mr. marshall is a twentieth century novelist, because he is happily yet alive, and because he writes of twentieth century scenes and characters; but he is apart from the main currents of twentieth century fiction, standing indeed in the midst of the stream like a commemorative pillar to victorian art. he has never written historical romance, which dominated the novel at the beginning of our century; he has never written the "life" novel—beginning with the hero's birth and travelling with plotless chronology, the type most in favour since the year 1906; he has never written a treatise and called it a novel, as so many of his contemporaries have done. every one of his novels, except the two unfortunate burlesques, is a good story, with a good plot and living characters; and he has chosen to write about well-bred people, because those are the people he knows best.
it is also well to remember, that although his best novels are parochial, he himself is a[52] citizen of the world. he has seen the north cape, he has lived in the australian bush, in various european cities, and has traveled extensively in america. one reason why he can describe english country life so clearly is because he sees it in the proper perspective. he is at home in any community on earth.
i call him a realistic novelist, because his realism is of the highest and most convincing kind—it constantly reminds us of reality. i cannot see why a well-constructed story, that deals mainly with attractive men and women, and ends on a note of robust cheerfulness, should have any less right to the adjective "realistic" than an ill-arranged transcript of the existence of creatures living amongst poverty, filth, and crime. and so far as mr. marshall's victorian reticence on questions of sex is concerned, this strengthens his right to the title realist. as henry james said, the moment you insist that animalism must have its place in works of art, there almost always seems to be no place for anything else. if a novelist is to represent real life, he must make subordinate and incidental what in some novels dominates every page. if a writer is to describe events as they really happen, to[53] portray men and women as they really are, to create living characters that can be recognized in modern society, he ought to emphasize in his art what life itself emphasizes—the difference between man and the lower animals. the curious thing is that in many so-called realistic novels it is impossible to distinguish between human beings and the beasts of the field; the well-understood likeness is stressed so heavily that not only the individual, but even the type is lost. one can hardly call so total an absence of discrimination true art. even the most elementary man or woman is less elementary than a beast; and is it not true that the greater the complexity, the greater the skill required to report it truly?
and here is a strange thing. it is only in stories of human beings that our would-be realists insist that animalism should be most frankly and most minutely portrayed. when we come to dog-stories—of which there are many—the element of sex is as a rule wholly omitted. yet surely this is more salient in the life of a dog than in the life of a man.
archibald marshall is a realist. he represents cultivated men and women as we saw them yesterday, and as we shall see them to[54]morrow. he seldom disappoints us, for among all living novelists, whilst he is not the greatest, he is the most reliable. it is difficult to analyse the extraordinary charm of his stories, for they are simpler than simplicity. he takes us literally into the bosom of a family, where each member has a distinct individuality, and the novel progresses like beautiful voices with orchestral accompaniment—each individual in turn singing an air, while the family fortunes supply the harmony. to read his books is to associate with people whom it is highly important to know—not because of their social standing, but because of their solid worth. his good characters are fundamentally good. they are seldom brilliant, and almost never reformers. they are more altruistic than philanthropic. they possess the fine old virtues of purity, wholesomeness, generosity, loving-kindness, honesty, loyalty, tact, consideration; such persons are always lovable in life, which is why they are lovable in these books. his heroes are not saviours of society, they are simply good companions, be the weather fair or foul; and we are never sickened by the diaphanous veneer of sentimentality. his villains seldom break the law of the land, and do not[55] reek of melodrama. they are inconsiderate, garrulous, inopportune, stupid, meddling, officiously helpful, which is sometimes worse than deliberate hostility. mrs. prentice in exton manor is his most offensive specimen, and according to the wisdom of the book of proverbs, she is one of the four things for which the earth is disquieted—"an odious woman when she is married." these respectable villains, who often cause more suffering than professional criminals, receive the punishment of unpopularity. but in most of his characters the elements are more kindly mixed. we have on every page the delight of recognition—the figures are so perfectly drawn that we are under the illusion that they are alive.
although these stories are never explicitly didactic, they are ethically as well as artistically true. beneath the surface of light conversation and trivial incident we find an idea that works for righteousness. this idea is so variously and so frequently illustrated that i think it must be the foundation of the author's philosophy of life and conduct. he would have us believe that different individuals, different social classes, different communities dislike and distrust each other mainly through ignorance.[56] he would not say in the old phrase, to understand is to forgive, he would say something without any taint of condescension, something finer and more fruitful—to understand is to respect, to admire, to love. the inefficient aristocrat and the pushing millionaire despise each other, the haughty churchman and the pious dissenter distrust each other's motives until they are brought by the force of circumstances into an unescapable daily intimacy; the result of which to both is surprising and agreeable. apparently what we all need is more imagination, more intelligence. these novels make a combined attack on the last infirmity of both noble and ignoble minds, that last citadel of stupidity—prejudice.
