A
trifle, you say! Not at all! Every time "The Backwash" is mentioned, the
reader thinks: "No paper called 'The Backwash' ever existed." And a fresh
break is made in Mr. Masefield's convincingness. A modern novelist may not
permit himself these freakish negligences. Another instance of the same
fault is the Christian name of Mrs. Bailey in "The New Machiavelli." It
was immensely clever of Mr. Wells to christen her "Altiora." But in so
doing he marred the extraordinary brilliance of his picture of her. If you
insist that I am talking about trifles, I can only insist that a work of
art is a series of trifles.
* * * * *
Mr. Masefield's style suffers in a singular manner. It is elaborate in
workmanship--perhaps to the point of an excessive self-consciousness. But
its virtue is constantly being undermined by inexactitudes which irritate
and produce doubt. For example:
"They entered the tube station. In the train they could not talk much.
Lionel kept his brain alert with surmise as to the character of the
passengers. Like Blake, a century before, he found 'marks of weakness,
marks of woe,' on each face there." Blake in the tube! Mr. Masefield will
produce a much better novel than "The Street of To-day.
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