The Certain Hour (Dizain des Poëtes)

by James Branch Cabell

  IV

  One hears a great deal nowadays concerning "vital" books. Theirauthors have been widely praised on very various grounds. Oddlyenough, however, the writers of these books have rarely been commendedfor the really praiseworthy charity evinced therein toward that largelong-suffering class loosely describable as the average-novel-reader.

  Yet, in connection with this fact, it is worthy of more than passingnote that no great while ago the _New York Times'_ carefully selectedcommittee, in picking out the hundred best books published during aparticular year, declared as to novels--"a 'best' book, in our opinion,is one that raises an important question, or recurs to a vital themeand pronounces upon it what in some sense is a last word." Now thisdefinition is not likely ever to receive more praise than it deserves.Cavilers may, of course, complain that actually to write the last wordon any subject is a feat reserved for the Recording Angel's uniqueperformance on judgment Day. Even setting that objection aside, it isundeniable that no work of fiction published of late in Americacorresponds quite so accurately to the terms of this definition as dothe multiplication tables. Yet the multiplication tables are notwithout their claims to applause as examples of straightforwardnarrative. It is, also, at least permissible to consider that thereinthe numeral five, say, where it figures as protagonist, unfolds underthe stress of its varying adventures as opulent a development of realhuman nature as does, through similar ups-and-downs, the Reverend JohnHodder in _The Inside of the Cup_. It is equally allowable to find theless simple evolution of the digit seven more sympathetic, upon thewhole, than those of Undine Spragg in _The Custom of the Country_.But, even so, this definition of what may now, authoritatively, beranked as a "best novel" is an honest and noteworthy severance frommisleading literary associations such as have too long befogged ournotions about reading-matter. It points with emphasis toward thealtruistic obligations of tale-tellers to be "vital."

  For we average-novel-readers--we average people, in a word--are now, asalways, rather pathetically hungry for "vital" themes, such themes asappeal directly to our everyday observation and prejudices. Did thedecision rest with us all novelists would be put under bond to confinethemselves forevermore to themes like these.

  As touches the appeal to everyday observation, it is an old story, atleast coeval with Mr. Crummles' not uncelebrated pumps and tubs, if notwith the grapes of Zeuxis, how unfailingly in art we delight torecognize the familiar. A novel whose scene of action is explicit willalways interest the people of that locality, whatever the book's otherpretensions to consideration. Given simultaneously a photograph ofMurillo's rendering of _The Virgin Crowned Queen of Heaven_ and aphotograph of a governor's installation in our State capital, there isno one of us but will quite naturally look at the latter first, inorder to see if in it some familiar countenance be recognizable. Andthus, upon a larger scale, the twentieth century is, pre-eminently,interested in the twentieth century.

  It is all very well to describe our average-novel-readers' dislike ofRomanticism as "the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in aglass." It is even within the scope of human dunderheadedness again topoint out here that the supreme artists in literature have preciselythis in common, and this alone, that in their masterworks they haveavoided the "vital" themes of their day with such circumspection aslesser folk reserve for the smallpox. The answer, of course, in eithercase, is that the "vital" novel, the novel which peculiarly appeals tous average-novel-readers, has nothing to do with literature. There isbetween these two no more intelligent connection than links the paintMr. Sargent puts on canvas and the paint Mr. Dockstader puts on hisface.

  Literature is made up of the re-readable books, the books which it ispossible--for the people so constituted as to care for that sort ofthing--to read again and yet again with pleasure. Therefore, inliterature a book's subject is of astonishingly minor importance, andits style nearly everything: whereas in books intended to be read forpastime, and forthwith to be consigned at random to the wastebasket orto the inmates of some charitable institute, the theme is of paramountimportance, and ought to be a serious one. The modern novelist owes itto his public to select a "vital" theme which in itself will fix thereader's attention by reason of its familiarity in the reader'severyday life.

  Thus, a lady with whose more candid opinions the writer of this is morefrequently favored nowadays than of old, formerly confessed to havingonly one set rule when it came to investment in newreading-matter--always to buy the Williamsons' last book. Her reasonwas the perfectly sensible one that the Williamsons' plots usedinvariably to pivot upon motor-trips, and she is an ardentautomobilist. Since, as of late, the Williamsons have seen fit toexercise their typewriter upon other topics, they have as a matter ofcourse lost her patronage.

  This principle of selection, when you come to appraise it sanely, isthe sole intelligent method of dealing with reading-matter. It seemshere expedient again to state the peculiar problem that weaverage-novel-readers have of necessity set the modernnovelist--namely, that his books must in the main appeal to people whoread for pastime, to people who read books only under protest and onlywhen they have no other employment for that particular half-hour.

  Now, reading for pastime is immensely simplified when the book's themeis some familiar matter of the reader's workaday life, because atoutset the reader is spared considerable mental effort. The motoristabove referred to, and indeed any average-novel-reader, can withoutexertion conceive of the Williamsons' people in their automobiles.Contrariwise, were these fictitious characters embarked in palankeensor droshkies or jinrikishas, more or less intellectual exercise wouldbe necessitated on the reader's part to form a notion of theconveyance. And we average-novel-readers do not open a book with theintention of making a mental effort. The author has no right to expectof us an act so unhabitual, we very poignantly feel. Our prejudices heis freely chartered to stir up--if, lucky rogue, he can!--but he oughtwith deliberation to recognize that it is precisely in order to avoidmental effort that we purchase, or borrow, his book, and afterwarddiscuss it.

  Hence arises our heartfelt gratitude toward such novels as deal with"vital" themes, with the questions we average-novel-readers confront ormake talk about in those happier hours of our existence wherein we arenot reduced to reading. Thus, a tale, for example, dealing either with"feminism" or "white slavery" as the handiest makeshift ofspinsterdom--or with the divorce habit and plutocratic iniquity ingeneral, or with the probable benefits of converting clergymen toChristianity, or with how much more than she knows a desirable motherwill tell her children--finds the book's tentative explorer, just now,amply equipped with prejudices, whether acquired by second thought orsecond hand, concerning the book's topic. As endurability goes,reading the book rises forthwith almost to the level of anafternoon-call where there is gossip about the neighbors and Germany'sfuture. We average-novel-readers may not, in either case, agree withthe opinions advanced; but at least our prejudices are aroused, and weare interested.

  And these "vital" themes awake our prejudices at the cost of aminimum--if not always, as when Miss Corelli guides us, with apositively negligible--tasking of our mental faculties. For suchexemption we average-novel-readers cannot but be properly grateful.Nay, more than this: provided the novelist contrive to rouse ourprejudices, it matters with us not at all whether afterward they besoothed or harrowed. To implicate our prejudices somehow, to raise inus a partizanship in the tale's progress, is our sole request. Whetherthis consummation be brought about through an arraignment of somesocial condition which we personally either advocate or reprehend--theattitude weighs little--or whether this interest be purchased withplacidly driveling preachments of generally "uplifting"tendencies--vaguely titillating that vague intention which exists in usall of becoming immaculate as soon as it is perfectly convenient--thepersonal prejudices of us average-novel-readers are not lightly lulledagain to sleep.

  In fact, the jealousy of any human prejudice against hintedencroachment may safely be depended upon to spur
us through anastonishing number of pages--for all that it has of late beencomplained among us, with some show of extenuation, that our originalintent in beginning certain of the recent "vital" novels was to killtime, rather than eternity. And so, we average-novel-readers plod onjealously to the end, whether we advance (to cite examples alreadysomewhat of yesterday) under the leadership of Mr. Upton Sinclairaspersing the integrity of modern sausages and millionaires, or of Mr.Hall Caine saying about Roman Catholics what ordinary people wouldhesitate to impute to their relatives by marriage--or whether we bemore suavely allured onward by Mrs. Florence Barclay, or Mr. SydnorHarrison, with ingenuous indorsements of the New Testament and theinherent womanliness of women.

  The "vital" theme, then, let it be repeated, has two inestimableadvantages which should commend it to all novelists: first, it sparesus average-novel-readers any preliminary orientation, and therebymitigates the mental exertion of reading; and secondly, it appeals toour prejudices, which we naturally prefer to exercise, and areaccustomed to exercise, rather than our mental or idealistic faculties.The novelist who conscientiously bears these two facts in mind isreasonably sure of his reward, not merely in pecuniary form, but inthose higher fields wherein he harvests his chosen public's honestgratitude and affection.

  For we average-novel-readers are quite frequently reduced bycircumstances to self-entrustment to the resources of the novelist, asto those of the dentist. Our latter-day conditions, as we cannot butrecognize, necessitate the employment of both artists upon occasion.And with both, we average-novel-readers, we average people, are mostgrateful when they make the process of resorting to them as easy andunirritating as may be possible.