X.--THE PROBLEM SEEKERS--SEA CAPTAIN AND LAND CAPTAIN
It is so long a time since Mr. W. H. Mallock published the 'Romance ofthe Nineteenth Century' that the book might now very well be left alone,if it were not for the fact that in a fashion it marked an epoch inthe history of English literature. It was, so far as I know, the firstexample of the School of the Downright Nasty. For half a year it ranin 'Belgravia' side by side with a novel of my own, and under thoseconditions I read as much as I could stand of it. Its main objectappears to be to establish the theory that a young woman of refinedbreeding may be an amateur harlot. The central male figure of the bookis a howling bounder, who has a grievance against the universe becausehe can't entirely understand it. Within the last two or three years ithas occurred to Mr. Mallock to recast the book, and in a preface dated1893 (I think) he informs the world that on re-reading the story hepersonally has found portions of it to be offensive. These portions hedeclares himself to have eliminated, and he now thinks--or thought in1893--that there is nothing on that score to cavil at. All I rememberedof the story was that a certain Colonel Stapleton debauched the mind ofthe heroine by lending her obscene books with obscene prints attached.This episode is retained, in spite of the work of purification whichhas been performed; and it may be said that if the original novel werenastier than this deodorised edition of it, it is very much of a wonderhow the critical stomach kept it down.
It is a refreshment to turn from this particular problem seeker tothe work of a writer like Mrs. Humphry Ward, who, if she invests thequestions she handles with more importance than actually belongs tothem, is as wholesome and sincere as one could ask. She has read bothdeeply and widely, she thinks with sanity and clearness, she discernscharacter, she can create and tell a story, her style is excellentlysuccinct and full, and any book from her pen may safely be guaranteedto fill many charmed and thoughtful hours. She is still a seeker ofproblems, and shares the faults of her school, inasmuch as she setsherself to the solution of themes which all thoughtful people havesolved for themselves at an early age. It would be difficult, perhaps,to find a better and more salutary stimulant for the mind of a veryyoung man or woman than 'Robert Elsmere,' to cite but one work of hers,but to the adult intelligence she seems a day behind the fair. Sheexpends something very like genius in establishing a truth which is onlydoubted by here and there a narrow bigot--that truth being that a manmay find himself forced to abandon the bare dogma of religion, and mayyet conserve his faith in the Unseen and his spiritual brotherhoodwith men. 'Robert Elsmere' is a very beautiful piece of work, and itis impossible not to respect the ardour which inspires it, and the manyliterary excellences by which it is distinguished. But, all the same, itleaves upon the mind a sense of some futility. It would be easy towrite a story which would prove--if a story can be imagined to proveanything--the precise opposite of the truth so eloquently preached in'Robert Elsmere,' and the tale might be perfectly true to the experienceof life. There are men who, parting with dogmatic religion, part withreligion altogether, and whose only chance of salvation from themselveslies in the acceptance of a hard and fast creed. It would be easyenough, and true enough, to show such a man assailed by doubt,struggling and succumbing, and then going headlong to the devil. Thething has happened many a time. Mrs. Humphry Ward shows another kindof man, and depicts him most ably. Robert Elsmere is even a betterChristian when he has surrendered his creed than he was whilst he heldit, for he has reached to a loftier ideal of life, and he dies as amartyr to its duties. But the story has the air of being controversial,and fiction and controversy do not work well together. It is possible toestablish any theory, so far as a single instance will do it, when youhave the manufacture both of facts and of characters in your own hands.Accept an extreme case. A practised novelist might take in hand thecharacter of a morose and surly fellow who was generous and expansive inhis cups. So long as the wretch was sober he might be made hateful; halffill him with whisky, and you gift him with all manner of emotional goodqualities. The study might be real enough, but it would prove nothing.The novelist who assails a controversial question begs everything, andthe answer to a problem so posed is worthless except as the expressionof an individual opinion. It may be urged--and there is force in thecontention--that there are many people who are only induced to think ofserious themes when they are dressed in the guise of fiction, as thereare people who cannot take pills unless they are sugar-coated. Again--asadmitted already--a mind in process of formation might be strengthenedand broadened by the influence of such a book as 'Robert Elsmere.' Thereare some to whom its apparent trend of thought will appear to be simplydamnable. That one may have scant respect for their judgment, and noshare at all in their opinion, does not alter the fact that the weaponemployed against them is not and cannot be fairly used.
Many years ago, Mr. Clark Russell, whose name is now a household word,was the editor of an ill-fated society journal. I was a contributorto its little-read pages, and I came one day upon an article entitled'Pompa Mortis.' This article was written in such astonishingly goodEnglish, so clean, so hardbitten and terse, and yet so graceful, thatI could not resist the temptation to ask its author's name. My editormodestly acknowledged it for his own, and when I told him what Ithought of its style he confessed to a close study of Defoe and a greatadmiration for him. I saw nothing more from his hand until I read 'TheWreck of the Grosvenor,' the first of that series of sea stories whichhas carried Mr. Russell's name about the world. An armchair voyage withRussell is almost as good as the real thing, and sometimes (as when theperils and distresses of shipwreck are in question) a great deal better.Had any man ever such an eye for the sea before, or such a power ofbringing it to the sight of another? Few readers, I fancy, care a copperfor his fable, or very much for his characters, except for the meremoment when they move in the page; but his descriptions of sky and sealinger in the mind like things actually seen. They are so sharp, sovivid, so detailed, so true, that a marine painter might work from them.And the really remarkable thing about them is the infinite variety ofthese seascapes and skyscapes. He seems never to repeat himself. He isvarious as the seas and skies he paints. One figures his mind as somesort of marvellous picture gallery. He veritably sees things, and hemakes the reader see them. And all the strange and curious sea jargon,of which not one landsman in a thousand understands anything--combingsand back-stays and dead-eyes, and the rest of it--takes a salt smackof romance in his lips. He can be as technical as he pleases, and thereader takes him on faith, and rollicks along with him, bewildered,possibly, but trusting and happy. And Clark Russell has not only beencharming. He has been useful, too, and Foc'sle Jack owes him a debtof gratitude. For though he does not shine as a draughtsman where thesubtleties of character are concerned, he knows Jack, who is not much ofa metaphysical puzzle, inside and out, and he has brought him home to usas no sea-writer ever tried to do before. Years ago it seemed natural tofancy that he might write himself out, but he goes on with a freshnesswhich looks inexhaustible. If I cannot read him with the old enjoymentit is my misfortune and not his fault. If his latest book had been hisfirst I should have found in it the charm which caught me years ago.But it is in the nature of things that an individual writer like ClarkRussell should be his own most dangerous rival.
Clark Russell is captain on his own deck, whether he sail a coffin or aprincely Indiaman of the old time. Sir Walter Besant is lord of hisown East End, and of that innocent seraglio of delightful and eccentricyoung ladies to which he has been adding for years past Sir WalterBesant is chiefly remarkable as an example of what may be done by asteadfast cheerfulness in style. His creed has always been that fictionis a recreative art, and we have no better sample of a manly andstout-hearted optimist than he. He is optimistic of set purpose,and sometimes his cheerfulness costs him a struggle, for he istender-hearted and clear-sighted, and he is the Columbus of 'the greatjoyless city' of the East. He has had a double aim--to keep his workrecreative and to make it useful. In one respect he has been curiouslyhappy, for
he once dreamt aloud a beautiful dream, and has lived tofind it a reality. It was his own bright hope which built the People'sPalace, and a man might rest on that with ample satisfaction.
He has given us many well-studied types of character, but he excels inthe portraiture of the manly young man and the lovable young woman.In this regard I find him at his apogee with Phyllis Fleming and JackDunquerque, who are both frankly alive and charming. He is good, too, atthe portraiture of a humbug, and finds a humorous delight in him,very much as Dickens did. There is more than a touch of Dickens inhis method, and in his way of seeing people, and, most of all, in thewarm-hearted cheer he keeps.
It is outside the purpose of this series to dwell on anything butthe literary value of the works of the people dealt with; but littleapology, after all, is needed for a side-glance at the work which SirWalter Besant has done for men of letters. He has worked hard at thevexed and difficult question of copyright; he has founded an Authors'Club and an authors' newspaper; and he has devoted with markedunselfishness much valuable time and effort to the general well-beingof the craft. He has stood out stoutly for the State recognition ofauthorship, and in his own person he has received it. _Esprit de corps_is a capital thing in its way. Whether it is well to have too much ofit in a body of men who hold the power of the Press largely in theirown hands, whilst at the same time publicity is the breath of theirnostrils, is perhaps an open question. But of Sir Walter Besant'ssingle-mindedness in this voluntary work there is no shadow of doubt.Remembering his popularity with the public, and the price he can commandfor his work, it is evident that he has expended in the pursuit of hisideal time which would have been worth some thousands of pounds to him.He has striven in all ways to do honour to letters, and the esteemin which he is held is a just payment for high purpose and unselfishlabour.
My Contemporaries In Fiction Page 10
