People (continued)

WE now turn from transplantation to acclimatization. We have discussed whether people could be taken out of life and put into a book, and conversely whether they could come out of books and sit down in this room. The answer suggested was in the negative and led to a more vital question: can we, in daily life, understand each other? Today our problems are more academic. We are concerned with the characters in their relation to other aspects of the novel; to a plot, a moral, their fellow characters, atmosphere, etc. They will have to adapt themselves to other requirements of their creator.

We now turn from moving people between life and books to how they adapt to their new surroundings. We have discussed whether people could be taken out of life and put into a book. We also asked whether, in reverse, people could come out of books and sit down in this room. The suggested answer was no, and it led to a more important question: can we understand each other in daily life? Today our questions are more academic. We are concerned with how characters relate to other aspects of the novel. These include the plot, a moral, other characters, atmosphere, and so on. The characters will have to adapt to their creator’s other requirements.

It follows that we shall no longer expect them to coincide as a whole with daily life, only to parallel it. When we say that a character in Jane Austen, Miss Bates for instance, is "so like life" we mean that each bit of her coincides with a bit of life, but that she as a whole only parallels the chatty spinster we met at tea. Miss Bates is bound by a hundred threads to Highbury. We cannot tear her away without bringing her mother too, and Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, and the whole of Box Hill; whereas we could tear Moll Flanders away, at least for the purposes of experiment. A Jane Austen novel is more complicated than a Defoe, because the characters are inter-dependent, and there is the additional complication of a plot. The plot in Emma is not prominent and Miss Bates contributes little. Still it is there, she is connected with the principals, and the result is a closely woven fabric from which nothing can be removed. Miss Bates and Emma herself are like bushes in a shrubbery—not isolated trees like Moll—and any one who has tried to thin out a shrubbery knows how wretched the bushes look if they are transplanted elsewhere, and how wretched is the look of the bushes that remain. In most books the characters cannot spread themselves. They must exercise a mutual restraint.

It follows that we should no longer expect these characters, taken as a whole, to match everyday life exactly. We should only expect them to parallel it. When we call a Jane Austen character, Miss Bates for instance, "so like life", we mean something more specific. Each part of her matches a part of life. But as a whole, she only parallels the chatty unmarried woman we met at tea. Miss Bates is tied to Highbury by a hundred threads. We cannot pull her away without bringing her mother, Jane Fairfax, Frank Churchill, and the whole of Box Hill too. By contrast, we could pull Moll Flanders away, at least as an experiment. A Jane Austen novel is more complicated than a Defoe novel because its characters depend on one another. A plot adds another complication. The plot in Emma is not prominent, and Miss Bates contributes little to it. Still, the plot exists, and she is connected to the main characters. The result is a tightly woven fabric from which nothing can be removed. Miss Bates and Emma herself are like bushes in a shrubbery, not isolated trees like Moll. Anyone who has tried to thin out a shrubbery knows how miserable the bushes look when transplanted elsewhere. They also know how miserable the remaining bushes look. In most books, the characters cannot spread out freely. They must hold one another in check.

The novelist, we are beginning to see, has a very mixed lot of ingredients to handle. There is the story, with its time-sequence of "and then ... and then ..."; there are ninepins about whom he might tell the story, and tell a rattling good one, but no, he prefers to tell his story about human beings; he takes over the life by values as well as the life in time. The characters arrive when evoked, but full of the spirit of mutiny. For they have these numerous parallels with people like ourselves, they try to live their own lives and are consequently often engaged in treason against the main scheme of the book. They "run away," they "get out of hand": they are creations inside a creation, and often inharmonious towards it; if they are given complete freedom they kick the book to pieces, and if they are kept too sternly in check, they revenge themselves by dying, and destroy it by intestinal decay.

We are beginning to see that the novelist has a very mixed set of ingredients to work with. There is the story, with its sequence of "and then ... and then ..." through time. He could tell a story about bowling pins, and a very lively story too. But no, he prefers to tell his story about human beings. He takes on life measured by values as well as life measured by time. The characters arrive when called, but full of rebellion. Because they have so much in common with people like ourselves, they try to live their own lives. As a result, they often betray the book’s overall plan. They "run away," they "get out of hand": they are creations within a creation, and often clash with that larger creation. If given complete freedom, the characters kick the book to pieces. But if kept under too strict a control, they take revenge by dying, destroying the book through decay from within.

These trials beset the dramatist also, and he has yet another set of ingredients to cope with—the actors and actresses—and they appear to side sometimes with the characters they represent, sometimes with the play as a whole, and more often to be the mortal enemies of both. The weight they throw is incalculable, and how any work of art survives their arrival I do not understand. Concerned with a lower form of art, we need not worry—but, in passing, is it not extraordinary that plays on the stage are often better than they are in the study, and that the introduction of a bunch of rather ambitious and nervous men and women should add anything to our understanding of Shakespeare and Tchekov?

Playwrights face these difficulties too, and they have another set of ingredients to deal with: the actors and actresses. Sometimes the performers seem to side with the characters they play, sometimes with the play as a whole. More often, they seem to be the mortal enemies of both. Their influence is impossible to measure, and I do not understand how any work of art survives their arrival. Since we are concerned with a lower form of art, we need not worry. But isn't it extraordinary that plays are often better on stage than on the page? And that bringing in a bunch of rather ambitious and nervous men and women should add anything to our understanding of Shakespeare and Tchekov?

No, the novelist has difficulties enough, and today we shall examine two of his devices for solving them—instinctive devices, for his methods when working are seldom the same as the methods we use when examining his work. The first device is the use of different kinds of characters. The second is connected with the point of view.

No, the novelist has enough difficulties already. Today we will look at two techniques he uses to solve them. These techniques are instinctive, because his methods while writing are rarely the same as ours when examining his work. The first technique is using different kinds of characters. The second has to do with point of view.

i. We may divide characters into flat and round.

i. We may divide characters into two types: flat and round.

Flat characters were called "humours" in the seventeenth century, and are sometimes called types, and sometimes caricatures. In their purest form, they are constructed round a single idea or quality: when there is more than one factor in them, we get the beginning of the curve towards the round. The really flat character can be expressed in one sentence such as "I never will desert Mr. Micawber." There is Mrs. Micawber—she says she won't desert Mr. Micawber, she doesn't, and there she is. Or: "I must conceal, even by subterfuges, the poverty of my master's house." There is Caleb Balderstone in The Bride of Lammermoor. He does not use the actual phrase, but it completely describes him; he has no existence outside it, no pleasures, none of the private lusts and aches that must complicate the most consistent of servitors. Whatever he does, wherever he goes, whatever lies he tells or plates he breaks, it is to conceal the poverty of his master's house. It is not his idée fixe, because there is nothing in him into which the idea can be fixed. He is the idea, and such life as he possesses radiates from its edges and from the scintillations it strikes when other elements in the novel impinge. Or take Proust. There are numerous flat characters in Proust, such as the Princess of Parma, or Legrandin. Each can be expressed in a single sentence, the Princess's sentence being, "I must be particularly careful to be kind." She does nothing except to be particularly careful, and those of the other characters who are more complex than herself easily see through the kindness, since it is only a by-product of the carefulness.

Flat characters were called "humours" in the seventeenth century. They are sometimes called types, and sometimes caricatures. In their purest form, flat characters are built around a single idea or quality. When they contain more than one element, they begin to curve towards being round. A truly flat character can be summed up in one sentence, such as "I never will desert Mr. Micawber." There is Mrs. Micawber. She says she won't desert Mr. Micawber, she doesn't, and there she is. Or: "I must conceal, even by subterfuges, the poverty of my master's house." There is Caleb Balderstone in The Bride of Lammermoor. He never says those exact words, but they describe him completely. He has no existence beyond them, no pleasures, none of the private desires and pains that complicate even the most steadfast servant. Whatever he does, wherever he goes, whatever lies he tells or plates he breaks, he aims to hide his master's poverty. Hiding that poverty is not his idée fixe, his obsession, because there is nothing in him for the idea to grip. He is the idea. Whatever life he has radiates from the idea's edges. Life also comes from the sparks the idea gives off when other elements in the novel strike against it. Or take Proust. Proust has many flat characters, such as the Princess of Parma or Legrandin. Each can be summed up in a single sentence. The Princess's sentence is, "I must be particularly careful to be kind." She does nothing except take particular care. The other characters who are more complex than she is easily see through her kindness. That is because her kindness is only a by-product of her carefulness.

One great advantage of flat characters is that they are easily recognized whenever they come in—recognized by the reader's emotional eye, not by the visual eye, which merely notes the recurrence of a proper name. In Russian novels, where they so seldom occur, they would be a decided help. It is a convenience for an author when he can strike with his full force at once, and flat characters are very useful to him, since they never need reintroducing, never run away, have not to be watched for development, and provide their own atmosphere—little luminous disks of a pre-arranged size, pushed hither and thither like counters across the void or between the stars; most satisfactory.

One great advantage of flat characters is that readers easily recognize them whenever they appear. Readers recognize them with the emotional eye, not the physical eye, which merely notices a familiar name. Flat characters would be a definite help in Russian novels, where they appear so rarely. An author benefits from being able to make a full impact at once. Flat characters are very useful for this purpose. They never need to be reintroduced, never get out of hand, and need no watching for signs of development. They also bring their own atmosphere. They are little glowing disks of a preset size, moved here and there like counters across emptiness or between stars. Most satisfactory.

A second advantage is that they are easily remembered by the reader afterwards. They remain in his mind as unalterable for the reason that they were not changed by circumstances; they moved through circumstances, which gives them in retrospect a comforting quality, and preserves them when the book that produced them may decay. The Countess in Evan Harrington furnishes a good little example here. Let us compare our memories of her with our memories of Becky Sharp. We do not remember what the Countess did or what she passed through. What is clear is her figure and the formula that surrounds it, namely, "Proud as we are of dear papa, we must conceal his memory." All her rich humour proceeds from this. She is a flat character. Becky is round. She, too, is on the make, but she cannot be summed up in a single phrase, and we remember her in connection with the great scenes through which she passed and as modified by those scenes—that is to say, we do not remember her so easily because she waxes and wanes and has facets like a human being. All of us, even the sophisticated, yearn for permanence, and to the unsophisticated permanence is the chief excuse for a work of art. We all want books to endure, to be refuges, and their inhabitants to be always the same, and flat characters tend to justify themselves on this account.

A second advantage is that readers easily remember them afterwards. They remain fixed in readers’ minds because circumstances did not change them. They moved through circumstances unchanged, so looking back on them feels comforting. This also keeps them alive when the book that produced them may fade away. The Countess in Evan Harrington offers a good little example. Let us compare our memories of her with our memories of Becky Sharp. We do not remember what the Countess did or what she went through. What stays clear is her figure and the formula that defines her: "Proud as we are of dear papa, we must conceal his memory." All her rich humour comes from this formula. She is a flat character. Becky is round. She, too, is out to get ahead, but she cannot be summed up in a single phrase. We remember her through the great scenes she appeared in and through the ways those scenes changed her. In other words, we do not remember her so easily because she changes and has many sides, like a human being. All of us, even sophisticated readers, long for permanence. For less sophisticated readers, permanence is the main justification for a work of art. We all want books to last and to offer refuge, and we want their inhabitants to stay the same. Flat characters tend to justify themselves for this reason.

All the same, critics who have their eyes fixed severely upon daily life—as were our eyes last week—have very little patience with such renderings of human nature. Queen Victoria, they argue, cannot be summed up in a single sentence, so what excuse remains for Mrs. Micawber? One of our foremost writers, Mr. Norman Douglas, is a critic of this type, and the passage from him which I will quote puts the case against flat characters in a forcible fashion. The passage occurs in an open letter to D. H. Lawrence, with whom he is quarrelling: a doughty pair of combatants, the hardness of whose hitting makes the rest of us feel like a lot of ladies up in a pavilion. He complains that Lawrence, in a biography, has falsified the picture by employing "the novelist's touch," and he goes on to define what this is:

Even so, critics who focus strictly on everyday life have little patience with such portrayals of human nature. Our own focus last week was just as strict. Queen Victoria, these critics argue, cannot be summed up in a single sentence. So what excuse is there for Mrs. Micawber? One of our leading writers, Mr. Norman Douglas, is this kind of critic. The passage I will quote from him makes a forceful case against flat characters. The passage comes from an open letter to D. H. Lawrence, with whom Douglas is quarrelling. They are a formidable pair of fighters. They hit so hard that the rest of us feel like a group of ladies watching from a pavilion. Douglas complains that Lawrence has distorted his subject in a biography by using "the novelist's touch." Douglas then explains what he means by that phrase:

Well, the novelist's touch as thus defined is, of course, bad in biography, for no human being is simple. But in a novel it has its place: a novel that is at all complex often requires flat people as well as round, and the outcome of their collisions parallels life more accurately than Mr. Douglas implies. The case of Dickens is significant. Dickens' people are nearly all flat (Pip and David Copperfield attempt roundness, but so diffidently that they seem more like bubbles than solids). Nearly every one can be summed up in a sentence, and yet there is this wonderful feeling of human depth. Probably the immense vitality of Dickens causes his characters to vibrate a little, so that they borrow his life and appear to lead one of their own. It is a conjuring trick; at any moment we may look at Mr. Pickwick edgeways and find him no thicker than a gramophone record. But we never get the sideway view. Mr. Pickwick is far too adroit and well trained. He always has the air of weighing something, and when he is put into the cupboard of the young ladies' school he seems as heavy as Falstaff in the buck-basket at Windsor. Part of the genius of Dickens is that he does use types and caricatures, people whom we recognize the instant they re-enter, and yet achieves effects that are not mechanical and a vision of humanity that is not shallow. Those who dislike Dickens have an excellent case. He ought to be bad. He is actually one of our big writers, and his immense success with types suggests that there may be more in flatness than the severer critics admit.

Well, the novelist’s touch, as defined here, is of course wrong for biography, because no human being is simple. But in a novel, that touch has its place. Any fairly complex novel often needs flat characters as well as round ones. And the results of their clashes reflect life more accurately than Mr. Douglas suggests. The case of Dickens is revealing. Dickens’ characters are nearly all flat. (Pip and David Copperfield attempt roundness, but so timidly that they seem more like bubbles than solid objects.) Nearly every character can be summed up in a sentence, and yet we get a wonderful sense of human depth. Probably Dickens’ immense vitality makes his characters vibrate a little. So they borrow his life and seem to lead lives of their own. This is a magic trick. At any moment, we may look at Mr. Pickwick from the side and find him no thicker than a gramophone record. But we never get that side view. Mr. Pickwick is far too skillful and well trained. He always seems to have some weight. And when he is put into the cupboard at the young ladies’ school, he seems as heavy as Falstaff in the laundry basket at Windsor. Part of Dickens’ genius is that he does use types and caricatures, people we recognize the instant they reappear. Yet he creates effects that are not mechanical and a vision of humanity that is not shallow. Those who dislike Dickens have an excellent case. He ought to be bad. In fact, he is one of our great writers. And his immense success with types suggests that flatness may offer more than the stricter critics admit.

Or take H. G. Wells. With the possible exceptions of Kipps and the aunt in Tono Bungay, all Wells' characters are as flat as a photograph. But the photographs are agitated with such vigour that we forget their complexities lie on the surface and would disappear if it was scratched or curled up. A Wells character cannot indeed be summed up in a single phrase; he is tethered much more to observation, he does not create types. Nevertheless his people seldom pulsate by their own strength. It is the deft and powerful hands of their maker that shake them and trick the reader into a sense of depth. Good but imperfect novelists, like Wells and Dickens, are very clever at transmitting force. The part of their novel that is alive galvanizes the part that is not, and causes the characters to jump about and speak in a convincing way. They are quite different from the perfect novelist who touches all his material directly, who seems to pass the creative finger down every sentence and into every word. Richardson, Defoe, Jane Austen, are perfect in this particular way; their work may not be great but their hands are always upon it; there is not the tiny interval between the touching of the button and the sound of the bell which occurs in novels where the characters are not under direct control.

Or take H. G. Wells. With the possible exceptions of Kipps and the aunt in Tono Bungay, all Wells’ characters are as flat as photographs. But these photographs are shaken so vigorously that we forget their complexity lies only on the surface. That complexity would disappear if the surface were scratched or curled up. A Wells character cannot, in fact, be summed up in a single phrase. His characters are much more closely tied to observation, and he does not create types. Nevertheless, his people seldom come alive through their own strength. Their creator’s skillful, powerful hands shake them and trick the reader into sensing depth. Good but imperfect novelists, like Wells and Dickens, are very clever at transferring energy. The living part of their novels energizes the lifeless part, making the characters move and speak convincingly. These writers are quite different from the perfect novelist, who works directly on every part of the material. Such a novelist seems to run a creative finger along every sentence and into every word. Richardson, Defoe, Jane Austen are perfect in this particular way. Their work may not be great, but their hands are always on it. There is no tiny delay between pressing the button and hearing the bell. That delay occurs in novels whose characters are not under their creator’s direct control.

For we must admit that flat people are not in themselves as big achievements as round ones, and also that they are best when they are comic. A serious or tragic flat character is apt to be a bore. Each time he enters crying "Revenge!" or "My heart bleeds for humanity!" or whatever his formula is, our hearts sink. One of the romances of a popular contemporary writer is constructed round a Sussex farmer who says, "I'll plough up that bit of gorse." There is the farmer, there is the gorse; he says he'll plough it up, he does plough it up, but it is not like saying "I'll never desert Mr. Micawber," because we are so bored by his consistency that we do not care whether he succeeds with the gorse or fails. If his formula was analysed and connected up with the rest of the human outfit, we should not be bored any longer, the formula would cease to be the man and become an obsession in the man; that is to say he would have turned from a flat farmer into a round one. It is only round people who are fit to perform tragically for any length of time and can move us to any feelings except humour and appropriateness.

For we must admit that flat characters are not, in themselves, as great an achievement as round ones. They are also at their best in comedy. A serious or tragic flat character is likely to be a bore. Every time he appears crying "Revenge!" or "My heart bleeds for humanity!" or whatever his formula is, our hearts sink. One romantic tale by a popular writer of our time centres on a Sussex farmer who says, "I'll plough up that bit of gorse." There is the farmer, and there is the gorse. He says he'll plough it up, and he does. But this is not like saying "I'll never desert Mr. Micawber," because the farmer's consistency bores us so much. We do not care whether he succeeds with the gorse or fails. If his formula were examined and connected to the rest of his human nature, we would no longer be bored. The formula would no longer define the whole man but would become an obsession within him. In other words, he would have changed from a flat farmer into a round one. Only round characters can sustain a tragic role for any length of time. Only they can stir feelings in us beyond amusement and a sense that their behaviour fits their character.

So now let us desert these two-dimensional people, and by way of transition to the round, let us go to Mansfield Park, and look at Lady Bertram, sitting on her sofa with pug. Pug is flat, like most animals in fiction. He is once represented as straying into a rose-bed in a cardboard kind of way, but that is all, and during most of the book his mistress seems to be cut out of the same simple material as her dog. Lady Bertram's formula is, "I am kindly, but must not be fatigued," and she functions out of it. But at the end there is a catastrophe. Her two daughters come to grief—to the worst grief known to Miss Austen's universe, far worse than the Napoleonic wars. Julia elopes; Maria, who is unhappily married, runs off with a lover. What is Lady Bertram's reaction? The sentence describing it is significant: "Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points, and she saw therefore in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and infamy." These are strong words, and they used to worry me because I thought Jane Austen's moral sense was getting out of hand. She may, and of course does, deprecate guilt and infamy herself, and she duly causes all possible distress in the minds of Edmund and Fanny, but has she any right to agitate calm, consistent Lady Bertram? Is not it like giving pug three faces and setting him to guard the gates of Hell? Ought not her ladyship to remain on the sofa saying, "This is a dreadful and sadly exhausting business about Julia and Maria, but where is Fanny gone? I have dropped another stitch"?

Now let us leave these two-dimensional people behind. To make the transition to round characters, let us turn to Mansfield Park. There we find Lady Bertram sitting on her sofa with pug. Pug is flat, like most animals in fiction. Once he is shown wandering into a rose bed in a cardboard sort of way, but that is all. For most of the book, his mistress seems cut from the same simple material as her dog. Lady Bertram's formula is, "I am kind, but must not tire myself," and she acts accordingly. But at the end, disaster strikes. Her two daughters come to grief. Theirs is the worst grief known in Miss Austen's universe, far worse than the Napoleonic wars. Julia elopes. Maria, unhappily married, runs off with a lover. How does Lady Bertram react? The sentence describing her reaction is revealing: "Lady Bertram did not think deeply. But with Sir Thomas's guidance, she thought soundly on all important matters. So she fully understood how terrible the events were. She neither tried to downplay the guilt and disgrace herself nor asked Fanny to advise her how to do so." These are strong words. They used to trouble me because I thought Jane Austen's moral sense was getting out of hand. Austen may condemn guilt and disgrace herself, and of course she does. She duly causes Edmund and Fanny all possible distress. But has she any right to stir up the calm, consistent Lady Bertram? Isn't that like giving pug three faces and making him guard the gates of Hell? Shouldn't her ladyship stay on the sofa saying, "This business about Julia and Maria is dreadful and sadly exhausting. But where has Fanny gone? I have dropped another stitch"?

I used to think this, through misunderstanding Jane Austen's method—exactly as Scott misunderstood it when he congratulated her for painting on a square of ivory. She is a miniaturist, but never two-dimensional. All her characters are round, or capable of rotundity. Even Miss Bates has a mind, even Elizabeth Eliot a heart, and Lady Bertram's moral fervour ceases to vex us when we realize this: the disk has suddenly extended and become a little globe. When the novel is closed, Lady Bertram goes back to the flat, it is true; the dominant impression she leaves can be summed up in a formula. But that is not how Jane Austen conceived her, and the freshness of her reappearances are due to this. Why do the characters in Jane Austen give us a slightly new pleasure each time they come in, as opposed to the merely repetitive pleasure that is caused by a character in Dickens? Why do they combine so well in a conversation, and draw one another out without seeming to do so, and never perform? The answer to this question can be put in several ways: that, unlike Dickens, she was a real artist, that she never stooped to caricature, etc. But the best reply is that her characters though smaller than his are more highly organized. They function all round, and even if her plot made greater demands on them than it does, they would still be adequate. Suppose that Louisa Musgrove had broken her neck on the Cobb. The description of her death would have been feeble and ladylike—physical violence is quite beyond Miss Austen's powers—but the survivors would have reacted properly as soon as the corpse was carried away, they would have brought into view new sides of their character, and though Persuasion would have been spoiled as a book, we should know more than we do about Captain Wentworth and Anne. All the Jane Austen characters are ready for an extended life, for a life which the scheme of her books seldom requires them to lead, and that is why they lead their actual lives so satisfactorily. Let us return to Lady Bertram and the crucial sentence. See how subtly it modulates from her formula into an area where the formula does not work. "Lady Bertram did not think deeply." Exactly: as per formula. "But guided by Sir Thomas she thought justly on all important points." Sir Thomas' guidance, which is part of the formula, remains, but it pushes her ladyship towards an independent and undesired morality. "She saw therefore in all its enormity what had happened." This is the moral fortissimo—very strong but carefully introduced. And then follows a most artful decrescendo, by means of negatives. "She neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt or infamy." The formula is reappearing, because as a rule she does try to minimize trouble, and does require Fanny to advise her how to do this; indeed Fanny has done nothing else for the last ten years. The words, though they are negatived, remind us of this, her normal state is again in view, and she has in a single sentence been inflated into a round character and collapsed back into a flat one. How Jane Austen can write! In a few words she has extended Lady Bertram, and by so doing she has increased the probability of the elopements of Maria and Julia. I say probability because the elopements belong to the domain of violent physical action, and here, as already indicated, Jane Austen is feeble and ladylike. Except in her school-girl novels, she cannot stage a crash. Everything violent has to take place "off"—Louisa's accident and Marianne Dashwood's putrid throat are the nearest exceptions—and consequently all the comments on the elopement must be sincere and convincing, otherwise we should doubt whether it occurred. Lady Bertram helps us to believe that her daughters have run away, and they have to run away, or there would be no apotheosis for Fanny. It is a little point, and a little sentence, yet it shows us how delicately a great novelist can modulate into the round.

I used to think this because I misunderstood Jane Austen's method. Scott misunderstood her method in exactly the same way when he praised her for painting on a square of ivory. She works in miniature, but never in two dimensions. All her characters are round, or capable of becoming round. Even Miss Bates has a mind, and even Elizabeth Eliot has a heart. Lady Bertram's moral passion stops irritating us once we realize what has happened: the flat disk has suddenly become a little globe. When we close the novel, Lady Bertram becomes flat again, it is true. The main impression she leaves can be summed up in a formula. But Jane Austen did not imagine her that way, and that is why her reappearances feel fresh. Why do Jane Austen's characters give us a slightly new pleasure each time they appear? Dickens's characters, by contrast, give us only the pleasure of repetition. Why do Austen's characters work so well together in conversation? Why do they draw one another out without seeming to, and never seem to be performing? There are several possible answers: unlike Dickens, she was a true artist, she never sank to caricature, and so on. But the best answer is that her characters, though smaller than his, are more fully developed. They function in every dimension. Even if her plots demanded more of them, they would still meet those demands. Suppose Louisa Musgrove had broken her neck on the Cobb. The description of her death would have been weak and ladylike. Physical violence is quite beyond Miss Austen's powers. But once the body was carried away, the survivors would have reacted as they should. They would have revealed new sides of their characters. Although Persuasion would have been spoiled as a book, we would know more about Captain Wentworth and Anne. All Jane Austen's characters are ready for a fuller life than the structure of her books usually requires. That is why they live their actual lives so convincingly. Let us return to Lady Bertram and the crucial sentence. Notice how subtly the writing moves beyond her formula into territory where the formula no longer works. "Lady Bertram did not think deeply." Exactly: according to the formula. "But guided by Sir Thomas she thought justly on all important points." Sir Thomas' guidance remains part of the formula. But his guidance pushes her ladyship toward an independent morality she does not want. "She saw therefore in all its enormity what had happened." This is the moral fortissimo, very strong but carefully introduced. Then comes a very skillful decrescendo, achieved through negatives. "She neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt or infamy." The formula is returning. Usually, she does try to play down trouble, and she does require Fanny to advise her how. Indeed, Fanny has done nothing else for the past ten years. Although the words describe what she does not do, they remind us of her usual behavior. Her normal state comes back into view. In a single sentence, she has expanded into a round character and collapsed back into a flat one. How Jane Austen can write! In a few words, she has given Lady Bertram greater depth. By doing so, she has made Maria's and Julia's elopements more believable. I say believable because the elopements belong to the realm of violent physical action. Here, as I have already said, Jane Austen is weak and ladylike. Except in the novels she wrote as a schoolgirl, she cannot stage a violent crisis. Everything violent has to happen "off" stage. Louisa's accident and Marianne Dashwood's severe throat infection are the closest exceptions. Consequently, all the comments on the elopement must be sincere and convincing. Otherwise, we would doubt whether the elopement had happened. Lady Bertram helps us believe that her daughters have run away. And they have to run away, or Fanny could not achieve her final glory. It is a small point, and a small sentence. Yet the sentence shows how delicately a great novelist can shift a character into three dimensions.

All through her works we find these characters, apparently so simple and flat, never needing reintroduction and yet never out of their depth—Henry Tilney, Mr. Woodhouse, Charlotte Lucas. She may label her characters "Sense," "Pride," "Sensibility," "Prejudice," but they are not tethered to those qualities.

Throughout her works, we find characters who seem so simple and flat. They never need reintroducing, yet they are never out of their depth: Henry Tilney, Mr. Woodhouse, Charlotte Lucas. She may label her characters "Sense," "Pride," "Sensibility," "Prejudice," but those qualities do not limit them.

As for the round characters proper, they have already been defined by implication and no more need be said. All I need do is to give some examples of people in books who seem to me round so that the definition can be tested afterwards:

As for round characters themselves, I have already defined them indirectly, and no more needs to be said. All I need to do is give some examples of characters in books who seem round to me. These examples will allow the definition to be tested afterwards:

All the principal characters in War and Peace, all the Dostoevsky characters, and some of the Proust—for example, the old family servant, the Duchess of Guermantes, M. de Charlus, and Saint Loup; Madame Bovary—who, like Moll Flanders, has her book to herself, and can expand and secrete unchecked; some people in Thackeray—for instance, Becky and Beatrix; some in Fielding—Parson Adams, Tom Jones; and some in Charlotte Brontë, most particularly Lucy Snowe. (And many more—this is not a catalogue.) The test of a round character is whether it is capable of surprising in a convincing way. If it never surprises, it is flat. If it does not convince, it is a flat pretending to be round. It has the incalculability of life about it—life within the pages of a book. And by using it sometimes alone, more often in combination with the other kind, the novelist achieves his task of acclimatization and harmonizes the human race with the other aspects of his work.

All the principal characters in War and Peace are round characters, as are all the Dostoevsky characters. So are some of the Proust characters. Examples include the old family servant, the Duchess of Guermantes, M. de Charlus, and Saint Loup. Madame Bovary is another. Like Moll Flanders, she has her book to herself and can grow and pour herself out without restraint. Some characters in Thackeray are round, for instance, Becky and Beatrix. So are some in Fielding, including Parson Adams and Tom Jones. And so are some in Charlotte Brontë, most particularly Lucy Snowe. (And many more. This is not a catalogue.) The test of a round character is whether the character can surprise us convincingly. If a character never surprises us, the character is flat. If the surprise is not convincing, the character is flat but pretending to be round. A round character has the unpredictability of life, life within the pages of a book. Sometimes the novelist uses round characters alone, but more often combines them with flat characters. By doing so, the novelist makes people feel at home within the novel, bringing them into harmony with its other aspects.

ii. Now for the second device: the point of view from which the story may be told.

ii. Now for the second technique: the point of view from which the story may be told.

To some critics this is the fundamental device of novel-writing. "The whole intricate question of method, in the craft of fiction," says Mr. Percy Lubbock, "I take to be governed by the question of the point of view—the question of the relation in which the narrator stands to the story." And his book The Craft of Fiction examines various points of view with genius and insight. The novelist, he says, can either describe the characters from outside, as an impartial or partial onlooker; or he can assume omniscience and describe them from within; or he can place himself in the position of one of them and affect to be in the dark as to the motives of the rest; or there are certain intermediate attitudes.

For some critics, this is the basic technique of novel-writing. "The whole complex question of method in writing fiction," says Mr. Percy Lubbock, "is, I believe, governed by point of view. The question is how the narrator relates to the story." His book The Craft of Fiction examines different points of view with brilliance and insight. The novelist, he says, can describe characters from the outside, as an observer who may be impartial or biased. Or the novelist can take an all-knowing perspective and describe the characters from within. Or the novelist can take the position of one character and pretend not to know the others' motives. There are also approaches between these positions.

Those who follow him will lay a sure foundation for the æsthetics of fiction—a foundation which I cannot for a moment promise. This is a ramshackly survey and for me the "whole intricate question of method" resolves itself not into formulæ but into the power of the writer to bounce the reader into accepting what he says—a power which Mr. Lubbock admits and admires, but locates at the edge of the problem instead of at the centre. I should put it plumb in the centre. Look how Dickens bounces us in Bleak House. Chapter I of Bleak House is omniscient. Dickens takes us into the Court of Chancery and rapidly explains all the people there. In Chapter II he is partially omniscient. We still use his eyes, but for some unexplained reason they begin to grow weak: he can explain Sir Leicester Dedlock to us, part of Lady Dedlock but not all, and nothing of Mr. Tulkinghorn. In Chapter III he is even more reprehensible: he goes straight across into the dramatic method and inhabits a young lady, Esther Summerson. "I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for I know I am not clever," pipes up Esther, and continues in this strain with consistency and competence, so long as she is allowed to hold the pen. At any moment the author of her being may snatch it from her, and run about taking notes himself, leaving her seated goodness knows where, and employed we do not care how. Logically, Bleak House is all to pieces, but Dickens bounces us, so that we do not mind the shiftings of the view point.

Those who follow him will lay a solid foundation for the study of fiction as art. I cannot promise any such foundation. This is a ramshackle survey. For me, the "whole intricate question of method" comes down not to formulas but to the writer’s power. Can the writer sweep readers along into accepting what he says? Mr. Lubbock recognizes and admires this power, but places it at the edge of the problem rather than the centre. I would put it right at the centre. Look how Dickens sweeps us along in Bleak House. Chapter I of Bleak House uses an all-knowing narrator. Dickens takes us into the Court of Chancery and quickly explains all the people there. In Chapter II, his knowledge is only partial. We still see through his eyes, but for some unexplained reason his sight begins to weaken. He can explain Sir Leicester Dedlock, some but not all of Lady Dedlock, and nothing of Mr. Tulkinghorn. In Chapter III, he behaves even more outrageously. He switches straight to the dramatic method, stepping inside a young woman, Esther Summerson. "I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for I know I am not clever," Esther pipes up. She continues in this vein consistently and competently, as long as she is allowed to hold the pen. At any moment, her creator may snatch the pen from her and run around taking notes himself. He leaves her sitting goodness knows where, doing we do not care what. Logically, Bleak House falls completely apart. But Dickens sweeps us along, so we do not mind the shifts in point of view.

Critics are more apt to object than readers. Zealous for the novel's eminence, they are a little too apt to look out for problems that shall be peculiar to it, and differentiate it from the drama; they feel it ought to have its own technical troubles before it can be accepted as an independent art; and since the problem of a point of view certainly is peculiar to the novel they have rather overstressed it. I do not myself think it is so important as a proper mixture of characters—a problem which the dramatist is up against also. And the novelist must bounce us; that is imperative.

Critics are more likely to object than readers. Eager to defend the novel's standing, critics are a little too quick to seek problems unique to the novel. These problems would set the novel apart from drama. Critics feel the novel needs its own technical difficulties before it can be accepted as an independent art. And because the problem of point of view is certainly unique to the novel, critics have rather overemphasized it. I myself do not think point of view matters as much as getting the right mix of characters. Playwrights face that problem too. And the novelist must carry us along. That is essential.

Let us glance at two other examples of a shifting view point.

Let’s take a quick look at two other examples of a shifting point of view.

The eminent French writer, André Gide, has published a novel called Les Faux Monnayeurs⁴—for all its modernity, this novel of Gide's has one aspect in common with Bleak House: it is all to pieces logically. Sometimes the author is omniscient: he explains everything, he stands back, "il juge ses personnages"; at other times his omniscience is partial; yet again he is dramatic, and causes the story to be told through the diary of one of the characters. There is the same absence of view point, but whereas in Dickens it was instinctive, in Gide it is sophisticated; he expatiates too much about the jolts. The novelist who betrays too much interest in his own method can never be more than interesting; he has given up the creation of character and summoned us to help analyse his own mind, and a heavy drop in the emotional thermometer results. Les Faux Monnayeurs is among the more interesting of recent works: not among the vital: and greatly as we shall have to admire it as a fabric we cannot praise it unrestrictedly now.

The distinguished French writer, André Gide, has published a novel called Les Faux Monnayeurs⁴. For all its modernity, Gide's novel has one thing in common with Bleak House: logically, it is all in pieces. Sometimes the author knows everything. He explains everything, stands back, and "judges his characters". At other times, his knowledge is limited. At still other times, he presents events dramatically, telling the story through one character's diary. There is the same lack of a consistent point of view. But in Dickens this was instinctive, while in Gide it is deliberate and sophisticated. Gide talks too much about the abrupt shifts. A novelist who shows too much interest in his own method can never be more than interesting. He has given up creating characters and called on us to help analyse his own mind. The emotional temperature drops sharply as a result. Les Faux Monnayeurs is among the more interesting recent works, but not among those that feel alive. However much we shall have to admire its construction, we cannot now praise it without reservation.

For our second example we must again glance at War and Peace. Here the result is vital: we are bounced up and down Russia—omniscient, semi-omniscient, dramatized here or there as the moment dictates—and at the end we have accepted it all. Mr. Lubbock does not, it is true: great as he finds the book, he would find it greater if it had a view point; he feels Tolstoy has not pulled his full weight. I feel that the rules of the game of writing are not like this. A novelist can shift his view point if it comes off, and it came off with Dickens and Tolstoy. Indeed this power to expand and contract perception (of which the shifting view point is a symptom), this right to intermittent knowledge:—I find it one of the great advantages of the novel-form, and it has a parallel in our perception of life. We are stupider at some times than others; we can enter into people's minds occasionally but not always, because our own minds get tired; and this intermittence lends in the long run variety and colour to the experiences we receive. A quantity of novelists, English novelists especially, have behaved like this to the people in their books: played fast and loose with them, and I cannot see why they should be censured.

For our second example, we must look again at War and Peace. Here the result is full of life: we bounce up and down Russia as the moment demands. Sometimes we know everything, sometimes only part of the story, and sometimes we see events acted out. By the end, we have accepted it all. Mr. Lubbock, it is true, does not. Great as he finds the book, he would find it greater if it had a consistent point of view. He feels Tolstoy has not done all he could. I do not think the rules of writing work that way. A novelist can shift his point of view if it works, and it worked for Dickens and Tolstoy. Indeed, I find this freedom to widen and narrow perception one of the novel's great advantages. Shifting the point of view is a sign of that freedom, that right to know things only at certain moments. This freedom has a parallel in how we experience life. We are more stupid at some times than at others. We can sometimes enter other people's minds, but not always, because our own minds get tired. Over time, these gaps in understanding give our experiences variety and colour. Many novelists, especially English novelists, have treated the people in their books this way, taking liberties with them. I cannot see why these novelists should be criticized.

They must be censured if we catch them at it at the time. That is quite true, and out of it arises another question: may the writer take the reader into his confidence about his characters? Answer has already been indicated: better not. It is dangerous, it generally leads to a drop in the temperature, to intellectual and emotional laxity, and worse still to facetiousness, and to a friendly invitation to see how the figures hook up behind. "Doesn't A look nice—she always was my favourite." "Let's think of why B does that—perhaps there's more in him than meets the eye—yes, see—he has a heart of gold—having given you this peep at it I'll pop it back—I don't think he's noticed." "And C—he always was the mystery man." Intimacy is gained but at the expense of illusion and nobility. It is like standing a man a drink so that he may not criticize your opinions. With all respect to Fielding and Thackeray it is devastating, it is bar-parlour chattiness, and nothing has been more harmful to the novels of the past. To take your reader into your confidence about the universe is a different thing. It is not dangerous for a novelist to draw back from his characters, as Hardy and Conrad do, and to generalize about the conditions under which he thinks life is carried on. It is confidences about the individual people that do harm, and beckon the reader away from the people to an examination of the novelist's mind. Not much is ever found in it at such a moment, for it is never in the creative state: the mere process of saying, "Come along, let's have a chat," has cooled it down.

They must be criticized if we catch them doing it at the time. That is quite true, and it raises another question: should writers take readers into their confidence about their characters? The answer has already been suggested: better not. It is dangerous. It generally cools the atmosphere and leads to intellectual and emotional slackness. Worse still, it leads to jokiness and a friendly invitation to see how the characters are put together backstage. "Doesn't A look nice? She always was my favourite." "Let's think about why B does that. Perhaps there's more to him than meets the eye. Yes, look, he has a heart of gold. Now you've had a glimpse, I'll pop it back. I don't think he's noticed." "And C, he always was the mystery man." The writer gains intimacy with the reader, but sacrifices the illusion and the novel's dignity. It is like buying a man a drink so that he won't criticize your opinions. With all respect to Fielding and Thackeray, this approach is devastating. It is pub chatter, and nothing has done more harm to the novels of the past. Taking readers into your confidence about the universe is a different matter. Novelists can safely step back from their characters, as Hardy and Conrad do. They can then generalize about the conditions under which they think life is lived. Confidences about individual characters are what do harm. They draw readers away from the characters and invite them to examine the novelist's mind instead. Readers never find much in the novelist's mind at such moments, because that mind is never in a creative state. Simply saying, "Come along, let's have a chat," has cooled it down.

Our comments on human beings must now come to an end. They may take fuller shape when we come to discuss the plot.

Our discussion of human beings must now end. These comments may take a fuller shape when we discuss the plot.