Part 3

It is quite another matter when we come to a lower phase of life, when we step down out of the social sphere into genuine country life. Then colour becomes an essential element in the composition. The ladies and gentlemen in the hall at one end of England are like the ladies and gentlemen in the hall at the other end of England; and it is the same with the sweet girls and the honest, frank boys of the rectory and vicarage—they are as fresh and delightful everywhere, in all parts of England, and all very much the same. But it is not so with the peasantry. They have their type in Northumberland, which is not the type in Devon, and the type in Yorkshire is not the type of Sussex. The peasantry represent racial differences much more than those in a class above them. No racial differences are observable in the most cultured class. Then, again, surroundings have much to do with the formation of type; and so naturally has the occupation. Look, for instance, in Yorkshire at the mill-hand and at the agricultural labourer. They are different as different can be, and yet of the same stock. The manner of life, the variety of occupation, have differentiated them. And in appearance it is also true. The coal-miner, shuffling along with an habitual stoop, is a different man, not in gait only but in face, and different in habits as well, from the wool-picker or the foreman at the mill. It is the same with the girls. The factory-girl is distinct, as a specimen, from the farm-girl. They think differently, they comport themselves differently, they look different. Their complexions are not the same, their eyes have a different light in them, they move in a different manner.

An observant eye is necessary to note all this, and to draw distinctions.

[Sidenote: Dialect]

Then, again, in writing a story dealing with life in the working-class, dialect has to be taken into consideration. In some parts of England there is hardly any dialect at all, the voices have a certain intonation in one county which is different from the intonation elsewhere, but there are not many linguistic peculiarities. In the Midlands, in Essex, in Middlesex, the dialect is vulgar; but it can hardly be said that it is so in Northumberland, in Yorkshire, in Cornwall, in Dorset. In Somerset it is unpleasant, but that is another thing from the vulgarity of the Cockney twang. It does not do to accentuate the brogue too much in a book that is for general readers. It puzzles, irritates them. What is needed is to hint the dialect rather than render it in full flavour. Such a hint is a necessary element in giving local colour.

[Sidenote: Folk-sayings]

[Sidenote: Differences to be studied]

[Sidenote: Houses]

In addition to dialect, it is well to get at the folk wisdom as revealed by common sayings, proverbs, and the like. This helps to measure the character of the people, their sense of humour, their appreciation of what is beautiful, their powers of observation, and their imaginative faculties. We generally find that there is more poetry among the peasantry—by this I mean a picturesqueness and grace—a quality lending itself to fiction, where there is Celtic blood. This wonderfully effervescent, unpractical element is very lovable, very entertaining, where it is found. In my own county of Devon we have on one side of Dartmoor a people in which this volatile sparkling _ichor_ exists to a good extent—in fact, the people are more than half Celts; on the other side of the moor the population is heavy, unimaginative, and prosaic—the dreadfully dull Saxon prevails there. A story of the people in the one district would be out of place if told of those in the other district. Then there are peculiarities of custom, all of which should be observed and noted; they help wonderfully to give reality to a tale. The houses the people inhabit are different in one county from another, differ in one district from those in another ten miles away. Here, where I write, the cottages are of stone; often in them may be found a granite carved doorway, sometimes with a date. Five miles off, all is different. The farms and cottages are of clay, kneaded with straw, and the windows and doors of oak. In Surrey, the cottages are of red brick and tiled; on the Essex coast of timber from broken-up ships.

[Sidenote: Costume]

It is not often now that we have a chance of coming on anything like costume, but we do sometimes. In Yorkshire, what else is the scarlet or pink kerchief round the mill-girl’s head, and the clean white pinafore in which she goes to the factory? The bright tin she swings in her hand that contains her dinner is not to be omitted. Every item helps to give realism, and every one is picturesque. When I was in the Essex marshes I saw women and boys in scarlet military coats. In fact, old soldier-uniforms were sold cheap when soiled at Colchester; and these were readily bought and worn. It was a characteristic feature. I seized on it at once in my _Mehalah_, and put an old woman into a soldier’s jacket. She gave me what I wanted—a bit of bright colour in the midst of a sombre picture.

[Sidenote: Pictorial effect]

In story-writing it is always well, I may almost say essential, to see your scenes in your mind’s eye, and to make of them pictures, so that your figures group and pose, artistically but naturally, and that there shall be colour introduced. The reader has thus a pleasant picture presented to his imagination. In one of my stories I sketched a girl in a white frock leaning against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses. I had some burnished gold-green flies on the old wall, preening in the sun; so, to complete the scene, I put her on gold-green leather shoes, and made the girl’s eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had a picture where the colour was carried through, and, if painted, would have been artistic and satisfying. A red sash would have spoiled all, so I gave her one that was green. So we had the white dress, the guelder-rose balls greeny white, and through the ranges of green-gold were led up to her hair, which was red-gold.

I lay some stress on this formation of picture in tones of colour, because it pleases myself when writing, it satisfies my artistic sense. A thousand readers may not observe it; but those who have any art in them will at once receive therefrom a pleasant impression.

[Sidenote: Character of scenery and people determine character of tale]

With regard to the general tone of a story, my own feeling is that the character of the scenery and character of the people determine the character of the tale. A certain type is almost always found among the people that harmonises with the scenery. Nature never makes harsh contrasts. Where, in a stone and slate district, a London architect builds a brick house and covers it with tiles, it looks incongruous. I was at one time in Yorkshire, near Thirsk. In the village all the farms and cottages were of brick and tiles; a London architect built a church of white stone, and covered it with blue slate. That church never would look as if it belonged to the people, it will never harmonise with the surroundings. So some architects transport Norman buildings into old English towns—the effect is hateful. In Nature everything tones together. In the Fens of Ely the people are in character very suitable to the fenland—silent, somewhat morose; on the moorland, wherever it is, they are independent, wayward, fresh, and hearty. In my judgment, then, the aspect of the country has much to do with determining the character of the story told concerning it. In writing a novel you are drawing a picture, and your background must harmonise with your figures in the forefront, the colours must not be incongruous. You would not paint a pirate under a maypole, nor put village dancers among rocks and caverns.

[Sidenote: Illustrations]

I do not like to appear egotistical, but in writing for young beginners, I think that nothing could more illustrate my meaning than to tell them how I have worked myself.

One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in the Coastguard, invited me to accompany him on a cruise among the creeks in the estuary of the Maldon river—the Blackwater. I went out, and we spent the day running among mud-flats and low holms, covered with coarse grass and wild lavender, and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a ruined farm built on arches above this marsh to eat some lunch; no glass was in the windows, and the raw wind howled in and swept round us. That night I was laid up with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed, and was in the marshes in imagination, listening to the wind and the lap of the tide; and _Mehalah_ naturally rose out of it all, a tragic, gloomy tale. But what else could it be in such desolation with nothing bright therein?

[Sidenote: Contrast and harmony]

Some little while ago I went to Cheshire, and visited the salt region. It vividly impressed my imagination—the subsidences of land, the dull monotony of brine-“wallers’” cottages, the barges on the Weaver, the blasted trees. Well, then, in contrast, hard by was Delamere forest, with its sea of pines, its sandy soil and heathery openings, the Watling Street crossing it, the noble mansions and parks about it. The whole aspect of the salt district on one hand, and the wild forest on the other, seemed as if it could produce in my mind only one kind of story; and with the story, the characters came; but they came out of the salt factories on one side, out of the merry greenwood on the other, artificiality and some squalor on one side, freshness and simplicity on the other. It may not be with others as with myself, but with me it is always the scenery and surroundings that develop the plot and characters. Others may work from the opposite point, but then, it seems to me, they must find it hard to fit their landscape to their _dramatis personæ_ and to their _dénouement_.

[Sidenote: Imagination]

[Sidenote: Its limits]

Another point I may mention. Erckmann and Chatrien could never write a novel of Alsace and the Jura on the spot. After a visit to the scenes they were going to people with fictitious characters, they wrote, but wrote in Paris. They found that imagination failed when on the spot. I find very much the same, myself. I do not believe I could write a novel of the valley in which I live, the house I occupy. I must lay my scene somewhere that I have been, but have left. When in Rome one winter, impatient at being confined within walls, weary of the basaltic pavement, my heart went out to the wilds of Dartmoor, and I wrote _Urith_. I breathed moor air, smelt the gorse, heard the rush of the torrents, scrambled the granite rocks in imagination, and forgot the surroundings of an Italian _pension_.

[Sidenote: Its strength]

[Sidenote: The secret of doing well]

I repeat, my experiences may not, and probably are not, those of others. When engaged on a novel, I live in that world about which I am writing. Whilst writing a Cheshire novel, I have tasted the salt crystallising on my lips, smelt the smoke from the chimneys, walked warily among the subsidences, and have had the factory before my eyes, for a while, and then dashed away to smell the pines, and lie in the heather and hear the bees hum. It has been so real to me, that if I wake for a moment at night I have found myself in Cheshire, my mind there. When I am at my meals, I am eating in Cheshire, though at the other end of England; when in conversation with friends, directly there is a pause, my mind reverts to Cheshire; and, alas! I am sorry to own it, too often, in church, at my prayers—I find my mind drifting to Cheshire. This I believe to be a secret of doing a thing well—that is to say, as well as one’s poor abilities go—to lose oneself in one’s subject, or at all events in the surroundings.

ON VISION IN LITERATURE

KATHARINE S. MACQUOID

[Sidenote: Popular ideas concerning fiction]

A popular opinion seems to exist that the art of writing Fiction can be acquired without any natural gift for the profession of Literature; the wish to become a writer is thought a sufficient proof of vocation, although such a wish, accompanied with fluency in pen and ink, is very apt to mislead those who can express their thoughts easily in writing. Diligent study and persevering labour will of course do much to further progress in any art, but it is unlikely that the art of writing fiction can be acquired in the same way that the mere mechanical knowledge of Music, or of Painting, or of Sculpture can be learned by a beginner.

Some experienced writers own that they find it difficult to give a definite account of the processes by which they themselves have arrived at the production of their ideas; at the outset, I fancy, many of them worked without settled method, or distinct consciousness of their own processes, and this unconsciousness of the method followed, and of the way in which images reveal themselves to the writer, seems to indicate that a systematic plan, a set of rules to be implicitly followed, would be useless to most learners, and would defeat the desired end.

[Sidenote: The principles of literature]

It seems to me that the principles of Literature, or, to speak simply, the ways in which writing should be done, reveal themselves during its practice, and probably much of the originality which, whatever may be their shortcomings as novelists, distinguishes many English writers, is due in a measure to this personal, unaided way of groping after truth. Writers who possess a natural faculty often work for years with an intuitive rather than a conscious adherence to distinct principles; without these principles, whether possessed consciously or intuitively, it is, I think, impossible to write that which can be called Literature. It appears to me therefore that would-be writers, without a certain innate faculty, may read and study and acquaint themselves with all the literary canons laid down by critics, and yet fail in producing literature, while others who have the true gift will be able to produce good and spontaneous bits of writing. I do not, however, think that mere natural faculty will enable persons to continue to write well without constant, self-denying study, and they must work up to their abilities, if they would attain success.

It would therefore seem wiser for beginners, instead of trying at the outset to learn how to write, to apply some test to their own powers of writing; let them, in fact, make sure that they have a real literary gift.

[Sidenote: The power of vision]

The power of Vision, the subject of my paper, is necessary for all Literature, but it is completely indispensable to a novelist. Many novels are undoubtedly written without it, but it may be asked for what purpose are they written? except it be to waste time; they pass into the limbo of useless and forgotten things; there is even a tradition that the Head of a great circulating library said he used these ineffectual novels for garden manure!

There are, however, many young writers very much in earnest, with too much reverence for Literature to attempt novel-writing for mere pastime, and they are often tormented by doubts of their capacity for success; it is better to tell them frankly, that although such doubts may not be justly founded, they are very hard to lay, and they may possibly abide with the writers till long after the public has begun to listen to their utterances, may indeed remain till writers and their hopes and fears have come to the last chapter of life.

[Sidenote: Certain tests]

But earnest literary students may greatly help themselves at the outset by using certain tests in trying to make sure whether they have or have not any portion of the gift, without which perseverance will only lead to disappointment. It may not be possible to teach the art of writing novels, but one may try, as well as one can, to help beginners to find out for themselves whether they have or have not “natural faculty” for this calling.

It is said that exactness of proportion can only be proved by measurement, and it is perhaps only by the application of certain principles that beginners in the art of Fiction can learn whether they should persevere or whether they will not save themselves bitter disappointment by wisely giving up a profession for which they have proved themselves unfitted. The effort required by any attempt at real Literature argues an absence of idle-mindedness in those who make it, and encourages a hope that beginners may be willing to apply test-principles to their methods and power of work. Of these principles, the power of Vision seems to be the most useful as a test of true vocation for the art of writing Fiction.

[Sidenote: Imagination and realism]

IT was said many years ago of a distinguished writer, who has since passed away, that she lacked imaginative power, that she only described that which she had seen and known. The accusation was refuted as an ignorant one, it was proved that the writer had not seen with her outward eyes all that she so vividly described; it is, however, evident that in making such a statement, the critic forgot the existence of the power of Vision, the power which enables a writer not only to see vividly and distinctly characters, actions, and scenes, but also enables him to see the especial features in these several images which will help to reproduce them with the greatest vigour and with perfect truth. The absence of this power in its truest form makes some so-called realistic work wearisome, and even nauseous, because it contains such a superabundance of detail that breadth of treatment and truth of effect are lost, while tone is lowered by too much familiarity with the objects presented.

[Sidenote: The art of selection]

True Vision sees vividly that which it describes, sees it in perfect proportion and perspective, and with this clear eyesight has a power of selecting from surrounding details the chief and most impressive points of its picture; it thereby enables its possessor—according to his power of utterance—to impress the picture he has called up with vigour and distinctness on his reader.

The power of Vision may and does exist with lack of ability to sing or to say, even faintly, that which it so plainly sees, but for all that it is a real gift, not a mere effort of memory, when it calls up a character or a scene. Memory of course helps it, for perhaps all we write or try to write, even that which seems to us newly evolved from our original consciousness, may only be a recreation of forgotten experiences.

The practical working of the power of Vision is apt to vary; the object or scene is sometimes not at once clearly discerned, a fragment is perhaps first seen, but patient waiting is often rewarded by a distinct and vivid sight of all the other parts which have been simmering in the brain, at first but dimly apprehended, shapeless, lacking alike form and colour.

It may be said that the power of Selection in a writer is a distinct principle, and should of itself form the subject of a paper on creative work, instead of being classed with Vision; but the power of Selection appears to me to be inseparable from any one literary principle—it is an essential part of true Vision.

[Sidenote: A natural not acquired gift]

There are some parts of the whole which constitutes the power of novel-writing that seem as though they might be acquired by dint of hard study, without the possession of a natural gift for them. Style is one of these, another is the careful construction of a story; but unless the power of Vision be intuitive in a beginner, it is, as I have said, almost useless to attempt Fiction. For instance, it is useless to try to describe, unless the person or thing in question is as clearly seen by the mental eyes as the would-be writer’s face is seen by his physical eyes when he looks in the glass; even when the image is distinct, power to present it may not exist in sufficient vigour to enable readers to see the picture as the writer does. This is, however, almost a matter of course. I am inclined to think that probably few writers, if any, have ever satisfied themselves in painting the pictures they have mentally created. To take the highest example, we cannot know how far keener the power of Vision was in the pictures seen by Shakespeare than in those which he has revealed to the world. It is this want of proportion between the power to see and the power to execute that has made the despair of artists of all time, whether painters or poets, sculptors or prose-writers, so dissatisfied must they ever be with their own productions compared with the creations they see so vividly.

[Sidenote: Observation not sufficient]

IT may be said that all this art-study is unnecessary, that it is sufficient carefully to observe life and scenery, and then to write down all that the eye has noted, woven into the form of a story. This is not easy work, our very faculty of observation is qualified by our power of true mental vision; without mental vision, and the selecting power that belongs to it, the objects noted down, instead of forming a coherent and lifelike picture in the mind of a reader or listener, will produce a dry catalogue of persons and things, there will be a want of proportion and perspective, of efficient light and shade. “No one knows what he can do till he tries” is a very true saying which fits our case. Let persons without the literary faculty try to write off a description of the office or counting-house in which they work, of the room, whether it be study or drawing-room, in which they dwell, of the persons among whom they live, and they will see what the results of such attempts are from a literary standpoint.

[Sidenote: Silas Marner]

Many passages might be quoted to illustrate the vigour and distinctness with which this power of Vision manifests itself, and in a few words creates a picture which remains impressed on the mind of the reader, but I have not space for them. Here is one, however, which stands out by itself in intensity of distinctness and direct presentation.

Silas Marner, standing at his cottage door, has had a fit of unconsciousness, during which the child, little Eppie, has found her way into his hut.