Combination Novels

FROM time to time we hear the announcement, as if it were a complete novelty, of some project of an imaginative work by several authors in common ; but this species of diversion has frequently been indulged in by groups of friends and by private semi-literary clubs. Nor are examples wanting of illustrious reputations which have given it their sanction. Balzac, Alfred de Musset, and George Sand once thought it advisable to endow from the stores of their genius a volume entitled Les Parisiennes à Paris, which was not, however, in the true sense a collaboration, Another attempt was made with eminent success by Madame de Girardin, Théophile Gautier, Jules Saudeau, and Joseph Méry, in La Croix de Berny. Those Christmas books — No Thoroughfare and Mugby Junction—in which Dickens enlisted auxiliaries directed by himself cannot strictly be placed in the same category, because the responsibility for each portion was kept rather more distinct; but they remind us that Dickens was at least not averse to the plan of partnerships. In this country, some ten years ago, Mr. Edward Everett Hale joined Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mrs. Whitney, Miss Lucretia Hale, Frederic Loring, and Frederic Perkins in a story — Six of One by Half a Dozen of the Other — which the array of names on the titlepage has not saved from oblivion. And now again, quite lately, we have had given us The King’s Men, by Robert Grant, John Boyle O’Reilly, J. S. of Dale, and John Wheelwright; as well as The Miz-Maze, by nine English women, among whom are Charlotte Yonge, Frances M. Peard, and Christabel Rose Coleridge.

The list might perhaps be extended ; but the ordinary form of partnership is that between two persons only. Beaumont and Fletcher, in play-writing, gave to it a historic renown, a traditional dignity, and in our day it is not at all uncommon for two writers to unite their powers in working for the stage ; but, in addition to that, we have to credit narrative fiction with the successes of Erckmann - Châtrian, of Besant and Rice, and of the two Goncourts. There was a time when a large part of the American public used to await impatiently the latest joint novel of the sisters Susan and Anna Warner; and, much more recently, Mr. Charles D. Warner appeared as the associate of Mark Twain in The Gilded Age, which made some amends for a remarkable absence of literary quality by presenting the racy character of Colonel Sellers. Setting aside those regular partnerships which have been maintained for long terms, we shall have to own that conglomerate authorship does not turn out so well as we might imagine it would. Instead of giving an aggregate of all that is best in each participant, it is an addition of plus and minus quantities, and the totals disappoint us. One might suppose that, as “stars” are brought into favorable conjunction on the stage in one play, the light of divers literary talents might be blended with dazzling brightness in one book. A richer orchestration, we should say at first blush, ought to issue from a harmonious union of several good instruments. But, the art of the novelist not being interpretative, the parallel will not hold. All the same, the somewhat glittering array of distinguished names that can be mustered on the side of combination writing demands consideration. If so many men and women of excellent rank in the world of letters do not hesitate to club their abilities — perhaps I ought to say, cudgel their brains — in order to make a story together, one infers that such employment must have a strong attraction, whether it be a valid one or not.

The fancy that the sharp contact of two minds, in such a work, bears some analogy to the action of flint and steel is obviously alluring, and may have a share in bringing about these mutual efforts. Then, too, there is the spice of undertaking with a companion something which one would not have hazarded alone. Possibly the motive at the bottom of literary partnerships is akin to the instinctive desire for experiment, for adventure, asserting itself in the same mild way as with the floriculturist who hybridizes plants. We like to see what will be the outcome from a mingling of two individualities in an artistic creation, just as the florist is interested in botanical “ freaks.” If my guess be a true one, then we must regard the germinant principle of these enterprises as containing a bias towards the artificial ; and it is at least suggestive, in this connection, that generally writers who collaborate are also capable of independent work so good that there would seem to be no inherent need of their calling in the aid of an associate. Erckmann and Châtrian, I believe, are alone in having absolutely merged their identity so far as authorship is concerned. Beaumont, as well as Fletcher, wrote plays in which no one else had part or lot. Edmond and Jules de Goncourt issued book after book under their joint signature ; yet Jules died in 1870, and his brother continued for years to produce both novels and works of criticism, without any apparent diminution of force or pronounced alteration of tone. In much the same way it turned out, when James Rice came to his end, that Walter Besant could still bring forth fiction that bore the accustomed stamp and had the same characteristics which he and his friend had imparted to their popular and ingenious stories. Reversed illustrations of the same rule are afforded by the instance of Mr. Hale and his contributors, by the Englishwomen who planned The Miz-Maze, and by the French authors of Les Parisiennes and La Croix de Berny. Nearly every one of the participants had made for himself or herself, as the case may be, a distinctive position. What, then, was to be gained by a deliberate sacrifice of personal qualities, in the endeavor to achieve a result which, so far as might be, should hide the several sources of the composition ? It may be well to bear in mind that painters have more than once combined to make a picture, — one supplying the landscape, let us say, while the other was responsible for animals or human figures introduced into the scene ; and the masters, also, have had their pupils who not only laid in the foundation, but were even called upon to impress on the canvas by theirown touches subordinate parts that had a considerable importance. Nevertheless, there exist no precedents of distinguished pictorial partnership on a large scale. Neither can we well conceive of such a thing as Cervantes, Walter Scott, Fielding, Thackeray, George Eliot, or Hawthorne choosing to mate their imagination with that of another individual, for creative purposes. It is in reflections of this kind that we shall find, I suspect, a clue to the lurking prejudice with which readers are often, though it may be unconsciously, inclined to receive combination novels. At all events, one can understand a fear lest the sanctity, or at least the peculiar and essential value, of one of the included personalities shall suffer in the process of amalgamation.

To be sure, Johnson might supply a line which Goldsmith accepted for one of his poems, and even Wordsworth and Coleridge could plan a ballad which they meant to write together ; but here a law of inevitable fitness intervened, and The Ancient Mariner — except for a phrase or two like the

became radically and characteristically Coleridge’s composition. It is difficult to imagine a “ line frenzy ” inciting to or governing the execution of a novel by more than one author. I have heard the idea advanced that, in the composition of a four-handed novel, the experience of each author must resemble that of sitting at whist with two “ dummies.” Each, in playing his own cards, would encounter the same sort of difficulty as if his partner’s hand were lying exposed; a condition of things which necessarily diminishes the excitement of the game, curtails the exercise of skill, prevents, in fine, the development of many sudden inspirations and surprises that would otherwise come in naturally. Let a novelist think out the form and contents of his book as much as he pleases : Mr. William Black goes so far as to frame the chapters and model every separate sentence before putting anything on paper ; but with most men it will happen that, after the skeleton has been made and numerous details have been seen to, some of the best touches — nay, whole scenes — will be added to the work unexpectedly, at the moment of writing. Improvisation is assuredly one of the items in a novelist’s equipment which yields the most enjoyable results ; the writer should be left free to tell the story to himself as well as to the reader, for by so doing he may, in the act of composition, make highly interesting and piquant discoveries. Sudden turns of fancy ; flashes of insight which illuminate the whole scene and the characters to the eye of the creator himself; fortunate epithets or vivid phrases that mirror with instantaneous life and sparkle the spectacle of reality presenting itself to the imagination,— these are accessions to the preconceived scheme which, it seems to me, one would sometimes have to deny himself in working with another person’s consciousness always linked to his own. Erckmann and Châtrian are said to proceed by a method which, when the outline has been arranged, permits one collaborator to write at will all that he thinks or feels; but his companion afterwards strikes out and rewrites with absolute discretion, and although the first collaborator is then given an opportunity for further correction or change, a kind of surrejoinder (to adopt a legal term), it is evident that he is to some extent bound not to introduce again those things which have been rejected from the first draft. The two associates may arrive at an agreement quite satisfactory to themselves : but is there not some danger here to that spontaneity which is one of the highest charms of fiction ? In theory it would appear that such a peril does threaten ; and, without pretending to lay down a sweeping or infallible rule, we shall find traces, in fact, that the drift of combination writing is towards forms, aims, or modes of expression that partake of the conventional or mechanical.

The Goncourts, it may be said, do not show this especially in a book like Charles Demailly ; but in spite of the careful art of Erckmann-Châtrian, the existence of a fixed code of regulations and recipes constantly makes itself felt through their pages. Just how the perception of this becomes clear to a sensitive observer cannot perhaps be explained to any one who is not of the craft; but, by way of indication, it may he mentioned that Erckmann-Châtrian deal chiefly with generalized types. The actors in their stories do not come before us as strongly individual beings. The authors are content to describe a young girl briefly as having blue eyes, golden hair, and a fresh complexion; emotion of the widest variety is exemplified by saying that the person who experiences it turns pale. Then, too, they give a great deal of detail to illustrate particular characters, which frequently seems intruded and superfluous, interrupting the story or muddling the effect, when it ought to do just the contrary, and doubtless would do so if it had not been too deliberately and dryly planned. These clever and diligent Frenchmen introduce us to a sufficiently diverse assortment of people ; they give their creatures positive traits and ardent passions ; they even portray remarkable eccentricities ; but, for all that, we suspect the figures of over-careful manufacture, and feel about them a curious air of being subject to unlimited reproduction, as if they were lithographs,— very distinct, very neat, prettily colored, and dexterously grouped, but wanting at last the finest vitality of imagination. Above a certain level of story-telling, on which all good novelists may be regarded comparatively as equals, the test of difference, of less or greater artistic endowment, is to be sought in the richness of their imagination. Where that is best and most copious, it will inevitably precipitate itself in dramatic intensity, in power of pathos and humor, and in a multitude of delicate, indirect, unforeseeable strokes that make the characters real to us as persons whom we know and who cannot be duplicated. The requirements of this higher test are met only in a limited manner by Erckmann-Châtrian, who, however, are very well off for inventiveness, lucidity, and precision. Dramatic situation is also something which they know how to contrive and Carry out ; two of their stories, Les Rantzau and Le Juif Polonais (better known in English as The Bells), have been successfully transferred to the stage ; but they do not infuse into their situations the dramatic fire which Dickens, with a less polished technique than theirs, could command.

The deficiency may with some reasonableness be attributed to the necessity they are under of mapping out a theory of their art, so minutely defined as to leave small room for mystery. Formula clogs the flight of fancy ; and collaborators, one would think, must be tempted to adopt and refer to formulas more than the single-handed artist. Take up for a moment Messrs. Besant and Rice’s elaborate study of a miser, in ReadyMoney Mortiboy. The significant traits, actions, utterances, of the man have been accumulated with great care and are very well put together; but the character hardly exhibits, at least to my apprehension, the unfettered movement which it might have enjoyed if it had sprung from one brain. However this may be, something of the same quality observable in Erckmann-Châtrian marks the less succinct and more complicated writings of their English counterparts. Messrs. Besant and Rice have given to the world some entertaining novels ; and one who reads these with no little interest and pleasure may be acquitted of prejudice in saying that, after all, they are moulded upon a pattern and present humanity in conventional forms. Neither do the elements of which they are composed seem to be thoroughly fused: the fabric is a sort of rubblework ; incidents, bits of character, opinions, being held together by the general cohesive substance of the plot, rather than growing organically out of one idea. An excellent lecture which Mr. Besant has recently published, on The Art of Fiction, goes to fortify the view of collaborative fiction which I have been suggesting; for Mr. Besant maintains with much decision that the novelist’s art may be taught to students, and he sets forth a theory of the art, to which he endeavors to give a firm and conclusive outline. Mr. Henry James has taken issue with him, objecting to definite prescription on the ground that the novel “ in the broadest definition is a personal impression of life,” and should therefore be made so elastic as to escape, if the author choose, all obligation to impart adventures or to tell what is commonly called a story. For the most part, writers and readers still withhold assent to that disbelief in “ story,” which Mr. James implies and Mr. Howells distinctly announces. But, without subscribing in the least to the new doctrine,— which appears to be the error either of extremists or of imperfect statement, since its upholders permit themselves a certain amount of “excitement,” adventure, and story, — one may easily see that Mr. James is speaking for those resources of refined and complex expression which widen the range and increase the worth of any artistic work. That is, provided the work also fulfills the primary and essential function of its class: namely, to embody the truth of life in strong or beautiful forms, and to amuse or interest the reader. Mr. James may be too much emancipated from the artistic duty of story-telling, which the greatest masters have not scorned. But it is possible, on the other hand, that Mr. Besant has bound himself fast to an unalterable notion as to how that duty should be done: his theory may be too cut and dried. For our present purpose it is enough to take his indirectly confirmatory evidence that collaboration encourages formulas and theories.

The authors who have practiced it may not ratify such a conclusion. It would be instructive to have their opinions. But in fact we already have some of their testimony. Those who wrote Six of One took pains to give us, in one of their six prefaces, a glimpse of the process they went through. “All I know,” we are told, “ is that it grew, novel and plot, much as I remember to have seen Signor Blitz’s plates start from the table when he was spinning them.... If he saw one faint and weary he encouraged it by a touch of his finger at the point of revolution ; and when these three were happily gyrating, like so many interior planets, he let loose in succession numbers four, five, and six. I think the chief started the novel in much the same way.” The similitude is a very good one ; for, in a sense, all undertakings of the kind depend upon what may be termed literary legerdemain. It appears further that there was a “ chief ; ” and we shall not go far wrong if we say that of two collaborators one must generally represent the active element, the other the passive. They must be alternately creative and critical; one would be likely to put his strength into the plot, while the other gave form and color to the characters. In this case, four principals met, “ possessed themselves mutually of the best plot, the best moral, the locale, and the atmosphere of the story they also selected names for the personages ; and then they inducted the other two writers into the scheme. A skeleton of the plot was made by the chief, and remodeled in conference with his companions ; and in this skeleton, which is given, we discover at once that predominating force of the mechanical element already alluded to. The authors seized promptly upon a sharp, distinct, somewhat arbitrary plan, resting upon artful complexities. Attributes were assigned to the characters, in few words, and the evolution of the characters was conducted upon simple, elementary lines; so that, necessarily, the result gave little of the finer analysis and various reality of human nature which the best fiction conveys. Three young men were made to appear in love with each one of a trio of young women, successively: influenced first by local propinquity, then by accidents of new association, and at last, in the stress of a great emergency, seeking each his true mate. Such were the best plot and the best moral of Mr. Hale and his coadjutors ; and in the embodiment we see again the same generalized types, the same conventional tendency, the same bustling stage business of the story, which are presented in the novels of Erckmann-Châtrian and of Besant and Rice.

The nine authors of The Miz-Maze likewise act upon a theory ; but theirs relates to a special point of construction. Thinking that novels in the form of letters are generally unsatisfactory, they assume that it is because the correspondence is conducted by one writer under different masks ; and they accordingly try the experiment of giving a narrative in letters written by several hands. We need hardly remind ourselves that the theory is fallacious, for the reason that their objection applies to all forms of fiction in which one writer represents the various characters from his own point of view. If the English ladies were right, single novelists would have to retire altogether, and we should be driven to depend on collaboration solely. As it is, the nine authors have written letters for nineteen imaginary beings, and it is impossible to give them credit for having differentiated their fictitious correspondents, by markings of style or thought, with even as much success as single writers have attained. The MizMaze is a pleasant, sleepy little English story in one hundred and sixty-two chapters ; for each letter, it must be borne in mind, is virtually a chapter. The endless subdivision thus entailed is really a much more serious objection to the letter form than the one which our English friends have raised. Another is that epistolary style in real life, except under a master’s control, is as apt to drop into monotonous grooves as the voice is to fall into sing-song when a letter is read aloud; and monotony is therefore risked in a story told by correspondence. Besides, The Miz-Maze contains numerous repetitions. A piece of family lace is sold, an English youth is imprisoned in Italy ; and straightway each of these incidents is related over and over, in half a dozen letters, notes, or diaries. The problem has been handled with far more skill, indeed with much brilliancy, by Mr. Bunner and Mr. Brander Matthews in their short story, The Documents in the Case, — a performance which proves that collaboration may yield perfect work within the limited field of construction. But the authors of La Croix de Berny, besides completing a beautiful piece of construction, illuminated their pages with style of a delightful ease, full of wit, color, incident, and charm. They also chose the form of letters ; but there were just four personages in the piece, and each writer took one character. Gautier and Madame de Girardin conspicuously bore off the honors in this friendly competition ; but the other rôles were at least very well carried out, and the whole affair, while unfolding a situation of strong interest and passion, never loses the engaging element of personality. It is an exceptional achievement, which may well be commended to the study of the wanderers in The MizMaze.

Like most of the other productions at which we have been glancing, The King’s Men depends largely on plot, adventure, suspense, the unwinding of “ threads; ” but it makes an appeal on another side, by plunging into the future, and treating of events supposed to have happened (if we may say so) in the next century. Two of the authors have been known separately by work of a serious purport; a third has written burlesque, besides trying his hand at a novel which offers a more balanced estimate of life; and the remaining contributor has thus far limited himself to the comic phase. From a quartette so constituted one might expect a mixture such as they have compounded. Apparently, they looked upon their joint proceeding as a jest, a sportive exercise, which should allow them plenty of range for irresponsible inventions and humorous extravaganza ; but a strain of greater earnestness asserts itself here and there, and passages of some dramatic effectiveness or sensational interest are interspersed, such as the revolt of the Royalists, the death of Dacre, and an escape of prisoners from Dartmoor. The fantasy of a British republic, under the presidency of an Irishman and approaching anarchy, with a state of affairs in which the nobility and gentry are hired out as guests to an American millionaire who rents a great estate in England, is sufficiently amusing. Little attempt, however, is made to improve the opportunity which offers for invention in depicting a stage of history that still lies beyond us. Nor is the book open to discussion as a piece of literature. Considered seriously, it evaporates. It is simply a joke, offered to the public in a mood of light-hearted bravado. Our American ventures at coöperative writing, in fact, seem principally to issue in skylarking ; for Mr. Hale and Mrs. Stowe’s Six of One had nothing more than a transitory, playful value, and the novels of the Misses Warner were insufferably dull, as well as quite devoid of literary merit. The single success of Messrs. Bunner and Matthews should here be excepted, because it shows — like some of the tales which they have written independently, but have bound together under the heading In Partnership — a touch of brilliant lightness, an exacting artistic conscience, and minutely thorough handling.

It remains to ask whether labor bestowed upon these federations of talent is, on the whole, worth while. So far as the playwright is concerned, the question would seem to be answered by experience in the affirmative ; partly because theatrical composition rests upon a scheme of art so entirely separate from that of making books, and depends so much less on delicate shadings of literary technique, or upon the charm of a personal style. But in respect of the novel I should say that we must agree with Mr. James, that its highest claim upon us arises from its being “ a personal impression of life ; ” and it is manifestly not often that collaborators can with justice bring forward such a claim. The Goncourts were altogether apart; they constituted an unique entity, — a single soul, as Gautier has said, in two bodies. Notwithstanding that their dates of birth separated them by ten years, they were mentally twins. They lived, thought, worked, walked, studied, composed, together. Their very correspondence was signed in conjunction, until the day when the elder brother, Edmond, wrote above his solitary signature the heart-broken announcement of the death of Jules. Consequently, the works which they issued in company were indistinguishable from those which take their stamp from one will, one impulse, one creative instinct. They revealed the same unpremeditated movement and fire that capture us by assault in the attacks of a writer who obeys only his own orders. They took their readers by surprise. Erckmann - Châtrian, Besant and Rice, are admirable tacticians ; they move according to law, and it is impossible to condemn their evolutions without reserve; but if in the end we gracefully acknowledge ourselves prisoners to their skill, we have the right to keep our highest admiration for those who conquer us by forces equally well deployed, but more impetuously launched.

Taking simply the average outcome, as it is permissible to do, we may say that collaborators have it in their power to fashion adroitly adjusted machines that run very smoothly, or to piece together mosaics which might almost be mistaken for paintings ; but when we come to that, the veritable painting is the more satisfactory — the masterpiece in which every line, every sweep of color, is governed by one supreme creative consciousness. Coöperation will serve well so long as the aim is not too high, or the theme too abstruse. It may safely be counted upon where construction is a main factor, and where picturesqueness goes for more than depth and breadth of view, or vigorous, fresh truthfulness. But, in the end, the combination novel is made, not born. It is conservative rather than radical and progressive ; hence it must usually fall into the old forms, instead of expanding into newer, more flexible ones. The problem would no doubt be reduced to greater clearness if we could define and place beyond the reach of incertitude the difference between old forms and new. This can hardly be done. We might say that the old forms are the conventional ones. But “ the conventional ” changes with every generation ; frequently it changes from decade to decade. To us of the current time, how much more ancient the artificial devices of “ Monk ” Lewis and Anne Raddyffe appear than the historical romances of Scott, the interminable epistolary novels of Richardson, or the vital reproductions of Fielding! Yet these writers last named precede Scott, Lewis, and Mrs. Radclyffe, chronologically.

There exists, however, one geodetic point of observation, from which we may calculate measurably that distance and that curvature which make it so hard for the opposing parties to see and understand one another’s position. Writers who hold one view insist that novels should conform to a stated system of surprises, incidents, complications, which real life, as they maintain, continually discloses. Writers who hold another view say that real life does not thrust upon their notice any system of occurrences at all. Let us, for an instant, fall back upon our own private knowledge. We all find that, occasionally, the lives of human beings with whom we are acquainted abound in peculiar coincidences; people of the most diverse kinds are brought into intimate association, without will or warning; one event that seems to have no significance suddenly exercises control over some subsequent occurrence. In this way the idea of a series grows up: we cease to regard the phenomenon of the hour as an isolated thing, and learn that it connects itself with other phenomena. Here we find the natural origin of “a story.” It is as much an absolute necessity as the mathematician’s series of numbers, in calculating the law of chances. No scries, no calculation; no connection of events, no novel. But within a few years the doctrine has been advanced that one incident is as good as another ; that, in short, everything or anything is an incident — a look, a word, an intonation, the color of a flower, the relative position of three persons in a room. It is contended that if you have the skill to make such incidents interesting, one by one, nothing further should be demanded on the side of narrative. Connection, “ story,” in that case becomes wholly useless. This proposition, of course, if well founded, would make the novelist’s standard very simple. Children settle all their literary preferences by resolving that a book is “ interesting ’ or that it is not interesting; and if such verdicts obtained, a great many productions not now admitted to the catalogue would be registered as works of art. But it can hardly be denied that any plan of classification which should rely upon the opinion of any individual, or of an uninstructed body, as to what is interesting and what is not, would result in dire confusion. It would not give us a comprehensive or intelligent criticism. We are obliged, therefore, to conclude that the man or woman who wishes to reproduce in fiction a large and responsive likeness of lile must include, in the survey of mundane affairs, not simply a given number of separate occurrences, but likewise the series of precedence and consequence — in fine, the “ story,” towards which our most casual experiences shape themselves.

But there is something beyond both the photographic transcript of daily occurrences, and the plan which is discernible in the relation of one incident to another. There is a higher truth, including both of these. There are eternal laws of verity and falsehood, of justice and of what we name injustice ; and there is an abiding design full of strength and beauty, which it is the novelist’s mission to indicate, though he may not be able to define or explain it. No matter what the incongruities, the horror, the dissonance, or the long, weary ague of disappointments which may have to be set forth, the author should still retain strength and insight enough to throw around this whole picture of human vicissitude, demoralization, joy, or sorrow some grand, inclusive outline that shall suggest beauty and harmony. The cadaverous presence of death itself is softened, through the action of an unquenchable instinct, by heaps of flowers. In a portrayal of life, whatever its grimness may be, we ought at least to provide a palliation of loveliness, and of the aroma of hope, as pronounced as that which we accord to death. There need be no falsity in making a design of this sort : it simply adumbrates the finest good that incessantly, in a broken way, asserts itself amid the dust and haze of passing events.

Thus we apprehend that there exists a very substantial basis for the demand that there shall be an instructive story, or series of events, culminating in an intelligible “ ending.” That sundry writers have tried to satisfy such a desire by crude expedients, or by formal and clumsy attempts at “ winding up,” does not prove that the desire ought not to be considered and sincerely ministered to. Those who fancy that, by ignoring it, they are able to give a bolder and richer interpretation of life are often just as restricted as the writers who uphold the principle of striking, in their fiction, a full chord of incident and complex relations. It is quite possible for a novelist who excludes “ story,” as being obsolete or adventitious, to remain very contracted in his view, and to present a limited, artificial picture of existence.

It is difficult to understand why all known or imaginable resources should not be at the beck of the novelist who wishes to establish, between his writings and the life which displays itself around him, a complete correspondence. And not the least among such resources is the exhibition of a train of incidents which shall repeat, with the closest possible adherence to actuality, the succession of affairs in our daily experience. It is equally hard to see why the novelist who rejects that element of verisimilitude is not guilty of narrowness and of a sort of unfaithfulness. Caricature, for example, is sometimes objected to ; but why, pray, should we not employ caricature when it is fit ? A friend of mine, a painter, was once engaged in making a water-color sketch of Windsor Castle. He brought in, from his point of view, the Clock-Tower ; but some country urchins who were observing his work said to him, “ Why don’t you put in the clock-face ? ” The reason why he did not put in the clock-face was, that it remained quite invisible from the position he had taken. In a like manner, some critics think it very strange that the writer of fiction should not invariably tell them all about the Other side of a character which it is intended— by the plan of the composition, the special grouping of the scene — to present only from one particular point of view. Consequently, they find fault with a novelist for portraying some characters in full, and other characters only on one side. But do we not, in real life, behold people and things grouped together at all sorts of angles ; some in full face, others in quarterface ; still others in profile, or in some grotesque, haphazard obliquity of perspective ? It strikes me that caricature is nothing more than the translation, or symbol, of one set of perfectly normal perceptions. Hence I conclude that caricature, “ realism,” literalism, romanticism, satire, may all find a lawful place in the highest type of novel, provided that they are held in a judicious and proportioned control. It is likely enough that the collaborative novel will not utilize with supreme and sensitive mastery the various means just mentioned, for the reason that, as I have hinted, it will generally prefer to mould itself upon a fixed pattern. Still, it may at times recognize a loftier motive, a mission which it might fulfill. It is possible for it to emphasize the greatest use of fiction — that of showing the process of cause and effect, through all the incalculable diversities of individual experience. Those who fervidly declaim for the liberation of the novelist’s art from all constraints of tradition and the popular longing for “ endings” would perhaps carry us too far, if they had their way. A counterbalancing force, therefore, may be desirable. The fiction of collaborators, being thrown by its specific weight upon the conservative side, could be made to supply such a force. However, if it is to be effectual, the influence must be exerted not hastily nor in amateur wise, but with indefatigable toil towards the highest goals of art. Let us hope that it will lend its aid to the augmentation and refining of that art of Story-telling without which the complete novel would be an impossibility, that art which the world will surely require from the writers of the future, as it has from those of the past.

George Parsons Lathrop.