<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<h3>PITFALLS</h3>
<h4>Items of General Knowledge</h4>
<p>I propose to show in this chapter that a literary artist can never
afford to despise details. He may have genius enough to write a
first-rate novel, and sell it rapidly in spite of real blemishes, but if
a work of art is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well. No writer
is any the better for slovenly inaccuracy. Take the details of everyday
life. Do you suppose you are infallible in these commonplace things? If
so, be undeceived at once. It is simply marvellous with what ease a
mistake will creep into your narrative. Even Mr Zangwill once made a
hansom cab door to open with a handle from the inside, and the mistake
appeared in six editions, escaping the reviewers, and was quietly
altered by the author in the seventh. There is <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</SPAN></span>nothing particularly
serious about an error of this kind; but at the same time, where truth
to fact is so simple a matter, why not give the fact as it is?
Trivialities may not interfere with the power of the story, but they
often attach an ugliness, or a smack of the ridiculous, which cannot but
hinder, to some extent, the beauty of otherwise good work. Mistakes such
as that just referred to, arise, in most instances, out of the passion
and feeling in which the novelist advances his narrative. The detail
connected with the opening of the hansom door (doors) was nothing to Mr
Zangwill, compared to the person who opened it. I should advise you,
therefore, to master all the necessary <i>minutiae</i> of travelling, if your
hero and heroine are going abroad; of city life if you take them to the
theatre for amusement—in fact, of every environment in which
imagination may place them. Then, when all your work is done, read what
has been written with the microscopic eyes of a Flaubert.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</SPAN></span></p>
<h4>Specific Subjects</h4>
<p>For instance, the plot suggested in the previous chapters deals with
Judaism. Now, if you don't know Jewish life through and through, it is
the height of foolishness to attempt to write a novel about it. (The
same remark applies to Roman Catholicism.) You will find it necessary to
study the Bible and Hebrew history; and when you have mastered the
literature of the subject and caught its spirit, you will turn your
attention to the sacred people as they exist to-day—their isolation,
their wealth, their synagogues, and their psychological peculiarities.
Does this seem to be too big a programme? Well, if you are to present a
living and truthful picture of the Jewess and her surroundings, you can
only succeed by going through such a programme; whereas, if you skip the
hard preparatory work you will bungle in the use of Hebrew terms, and
when you make the Rabbi drop the scroll through absent-mindedness, you
will very likely say that "the congregation looked on <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</SPAN></span>half-amused and
half-wondering." Just visit a synagogue when the Rabbi happens to drop
the scroll. The congregation would be "horribly shocked." The same law
applies whatever be your subject. If you intend to follow a prevailing
fashion and depict slum life, you will have to spend a good deal of time
in those unpleasant regions, not only to know them in their outward
aspects, but to know them in their inward and human features. Even then
something important may escape you, with the result that you fall into
error, and the expert enjoys a quiet giggle at your expense; but you
will have some consolation in the thought that you spared no pains in
the diligent work of preparation.</p>
<p>Perhaps your novel will take the reader into aristocratic circles. Pray
do not make the attempt if you are not thoroughly acquainted with the
manners and customs of such circles. Ignorance will surely betray you,
and in describing a dinner, or an "At Home," you will raise derisive
laughter by suggesting the details of a most impossible meal, or spoil
your heroine by making her guilty of <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</SPAN></span>atrocious etiquette. The remedy is
close at hand: <i>know your subject</i>.</p>
<h4>Topography and Geography</h4>
<p>Watch your topography and geography. Have you never read novels where
the characters are made to walk miles of country in as many minutes? In
fairy tales we rather like these extraordinary creatures—their
startling performances have a charm we should be sorry to part with. But
in the higher world of fiction, where ideal things should appear as real
as possible, we decidedly object to miraculous journeys, especially, as
in most instances, it is plainly a mistake in calculation on the part of
the writer. Of course the writer is occasionally placed in an awkward
position. A dramatic episode is about to take place, or, more correctly,
the author wishes it to take place, but the characters have been
dispersed about the map, and time and distance conspire against the
author's purpose. It is madness to "blur" the <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</SPAN></span>positions and "risk" the
reader's acuteness, but it is almost equally unfortunate to fail in
observing the difficulty, and write on in blissful ignorance of the fact
that nature's laws have been set at defiance. The drawing of a map, as
before suggested, will obviate all these troubles.</p>
<p>Should you depict a lover's scene in India, take care not to describe it
as occurring in "beautiful twilight." It is quite possible to know that
darkness follows sunset, and yet to forget it in the moment of writing;
but a good writer is never caught "napping" in these matters. If you
don't know India, choose Cairo, about which, after half-a-dozen
lengthened visits, you can speak with certainty.</p>
<h4>Scientific Facts</h4>
<p>What a nuisance the weather is to many novelists. Some triumph over
their difficulties; a few contribute to our amusement. The meteorology
of <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</SPAN></span>fiction would be a fascinating study. In second-rate productions, it
is astonishing to witness the ease with which the weather is ordered
about. The writer makes it rain when he thinks the incidents of a
downpour will enliven the narrative, forgetting that the movement of the
story, as previously stated, requires a blue sky and a shining sun; or
he contrives to have the wind blowing in two or three directions at
once. The sun and the moon require careful manipulation. At the
beginning of a novel, the room of an invalid is said to have a window
looking directly towards the east; but at the end of the book when the
invalid dies, the author, wishing to make him depart this life in a
flood of glory, suffuses this eastern-windowed room with "the red glare
of the setting sun." The detail may appear unimportant, but it is not
so, and a few hours devoted to notes on these minor points would save
all the unpleasantness and ridicule which such mistakes too frequently
bring. The reviewer loves to descant on the "peculiar cosmology and
physical science of the volume before us."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</SPAN></span>The moon is most unfortunate. Mrs Humphry Ward confesses that she never
knows when to make the moon rise, and obtains Miss Ward's assistance in
all astronomical references. This is, of course, a pleasant
exaggeration, but it shows that no venture should be made in science
without being perfectly sure of your ground.</p>
<h4>Grammar</h4>
<p>Grammar is the most dangerous of all pitfalls. Suppose you read your
novel through, and check each sentence. After weary toil you are ready
to offer a prize of one guinea to the man who can show you a mistake.
When the full list of errors is drawn up by an expert grammarian, you
are glad that offer was not made, for your guineas would have been going
too quickly. In everyday conversation you speak as other people
do—having a special hatred of painful accuracy, otherwise called
pedantry; and as you frequently hear the phrase: "Those sort of people
are never nice," <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</SPAN></span>it does not strike you as being incorrect when you
read it in your proof-sheets. Or somebody refers to a theatrical
performance, and regretting his inability to be present, says, "I should
like to have gone, but could not." So often is the phrase used in daily
speech, that its sound (when you read your book aloud) does not suggest
anything erroneous. And yet if you wish your reader to know that you are
a good grammarian, you will not be ashamed to revise your grammar and
say, "I should have liked to go, but could not." These are simple
instances: there are hundreds more.</p>
<p>Reviewing all that has been said in this chapter, the one conclusion is
that the novelist must be a man of knowledge; he must know the English
language from base to summit; and whatever references he makes to
science, art, history, theology, or any other subject, he should have
what is expected of writers in these specific departments—accuracy.</p>
<hr class="newchapter" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>THE SECRET OF STYLE</h3>
<h4>Communicable Elements</h4>
<p>One can readily sympathise with the melancholy of a man who, after
reading De Quincey, Macaulay, Addison, Lamb, Pater, and Stevenson, found
that literary style was still a mystery to him. He was obliged to
confess that the secret of style is with them that have it. His main
difficulty, however, was to reconcile this conviction with the advice of
a learned friend who urged him to study the best models if he would
attain a good style. Was style communicable? or was it not? Now of all
questions relating to this subject, this is the most pertinent, and, if
I may say so, the only real question. It is the easiest thing in the
world to tell a student about Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant, about
Tolstoi and Turgenieff, but <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</SPAN></span>no quantity of advice as to reading is of
much avail unless the preliminary question just referred to is
intelligently answered. The so-called stylists of all ages may be
carefully read from beginning to end, and yet style will not disclose
its secret. Such a course of reading could not but be beneficial; to
live among the lovely things of literature would develop the taste and
educate appreciation; the reader would be quick to discern beauty when
he saw it, but the art of producing it other than by deliberate
imitation of known models would be still a mystery.</p>
<p><i>Is</i> style communicable? The answer is <i>Yes</i> and <i>No</i>; in some senses it
is, in others it is not. Let us deal with the affirmative side first.
This concerns all points of grammar and composition without which the
story would not be clear and forcible. No writer can make a "corner" in
the facts of grammar and composition; it is impossible to appropriate
them individually to the exclusion of everybody else; and since style
depends to some extent on a knowledge of those rules which govern the
use of language, it follows that there are certain elements which are
open to <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</SPAN></span>all who are willing to learn them. For instance, there is the
study of words. How often do we hear it said of a certain novelist that
he uses the right word with unerring accuracy. And this is regarded as
an important feature in his style; therefore words and their uses should
have a prominent place in your programme. In "The Silverado Squatters,"
Stevenson represents himself as carrying a pail of water up a hill: "the
water <i>lipping</i> over the side, and a <i>quivering</i> sunbeam in the midst."
The words in italics are the exact words wanted; no others could
possibly set forth the facts with greater accuracy. Stevenson was a
diligent word-student, and had a certain knowledge of their dynamic and
suggestive qualities.</p>
<p>The right word! How shall we find it? Sometimes it will come with the
thought; more often we must seek it. Landor says: "I hate false words,
and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the
thing." What could be stronger than the language of Guy de Maupassant?
"Whatever the thing we wish to say there is but one word to express it,
but one verb to give it <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</SPAN></span>movement, but one adjective to qualify it. We
must seek till we find this noun, this verb, this adjective, and never
allow ourselves to play tricks, even happy ones, or have recourse to
sleights of language to avoid a difficulty. The subtlest things may be
rendered and suggested by applying the hint conveyed in Boileau's line,
'He taught the power of a word in the right place.'" In similar vein,
Professor Raleigh remarks, "Let the truth be said outright: there are no
synonyms, and the same statement can never be repeated in a changed form
of words."</p>
<p>The number of words used is another consideration. When Phil May has
drawn a picture he proceeds to make erasures here and there with a view
to retaining wholeness of effect by the least possible number of lines.
There is a similar excellence in literature, the literature where "there
is not a superfluous word." Oh, the "gasiness" of many a modern
novel—pages and pages of so-called "style," "word-painting," and
"description."</p>
<p>The conclusion of the matter is this: the right number of words, and
each word in its place. Frederic Schlegel used to <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</SPAN></span>say that in good
prose every word should be underlined; as if he had said that the
interpretation of a sentence should not depend on the manner in which it
is read.</p>
<p>It is also highly necessary that the would-be stylist should be a
student of sentences and paragraphs. Surprising as it may seem, it is
nevertheless true that many aspirants after literary success never give
these matters a thought; they expect that proficiency will "come."
Proficiency is not an angel who visits us unsolicited; it is a power
that must be paid for with a price, and the price is laborious study of
such practical technique as the following:—"In a series of sentences
the stress should be varied continually so as to come in the beginning
of some sentences, and at the end of others, regard being had for the
two considerations, variation of rhythm, and grouping of similar ideas
together." And this, "Every paragraph is subject to the general laws of
unity, selection, proportion, sequence, and variety which govern all
good composition." The observance of these rules (and they are specimens
of hundreds more) and the discovery of apt illustrations in literature
are <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</SPAN></span>matters of time and labour. But the time and labour are well
spent—nay, they are absolutely necessary if the literary man would know
his craft thoroughly. For the ordinary man, something equivalent to a
text-book course in rhetoric is indispensable. True, many writers have
learned insensibly from other writers, but too severe a devotion to the
masterpieces of literature may beget the master's weaknesses without
imparting his strength.</p>
<h4>Incommunicable Elements</h4>
<p>The incommunicable element in style is that personal impress which a
writer sets upon his work. What is a personal impress? I am asked. Can
it be defined? Scarcely. Personality itself is a mysterious thing. We
know what it means when it is used to distinguish a remarkable man from
those who are not remarkable. "He has a unique personality," we say. Now
that personality—if the man be a writer—will show itself in his
literary offspring. It will be in evidence over and above rule,
regulation, canons of art, and the like. <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</SPAN></span>If there be such a thing as a
mystic presence, then style is that mystic presence of the writer's
personality which permeates the ideas and language in such a way as to
give them a distinction and individuality all their own. I will employ
comparison as a means of illustration by supposing that the three
following passages appeared in the same book in separate paragraphs and
without the authors' names:—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"Each material thing has its celestial side, has its
translation into the spiritual and necessary sphere, where it
plays a part as indestructible as any other, and to these ends
all things continually ascend. The gases gather to the solid
firmament; the chemic lump arrives at the plant and grows;
arrives at the quadruped and walks; arrives at the man and
thinks."</p>
<hr class="thoughtbreak" />
<p>"He [Daniel Webster] is a magnificent specimen; you might say
to all the world, 'This is your Yankee Englishman; such limbs
we make in Yankeeland! The tanned complexion; the amorphous
crag-like face; the dull black eyes under their precipice of
brows, like dull anthracite <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</SPAN></span>furnaces, needing only to be
blown; the mastiff mouth, accurately closed:—I have not
traced so much silent Bersekir rage that I remember of in any
man.'"</p>
<hr class="thoughtbreak" />
<p>"In the edifices of Man there should be found reverent worship
and following, not only of the Spirit which rounds the form of
the forest, and arches the vault of the avenue,—which gives
veining to the leaf and polish to the shell, and grace to
every pulse that agitates animal organisation—but of that
also which reproves the pillars of the earth and builds up her
barren precipices into the coldness of the clouds, and lifts
her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the pale arch of the
sky."</p>
</div>
<p>Now, an experienced writer, or reader, would identify these quotations
at once; in some measure from a knowledge of the books from which they
are taken, but mostly from a recognition of style pure and simple. The
merest tyro can see that the passages are not the work of one author;
there is, apart from <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</SPAN></span>subject-matter, a subtle something that lies
hidden beneath the language, informing each paragraph with a style
peculiar to itself. What is it? Ah! <i>The style is the man.</i> It is
composition charged with personality. Emerson, Carlyle, and Ruskin used
the English language with due regard for the rules of grammar, and such
principles of literary art as they felt to be necessary. And yet when
Emerson philosophises he does it in a way quite different to everybody
else; when Carlyle analyses a character, you know without the Sage's
signature that the work is his; and when Ruskin describes natural
beauties by speaking of "shadowy cones of mountain purple" being lifted
"into the pale arch of the sky"—well, that is Ruskin—it could be no
other. In each case language is made the bearer of the writer's
personality. Style in literature is the breathing forth of soul and
spirit; as is the soul, and as is the spirit in depth, sympathy, and
power, so will the style be rich, distinctive, and memorable. Professor
Raleigh says that "All style is gesture—the gesture of the mind and of
the soul. Mind we have in common, <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</SPAN></span>inasmuch as the laws of right reason
are not different for different minds. Therefore clearness and
arrangement can be taught, sheer incompetence in the art of expression
can be partly remedied. But who shall impose laws on the soul? . . . Write,
and after you have attained to some control over the instrument, you
write yourself down whether you will or no. There is no vice, however
unconscious, no virtue, however shy, no touch of meanness or of
generosity in your character that will not pass on to paper." Hence the
oft-repeated call for sincerity on the part of writers. If you try to
imitate Hardy it is a literary hypocrisy, and your sin will find you
out. If you are Meredith-minded, and play the sedulous ape to him, you
must expect a similar catastrophe.</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p><i>If the style is the man, how can you hope to equal that style
if you can never come near the man?</i></p>
</div>
<p>Be true to all you know, and see, and feel; live with the masters, and
catch their spirit. You will then get your own <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</SPAN></span>style—it may not be as
good as those you have so long admired, but it will be <i>yours</i>; and,
truth to tell, that is all you can hope for.</p>
<hr class="newchapter" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</SPAN></span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />