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fence; so scrupulous of finish; and Mr。 Besant so genial; so 

friendly; with so persuasive and humorous a vein of whim: Mr。 James 

the very type of the deliberate artist; Mr。 Besant the 

impersonation of good nature。  That such doctors should differ will 

excite no great surprise; but one point in which they seem to agree 

fills me; I confess; with wonder。  For they are both content to 

talk about the 〃art of fiction〃; and Mr。 Besant; waxing exceedingly 

bold; goes on to oppose this so…called 〃art of fiction〃 to the 〃art 

of poetry。〃  By the art of poetry he can mean nothing but the art 

of verse; an art of handicraft; and only comparable with the art of 

prose。  For that heat and height of sane emotion which we agree to 

call by the name of poetry; is but a libertine and vagrant quality; 

present; at times; in any art; more often absent from them all; too 

seldom present in the prose novel; too frequently absent from the 

ode and epic。  Fiction is the same case; it is no substantive art; 

but an element which enters largely into all the arts but 

architecture。  Homer; Wordsworth; Phidias; Hogarth; and Salvini; 

all deal in fiction; and yet I do not suppose that either Hogarth 

or Salvini; to mention but these two; entered in any degree into 

the scope of Mr。 Besant's interesting lecture or Mr。 James's 

charming essay。  The art of fiction; then; regarded as a 

definition; is both too ample and too scanty。  Let me suggest 

another; let me suggest that what both Mr。 James and Mr。 Besant had 

in view was neither more nor less than the art of narrative。



But Mr。 Besant is anxious to speak solely of 〃the modern English 

novel;〃 the stay and bread…winner of Mr。 Mudie; and in the author 

of the most pleasing novel on that roll; ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS 

OF MEN; the desire is natural enough。  I can conceive; then; that 

he would hasten to propose two additions; and read thus: the art of 

FICTITIOUS narrative IN PROSE。



Now the fact of the existence of the modern English novel is not to 

be denied; materially; with its three volumes; leaded type; and 

gilded lettering; it is easily distinguishable from other forms of 

literature; but to talk at all fruitfully of any branch of art; it 

is needful to build our definitions on some more fundamental ground 

then binding。  Why; then; are we to add 〃in prose〃?  THE ODYSSEY 

appears to me the best of romances; THE LADY OF THE LAKE to stand 

high in the second order; and Chaucer's tales and prologues to 

contain more of the matter and art of the modern English novel than 

the whole treasury of Mr。 Mudie。  Whether a narrative be written in 

blank verse or the Spenserian stanza; in the long period of Gibbon 

or the chipped phrase of Charles Reade; the principles of the art 

of narrative must be equally observed。  The choice of a noble and 

swelling style in prose affects the problem of narration in the 

same way; if not to the same degree; as the choice of measured 

verse; for both imply a closer synthesis of events; a higher key of 

dialogue; and a more picked and stately strain of words。  If you 

are to refuse DON JUAN; it is hard to see why you should include 

ZANONI or (to bracket works of very different value) THE SCARLET 

LETTER; and by what discrimination are you to open your doors TO 

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS and close them on THE FAERY QUEEN?  To bring 

things closer home; I will here propound to Mr。 Besant a conundrum。  

A narrative called PARADISE LOST was written in English verse by 

one John Milton; what was it then?  It was next translated by 

Chateaubriand into French prose; and what was it then?  Lastly; the 

French translation was; by some inspired compatriot of George 

Gilfillan (and of mine) turned bodily into an English novel; and; 

in the name of clearness; what was it then?



But; once more; why should we add 〃fictitious〃?  The reason why is 

obvious。  The reason why not; if something more recondite; does not 

want for weight。  The art of narrative; in fact; is the same; 

whether it is applied to the selection and illustration of a real 

series of events or of an imaginary series。  Boswell's LIFE OF 

JOHNSON (a work of cunning and inimitable art) owes its success to 

the same technical manoeuvres as (let us say) TOM JONES: the clear 

conception of certain characters of man; the choice and 

presentation of certain incidents out of a great number that 

offered; and the invention (yes; invention) and preservation of a 

certain key in dialogue。  In which these things are done with the 

more art … in which with the greater air of nature … readers will 

differently judge。  Boswell's is; indeed; a very special case; and 

almost a generic; but it is not only in Boswell; it is in every 

biography with any salt of life; it is in every history where 

events and men; rather than ideas; are presented … in Tacitus; in 

Carlyle; in Michelet; in Macaulay … that the novelist will find 

many of his own methods most conspicuously and adroitly handled。  

He will find besides that he; who is free … who has the right to 

invent or steal a missing incident; who has the right; more 

precious still; of wholesale omission … is frequently defeated; 

and; with all his advantages; leaves a less strong impression of 

reality and passion。  Mr。 James utters his mind with a becoming 

fervour on the sanctity of truth to the novelist; on a more careful 

examination truth will seem a word of very debateable propriety; 

not only for the labours of the novelist; but for those of the 

historian。  No art … to use the daring phrase of Mr。 James … can 

successfully 〃compete with life〃; and the art that seeks to do so 

is condemned to perish MONTIBUS AVIIS。  Life goes before us; 

infinite in complication; attended by the most various and 

surprising meteors; appealing at once to the eye; to the ear; to 

the mind … the seat of wonder; to the touch … so thrillingly 

delicate; and to the belly … so imperious when starved。  It 

combines and employs in its manifestation the method and material; 

not of one art only; but of all the arts; Music is but an arbitrary 

trifling with a few of life's majestic chords; painting is but a 

shadow of its pageantry of light and colour; literature does but 

drily indicate that wealth of incident; of moral obligation; of 

virtue; vice; action; rapture and agony; with which it teems。  To 

〃compete with life;〃 whose sun we cannot look upon; whose passions 

and diseases waste and slay us … to compete with the flavour of 

wine; the beauty of the dawn; the scorching of fire; the bitterness 

of death and separation … here is; indeed; a projected escalade of 

heaven; here are; indeed; labours for a Hercules in a dress coat; 

armed with a pen and a dictionary to depict the passions; armed 

with a tube of superior flake…white to paint the portrait of the 

insufferable sun。  No art is true in this sense: none can 〃compete 

with life〃: not even history; built indeed of indisputable facts; 

but these facts robbed of their vivacity and sting; so that even 

when we read of the sack of a city or the fall of an empire; we are 

surprised; and justly commend the author's talent; if our pulse be 

quickened。  And mark; for a last differentia; that this quickening 

of the pulse is; in almost every case; purely agreeable; that these 

phantom reproductions of experience; even at their most acute; 

convey decided pleasure; while experience itself; in the cockpit of 

life; can torture and slay。



What; then; is the object; what the method; of an art; and what the 

source of its power?  The whole secret is that no art does 〃compete 

with life。〃  Man's one method; whether he reasons or creates; is to 

half…shut his eyes against the dazzle and confusion of reality。  

The arts; like arithmetic and geometry; turn away their eyes from 

the gross; coloured and mobile nature at our feet; and regard 

instead a certain figmentary abstraction。  Geometry will tell us of 

a circle; a thing never seen in nature; asked about a green circle 

or an iron circle; it lays its hand upon its mouth。  So with the 

arts。  Painting; ruefully comparing sunshine and flake…white; gives 

up truth of colour; as it had already given up relief and movement; 

and instead of vying with nature; arranges a scheme of harmonious 

tints。  Literature; above all in its most typical mood; the mood of 

narrative; similarly flees the direct challenge and pursues instead 

an independent and creative aim。  So far as it imitates at all; it 

imitates not life but speech: not the facts of human destiny; but 

the emphasis and the suppressions with which the human actor tells 

of them。  The real art that dealt with life directly was that of 

the first men who told their stories round the savage camp…fire。  

Our art is occupied; and bound to be occupied; not so much in 

making stories true as in making them typical; not so much in 

capturing the lineaments of each fact

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