A Defence of Fine Writing
by Elia W. PeattieI SAW recently, in an article by a popular critic, a rebuke for a young novelist because of "fine writing." The critic said the one fault of the novelist was his fondness for that sort of thing, and expressed the hope that he would sooner or later become conscious of his mistake. I have not read the books of the writer to whom reference was made, but as he was classed with George Meredith I imagine that his work must have been really literary, and I am willing to admit — without undue urging — that I am not one of those who shy at beauty, even when I see it lying right beside the road.
A good many folk have got into the way of considering matter-of-factness consummate good form. They cannot tolerate anything pronounced and would no more indulge in a passionate or exceedingly pictorial sentence than they would drive down Fifth Avenue in a scarlet and gold coach drawn by piebald horses. They are as plain as a tailor-made suit in their manner of writing, and it is evident that they are responsible for the withdrawal of Literature from her place among the Arts, and her dubious installation among the drab Utilities. There she sits, poor girl, tight-laced, conventional, shy, and dull, looking with wistful but bewildered gaze into that luminous past when she was held to be Queen of all the Arts. Fair days, those! Her courtiers hung pearls about her neck, there were always dewy blossoms on her head, and the 'broidery of her robes betrayed the devotion of her handmaidens.
Now, marry come up, we must beware lest we decorate our ideas, we dare apostrophize nothing, we are inoculated against passion, and fantasy is as out of favor as embezzlement! It is not thought quite sane to be enthusiastic about anything; to be ardent is as great an offence as to be unsophisticated, and any one who is eloquent may expect the sardonic lifting of brows at his expense. Who supposes for a moment, that any one as excessive as Shakespeare would be proposed at any Writers' Club were he to appear among us to-day? It is quite certain that the critic quoted at the first of this article would have slashed him merrily for his puerility in daring to be "fine."
I do not say, of course, that the Continental Europeans are as heavy and self-conscious as all this, for really M. Maeterlinck seems more or less indifferent to public opinion, and probably would not apologize though he were caught in the very act of passionately and eloquently uttering a lovely truth; and quite a number of Frenchmen, Italians, Germans, Norwegians, and Russians are still unashamed when they depict some great character, portray weird or splendid scenes, or present a moving play. It is only we Anglo-Saxons who are so stiff, so ugly, and so shy. Can it be that we are afraid that we shall become artists and therefore disreputables? The danger is slight. Or it may be that we fear a soulful outburst may proclaim us provincials. But, after all, souls are not exclusively suburban affairs.
If the creative literary worker is so circumscribed, try to fancy in what cramped quarters the critic must abide! He is allowed but one activity — that of throwing cold water. His praise is often as dampening as his fault-finding. Pronouncing upon an earnest and eager book, he says, perhaps: "The author appears to be unduly agitated about his subject. He should learn to take well-known facts and his own none too lofty fancies with more calmness." Or, speaking of a glowing biography, he utters this easy cynicism: "The author has permitted himself to become an advocate for his subject. The book is eulogistic, and not to be classed with serious works on this theme." A new poet appears and the critic is distinctly annoyed. "We fancy," he writes, "that we discern the influences of certain Victorians in this young man's work. This is well enough, and we commend the tidiness of his versification, but we suggest more caution in simile and phrase, and look to a moderation of adolescent enthusiasms."
In the class-room it is no better. There are exceptions, of course, but the average instructor in English is the Discourager of Genius, the Slayer of Talent. It is a common thing for originality to be held up to ridicule before a class, and anything like passion of utterance would be considered fit subject for professorial mirth. It is not in such places, surely that inspiration will be found. It is not here that the writer will learn to express himself with unreserve and delight.
"Writing," said Sir Walter Scott, "is a habit. My brother Thomas could have written much better than I, but he never formed the habit."
This is a substantial half of the truth, and the one unquestioned excuse for courses in English is that they may get students in the habit of writing. If they get them out of the habit of it, they will not have served their purpose. A school for writers is not designed to discourage students from writing, any more than a law school is intended to deter students from practising law. But as English is taught in many university class-rooms, the professor appears in the rôle of the defender of literature against the attacks of the mob — the class representing, of course, the murderous canaille. This attitude is not conducive to producing naïve and spontaneous utterances; it is not calculated to invite a revelation of temperament, or to extract from the delicate and reticent poet the visions of his soul.
It must be a sturdy talent and a robust egotism that can survive these onslaughts of the professors of English; and adolescent egotism is liable to be frail and budding talent tender. Only a very melodramatic mind can find pleasure in contemplating the tragedies of the class-room.
The question is, How is the Anglo-Saxon to accustom himself to beauty? Could he, by the wearing of smoked glasses, mitigate the glare till his eyes became strengthened sufficiently for him to look at loveliness without blinking? Since he is an idealist in the matter of morals, may we not hope that he will presently cease to be a literalist in matters of art? If his imagination is appealed to by the wizards of modern mechanics, the practical masters of physics, the captains of commerce, can it not be touched also by the impassioned and spiritual artist? Must the delineator of life foever feign that he finds the mortal experiences of men and women commonplace, snug, smug, and trivial? If the geographer is permitted to tell tremendous tales, may not the poet be permitted to do as much? If the machinist sets the pulses throbbing with his colossal engines, may not the novelist be allowed to rival him?
At any rate, these calm, mediocre, and cynic intelligences need not endeavor to discomfit the enthusiasts with their easy opprobrium. It is pure shenanigan, and ought not to fool any one.
Moreover, there is one tremendous comfort. The real genius does not bother very much with the ideas of other men. He is too self-absorbed. So perhaps he will never find out that his eloquence is discountenanced by the trim critics of the capitals. As for the unhappy child of talent, it is different with him. He has regard for the critics. He thinks about public opinion. He is likely, under the lash of the unimaginative reviewer of books, to fit into the lustreless mosaic of the common scheme. It is much more than probable that, having little faith, he will blush for the beauty that burned in his heart in the days when he first knew the joy of utterance, and that he will become as literal, as cautious, as full of doubt and dulness as the most cosmopolitan and sophisticated critic could desire.
The Critic, June 1903, 42XML: ep.essay.001.xml