RCHIBALD MARSHALL

On a mellow day in the early autumn of the year 1900, I sat on an old wooden bench in the
open air with an English gentleman, and listened to his conversation with a mixture of
curiosity and reverence. The place was one of the fairest counties of England, the town on the
other side of a screen of trees was Dorchester, and my seat-mate was Thomas Hardy. I
remember his saying without any additional emphasis than the weight of the words, that the
basis of every novel should be a story. In considering this remark, which came, not from a
doctrinaire, but from a master of long and triumphant experience, I could not help thinking
that what seems axiomatic is often belied by a majority of instances. Thus, we church-
members would agree that religion must take the first place in our lives; yet a disinterested
observer, who should begin at the other end of the proposition and examine our lives merely
to discover what actually did take[2] the first place therein, might conceivably miss the
element of religion altogether. In the same way, while it would theoretically seem that every
novel must be a story, an honest critic who should examine the total product of prose fiction
for any given year in the twentieth century, might, in a large number of cases, easily fail to
find any story at all.

As we look back over the history of the English novel, it would appear that every permanent
work of fiction has been a great story. Robinson Crusoe, Clarissa, Tom Jones, Humphry
Clinker, The Bride of Lammermoor, Pride and Prejudice, Esmond, David Copperfield, The
Mill on the Floss, Richard Feverel, The Return of the Native, Treasure Island, The Last of the
Mohicans, The Scarlet Letter, Huckleberry Finn, although they represent various shades of
realism and romanticism, have all been primarily stories, in which we follow the fortunes of
the chief actors with steady interest. These books owe their supremacy in fiction—at least,
most of them do—to a combination of narrative, character, and style; every one of them, if
given in colloquial paraphrase to a group of men around a camp-fire, would be rewarded with
attention.

[3]

Sometimes the very thing that gives a drama or a novel immediate currency makes it smell of
mortality; by taking advantage of some hotly-discussed social question, general interest is
awakened; but when the question is obsolete, what becomes of the work of art? I shall not
venture to make a prediction; but I think it is at least possible that some of the earlier plays of
Ibsen, like The Pretenders, may outlast some of the later ones, like Ghosts; the later ones
blaze with the flames of public debate, the earlier reflect the light of the stars.

Of all forms of literature, the novel has suffered most by its desertion of art for propaganda. It
has been debased by its popularity. It lends itself so easily as a channel for political, social or
religious oratory. Every theorist uses it as a megaphone. Although novels are as common as
grasshoppers, good stories are scarce. Now this desertion of art for propaganda is founded on
the fallacy that a work of pure fiction cannot stand or ought not to stand by itself, but should
lean on politics, social reform, science, or theology for support. We do not insist on a thesis
in sculpture or music or painting or poetry. There have been, indeed, many attempts to turn
Pegasus into a[4] cart-horse; and unfortunately the attempt is almost invariably successful.

I prefer novels that express the opinions of the characters in the story to those that express the
opinions of the author. I do not mean that all novels ought to be impersonal; such a result,
even when most ardently desired by the novelist, is impossible of achievement. The work of
every true artist reflects his personality, and is, in a sense, subjective. Even the coldest novels
betray their makers' sympathies, and the standpoint from which they regard the world. But
there is a difference between having ideas and arguing a case. Women who have ideas are
always more interesting than those who have only opinions.

Why is it that so many novelists write their best books early in their careers? Is it not
sometimes because the original impelling artistic impulse becomes dulled in contact with
society, and thoughts take the place of thought? The thorns of this world spring up and choke
them. It is by no accident that The Mill on the Floss is a greater novel than Daniel Deronda.

The most enduring novels come from the silent depths in a writer's soul, not from the[5]
turbulent shallows. To live deeply is easier in a country where deep living has been done for
centuries than in a country whose human history is brief. If we should really feel chagrined
by America's native contribution to literature in comparison with that of Europe, we might
justifiably console ourselves by comparing America with Australia. Surely one reason why
the British today write novels rather better than the Americans, is because their roots go down
deeper into the rich soil of the past. Men of genius are scarce in any locality, and I am not at
this moment thinking of them; but I am constantly surprised at the large number of
contemporary novels produced in Great Britain whose literary style bears the unmistakable
stamp of distinction. There are leaders, whose names are known everywhere; there are men
and women who might conceivably be leaders if they lived out of Europe. The best reason
why many admirable twentieth century works of prose fiction in England fail to attract
general attention is because the level of excellence is so high.