) The true art of
fiction, however, is not chiefly connected with grinning, or with weeping.
It consists, first and mainly, in a beautiful general composition. But in
Anglo-Saxon countries any writer who can induce both a grin and a tear on
the same page, no matter how insolent his contempt for composition, is
sure of that immortality which contemporaries can award.
* * * * *
Another novel that is not the novel of the season is Mr. John Ayscough's
"Marotz," about which much has been said. I do not wish to labour this
point. "Marotz" is not the novel of the season. I trust that I make myself
plain. I shall not pronounce upon Mr. Masefield's "Captain Margaret,"
because, though it has been splashed all over by trowelfuls of slabby and
mortarish praise, it has real merits. Indeed, it has a chance of being the
novel of the season. Mr. Masefield is not yet grown up. He is always
trying to write "literature," and that is a great mistake. He should study
the wisdom of Paul Verlaine:
_Prends l'eloquence et tords-lui son cou._
Take literature and wring its neck. I suppose that Mr. H. de Vere
Stacpoole's "The Blue Lagoon" is not likely to be selected as the novel of
the season. And yet, possibly, it will be the novel of the season after
all, though unchosen.
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