha n i n an y other , ther e i s a
traditional differenc e betwee n tha t whic h peopl e kno w an d tha t whic h
they agre e t o admit tha t the y know, tha t whic h the y se e and tha t which
they speak of, that whic h they feel t o be a part o f life an d tha t which the y
allow t o ente r int o literature . Ther e i s th e grea t difference , i n short ,
between what the y tal k of in conversation an d wha t the y tal k of in print .

The essenc e of moral energ y is to surve y the whol e field, and I shoul d
directly revers e Mr . Besant' s remar k an d sa y not tha t th e Englis h novel
has a purpose, but that it has a diffidence. T o what degree a purpose in a
work o f art i s a sourc e o f corruption I shal l no t attemp t t o inquire ; th e
one tha t seem s t o me leas t dangerou s i s the purpos e o f making a perfect
work. A s for our novel, I may sa y lastly on this score that as we find it in
England to-da y i t strike s m e a s addresse d i n a larg e degre e t o "youn g
people," an d tha t thi s i n itsel f constitutes a presumptio n tha t i t wil l b e
rather shy. Ther e are certai n thing s which i t i s generally agree d no t t o
discuss, no t even t o mention , befor e youn g people . Tha t i s very well,
but th e absence o f discussion is not a symptom of the moral passion . Th e
purpose of the English novel"a truly admirable thing , and a great caus e
for congratulation"strike s m e therefor e a s rathe r negative.
There i s one poin t a t whic h th e mora l sens e an d th e artisti c sens e lie
very near together ; that i s in th e ligh t o f the ver y obvious trut h tha t th e
deepest qualit y o f a work o f art wil l always be the qualit y o f the mind of
the producer. I n proportion a s that intelligenc e is fine will the novel, the
picture, th e statu e partak e of the substanc e of beauty an d truth . T o b e
constituted o f such elements is, to my vision, to have purpose enough. N o
good nove l will ever proceed fro m a superficial mind; that seem s to me an
axiom which , for the artist i n fiction, will cover all needful mora l ground:
if the youthfu l aspiran t tak e i t to heart it will illuminate for him many of
the mysterie s o f "purpose. " Ther e ar e man y othe r usefu l thing s tha t
might be said to him, but I hav e com e to the end of my article, and can
only touc h the m a s I pass . Th e criti c i n th e Pall Mall Gazette, whom I
have alread y quoted , draw s attentio n t o th e danger , i n speakin g of th e
art of fiction, of generalising. The dange r tha t he has in mind is rather, I
imagine, tha t of particularising, for there are some comprehensive remarks
which, i n additio n t o thos e embodie d i n Mr . Besant' s suggestiv e lecture,
might withou t fea r o f misleadin g hi m b e addresse d t o th e ingenuou s
student. I should remind hi m first of the magnificence of the form that is
open t o him, which offers t o sight so few restrictions and suc h innumerable
opportunities. Th e othe r arts , i n comparison, appea r confine d an d
hampered; th e variou s condition s unde r whic h the y ar e exercise d are so
rigid and definite . Bu t the only condition that I can think of attaching to
the compositio n o f the nove l is , as I hav e alread y said, tha t i t be sincere .
This freedo m i s a splendi d privilege , an d th e firs t lesso n o f the youn g
novelist is to learn t o be worthy of it. "Enjo y i t as it deserves," I should
say t o him ; "tak e possession of it, explor e i t t o it s utmost extent , publish
it, rejoic e i n it . Al l lif e belong s t o you, an d d o no t liste n eithe r to thos e
who would shu t you u p int o corner s o f it and tel l yo u tha t i t is only her e
and ther e that art inhabits , o r to those who would persuad e yo u that thi s

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heavenly messenge r wing s her wa y outsid e of life altogether , breathin g a

superfine air, and turnin g away her hea d from th e truth of things. Ther e
is no impressio n of life, n o manner o f seeing it an d feelin g it , t o which th e
plan o f the novelist may not offer a place; you have only to remember tha t
talents s o dissimila r a s thos e o f Alexandr e Duma s an d Jan e Austen ,
Charles Dicken s an d Gustav e Flauber t hav e worke d i n thi s fiel d wit h
equal glory . D o not thin k too much abou t optimis m an d pessimism; try
and catc h th e colou r o f life itself . I n Franc e to-da y w e see a prodigiou s
effort (tha t o f Emile Zola , t o whose solid and seriou s work no explore r of
the capacit y o f th e nove l ca n allud e withou t respect) , w e se e an extra ordinary effor t vitiate d b y a spiri t o f pessimism on a narro w basis . M .
Zola is magnificent, but h e strikes an Englis h reader as ignorant; he has an
air o f working in th e dark ; i f he ha d a s much ligh t a s energy, hi s results
would be of the highes t value. A s for the aberrations o f a shallow optimism, th e groun d (o f English fiction especially) is strewn with thei r brittl e
particles a s wit h broke n glass . I f yo u mus t indulg e i n conclusions , let
them have the taste of a wide knowledge. Remembe r tha t your first duty
is to be as complete as possibleto make as perfect a work. B e generous
and delicat e and pursu e the prize. "