X
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
It is high time that somebody spoke out his mind about Mrs. HumphryWard. Her prodigious vogue is one of the most extraordinary literaryphenomena of our day. A roar of approval greets the publication of everynew novel from her active pen, and it is almost pathetic to contemplatethe reverent awe of her army of worshippers when they behold the solemnannouncement that she is "collecting material" for another masterpiece.Even professional reviewers lose all sense of proportion when theydiscuss her books, and their so-called criticisms sound like publishers'advertisements. Sceptics are warned to remain silent, lest they becomeunpleasantly conspicuous. When _Lady Rose's Daughter_ appeared, thecritic of a great metropolitan daily remarked that whoever did notimmediately recognise the work as a masterpiece thereby proclaimedhimself as a person incapable of judgement, taste, and appreciation.This is a fair example of the attitude taken by thousands of herreaders, and it is this attitude, rather than the value of her work,that we must, first of all, consider.
In the year 1905 an entirely respectable journal said of Mrs. Ward,"There is no more interesting and important figure in the literary worldto-day." In comparing this superlative with the actual state of affairs,we find that we were asked to believe that Mrs. Ward was a literarypersonage not second in importance to Tolstoi, Ibsen, Bjoernson, Heyse,Sudermann, Hauptmann, Anatole France, Jules Lemaitre, Rostand,Swinburne, Thomas Hardy, Meredith, Kipling, and Mark Twain. At about thesame time a work appeared intended as a text-book for the young, whichdeclared Mrs. Ward to be "the greatest living writer of fiction inEnglish literature," and misspelled her name--an excellent illustrationof carelessness in adjectives with inaccuracy in facts. Over and overagain we have heard the statement that the "mantle" of George Eliot hasfallen on Mrs. Ward. Is it really true that her stories are equal invalue to _Adam Bede_, _The Mill on the Floss_, and _Middlemarch_?
The object of this essay is not primarily to attack a dignified andsuccessful author; it is rather to enquire, in a proper spirit ofhumility, and with a full realisation of the danger incurred, whether ornot the actual output justifies so enormous a reputation. For in somerespects I believe the vogue of Mrs. Ward to be more unfortunate thanthe vogue of the late lamented Duchess, of Laura Jean Libbey, of Mrs. E.D. E. N. Southworth, of Marie Corelli, and of Hall Caine. When we areasked to note that 300,000 copies of the latest novel by any of thesehave been sold before the book is published, there is no cause foralarm. We know perfectly well what that means. It is what is called a"business proposition"; it has nothing to do with literature. It simplyproves that it is possible to make as splendid a fortune out of thetrade of book-making, and by equally respectable methods, as is made inother legitimate avenues of business. But the case is quite differentwith Mrs. Ward. Whatever she is, she is not vulgar, sensational, orcheap; she has never made the least compromise with her moral ideals,nor has she ever attempted to play to the gallery. Her constituency ismade up largely of serious-minded, highly respectable people, who livein good homes, who are fairly well read, and who ought to know thedifference between ordinary and extraordinary literature. Her books havehad a bad effect in blurring this distinction in the popular mind; forwhile she has never written a positively bad book,--with the possibleexception of _Bessie Costrell_,--I feel confident that she has neverwritten supremely well; that, compared with the great masters offiction, she becomes immediately insignificant. If there ever was asuccessful writer whose work shows industry and talent rather thangenius, that writer is Mrs. Ward. If there ever was a successful writerwhose work is ordinary rather than extraordinary, it is Mrs. Ward.
To those of us who delight in getting some enjoyment even out of themost depressing facts, the growth of Mrs. Ward's reputation has itshumorous aspect. The same individuals (mostly feminine) who in 1888 read_Robert Elsmere_ with dismay, who thought the sale of the work should beprohibited, and the copies already purchased removed from circulatinglibraries, are the very same ones who now worship what they oncedenounced. She was then regarded as a destroyer of Christian faith.Well, if she was Satan then, she is Satan still (one Western clergyman,in advocating at that time the suppression of the work, said he believedin hitting the devil right between the eyes). She has given no sign ofrecantation, or even of penitence. I remember one fond mother, who,fearful of the effect of the book on her daughter's growing mind, markedall the worst passages, and then told Alice she might read it, providedshe skipped all the blazed places! That indicated not only a fineliterary sense, but a remarkable knowledge of human nature. I wonderwhat the poor girl did when she came to the danger signals! And, as amatter of fact, how valuable or vital would a Christian faith be thatcould be destroyed by the perusal of _Robert Elsmere_? It is almostdifficult now to bring to distinct recollection the tremendousexcitement caused by Mrs. Ward's first successful novel, for it is along time since I heard its name mentioned. The last public notice of itthat I can recall was a large sign which appeared some fifteen years agoin a New Haven apothecary's window to the effect that one copy of_Robert Elsmere_ would be presented free to each purchaser of a cake ofsoap!
Although _Robert Elsmere_ was an immediate and prodigious success, andmade it certain that whatever its author chose to write next would beeagerly bought, it is wholly untrue to say that her subsequent novelshave depended in any way on _Elsmere_ for their reputation. There aremany instances in professional literary careers where one immenselysuccessful book--_Lorna Doone_, for example--has floated a longsuccession of works that could not of themselves stay above water; manyan author has succeeded in attaching a life-preserver to literarychildren who cannot swim. Far otherwise is the case with Mrs. Ward. Itis probable that over half the readers of _Diana Mallory_ have neverseen a copy of _Robert Elsmere_, for which, incidentally, they are to becongratulated. But many of us can easily recollect with what intenseeagerness the novel that followed that sensation was awaited. Every onewondered if it would be equally good; and many confidently predictedthat she had shot her bolt. As a matter of fact, not only was _DavidGrieve_ a better novel than _Robert Elsmere_, but, in my judgement, itis the best book its author has ever written. Oscar Wilde said that_Robert Elsmere_ was _Literature and Dogma_ with the literature leftout. Now, _David Grieve_ has no dogma at all, but in a certain sense itdoes belong to literature. It has some actual dynamic quality. Thecharacter of David, and its development in a strange environment, arewell analysed; and altogether the best thing in the work, taken as awhole, is the perspective. It is a difficult thing to follow a characterfrom childhood up, within the pages of one volume, and have anythinglike the proper perspective. It requires for one thing, hard,painstaking industry; but Mrs. Ward has never been afraid of work. Shecannot be accused of laziness or carelessness. The ending of this bookis, of course, weak, like the conclusion of all her books, for she hasnever learned the fine art of saying farewell, either to her charactersor to the reader.
It was in the year 1894--a year made memorable by the appearance of_Trilby_, the _Prisoner of Zenda_, _The Jungle Book_, _Lord Ormont andhis Aminta_, _Esther Waters_, and other notable novels--that Mrs. Wardgreatly increased her reputation and widened her circle ofreaders by the publication of _Marcella_. Here she gave us apolitical-didactic-realistic novel, which she has continued to publishsteadily ever since under different titles. It was gravely announcedthat this new book would deal with socialism and the labour question.Many readers, who felt that she had said the last word on agnosticism in_Elsmere_, now looked forward with reverent anticipation not only to thefinal solution of socialistic problems, but to some coherent arrangementof their own vague and confused ideas. Naturally, they got just whatthey deserved--a voluminous statement of various aspects of the problem,with no solution at all. It is curious how many persons suppose thattheir favourite author or orator has done something toward settlingquestions, when, as a matter of fact, all he has done is to _state_them, and then state them again. This is especially true ofphilosophical and metaphysical difficulties. Think how eagerly re
aderstook up Professor James's exceedingly clever book on Pragmatism, hopingat last to find rest in some definite principle. And if there ever was ablind alley in philosophy, it is Pragmatism--the very essence ofagnosticism.
Now, _Marcella_, as a document, is both radical and reactionary. Thereis an immense amount of radical talk; but the heroine's schemes fail,the Labour party is torn by dissension, Wharton proves to be ascoundrel, and the rebel Marcella marries a respectable nobleman. Thereis not a single page in the book, with all its wilderness of words, thatcan be said to be in any sense a serious contribution to the greatest ofall purely political problems. And, as a work of art, it is painfullylimited; but since it has the same virtues and defects of all hersubsequent literary output, we may consider what these virtues anddefects are.
In the first place, Mrs. Ward is totally lacking in one almostfundamental quality of the great novelist--a keen sense of humour. Whoare the English novelists of the first class? They are Defoe,Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Jane Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, GeorgeEliot, Stevenson, and perhaps Hardy. Every one of these shows humourenough and to spare, with the single exception of Richardson, and heatoned for the deficiency by a terrible intensity that has seldom, ifever, been equalled in English fiction. Now, the absence of humour in abook is not only a positive loss to the reader, in that it robs him ofthe fun which is an essential part of the true history of any humanlife, and thereby makes the history to that extent inaccurate andunreal, but the writer who has no humour seldom gets the right point ofview. There is infinitely more in the temperament of the humorist thanmere laughter. Just as the poet sees life through the medium of asplendid imagination, so the humorist has the almost infallible guide ofsympathy. The humorist sees life in a large, tolerant, kindly way; heknows that life is a tragi-comedy, and he makes the reader feel it inthat fashion.
Again, the lack of humour in a writer destroys the sense of proportion.The humorist sees the salient points--the merely serious writer gives usa mass of details. In looking back over the thousands of pages offiction that Mrs. Ward has published, how few great scenes stand outbright in the memory! The principle of selection--so important a part ofall true art--is conspicuous only by its absence. This is one reason forthe sameness of her books. All that we can remember is an immense numberof social functions and an immense amount of political gossip--a long,sad level of mediocrity. This perhaps helps to explain why Germanfiction is so markedly inferior to the French. The German, in hisscientific endeavour to get in the whole of life, gives us a mass ofunrelated detail. A French writer by a few phrases makes us see acharacter more clearly than a German presents him after many painfulpages of wearisome description.
Mrs. Ward is not too much in earnest in following her ideals of art; noone can be. But she is too sadly serious. There is a mental tension inher books, like the tension of overwork and mental exhaustion, like thetension of overwrought nerves; her books are, in fact, filled with tiredand overworked men and women, jaded and gone stale. How many of hercharacters seem to need a change--what they want is rest and sleep! Manyof them ought to be in a sanatorium.
Her books are devoid of charm. One does not have to compare her with thegreat masters to feel this deficiency; it would not be fair to compareher with Thackeray. But if we select among all the novelists of realdistinction the one whom, perhaps, she most closely approaches,--AnthonyTrollope,--the enormous distance between _Diana Mallory_ and _FramleyParsonage_ is instantly manifest. We think of Trollope with a glow ofreminiscent delight; but although Trollope and Mrs. Ward talk endlesslyon much the same range of subject-matter, how far apart they really are!Mrs. Ward's books are crammed with politicians and clergymen, who keepthe patient reader informed on modern aspects of political and religiousthought; but the difficulty is that they substitute phrases for ideas.Mrs. Ward knows all the political and religious cant of the day; she isfamiliar with the catch-words that divide men into hostile camps; but inall these dreary pages of serious conversation there is no realillumination. She completely lacks the art that Trollope possessed, ofmaking ordinary people attractive. But to find out the real distancethat separates her productions from literature, one should read, let ussay, _The Marriage of William Ashe_ and then take up _Pride andPrejudice_. The novels of Mrs. Ward bear about the same relation tofirst-class fiction that maps and atlases bear to great paintings.
This lack of charm that I always feel in reading Mrs. Ward's books (andI have read them all) is owing not merely to the lack of humour. It ispartly due to what seems to be an almost total absence of freshness,spontaneity, and originality. Mrs. Ward works like a well-trained andhigh-class graduate student, who is engaged in the preparation of adoctor's thesis. Her discussions of socialism, her scenes in the Houseof Commons and on the Terrace, her excursions to Italy, her referencesto political history, her remarks on the army, her disquisitions ontheology, her pictures of campaign riots, her studies of defectivedrainage, her representations of the labouring classes,--all these are"worked up" in a scholarly and scientific manner; there is the modernpassion for accuracy, there is the German completeness of detail,--thereis, in fact, everything except the breath of life. She works in thedescriptive manner, from the outside in--not in the inspired mannerwhich goes with imagination, sympathy, and genius. She is not only astudent, she is a journalist; she is a special correspondent onpolitics and theology; but she is not a creative writer. For she has thecritical, not the creative, temperament.
The monotonous sameness of her books, which has been mentioned above, islargely owing to the sameness of her characters. She changes the frames,but not the portraits. First of all, in almost any of her books we aresure to meet the studious, intellectual young man. He always has aspecial library on some particular subject, with the books allannotated. One wearies of this perpetual character's perpetual library,crowded, as it always is, with the latest French and German monographs.Her heroes smell of books and dusty dissertations, and the conversationsof these heroes are plentifully lacking in native wit andoriginality--they are the mere echoes of their reading. Let us pass inreview a few of these serious students--Robert Elsmere, Langham, AldousReyburn (who changes into Lord Maxwell, but who remains a prig), themelancholy Helbeck, the insufferable Manisty, Jacob Delafield, WilliamAshe, Oliver Marsham--all, all essentially the same, tiresome, dull,heavy men--what a pity they were not intended as satires! Second, as afoil to this man, we have the Byronic, clever, romantic, sentimental,insincere man--who always degenerates or dies in a manner that exaltsthe dull and superior virtues of his antagonist. Such a man is Wharton,or Sir George Tressady, or Captain Warkworth, or Cliffe--they havedifferent names in different novels, but they are the same character.Curiously enough, the only convincing men that appear in her pages are_old_ men--men like Lord Maxwell or Sir James Chide. In portraying thistype she achieves success.
What shall we say of her heroines? They have the same suspiciousresemblance so characteristic of her heroes; they are represented asphysically beautiful, intensely eager for morality and justice, with anextraordinary fund of information, and an almost insane desire to impartit. Her heroine is likely to be or to become a power in politics; evenat a tender age she rules society by the brilliancy of her conversation;in a crowded drawing-room the Prime Minister hangs upon her words;diplomats are amazed at her intimate knowledge of foreign relations, andof the resources of the British Empire; and she can entertain a wholering of statesmen and publicists by giving to each exactly the rightword at the right moment. Men who are making history come to her notonly for inspiration but for guidance, for she can discourse fluently onall phases of the troublesome labour question. And yet, if we may judgeof this marvellous creature not by the attitude of the other charactersin the book, but by the actual words that fall from her lips, we arereminded of the woman whom Herbert Spencer's friends selected as hispotential spouse. They shut him up with her, and awaited the result witheagerness, for they told him she had a great mind; but on emerging fromthe trial interview Spencer remarked that she would
not do at all: "Theyoung lady is, in my opinion, too highly intellectual; or, I shouldrather say--morbidly intellectual. A small brain in a state of intenseactivity." Was there ever a better formula for Mrs. Ward's constantlyrecurring heroine? Now, as a foil to Marcella, Diana Mallory, and theothers, Mrs. Ward gives us the frivolous, mischief-making, would-bebrilliant, and actually vulgar woman, who makes much trouble for theheroine and ultimately more for herself--the wife of Sir GeorgeTressady, the young upstart in _Diana Mallory_, and all the rest ofthem. By the introduction of these characters there is an attempt tolend colour to the dull pages of the novels. These women are at heartadventuresses, but they are apt to lack the courage of theirconvictions; instead of being brilliant and terrible,--like the greatadventuresses of fiction,--they are as dull in sin as their antagonistsare dull in virtue. Mrs. Ward cannot make them real; compare any one ofthem with Thackeray's Beatrix or with Becky Sharp--to say nothing of thelong list of sinister women in French and Russian fiction.
There are no "supreme moments" in Mrs. Ward's books; no great dramaticsituations; she has tried hard to manage this, for she has hadrepeatedly one eye on the stage. When _The Marriage of William Ashe_ and_Lady Rose's Daughter_ appeared, one could almost feel the strain fordramatic effect. It was as though she had realised that her previousbooks were treatises rather than novels, and had gathered all herenergies together to make a severe effort for real drama. But,unfortunately, the scholarly and critical temperament is not primarilyadapted for dramatic masterpieces. In the endeavour to recall thrillingscenes in her novels, scenes that brand themselves for ever on thememory, one has only to compare her works with such stories as _Far Fromthe Madding Crowd_ or _The Return of the Native_, and her painfuldeficiency is immediately apparent.
In view of what I believe to be the standard mediocrity of her novels,how shall we account for their enormous vogue? The fact is, whether welike it or not, that she is one of the most widely read of all livingnovelists. Well, in the first place, she is absolutely respectable andsafe. It is assuredly to her credit that she has never stooped forpopularity. She has never descended to melodrama, clap-trap, orindecency. She is never spectacular and declamatory like Marie Corelli,and she is never morally offensive like some popular writers who mightbe mentioned. She writes for a certain class of readers whom shethoroughly understands: they are the readers who abhor both vulgarityand pruriency, and who like to enter vicariously, as they certainly doin her novels, into the best English society. In her social functionsher readers can have the pleasure of meeting prime ministers, lords, andall the dwellers in Mayfair, and they know that nothing will be saidthat is shocking or improper. Her books can safely be recommended toyoung people, and they reflect the current movement of English thoughtas well as could be done by a standard English review. She has awell-furnished and highly developed intellect; she is deeply read; shemakes her readers think that they are thinking. She tries to make up forartistic deficiencies by an immense amount of information. Fifty yearsago it is probable that she would not have written novels at all, butrather thoughtful and intellectual critical essays, for which her mindis admirably fitted. She unconsciously chose the novel simply becausethe novel has been, during the last thirty years, the chief channel ofliterary expression. But in spite of her popularity, it should never beforgotten that the novel is an art-form, not a medium for doctrinaires.
Then, with her sure hand on the pulse of the public, she is alwaysintensely modern, intensely contemporary; again like a well-trainedjournalist. She knows exactly what Society is talking about, for sheemphatically belongs to it. This is once more a reason why so manypeople believe that she holds the key to great problems of social life,and that her next book will give the solution. Many hoped that her novelon America, carefully worked up during her visit here, would give thefinal word on American social life. Both England and the United Stateswere to find out what the word "American" really means.
Mrs. Ward is an exceedingly talented, scholarly, and thoughtful woman,of lofty aims and actuated only by noble motives; she is hungry forintellectual food, reading both old texts and the daily papers withavidity. She has a highly trained, sensitive, critical mind,--but she isdestitute of the divine spark of genius. Her books are the books ofto-day, not of to-morrow; for while the political and religiousquestions of to-day are of temporary interest, the themes of the world'sgreat novels are what Richardson called "love and nonsense, men andwomen"--and these are eternal.