The Evening Star SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1929. THE MODERN NOVEL.

Evening Star, Issue 20196, 8 June 1929, Page 12

The Evening Star SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1929. THE MODERN NOVEL.

The novel lias lately been attracting a great deal of attention in Great Britain. Most people will doubtless be surprised to learn that recently Mr Philip Gucdalla was able to prove conclusively to himself, and incidentally to an English audience, that “the English novel gets worse and worse.” Commenting on this, the editor of the ‘ Manchester Guardian ’ holds that most people consider it “ gets better and better—more subtle, more instructed, more of a serious world force, and less of an idle entertainment.” And though the theatre may have gone to the dogs (or the Americans) the novel survives as the real centre for self-expression, and works of much moment and authority, and even absolute “masterpieces,” are saluted dozens of times in a single publishing season. Years ago, he points out, the correct attitude towards fiction was that of the young Queen Victoria, who confided to her diary a determination to read two serious and improving works for every novel that she approached for her own amusement. Today she could easily have made the novels her serious reading, for the modern novel is seriously offered as more of a revelation, a profound and serious reaction to the mysterious world around ns, than a source of amusement. So it is difficult to see how Mr Gucdalla comes to his decision as to its negligible character. “Jf he is right in his estimates,” says the editor of the ‘Guardian,’ “the curious moral is this: that the novel rises in wortli when it is lightly esteemed, and sinks in value when it is approached with awe and apprehension.”

Some of the novelists themselves have also been talking of their art and its workmen. Addressing the Manchester branch of the English Association recently, Alias Rose Macaulay suggested that the psychological effect of the war had been rather exaggerated, and showed that most of the younger novelists are not much affected by it. It is interesting to hear her individual preferences. Air E. At. Forster, tor instance, is placed high, with the qualification that he is “the cultured spinster among novelists.” She spoke of Mr D. H, Lawrence’s 11 hot, dark, rich power,” an arresting phrase that suggests sho might let herself go much more than she actually does in her own novels. She speculates on the competition between the two classes of fiction—ihe realistic and the fantastic—but agrees there is room for both. We need the stories of David Garnett and more recently such a writer as Virginia Woolf, as well as Air Bennett, in the ‘Five Towns.’ Aliss AJacaulay, however, makes no impassioned claim lor the novel; indeed, she regards it as the least intellectual of the literary forms, and possibly might even agree with Air Gueclalla.

Air Allan Alonkhonse, the well-known critic and dramatist, is of another opinion. “Putting verso aside—and verse is neglected by all except a few specialists—a great part of the best writing of the time,” he declares, “ is in novels.” He does not think there is any higher standard in biography, history, science, travel, economics, politics; and when, people tell him they do not read'modern novels he takes it as a confession of dullness. Dealing with the question of the sex novel, Mr Alonkhouse points out how it was inevitable that the Victorian standard of reticence —so often ridiculous—should be left belli ml. We may not have learnt to behave ourselves under the new conditions, and he admits that there are today many deplorably ill-mannered novels which “ attract the lewd, disgust the censorious, and are ignored by the judicious.” He considers both the public and the publishers might do more to discourage these. But he foresees a great future for the novel, nor does he see any sign of its faltering in its progress towards that ideal. Passing to America, we find Mr Francis Brett Young (author of the ‘ Portrait of Clare ’) contributing an article to the 1 A r ale Review ’ entitled the ‘ Confession of a Novelist.’ Air Young dwells on the vast scope of the novel today, for its form imposes no discipline, which needs to come from the author himself. He definitely takes up the attitude that “ a novelist may do good or harm, but he must not do harm,” amd to support him he proceeds to quote George Eliot, whom he calls “ a very great novelist,” a refreshing tribute today. He thinks most of tho great novelists have been conscious of this moral responsibility, though not of a need to be an actual moralist. The first object of a novelist, however, he says, is to create beauty. And beauty “is always something inherent, infusing, irradiating the whole work from beginning to end. Y’ou cannot dissect and isolate it from the tissue of a book. It is intangible. It is indestructible.” He suggests that beauty can be perceived by contrasting George Aloore with Thomas Hardy, where one gets the difference “ between perfect prose that is little and imperfect prose that is great,” the moral being that a writer must not let his words control him. He demands a philosophy, though not a ent-and-dried one. He would have a novel delivered ns an act of faith, the outcome of a belief “at least in the validity of human endeavour.” These views may not find universal acceptance, but they at least show the seriousness with which some modern novelists tend to tackle their task.