University of Virginia Library

About Mrs. Wharton.

According to certain chroniclers in the daily press, Mrs. Wharton is going to write no more long novels, but will devote herself to serious historical composition. We are glad that she has abjured long novels, but deplore her intention of becoming an historian. There are scores of historians busily at work, many of them very good ones, but where shall we find another writer who could give us such remarkable work as that contained in The Greater Inclination? It is pure perversity to give up doing the thing that one can do best in order to waste time over that which many others can do better. We have a certain right to speak out frankly on this subject, because we were among the very first to greet Mrs. Wharton as a writer of very rare gifts and of unusual distinction.

Her Valley of Decision was only a succes d'estime, written beautifully in parts and with some brilliant episodes, yet not a book that compelled one to read it to the end. The conception of it was large and spacious—in fact, too much so for any woman to carry out successfully. Only a man, and very much of a man, ever has grip enough and mental muscularity enough for such a thing as that.

What has most interested us in The Valley of Decision is the illustration which it affords of a fact upon which we are given to harping—the fact that a writer's best work finds most critics and book reviewers afraid to praise it, because they have no real minds of their own. Later, when the work in question has made its way into favour, they all get out their vocabulary of praise and dump it upon the writer's next production—which may not be more than fair to middling. Witness the case of Mrs. Wharton. Her Greater Inclination, which was most remarkable, obtained only meagre and neutral notice from the chuckle-heads of criticism. Then their mistake gradually became obvious even to themselves, and so they thought to make up for it by going into spasms of admiration over The Valley of Decision, which is by no means remarkable at all. The belated and sapient dicta about Mrs. Wharton's "well-known charm of style," her "distinguished touch" and all that sort of thing were, under the circumstances, both amusing and exasperating.

Some time ago a correspondent wrote to ask us why Mrs. Wharton called her first book of stories The Greater Inclination. We didn't answer that letter at the time, because we were too busy to deal with it satisfactorily; but now we are going to dispose of it once for all. Our correspondent (a lady) says that she has long wanted to know this thing, but has never yet felt like asking any one, because she has heard so many persons speak scornfully of those who are unable to understand the pertinence of the title. This makes us smile sardonically. The truth is that no one really knows what Mrs. Wharton meant by it, but every one is afraid to say so. Hence, whenever a literary conversation is started up and this particular topic seems likely to arise, some one present always comments with a superior smile on the fact that there actually exist persons who don't see the point of Mrs. Wharton's title. Then all the company laugh a forced and guilty laugh, as if to say: "Really? Is any one so stupid as not to see that?" If somebody would only get up and say: "Well! what >is the point?" it would be the biggest sort of a bombshell. Hundreds, nay, thousands, of literary clubs would be dissipated for all eternity if only one member in each had the courage to ask that question. But nobody, so far, has ever had the courage, and the game of bluff has continued successfully, lo, these several years.

Probably Mrs. Wharton, when she called her book of stories collectively The Greater Inclination had vaguely in mind the notion that the greater inclination—that which is really greater— always in

the end prevails. You may not yourself be always conscious of what it is that you most want—you mistrust your own motives and desires—yet your final, decisive action is determined by the secret, subliminal, subtle preference which tips the scale in its own favour every time. This rather indefinite title fitted most of the stories in Mrs. Wharton's book. It would also fit the great majority of all the stories ever written—for it is difficult to write any story which does not in some way bring in the play of motive and the conflict of desire. Crucial Instances also applies to most narratives of human life. The Touchstone would have been a good title for the novel which Mrs. Wharton actually called The Valley of Decision; and The Valley of Decision would have fitted the story of The Touchstone perfectly. Hence, all of Mrs. Wharton's titles might have been shuffled and dealt over in a new order to her different books; for each one fits every other book just as well as it does the book to which she gave it. So let our correspondent cheer up and not be intimidated by supercilious bluffers any more.