II. NOVEL-READERS
AS DISTINGUISHED FROM WOMEN AND NIBBLERS AND AMATEURS
There is, of course, but one sort of novel-reader who is of anyimportance He is the man who began under the age of fourteen andis still sticking to it--at whatever age he may be--and full ofa terrifying anxiety lest he may be called away in the midst ofpreliminary announcements of some pet author's "next forthcoming." Formy own part I cannot conceive dying with resignation knowing that thepublishers were binding up at the time anything of Henryk Sienckiewicz'sor Thomas Hardy's. So it is important that a man begin early, because hewill have to quit all too soon.
There are no women novel-readers. There are women who read novels, ofcourse; but it is a far cry from reading novels to being a novel-reader.It is not in the nature of a woman. The crown of woman's character isher devotion, which incarnate delicacy and tenderness exalt intoperfect beauty of sacrifice. Those qualities could no more live amid theclashings of indiscriminate human passions than a butterfly wing couldgo between the mill rollers untorn. Women utterly refuse to go on with abook if the subject goes against their settled opinions. They despise anovel--howsoever fine and stirring it may be--if there is any taint ofunhappiness to the favorite at the close. But the most flagrant of alltheir incapacities in respect to fiction is the inability to appreciatethe admirable achievements of heroes, unless the achievements are solelyin behalf of women. And even in that event they complacently considerthem to be a matter of course, and attach no particular importance tothe perils or the hardships undergone. "Why shouldn't he?" they argue,with triumphant trust in ideals; "surely he loved her!"
There are many women who nibble at novels as they nibble atluncheon--there are also some hearty eaters; but 98 per cent of themdetest Thackeray and refuse resolutely to open a second book of RobertLouis Stevenson. They scent an enemy of the sex in Thackeray, who neverseems to be in earnest, and whose indignant sarcasm and melancholytruthfulness they shrink from. "It's only a story, anyhow," they argueagain; "he might, at least write a pleasant one, instead of bringing inall sorts of disagreeable people--some of them positively disreputable."As for Stevenson, whom men read with the thrill of boyhood rising newin their veins, I believe in my soul women would tear leaves out of hisnovels to tie over the tops of preserve jars, and never dream of thesacrilege.
Now I hold Thackeray and Stevenson to be the absolute test of capacityfor earnest novel-reading. Neither cares a snap of his fingers foranybody's prejudices, but goes the way of stern truth by the light ofgenius that shines within him.
If you could ever pin a woman down to tell you what she thought, insteadof telling you what she thinks it is proper to tell you, or what shethinks will please you, you would find she has a religious convictionthat Dot Perrybingle in "The Cricket of the Hearth," and Ouida's LordChandos were actually a materializable an and a reasonable gentleman,either of whom might be met with anywhere in their proper circles, Iwould be willing to stand trial for perjury on the statement that I'veknown admirable women--far above the average, really showing signs ofmoral discrimination--who have sniveled pitifully over Nancy Sykes andsniffed scornfully at Mrs. Tess Durbeyfield Clare. It is due to theirconstitution and social heredity. Women do not strive and yearn andstalk abroad for the glorious pot of intellectual gold at the end of therainbow; they pick and choose and, having chosen, sit down straightwayand become content. And a state of contentment is an abomination in thesight of man. Contentment is to be sought for by great masculine mindsonly with the purpose of being sure never quite to find it.
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For all practical purposes, therefore--except perhaps as object lessonsof "the incorrect method" in reading novels--women, as novel-readers,must be considered as not existing. And, of course, no offense isintended. But if there be any weak-kneed readers who prefer thegilt-wash of pretty politeness to the solid gold of truth, let themunderstand that I am not to be frightened away from plain facts by anycharge of bad manners.
On the contrary, now that this disagreeable interruption has been forcedupon me--certainly not through any seeking of mine--it may be better tospeak out and settle the matter. Men who have the happiness of being inthe married state know that nothing is to be gained by failing to settleinstantly with women who contradict and oppose them. Who was that mellowphilosopher in one of Trollope's tiresomely clever novels who said: "Myword for it, John, a husband ought not to take a cane to his wifetoo soon. He should fairly wait till they are half-way home from thechurch--but not longer, not longer." Of course every man with a sparkof intelligence and gallantry wishes that women COULD rise to realnovel-reading Think what courtship would be! Every true man wishes toheaven there was nothing more to be said against women than that theyare not novel-readers. But can mere forgetting remove the canker? Do notall of us know that the abstract good of the very existence of woman isitself open to grave doubt--with no immediate hope of clearing up? Womanhas certainly been thrust upon us. Is there any scrap of record to showthat Adam asked for her? He was doing very well, was happy, prosperousand healthy. There was no certainty that her creation was one of thatunquestionably wonderful series that occupied the six great days.We cannot conceal that her creation caused a great pain in Adam'sside--undoubtedly the left side, in the region of the heart. Shehas been described by young and dauntless poets as "God's bestafterthought;" but, now, really--and I advance the suggestion withno intention to be brutal but solely as a conscientious duty to theascertainment of truth--why is it, that--. But let me try to present thematter in the most unobjectionable manner possible.
In reading over that marvelous account of creation I find frequentexplicit declaration that God pronounced everything good after he hadcreated it--except heaven and woman. I have maintained sometimes tostern, elderly ladies that this might have been an error of omission byearly copyists, perpetuated and so become fixed in our translations. Toother ladies, of other age and condition, to whom such propositionsof scholarship might appear to be dull pedantry, I have ventured thegentlemanlike explanation that, as woman was the only living thingcreated that was good beyond doubt, perhaps God had paid her thespecial compliment of leaving the approval unspoken, as being in a sensesupererogatory. At best, either of these dispositions of the matter is,of course, far-fetched, maybe even frivolous. The fact still remainsby the record. And it is beyond doubt awkward and embarrassing, becauseill-natured men can refer to it in moments of hatefulness--momentsunfortunately too frequent.
Is it possible that this last creation was a mistake of Infinite Charityand Eternal Truth? That Charity forbore to acknowledge that it was amistake and that Truth, in the very nature of its eternal essence, couldnot say it was good? It is so grave a matter that one wonders Helvetiusdid not betray it, as he did that other secret about which thephilosophers had agreed to keep mum, so that Herr Schopenhauer couldwrite about it as he did about that other. Herr Schopenhauer certainlyhad the courage to speak with philosophical asperity of the gentlesex. It may be because he was never married. And then his mother wrotenovels! I have been surprised that he was not accused of prejudice.
But if all these everyday obstacles were absent there would yet remaininsurmountable reasons why women can never be novel-readers in the sensethat men are. Your wife, for instance, or the impenetrable mysteryof womanhood that you contemplate making your wife some day--can you,honestly, now, as a self-respecting husband of either de facto or infuturo, quite agree to the spectacle of that adored lady sitting overacross the hearth from you in the snug room, evening after evening, withher feet--however small and well-shaped--cocked up on the other end ofthe mantel and one of your own big colorado maduros between her teeth!We men, and particularly novel-readers, are liberal even generous, inour views; but it is not in human nature to stand that!
Now, if a woman can not put her feet up and smoke, how in the nameof heaven, can she seriously read novels? Certainly not sitting boltupright, in order to prevent the back of her new gown from rubbing thechair; certai
nly not reclining upon a couch or in a hammock. A boy, yettoo young to smoke may properly lie on his stomach on the floor and readnovels, but the mature veteran will fight for his end of the mantel asfor his wife and children. It is physiological necessity, inasmuch asthe blood that would naturally go to the lower extremities, is thusmeasurably lessened in quantity and goes instead to the head, where astate of gentle congestion ensues, exciting the brain cells, settingfree the imagination to roam hand in hand with intelligence under thespell of the wizard. There may be novel-readers who do not smoke at thegame, but surely they cannot be quite earnest or honest--you had betterput in writing all business agreements with this sort.
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No boy can ever hope to become a really great or celebrated novel-readerwho does not begin his apprenticeship under the age of fourteen, and, asI said before, stick to it as long as he lives. He must learn to scornthose frivolous, vacillating and purposeless ones who, after beginningproperly, turn aside and whiling away their time on mere history, orscience, or philosophy. In a sense these departments of literature areuseful enough. They enable you often to perceive the most cunning andprofoundly interesting touches in fiction. Then I have no doubt that,merely as mental exercise, they do some good in keeping the mind intraining for the serious work of novel-reading. I have always beengrateful to Carlyle's "French Revolution," if for nothing more than thatits criss-cross, confusing and impressive dullness enabled me to findmore pleasure in "A Tale of Two Cities" than was to be extracted fromany merit or interest in that unreal novel.
This much however, may be said of history, that it is looking up inthese days as a result of studying the spirit of the novel. It wasnot many years ago that the ponderous gentlemen who write criticisms(chiefly because it has been forgotten how to stop that ancient wasteof paper and ink) could find nothing more biting to say of Macaulay's"England" than that it was "a splendid work of imagination," of Froude's"Caesar" that it was "magnificent political fiction," and of Taine's"France" that "it was so fine it should have been history insteadof fiction." And ever since then the world has read only these threewriters upon these three epochs--and many other men have been writinghistory upon the same model. No good novel-reader need be ashamed toread them, in fact. They are so like the real thing we find in thegreatest novels, instead of being the usual pompous official lies ofold-time history, that there are flesh, blood and warmth in them.
In 1877, after the railway riots, legislative halls heard the FrenchRevolution rehearsed from all points of view. In one capital, where Iwas reporting the debate, Old Oracle, with every fact at hand from "Inthe beginning" to the exact popular vote in 1876, talked two hours ofaccurate historical data from all the French histories, after whicha young lawyer replied in fifteen minutes with a vivid picture of thepopular conditions, the revolt and the result. Will it be allowable, inthe interest of conveying exact impression, to say that Old Oracle was"swiped" off the earth? No other word will relieve my conscience.After it was all over I asked the young lawyer where he got his Frenchhistory.
"From Dumas," he answered, "and from critical reviews of his novels.He's short on dates and documents, but he's long on the general facts."
Why not? Are not novels history?
Book for book, is not a novel by a competent conscientious novelistjust as truthful a record of typical men, manners and motives as formalhistory is of official men, events and motives?
There are persons created out of the dreams of genius so real, soactual, so burnt into the heart and mind of the world that they havebecome historical. Do they not show you, in the old Ursuline Convent atNew Orleans, the cell where poor Manon Lescaut sat alone in tears? Anddo they not show you her very grave on the banks of the lake? Have Inot stood by the simple grave at Richmond, Virginia, where never lay thebody of Pocahontas and listened to the story of her burial there? Oneof the loveliest women I ever knew admits that every time she visitsrelatives at Salem she goes out to look at the mound over the brokenheart of Hester Prynne, that dream daughter of genius who never actuallylived or died, but who was and is and ever will be. Her grave can beeasily pointed out, but where is that of Alexander, of Themistocles, ofAristotle, even of the first figure of history--Adam? Mark Twain foundit for a joke. Dr. Hale was finally forced to write a preface to "TheMan Without a Country" to declare that his hero was pure fiction andthat the pathetic punishment so marvelously described was not onlyimaginary, but legally and actually impossible. It was because PhilipNolan had passed into history. I myself have met old men who knew seacaptains that had met this melancholy prisoner at sea and looked uponhim, had even spoken to him upon subjects not prohibited. And these oldmen did not hesitate to declare that Dr. Hale had lied in his denial andhad repudiated the facts through cowardice or under compulsion from theWar Department.
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Indeed, so flexible, adaptable and penetrable is the style, and soadmirably has the use and proper direction of the imagination beendeveloped by the school of fiction, that every branch of literature hasgained from it power, beauty and clearness. Nothing has aided more inthe spread of liberal Christianity than the remarkable series of "Livesof Christ," from Straus to Farrar, not omitting particular mention ofthe singularly beautiful treatment of the subject by Renan. In all ofthese conscientious imagination has been used, as it is used in thehighest works of fiction, to give to known facts the atmosphere andvividness of truth in order that the spirit and personality of thesurroundings of the Savior of Mankind might be newly understood by andmade fresh to modern perception.
Of all books it is to be said--of novels as well--that none is greatthat is not true, and that cannot be true which does not carry inherenceof truth. Now every book is true to some reader. The "Arabian Nights"tales do not seem impossible to a little child, the only delight him.The novels of "The Duchess" seem true to a certain class of readers, ifonly because they treat of a society to which those readers are entirelyunaccustomed. "Robinson Crusoe" is a gospel to the world, and yet it isthe most palpably and innocently impossible of books. It is so plausiblebecause the author has ingeniously or accidentally set aside the usualearmarks of plausibility. When an author plainly and easily knowswhat the reader does not know and enough more to continue the chain ofseeming reality of truth a little further, he convinces the reader ofhis truth and ability. Those men, therefore, who have been endowed withthe genius almost unconsciously to absorb, classify, combine, arrangeand dispense vast knowledge in a bold, striking or noble manner, are therecognized greatest men of genius for the simple reason that the readersof the world who know most recognize all they know in these writers,together with that spirit of sublime imagination that suggests stillgreater realms of truth and beauty. What Shakesepare was to theintellectual leaders of his day, "The Duchess" was to countless immatureyoung folks of her day who were looking for "something to read."
All truth is history, but all history is not truth. Written history isnotoriously no well-cleaner.
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