University of Virginia Library

I. HER TECHNIQUE

WHILE there is not the slightest doubt of Miss Glasgow's title to a place of honour in a series of papers on the leading story-tellers of America, it must at the same time be recognised that this particular aspect of her work, if too rigidly adhered to, is likely to do scant justice to her rather unusual powers. It is, of course, axiomatic that without some sort of a story we cannot make any sort of a novel; and we cannot make a strong, big novel without a rather big, strong story as a foundation. And yet the story alone cannot be used as a measure of bigness, because many other factors enter in to make up the sum total of any novel destined to live. Some novelists, however, choose deliberately to subordinate other interests to that of the narrative they have to tell. Their mastery of technique may be of the best; their philosophy of life sane and earnest and helpful—yet if they insist upon regarding themselves primarily as entertainers, and their books as little pocket theatres, then they remain of their own choice in the ranks of the story-tellers. Miss Glasgow is one of the small number of American novelists who have chosen to take a higher and finer attitude toward their work. And that is why it is impracticable, even in a series bearing the present title, to discuss her place in modern fiction simply from the stand-point of story-telling.

In glancing back over the twelve or fifteen years during which Miss Glasgow has been practising her careful, deliberate, finely conceived art, and patiently working, not without an occasional blunder, toward her present mastery of technique, one feels that on the whole she has not yet had in full the generous, wide-spread and serious recognition to which she is entitled. Some of her volumes, to be sure, have enjoyed a wide circulation; and in many quarters she has had cordial critical appreciation. And yet, at best, it seems distinctly disproportioned to a talent which, in the opinion of the present writer, stands in the forefront of American women novelists, outranking on the one side Mrs. Atherton, as far as it outranks Mrs. Wharton on the other.

And, in the first place, in order to understand the sound critical grounds for assigning so high a place to the author of The Deliverance, it seems not merely worth while but even obligatory to ex-

amine briefly her understanding and use of technique. Her creed in fiction is obviously that of the realists—although her adherence to it is not so rigid as to preclude her from an occasional excursion into romanticism. And her novels are not only realistic, but they are in the best sense of the term Zolaesque—that is to say, they have an epic sweep and comprehension, an epic sense of the surge of life and the clash of multitudinous interests. This particular type of novel is so seldom successfully achieved in English that it seems well to call to mind just what are its characteristic features. The epic novel, like the epic poem, must have a twofold theme, a specific human story and a big general problem—the wrath of Achilles and the Trojan War; the expulsion from Eden and the Fall of Man; the fate of Uncle Tom, and the whole problem of slavery. And the very essence of this epic quality lies in the ability to tell the specific, central human story, and hold and stir you with the pathos and the tragedy of it, and yet all the while keep before you the realisation that this specific story is only an isolated case of a general and widespread condition; that Achilles brooding in his tent is only a symbol of the pervading wrath and sorrow and desolation begotten by war; that the empty cabin of Uncle Tom is only a symbol of the cruelty, the broken ties, the inhumanity attendant upon slavery. It is a curious fact that Mrs. Stowe, probably without any conscious understanding of technique, produced an almost perfect epic novel according to principles that were destined to be formulated fully half a century later. And it is equally curious that the first American woman since Mrs. Stowe to succeed in writing a genuine epic novel should also have chosen a similar setting and a similar theme.

To state the case more correctly, it is curious that the first woman among our modern writers to achieve this type of novel should have happened to be a Southern woman. Because, since Miss Glasgow happens by birth and education to have a knowledge of Virginian scenes and people beyond that of other parts of the world, she has simply been obeying the most elementary principle of good technique when she chooses for her setting the region that she knows best; while such a volume as The Wheel of Life, in which the scene is laid in New York, is to be classed, in spite of much that is good, among the number of the author's blunders. One feels in this New York story as though Miss Glasgow were slightly out of her element, as though she lacked sympathy even for the best of the characters in it, and frankly disapproved of the others. It is even more difficult for a woman than for a man to attain the attitude of strict impersonality which is demanded by the highest rules of modern construction—and herein, one feels, lies one of Miss Glasgow's failings. She could not, if she would, help showing us how her heart goes out to certain favourite characters, young and old, white and black alike—nor would we have it otherwise, because in her affection for these people, whom she understands so profoundly, lies the secret of the abiding charm which they in turn possess for us.

Human stories, strong, tender, high-minded, her volumes undeniably are. But what one remembers about them, even after the specific story has faded from the mind, is their atmosphere of old-fashioned Southern courtesy and hospitality, of gentle breeding and steadfast adherence to traditional standards of honour. She has dealt with special skill with the anomalous and transitory conditions of society that followed the close of the war—the breaking down of old barriers; the fruitless resistance of conservatism to the new tendencies of social equality; the frequent pathetic struggles to keep up a brave show in spite of broken fortunes; the proud dignity that accepts poverty and hardship and manual labour with unbroken spirit. Such books as The Battle-Ground, The Deliverance, The Voice of the People, are in the best sense of the term novels of manners, which will be read by later generations with a curious interest because they will preserve a record of social conditions that are changing and passing away, more slowly yet quite as relentlessly as the dissolving vapours of a summer sunset.