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Page 39
Now, there is a certain justification for this. A psychologist may show
us aspects of character which we could not see by ourselves, as the
X-rays will reveal what is not visible to the naked eye. But if the
insides of things are real, so also are the outsides. Surfaces and forms
are not without their importance.
It may be said in extenuation of Dickens that the blemish of obviousness
is one which he shared with the world he lived in. It would be too much
to say that all realities are obvious. There is a great deal that we do
not see at the first glance; but there is a great deal that we do see.
To reproduce the freshness and wonder of the first view of the obvious
world is one of the greatest achievements of the imagination.
The reason why the literary artist shuns the obvious is that there is
too much of it. It is too big for the limited resources of his art. In
the actual world, realities come in big chunks. Nature continually
repeats herself. She hammers her facts into our heads with a persistency
which is often more than a match for our stupidity. If we do not
recognize a fact to-day, it will hit us in the same place to-morrow.
We are so used to this educational method of reiteration that we make it
a test of reality. An impression made upon us must be repeated before it
has validity to our reason. If a thing really happened, we argue that it
will happen again under the same conditions. That is what we mean by
saying that we are under the reign of law. There is a great family
resemblance between happenings.
We make acquaintance with people by the same method. The recognition of
identity depends upon the ability which most persons have of appearing
to be remarkably like themselves. The reason why we think that the
person whom we met to-day is the same person we met yesterday is that he
_seems_ the same. There are obvious resemblances that strike us at once.
He looks the same, he acts the same, he has the same mannerisms, the
same kind of voice, and he answers to the same name. If Proteus, with
the best intention in the world, but with an unlimited variety of
self-manifestations, were to call every day, we should greet him always
as a stranger. We should never feel at home with so versatile a person.
A character must have a certain degree of monotony about it before we
can trust it. Unexpectedness is an agreeable element in wit, but not in
friendship. Our friend must be one who can say with honest Joe Gargery,
"It were understood, and it are understood, and it ever will be similar,
according."
But in the use of this effective method of reiteration there is a
difference between nature and a book. Nature does not care whether she
bores us or not: she has us by the buttonhole, and we cannot get away.
Not so with a book. When we are bored, we lay it down, and that brings
the interview to an end. It is from the fear of our impatience that most
writers abstain from the natural method of producing an impression.
And they are quite right. It is only now and then that an audience will
grant an extension of time to a speaker in order that he may make his
point more clear. They would rather miss the point. And it is still more
rare for the reader to grant a similar extension in order that the
author may tell again what he has told before. It is much easier to shut
up a book than to shut up a speaker.
The criticism of Dickens that his characters repeat themselves quite
misses the mark. As well object to an actor that he frequently responds
to an encore. If indicted for the offense, he could at least insist that
the audience be indicted with him as accessory before the fact.
Dickens tells us that when he read at Harrogate, "There was a remarkably
good fellow of thirty or so who found something so very ludicrous in
Toots that he could not compose himself at all, but laughed until he sat
wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, and whenever he felt Toots coming
again he began to laugh and wipe his eyes afresh."
"Whenever he felt Toots coming again"--there you have the whole
philosophy of the matter. The young fellow found Toots amusing when he
first laid eyes on him. He wanted to see him again, and it must always
be the same Toots.
It is useless to cavil at an author because of the means by which he
produces his effects. The important thing is that he does produce an
effect. That the end justifies the means may be a dangerous doctrine in
ethics, but much may be said for it in literature. The situation is like
that of a middle-aged gentleman beset by a small boy on a morning just
right for snowballing. "Give me leave, mister?" cries the youthful
sharpshooter. The good-natured citizen gives leave by pulling up his
coat-collar and quickening his pace. If the small boy can hit him, he is
forgiven, if he cannot hit him, he is scorned. The fact is that Dickens
with a method as broad and repetitious as that of Nature herself does
succeed in hitting our fancy. That is, he succeeds nine times out of
ten.
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