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novel； and that it would have been very differently conceived and
treated had it belonged to that other marked class； of which I now
proceed to speak。
I take pleasure in calling the dramatic novel by that name； because
it enables me to point out by the way a strange and peculiarly
English misconception。 It is sometimes supposed that the drama
consists of incident。 It consists of passion； which gives the
actor his opportunity； and that passion must progressively
increase； or the actor； as the piece proceeded； would be unable to
carry the audience from a lower to a higher pitch of interest and
emotion。 A good serious play must therefore be founded on one of
the passionate CRUCES of life； where duty and inclination come
nobly to the grapple； and the same is true of what I call； for that
reason； the dramatic novel。 I will instance a few worthy
specimens； all of our own day and language； Meredith's RHODA
FLEMING； that wonderful and painful book； long out of print； （13）
and hunted for at bookstalls like an Aldine； Hardy's PAIR OF BLUE
EYES； and two of Charles Reade's； GRIFFITH GAUNT and the DOUBLE
MARRIAGE； originally called WHITE LIES； and founded （by an accident
quaintly favourable to my nomenclature） on a play by Maquet； the
partner of the great Dumas。 In this kind of novel the closed door
of THE AUTHOR OF BELTRAFFIO must be broken open； passion must
appear upon the scene and utter its last word； passion is the be…
all and the end…all； the plot and the solution； the protagonist and
the DEUS EX MACHINA in one。 The characters may come anyhow upon
the stage： we do not care； the point is； that； before they leave
it； they shall become transfigured and raised out of themselves by
passion。 It may be part of the design to draw them with detail； to
depict a full…length character； and then behold it melt and change
in the furnace of emotion。
But there is no obligation of the sort； nice portraiture is not
required； and we are content to accept mere abstract types； so they
be strongly and sincerely moved。 A novel of this class may be even
great； and yet contain no individual figure； it may be great；
because it displays the workings of the perturbed heart and the
impersonal utterance of passion； and with an artist of the second
class it is； indeed； even more likely to be great； when the issue
has thus been narrowed and the whole force of the writer's mind
directed to passion alone。 Cleverness again； which has its fair
field in the novel of character； is debarred all entry upon this
more solemn theatre。 A far…fetched motive； an ingenious evasion of
the issue； a witty instead of a passionate turn； offend us like an
insincerity。 All should be plain； all straightforward to the end。
Hence it is that； in RHODA FLEMING； Mrs。 Lovell raises such
resentment in the reader； her motives are too flimsy； her ways are
too equivocal； for the weight and strength of her surroundings。
Hence the hot indignation of the reader when Balzac； after having
begun the DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS in terms of strong if somewhat
swollen passion； cuts the knot by the derangement of the hero's
clock。 Such personages and incidents belong to the novel of
character； they are out of place in the high society of the
passions； when the passions are introduced in art at their full
height； we look to see them； not baffled and impotently striving；
as in life； but towering above circumstance and acting substitutes
for fate。
And here I can imagine Mr。 James； with his lucid sense； to
intervene。 To much of what I have said he would apparently demur；
in much he would； somewhat impatiently； acquiesce。 It may be true；
but it is not what he desired to say or to hear said。 He spoke of
the finished picture and its worth when done； I； of the brushes；
the palette； and the north light。 He uttered his views in the tone
and for the ear of good society； I； with the emphasis and
technicalities of the obtrusive student。 But the point； I may
reply； is not merely to amuse the public； but to offer helpful
advice to the young writer。 And the young writer will not so much
be helped by genial pictures of what an art may aspire to at its
highest； as by a true idea of what it must be on the lowest terms。
The best that we can say to him is this： Let him choose a motive；
whether of character or passion； carefully construct his plot so
that every incident is an illustration of the motive； and every
property employed shall bear to it a near relation of congruity or
contrast； avoid a sub…plot； unless； as sometimes in Shakespeare；
the sub…plot be a reversion or complement of the main intrigue；
suffer not his style to flag below the level of the argument； pitch
the key of conversation； not with any thought of how men talk in
parlours； but with a single eye to the degree of passion he may be
called on to express； and allow neither himself in the narrative
nor any character in the course of the dialogue； to utter one
sentence that is not part and parcel of the business of the story
or the discussion of the problem involved。 Let him not regret if
this shortens his book； it will be better so； for to add irrelevant
matter is not to lengthen but to bury。 Let him not mind if he miss
a thousand qualities； so that he keeps unflaggingly in pursuit of
the one he has chosen。 Let him not care particularly if he miss
the tone of conversation； the pungent material detail of the day's
manners； the reproduction of the atmosphere and the environment。
These elements are not essential： a novel may be excellent； and yet
have none of them； a passion or a character is so much the better
depicted as it rises clearer from material circumstance。 In this
age of the particular； let him remember the ages of the abstract；
the great books of the past； the brave men that lived before
Shakespeare and before Balzac。 And as the root of the whole
matter； let him bear in mind that his novel is not a transcript of
life； to be judged by its exactitude； but a simplification of some
side or point of life； to stand or fall by its significant
simplicity。 For although； in great men； working upon great
motives； what we observe and admire is often their complexity； yet
underneath appearances the truth remains unchanged： that
simplification was their method； and that simplicity is their
excellence。
II
Since the above was written another novelist has entered repeatedly
the lists of theory： one well worthy of mention； Mr。 W。 D。 Howells；
and none ever couched a lance with narrower convictions。 His own
work and those of his pupils and masters singly occupy his mind； he
is the bondslave； the zealot of his school； he dreams of an advance
in art like what there is in science； he thinks of past things as
radically dead； he thinks a form can be outlived： a strange
immersion in his own history； a strange forgetfulness of the
history of the race！ Meanwhile； by a glance at his own works
（could he see them with the eager eyes of his readers） much of this
illusion would be dispelled。 For while he holds all the poor
little orthodoxies of the day … no poorer and no smaller than those
of yesterday or to…morrow； poor and small； indeed； only so far as
they are exclusive … the living quality of much that he has done is
of a contrary； I had almost said of a heretical； complexion。 A
man； as I read him； of an originally strong romantic bent … a
certain glow of romance still resides in many of his books； and
lends them their distinction。 As by accident he runs out and
revels in the exceptional； and it is then； as often as not； that
his reader rejoices … justly； as I contend。 For in all this
excessive eagerness to be centrally human； is there not one central
human thing that Mr。 Howells is too often tempted to neglect： I
mean himself？ A poet； a finished artist；