The Plot

"CHARACTER," says Aristotle, "gives us qualities, but it is in actions—what we do—that we are happy or the reverse." We have already decided that Aristotle is wrong and now we must face the consequences of disagreeing with him. "All human happiness and misery," says Aristotle, "take the form of action." We know better. We believe that happiness and misery exist in the secret life, which each of us leads privately and to which (in his characters) the novelist has access. And by the secret life we mean the life for which there is no external evidence, not, as is vulgarly supposed, that which is revealed by a chance word or a sigh. A chance word or sigh are just as much evidence as a speech or a murder: the life they reveal ceases to be secret and enters the realm of action.

"CHARACTER," says Aristotle, "gives us qualities, but our actions, what we do, make us happy or unhappy." We have already decided that Aristotle is wrong. Now we must face the consequences of disagreeing with him. "All human happiness and misery," says Aristotle, "take the form of action." We know better. We believe that happiness and misery exist in the secret life each of us leads privately. The novelist has access to this secret life in his characters. By the secret life, we mean the life for which there is no outward evidence. We do not mean, as people commonly suppose, the life revealed by a chance word or a sigh. A chance word or a sigh is just as much evidence as a speech or a murder. The life revealed by such evidence stops being secret and enters the realm of action.

There is, however, no occasion to be hard on Aristotle. He had read few novels and no modern ones—the Odyssey but not Ulysses—he was by temperament apathetic to secrecy, and indeed regarded the human mind as a sort of tub from which everything can finally be extracted; and when he wrote the words quoted above he had in view the drama, where no doubt they hold true. In the drama all human happiness and misery does and must take the form of action. Otherwise its existence remains unknown, and this is the great difference between the drama and the novel.

Still, there is no reason to be hard on Aristotle. He had read few novels and no modern ones: the Odyssey but not Ulysses. By temperament, he had little interest in secrets. Indeed, he saw the human mind as a kind of tub from which everything could eventually be drawn out. And when he wrote the words quoted above, he was thinking of drama. In drama, those words are no doubt true. All human happiness and misery in drama does and must take the form of action. Otherwise, that happiness and misery remain unknown. This need for action is the great difference between drama and the novel.

The speciality of the novel is that the writer can talk about his characters as well as through them or can arrange for us to listen when they talk to themselves. He has access to self-communings, and from that level he can descend even deeper and peer into the subconscious. A man does not talk to himself quite truly—not even to himself; the happiness or misery that he secretly feels proceed from causes that he cannot quite explain, because as soon as he raises them to the level of the explicable they lose their native quality. The novelist has a real pull here. He can show the subconscious short-circuiting straight into action (the dramatist can do this too); he can also show it in its relation to soliloquy. He commands all the secret life, and he must not be robbed of this privilege. "How did the writer know that?" it is sometimes said. "What's his standpoint? He is not being consistent, he's shifting his point of view from the limited to the omniscient, and now he's edging back again." Questions like these have too much the atmosphere of the law courts about them. All that matters to the reader is whether the shifting of attitude and the secret life are convincing, whether it is πιθανόν in fact, and with his favourite word ringing in his ears Aristotle may retire.

What makes the novel special is that writers can talk about their characters as well as through them. They can also let us listen as their characters talk to themselves. Writers have access to these private conversations. From there, they can go even deeper and look into the subconscious. A person does not speak quite truthfully even when talking to himself. His secret happiness or misery comes from causes he cannot fully explain. As soon as he makes those causes explainable, they lose their original quality. The novelist has a real advantage here. He can show the subconscious feeding straight into action (the playwright can do this too). He can also show how the subconscious relates to a character’s private speech. He has access to the whole of a character’s secret life, and he must not be denied this privilege. "How did the writer know that?" people sometimes ask. "What's his standpoint? He's being inconsistent. He's shifting from a limited point of view to an all-knowing one, and now he's edging back again." Questions like these sound too much like courtroom questioning. All that matters to the reader is whether the shifts in perspective and the secret life are convincing. The question, in fact, is whether the result is πιθανόν, or believable. And with his favourite word ringing in his ears, Aristotle may retire.

However, he leaves us in some confusion, for what, with this enlargement of human nature, is going to become of the plot? In most literary works there are two elements: human individuals, whom we have recently discussed, and the element vaguely called art. Art we have also dallied with, but with a very low form of it: the story: the chopped-off length of the tapeworm of time. Now we arrive at a much higher aspect: the plot, and the plot, instead of finding human beings more or less cut to its requirements, as they are in the drama, finds them enormous, shadowy and intractable, and three-quarters hidden like an iceberg. In vain it points out to these unwieldy creatures the advantages of the triple process of complication, crisis, and solution so persuasively expounded by Aristotle. A few of them rise and comply, and a novel which ought to have been a play is the result. But there is no general response. They want to sit apart and brood or something, and the plot (whom I here visualize as a sort of higher government official) is concerned at their lack of public spirit: "This will not do," it seems to say. "Individualism is a most valuable quality; indeed my own position depends upon individuals; I have always admitted as much freely. Nevertheless there are certain limits, and those limits are being overstepped. Characters must not brood too long, they must not waste time running up and down ladders in their own insides, they must contribute, or higher interests will be jeopardised." How well one knows that phrase, "a contribution to the plot"! It is accorded, and of necessity, by the people in a drama: how necessary is it in a novel?

However, he leaves us somewhat confused. With this expanded view of human nature, what will become of the plot? Most literary works have two elements: human individuals, whom we have recently discussed, and the element loosely called art. We have also dabbled in art, but only in a very low form: the story. The story is a length chopped off the tapeworm of time. Now we reach a much higher aspect: the plot. In drama, human beings are more or less trimmed to fit the plot’s requirements. But in the novel, the plot finds them enormous, shadowy, and hard to manage. Like an iceberg, they are three-quarters hidden. The plot points out, in vain, the advantages of the three stages Aristotle explains so persuasively: complication, crisis, and resolution. A few characters get up and cooperate, and the result is a novel that ought to have been a play. But there is no general response. The characters want to sit apart and brood or something. The plot, which I picture here as a kind of senior government official, worries about their lack of public spirit. "This will not do," the plot seems to say. "Individualism is a most valuable quality. Indeed, my own position depends on individuals. I have always freely admitted as much. Nevertheless, there are certain limits, and those limits are being overstepped. Characters must not brood too long. They must not waste time running up and down ladders inside themselves. They must contribute, or higher interests will be put at risk." How familiar that phrase is, "a contribution to the plot"! Characters in a drama make that contribution, and must do so. How necessary is that contribution in a novel?

Let us define a plot. We have defined a story as a narrative of events arranged in their time-sequence. A plot is also a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality. "The king died and then the queen died," is a story. "The king died, and then the queen died of grief" is a plot. The time-sequence is preserved, but the sense of causality overshadows it. Or again: "The queen died, no one knew why, until it was discovered that it was through grief at the death of the king." This is a plot with a mystery in it, a form capable of high development. It suspends the time-sequence, it moves as far away from the story as its limitations will allow. Consider the death of the queen. If it is in a story we say "and then?" If it is in a plot we ask "why?" That is the fundamental difference between these two aspects of the novel. A plot cannot be told to a gaping audience of cave men or to a tyrannical sultan or to their modern descendant the movie-public. They can only be kept awake by "and then—and then——" They can only supply curiosity. But a plot demands intelligence and memory also.

Let us define a plot. We have defined a story as a series of events told in the order they happen. A plot also describes events, but emphasizes cause and effect. "The king died and then the queen died," is a story. "The king died, and then the queen died of grief" is a plot. The events remain in time order, but cause and effect matter more. Or take this example: "The queen died, no one knew why, until they discovered she had died of grief over the king's death." This is a plot with a mystery, a form that can be developed to a high level. The mystery interrupts the time order. It moves as far from a story as the limits of a plot allow. Consider the queen's death. If her death is part of a story, we say "and then?" If her death is part of a plot, we ask "why?" That is the fundamental difference between these two aspects of the novel. You cannot tell a plot to an open-mouthed audience of cavemen, a tyrannical sultan, or their modern descendant, the moviegoing public. Only "and then, and then..." can keep such audiences awake. Curiosity is all they can offer. But a plot also demands intelligence and memory.

Curiosity is one of the lowest of the human faculties. You will have noticed in daily life that when people are inquisitive they nearly always have bad memories and are usually stupid at bottom. The man who begins by asking you how many brothers and sisters you have, is never a sympathetic character, and if you meet him in a year's time he will probably ask you how many brothers and sisters you have, his mouth again sagging open, his eyes still bulging from his head. It is difficult to be friends with such a man, and for two inquisitive people to be friends must be impossible. Curiosity by itself takes us a very little way, nor does it take us far into the novel—only as far as the story. If we would grasp the plot we must add intelligence and memory.

Curiosity is one of the lowest human abilities. You will have noticed in daily life that inquisitive people nearly always have bad memories. They are also usually stupid at heart. The man who starts by asking how many brothers and sisters you have is never an appealing person. And if you meet him a year later, he will probably ask how many brothers and sisters you have again. His mouth will be hanging open again, his eyes still bulging out of his head. Being friends with such a man is difficult. And friendship between two inquisitive people must be impossible. Curiosity alone takes us only a very short way. Nor does curiosity take us far into a novel, only as far as the story. If we want to understand the plot, we must add intelligence and memory.

Intelligence first. The intelligent novel-reader, unlike the inquisitive one who just runs his eye over a new fact, mentally picks it up. He sees it from two points of view: isolated, and related to the other facts that he has read on previous pages. Probably he does not understand it, but he does not expect to do so yet awhile. The facts in a highly organized novel (like The Egoist) are often of the nature of cross-correspondences and the ideal spectator cannot expect to view them properly until he is sitting up on a hill at the end. This element of surprise or mystery—the detective element as it is sometimes rather emptily called—is of great importance in a plot. It occurs through a suspension of the time-sequence; a mystery is a pocket in time, and it occurs crudely, as in "Why did the queen die?" and more subtly in half-explained gestures and words, the true meaning of which only dawns pages ahead. Mystery is essential to a plot, and cannot be appreciated without intelligence. To the curious it is just another "and then——" To appreciate a mystery, part of the mind must be left behind, brooding, while the other part goes marching on.

Intelligence comes first. The intelligent novel-reader mentally picks up a new fact, unlike the merely curious reader who just glances over it. The intelligent reader sees the fact in two ways: on its own, and connected to facts from earlier pages. The reader probably does not understand it, but does not expect to understand it for a while. In a tightly structured novel (like The Egoist), facts often connect with and explain one another. The ideal reader cannot expect to see these connections properly until reaching the end, like someone looking down from a hill. This element of surprise or mystery is very important to a plot. Sometimes people call it the detective element, a rather empty label. Mystery arises when the sequence of events is suspended. A mystery is a pocket in time. It appears in a simple form in "Why did the queen die?" It appears more subtly in partly explained gestures and words whose true meaning becomes clear only pages later. Mystery is essential to a plot, and appreciating mystery requires intelligence. To the merely curious reader, mystery is just another "and then..." To appreciate a mystery, one part of the mind must stay behind, turning it over, while the other marches on.

That brings us to our second qualification: memory.

That brings us to our second requirement: memory.

Memory and intelligence are closely connected, for unless we remember we cannot understand. If by the time the queen dies we have forgotten the existence of the king we shall never make out what killed her. The plot-maker expects us to remember, we expect him to leave no loose ends. Every action or word ought to count; it ought to be economical and spare; even when complicated it should be organic and free from dead matter. It may be difficult or easy, it may and should contain mysteries, but it ought not to mislead. And over it, as it unfolds, will hover the memory of the reader (that dull glow of the mind of which intelligence is the bright advancing edge) and will constantly rearrange and reconsider, seeing new clues, new chains of cause and effect, and the final sense (if the plot has been a fine one) will not be of clues or chains, but of something æsthetically compact, something which might have been shown by the novelist straight away, only if he had shown it straight away it would never have become beautiful. We come up against beauty here—for the first time in our enquiry: beauty at which a novelist should never aim, though he fails if he does not achieve it. I will conduct beauty to her proper place later on. Meanwhile please accept her as part of a completed plot. She looks a little surprised at being there, but beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the emotion that best suits her face, as Botticelli knew when he painted her risen from the waves, between the winds and the flowers. The beauty who does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due—she reminds us too much of a prima donna.

Memory and intelligence are closely connected, because we cannot understand unless we remember. If we have forgotten the king’s existence by the time the queen dies, we will never understand what killed her. The plot-maker expects us to remember, and we expect him to leave no loose ends. Every action or word should count. The plot should be lean and economical. Even when complicated, it should form a living whole, with nothing lifeless in it. It may be difficult or easy. It may, and should, contain mysteries, but it should not mislead us. As the plot unfolds, the reader’s memory will hover over it. Memory is the mind’s dull glow, with intelligence as its bright, advancing edge. The reader’s memory will constantly rearrange and reconsider, finding new clues and new chains of cause and effect. If the plot has been a fine one, the final impression will not be of clues or chains. Instead, we will sense something artistically whole and tightly formed. The novelist might have shown us that whole at once. But if he had, it would never have become beautiful. Here we encounter beauty for the first time in our inquiry. A novelist should never aim at beauty, though he fails if he does not achieve it. I will lead beauty to her proper place later. Meanwhile, please accept her as part of a completed plot. She looks a little surprised to be there, but beauty ought to look a little surprised. Surprise is the emotion that best suits her face. Botticelli knew this when he painted her risen from the waves, between the winds and the flowers. Beauty who does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her right, reminds us too much of a prima donna.

But let us get back to the plot, and we will do so via George Meredith.

But let's get back to the plot, and we'll do so through George Meredith.

Meredith is not the great name he was twenty or thirty years ago, when much of the universe and all Cambridge trembled. I remember how depressed I used to be by a line in one of his poems: "We live but to be sword or block." I did not want to be either and I knew that I was not a sword. It seems though that there was no real cause for depression, for Meredith is himself now rather in the trough of a wave, and though fashion will turn and raise him a bit, he will never be the spiritual power he was about the year 1900. His philosophy has not worn well. His heavy attacks on sentimentality—they bore the present generation, which pursues the same quarry but with neater instruments, and is apt to suspect any one carrying a blunderbuss of being a sentimentalist himself. And his visions of Nature—they do not endure like Hardy's, there is too much Surrey about them, they are fluffy and lush. He could no more write the opening chapter of The Return of the Native than Box Hill could visit Salisbury Plain. What is really tragic and enduring in the scenery of England was hidden from him, and so is what is really tragic in life. When he gets serious and noble-minded there is a strident overtone, a bullying that becomes distressing. I feel indeed that he was like Tennyson in one respect: through not taking himself quietly enough he strained his inside. And his novels: most of the social values are faked. The tailors are not tailors, the cricket matches are not cricket, the railway trains do not even seem to be trains, the county families give the air of having been only just that moment unpacked, scarcely in position before the action starts, the straw still clinging to their beards. It is surely very odd, the social scene in which his characters are set: it is partly due to his fantasy, which is legitimate, but partly a chilly fake, and wrong. What with the faking, what with the preaching, which was never agreeable and is now said to be hollow, and what with the home counties posing as the universe, it is no wonder Meredith now lies in the trough. And yet he is in one way a great novelist. He is the finest contriver that English fiction has ever produced, and any lecture on plot must do homage to him.

Meredith is not the great name he was twenty or thirty years ago, when much of the universe and all Cambridge trembled. I remember feeling depressed by a line in one of his poems: "We live but to be sword or block." I did not want to be either, and I knew I was not a sword. Yet apparently there was no real reason to feel depressed, because Meredith himself is now at a low point. Though fashion will turn and lift him a little, he will never regain his spiritual influence of around 1900. His philosophy has not aged well. His heavy-handed attacks on sentimentality bore the present generation. They hunt the same prey, but with more precise tools. They tend to suspect that anyone carrying a blunderbuss is a sentimentalist himself. And his visions of Nature do not last as Hardy's do. There is too much Surrey in them. They are fluffy and lush. He could no more write the opening chapter of The Return of the Native than Box Hill could visit Salisbury Plain. He could not see what is truly tragic and lasting in England's landscape, or what is truly tragic in life. When he becomes serious and noble-minded, a harsh note creeps in. His bullying becomes distressing. Indeed, I feel he resembled Tennyson in one respect. By taking himself too intensely, he strained himself inside. And his novels: most of their social values are fake. The tailors are not tailors, the cricket matches are not cricket, and the railway trains do not even seem to be trains. The county families look as though they have only just been unpacked. They are barely in place before the action starts, with packing straw still clinging to their beards. The social world surrounding his characters is surely very odd. Part of this oddness comes from his fantasy, which is legitimate. But part of that world is a cold, unconvincing fake. There is the fakery, and there is the preaching, which was never pleasant and is now said to be hollow. Then there are the home counties posing as the universe. With all this, no wonder Meredith is now at a low point. And yet, in one way, he is a great novelist. He is the finest plot-maker English fiction has ever produced, and any lecture on plot must pay tribute to him.

Meredith's plots are not closely knit. We cannot describe the action of Harry Richmond in a phrase, as we can that of Great Expectations, though both books turn on the mistake made by a young man as to the sources of his fortune. A Meredithian plot is not a temple to the tragic or even to the comic Muse, but rather resembles a series of kiosks most artfully placed among wooded slopes, which his people reach by their own impetus, and from which they emerge with altered aspect. Incident springs out of character, and having occurred it alters that character. People and events are closely connected, and he does it by means of these contrivances. They are often delightful, sometimes touching, always unexpected. This shock, followed by the feeling, "Oh, that's all right," is a sign that all is well with the plot: characters, to be real, ought to run smoothly, but a plot ought to cause surprise. The horse-whipping of Dr. Shrapnel in Beauchamp's Career is a surprise. We know that Everard Romfrey must dislike Shrapnel, must hate and misunderstand his radicalism, and be jealous of his influence over Beauchamp: we watch too the growth of the misunderstanding over Rosamund, we watch the intrigues of Cecil Baskelett. As far as characters go, Meredith plays with his cards on the table, but when the incident comes what a shock it gives us and the characters too! The tragicomic business of one old man whipping another from the highest motives—it reacts upon all their world, and transforms all the personages of the book. It is not the centre of Beauchamp's Career, which indeed has no centre. It is essentially a contrivance, a door through which the book is made to pass, emerging in an altered form. Towards the close, when Beauchamp is drowned and Shrapnel and Romfrey are reconciled over his body, there is an attempt to elevate the plot to Aristotelian symmetry, to turn the novel into a temple wherein dwells interpretation and peace. Meredith fails here: Beauchamp's Career remains a series of contrivances (the visit to France is another of them), but contrivances that spring from the characters and react upon them.

Meredith's plots are not tightly structured. We cannot describe the action of Harry Richmond in a phrase, as we can with Great Expectations. Yet both books revolve around a young man's mistake about the source of his fortune. A Meredithian plot is not a temple to the tragic or even the comic Muse. Instead, it resembles a series of small pavilions, artfully placed among wooded slopes. His characters reach these pavilions through their own momentum and emerge changed. Events grow out of character and, once they happen, change that character. Meredith closely connects people and events through these plot devices. The devices are often delightful, sometimes touching, always unexpected. The surprise, followed by the feeling, "Oh, that's all right," is a sign that the plot is working well. To feel real, characters should develop smoothly, but a plot should surprise us. The horse-whipping of Dr. Shrapnel in Beauchamp's Career is a surprise. We know that Everard Romfrey must dislike Shrapnel. He must hate and misunderstand Shrapnel's radicalism and be jealous of his influence over Beauchamp. We also watch the misunderstanding over Rosamund grow, and we watch the intrigues of Cecil Baskelett. As far as the characters go, Meredith lays his cards on the table. But when the incident comes, what a shock it gives us and the characters too! The tragicomic business of one old man whipping another from the highest motives affects their entire world. It transforms all the characters in the book. The incident is not the centre of Beauchamp's Career, which in fact has no centre. It is essentially a plot device, a door through which the book is made to pass, emerging changed. Near the end, Beauchamp drowns, and Shrapnel and Romfrey are reconciled over his body. Here Meredith attempts to give the plot Aristotelian symmetry. He tries to turn the novel into a temple where understanding and peace dwell. Meredith fails here. Beauchamp's Career remains a series of plot devices (the visit to France is another). But these devices grow out of the characters and, in turn, affect them.

And now briefly to illustrate the mystery element in the plot: the formula of "The queen died, it was afterwards discovered through grief." I will take an example, not from Dickens (though Great Expectations provides a fine one), nor from Conan Doyle (whom my priggishness prevents me from enjoying), but again from Meredith: an example of a concealed emotion from the admirable plot of The Egoist: it occurs in the character of Laetitia Dale.

Now I’ll briefly illustrate the element of mystery in a plot: "The queen died, it was afterwards discovered through grief." I won’t take an example from Dickens, though Great Expectations offers a fine one. Nor will I turn to Conan Doyle, whom I’m too much of a prig to enjoy. Instead, I’ll turn again to Meredith for an example of a hidden emotion in the excellent plot of The Egoist. The emotion is found in the character of Laetitia Dale.

We are told, at first, all that passes in Laetitia's mind. Sir Willoughby has twice jilted her, she is sad, resigned. Then, for dramatic reasons, her mind is hidden from us, it develops naturally enough, but does not re-emerge until the great midnight scene where he asks her to marry him because he is not sure about Clara, and this time, a changed woman, Laetitia says "No." Meredith has concealed the change. It would have spoiled his high comedy if we had been kept in touch with it throughout. Sir Willoughby has to have a series of crashes, to catch at this and that, and find everything rickety. We should not enjoy the fun, in fact it would be boorish, if we saw the author preparing the booby traps beforehand, so Laetitia's apathy has been hidden from us. This is one of the countless examples in which either plot or character has to suffer, and Meredith with his unerring good sense here lets the plot triumph.

At first, we are told everything that goes through Laetitia's mind. Sir Willoughby has twice rejected her, and she is sad and resigned. Then, for dramatic reasons, her thoughts are hidden from us. Her thinking develops naturally enough, but we do not see her thoughts again until the great midnight scene. Sir Willoughby asks her to marry him because he is not sure about Clara. This time, Laetitia is a changed woman and says "No." Meredith has hidden the change. Keeping us informed of her changing feelings throughout would have spoiled his sophisticated comedy. Sir Willoughby has to suffer a series of setbacks, grabbing at one support after another and finding everything shaky. We would not enjoy the fun if we saw the author setting the traps beforehand. In fact, enjoying the fun under those conditions would be crude, so Laetitia's lack of feeling has been hidden from us. This is one of countless examples where either plot or character has to suffer. Here, Meredith, with his unfailing good sense, lets the plot win.

As an example of mistaken triumph, I think of a slip—it is no more than a slip—which Charlotte Brontë makes in Villette. She allows Lucy Snowe to conceal from the reader her discovery that Dr. John is the same as her old playmate Graham. When it comes out, we do get a good plot thrill, but too much at the expense of Lucy's character. She has seemed, up to then, the spirit of integrity, and has, as it were, laid herself under a moral obligation to narrate all that she knows. That she stoops to suppress is a little distressing, though the incident is too trivial to do her any permanent harm.

As an example of a misguided success, I think of a slip Charlotte Brontë makes in Villette. It is no more than a slip. She lets Lucy Snowe hide from the reader her discovery that Dr. John is her old playmate Graham. When his identity is revealed, we get a good plot thrill, but at too great a cost to Lucy's character. Until then, Lucy has seemed the very model of integrity. She has, in a sense, taken on a moral obligation to tell us all she knows. Her willingness to hide something is a little distressing, though the incident is too trivial to do her lasting harm.

Sometimes a plot triumphs too completely. The characters have to suspend their natures at every turn, or else are so swept away by the course of Fate that our sense of their reality is weakened. We shall find instances of this in a writer who is far greater than Meredith, and yet less successful as a novelist—Thomas Hardy. Hardy seems to me essentially a poet, who conceives of his novels from an enormous height. They are to be tragedies or tragi-comedies, they are to give out the sound of hammer-strokes as they proceed; in other words Hardy arranges events with emphasis on causality, the ground plan is a plot, and the characters are ordered to acquiesce in its requirements. Except in the person of Tess (who conveys the feeling that she is greater than destiny) this aspect of his work is unsatisfactory. His characters are involved in various snares, they are finally bound hand and foot, there is ceaseless emphasis on fate, and yet, for all the sacrifices made to it, we never see the action as a living thing as we see it in Antigone or Berenice or The Cherry Orchard. The fate above us, not the fate working through us—that is what is eminent and memorable in the Wessex novels. Egdon Heath before Eustada Vye has set foot upon it. The woods without the Woodlanders. The downs above Budmouth Regis with the royal princesses, still asleep, driving across them through the dawn. Hardy's success in The Dynasts (where he uses another medium) is complete, there the hammer-strokes are heard, cause and effect enchain the characters despite their struggles, complete contact between the actors and the plot is established. But in the novels, though the same superb and terrible machine works, it never catches humanity in its teeth; there is some vital problem that has not been answered, or even posed, in the misfortunes of Jude the Obscure. In other words the characters have been required to contribute too much to the plot; except in their rustic humours, their vitality has been impoverished, they have gone dry and thin. This, as far as I can make out, is the flaw running through Hardy's novels: he has emphasized causality more strongly than his medium permits. As a poet and prophet and visualizer George Meredith is nothing by his side—just a suburban roarer—but Meredith did know what the novel could stand, where the plot could dun the characters for a contribution, where it must let them function as they liked. And the moral—well, I see no moral, because the work of Hardy is my home and that of Meredith cannot be: still the moral from the point of these lectures is again unfavourable to Aristotle. In the novel, all human happiness and misery does not take the form of action, it seeks means of expression other than through the plot, it must not be rigidly canalized.

Sometimes a plot takes over too completely. The characters must keep acting against their natures. Or Fate sweeps them along so powerfully that they seem less real to us. We find examples in Thomas Hardy, a far greater writer than Meredith, yet less successful as a novelist. Hardy seems to me essentially a poet who plans his novels from an enormous height. His novels are to be tragedies or tragicomedies. They are to sound like hammer blows as they unfold. In other words, Hardy arranges events to emphasize cause and effect. The plot provides the basic plan, and the characters are ordered to meet its demands. Except in the case of Tess, this side of his work is unsatisfactory. Tess gives us the feeling that she is greater than destiny. Hardy's characters become caught in various traps and are finally bound hand and foot. Fate receives constant emphasis. Yet despite everything sacrificed to fate, we never feel the action come alive. We do feel that life in Antigone or Berenice or The Cherry Orchard. Fate above us, not fate working through us: that is what stands out and stays with us in the Wessex novels. Egdon Heath before Eustada Vye has set foot on it. The woods without the Woodlanders. The downs above Budmouth Regis, with the royal princesses driving across them at dawn, still asleep. Hardy's success in The Dynasts, where he uses a different form, is complete. There we hear the hammer blows. Cause and effect chain the characters despite their struggles. Characters and plot are fully connected. But in the novels, although the same magnificent and terrible machine operates, its teeth never catch hold of humanity. Some vital question remains unanswered, or even unasked, in the misfortunes of Jude the Obscure. In other words, the characters have been required to give too much to the plot. Except in their rustic comedy, their vitality has been drained. They have become dry and thin. As far as I can tell, this is the flaw running through Hardy's novels. He has emphasized cause and effect more strongly than the novel as a form allows. As a poet, prophet, and creator of vivid images, George Meredith is nothing beside Hardy. He is just a loudmouth from the suburbs. But Meredith did know what the novel could bear. He knew when the plot could press the characters for a contribution, and when it must let them act freely. And the moral? Well, I see no moral, because Hardy's work is my home, and Meredith's cannot be. Still, from the viewpoint of these lectures, the moral once again goes against Aristotle. In the novel, not all human happiness and misery takes the form of action. Happiness and misery seek expression outside the plot too. They must not be forced into rigid channels.

In the losing battle that the plot fights with the characters, it often takes a cowardly revenge. Nearly all novels are feeble at the end. This is because the plot requires to be wound up. Why is this necessary? Why is there not a convention which allows a novelist to stop as soon as he feels muddled or bored? Alas, he has to round things off, and usually the characters go dead while he is at work, and our final impression of them is through deadness. The Vicar of Wakefield is in this way a typical novel, so clever and fresh in the first half, up to the painting of the family group with Mrs. Primrose as Venus, and then so wooden and imbecile. Incidents and people that occurred at first for their own sake now have to contribute to the dénouement. In the end even the author feels he is being a little foolish. "Nor can I go on," he says, "without a reflection on those accidental meetings which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion." Goldsmith is of course a light-weight, but most novels do fail here—there is this disastrous standstill while logic takes over the command from flesh and blood. If it was not for death and marriage I do not know how the average novelist would conclude. Death and marriage are almost his only connection between his characters and his plot, and the reader is more ready to meet him here, and take a bookish view of them, provided they occur later on in the book: the writer, poor fellow, must be allowed to finish up somehow, he has his living to get like any one else, so no wonder that nothing is heard but hammering and screwing.

In its losing battle against the characters, the plot often takes a cowardly revenge. Nearly all novels have weak endings. This is because the plot has to be wrapped up. Why must it be? Why isn't there a convention allowing a novelist to stop as soon as he feels confused or bored? Sadly, he has to tie everything up. Usually, the characters lose their life while he works, and our final impression is of lifeless figures. The Vicar of Wakefield is a typical novel in this respect. The first half is so clever and fresh, up to the family portrait with Mrs. Primrose as Venus. Then the novel becomes so stiff and idiotic. Events and people that first appeared for their own sake now have to help bring about the ending. In the end, even the author feels he is being a little foolish. "Nor can I go on," he says, "without reflecting on those chance meetings that happen every day. Yet such meetings seldom surprise us except on some extraordinary occasion." Goldsmith is, of course, a lightweight, but most novels do fail at this point. There is a disastrous standstill as logic takes command from flesh and blood. Without death and marriage, I don't know how the average novelist would end a book. Death and marriage are almost his only way of connecting his characters to his plot. Readers are more willing to meet him halfway here, accepting death and marriage as literary devices, provided they come later in the book. The poor fellow must be allowed to finish somehow. He has to earn a living like anyone else, so no wonder all we hear is hammering and screwing.

This—as far as one can generalize—is the inherent defect of novels: they go off at the end: and there are two explanations of it: firstly, failure of pep, which threatens the novelist like all workers: and secondly, the difficulty which we have been discussing. The characters have been getting out of hand, laying foundations and declining to build on them afterwards, and now the novelist has to labour personally, in order that the job may be done to time. He pretends that the characters are acting for him. He keeps mentioning their names and using inverted commas. But the characters are gone or dead.

As far as one can generalize, novels have an inherent flaw: they lose their way at the end. There are two explanations for this flaw. First, the novelist can run out of energy, like all workers. Second, there is the difficulty we have been discussing. The characters have been getting out of hand, laying foundations and then refusing to build on them. So now the novelist has to do the work himself to get the job done on time. He pretends the characters are acting for him. He keeps mentioning their names and using quotation marks. But the characters are gone or dead.

The plot, then, is the novel in its logical intellectual aspect: it requires mystery, but the mysteries are solved later on: the reader may be moving about in worlds unrealized, but the novelist has no misgivings. He is competent, poised above his work, throwing a beam of light here, popping on a cap of invisibility there, and (qua plot-maker) continually negotiating with himself qua character-monger as to the best effect to be produced. He plans his book beforehand: or anyhow he stands above it, his interest in cause and effect give him an air of predetermination.

Plot, then, is the logical, intellectual side of the novel. Plot requires mysteries, but those mysteries are solved later. The reader may be wandering through worlds not yet understood, but the novelist has no doubts. He is capable and in control, standing above his work. He shines a beam of light here and puts on a cap of invisibility there. And as a plot-maker, he constantly negotiates with himself as a creator of characters about the best effect to produce. He plans his book in advance. Or at least he stands above his book, and his interest in cause and effect suggests everything is decided beforehand.

And now we must ask ourselves whether the framework thus produced is the best possible for a novel. After all, why has a novel to be planned? Cannot it grow? Why need it close, as a play closes? Cannot it open out? Instead of standing above his work and controlling it, cannot the novelist throw himself into it and be carried along to some goal that he does not foresee? The plot is exciting and may be beautiful, yet is it not a fetich, borrowed from the drama, from the spatial limitations of the stage? Cannot fiction devise a framework that is not so logical yet more suitable to its genius?

Now we must ask whether the structure we have created is the best possible one for a novel. After all, why must a novel be planned? Can it not grow? Why must a novel end neatly, as a play does? Can it not open out instead? Rather than stand above his work and control it, can the novelist not throw himself into the novel? Can he not let himself be carried toward a goal he cannot foresee? The plot is exciting and may be beautiful. Yet do we not give plot too much importance, borrowing it from drama and the stage’s physical limits? Can fiction not develop a structure that is less logical but better suited to its own nature?

Modern writers say that it can, and we will now examine a recent example—a violent onslaught on the plot as we have defined it: a constructive attempt to put something in the place of the plot.

Modern writers say it can, and we will now look at a recent example. It is a fierce attack on plot as we have defined it, a constructive attempt to replace plot with something else.

I have already mentioned the novel in question: Les Faux Monnayeurs by André Gide. It contains within its covers both the methods. Gide has also published the diary he kept while he was writing the novel, and there is no reason why he should not publish in the future the impressions he had when rereading both the diary and the novel, and in the future-perfect a still more final synthesis in which the diary, the novel, and his impressions of both will interact. He is indeed a little more solemn than an author should be about the whole caboodle, but regarded as a caboodle it is excessively interesting, and repays careful study by critics.

I have already mentioned the novel: Les Faux Monnayeurs by André Gide. The novel uses both methods. Gide has also published the diary he kept while writing the novel. There is no reason why he should not later publish his impressions on rereading both the diary and the novel. And further into the future, he could publish an even more final synthesis. In that synthesis, the diary, the novel, and his impressions of both would interact. He does take the whole business a little more seriously than an author should. But taken as a whole, the business is extraordinarily interesting and rewards careful study by critics.

We have, in the first place, a plot in Les Faux Monnayeurs of the logical objective type that we have been considering—a plot, or rather fragments of plots. The main fragment concerns a young man called Olivier—a charming, touching and lovable character, who misses happiness, and then recovers it after an excellently contrived dénouement; confers it also; this fragment has a wonderful radiance and "lives," if I may use so coarse a word, it is a successful creation on familiar lines. But it is by no means the centre of the book. No more are the other logical fragments—that which concerns Georges, Olivier's schoolboy brother, who passes false coin, and is instrumental in driving a fellow-pupil to suicide. (Gide gives us his sources for all this in his diary, he got the idea of Georges from a boy whom he caught trying to steal a book off a stall, the gang of coiners were caught at Rouen, and the suicide of children took place at Clermont-Ferrand, etc.) Neither Olivier, nor Georges, nor Vincent a third brother, nor Bernard their friend is the centre of the book. We come nearer to it in Edouard. Edouard is a novelist. He bears the same relation to Gide as Clissold does to Wells. I dare not be more precise. Like Gide, he keeps a diary, like Gide he is writing a book called Les Faux Monnayeurs, and like Clissold he is disavowed. Edouard's diary is printed in full. It begins before the plot-fragments, continues during them, and forms the bulk of Gide's book. Edouard is not just a chronicler. He is an actor too; indeed it is he who rescues Olivier and is rescued by him; we leave those two in happiness.

First, Les Faux Monnayeurs has the kind of logical, objective plot we have been considering. Or rather, it has fragments of plots. The main fragment concerns a young man called Olivier, a charming, touching, and lovable character. He loses his chance at happiness, then regains it after an excellently planned resolution. He also gives happiness to someone else. This fragment has a wonderful radiance and "lives," if I may use so crude a word. It is a successful creation along familiar lines. But it is by no means the centre of the book. Nor are the other logical plot fragments central. One concerns Georges, Olivier's schoolboy brother, who passes counterfeit coins and helps drive a fellow pupil to suicide. (Gide gives us his sources for all this in his diary. He got the idea for Georges from a boy he caught trying to steal a book from a stall. The gang of counterfeiters were caught at Rouen, and the children's suicides took place at Clermont-Ferrand, and so on.) Neither Olivier, Georges, Vincent, a third brother, nor their friend Bernard is the centre of the book. We come closer to that centre with Edouard. Edouard is a novelist. His relationship to Gide is the same as Clissold's to Wells. I dare not be more precise. Like Gide, Edouard keeps a diary. Like Gide, he is writing a book called Les Faux Monnayeurs. And like Clissold, he is disowned by his creator. Edouard's diary is printed in full. It begins before the plot fragments, continues through them, and makes up most of Gide's book. Edouard does not just record events. He also takes part in them. Indeed, he rescues Olivier and is rescued by him. We leave the two of them happy.

But that is still not the centre. The nearest to the centre lies in a discussion about the art of the novel. Edouard is holding forth to Bernard his secretary and some friends. He has said (what we all accept as commonplace) that truth in life and truth in a novel are not identical, and then he goes on to say that he wants to write a book which shall include both sorts of truth.

But that is still not the centre. A discussion about the art of the novel comes closest to the centre. Edouard is talking at length to his secretary Bernard and some friends. He has said that truth in life and truth in a novel are not the same. We all accept this distinction as commonplace. He then says he wants to write a book that includes both kinds of truth.

This passage is the centre of the book. It contains the old thesis of truth in life versus truth in art, and illustrates it very neatly by the arrival of an actual false coin. What is new in it is the attempt to combine the two truths, the proposal that writers should mix themselves up in their material and be rolled over and over by it; they should not try to subdue any longer, they should hope to be subdued, to be carried away. As for a plot—to pot with the plot, break it up, boil it down. Let there be those "formidable erosions of contour" of which Nietzsche speaks. All that is prearranged is false.

This passage is the heart of the book. It presents the old idea of truth in life versus truth in art. The arrival of an actual counterfeit coin illustrates the contrast very neatly. What is new is the attempt to combine the two truths. The proposal is that writers should get mixed up in their material and let it roll them over and over. Writers should no longer try to master their material. Instead, they should hope to be mastered by it, to be carried away. As for a plot, to hell with the plot. Break it up, boil it down. Let there be those "formidable erosions of contour" that Nietzsche speaks of. Everything planned in advance is false.

Another distinguished critic has agreed with Gide—that old lady in the anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical. For some time she could not be brought to understand what logic was, and when she grasped its true nature she was not so much angry as contemptuous. "Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish!" she exclaimed. "How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?" Her nieces, educated young women, thought that she was passée; she was really more up to date than they were.

Another distinguished critic has agreed with Gide: the old lady in the anecdote whose nieces accused her of being illogical. For some time, no one could make her understand what logic was. When she finally understood its true nature, she felt less angry than scornful. "Logic! Good heavens! What nonsense!" she exclaimed. "How can I know what I think until I see what I say?" Her nieces, well-educated young women, thought she was behind the times. In fact, she was more up to date than they were.

Those who are in touch with contemporary France, say that the present generation follows the advice of Gide and the old lady and resolutely hurls itself into confusion, and indeed admires English novelists on the ground that they so seldom succeed in what they attempt. Compliments are always delightful, but this particular one is a bit of a backhander. It is like trying to lay an egg and being told you have produced a paraboloid—more curious than gratifying. And what results when you try to lay a paraboloid, I cannot conceive—perhaps the death of the hen. That seems the danger in Gide's position—he sets out to lay a paraboloid; he is not well advised, if he wants to write subconscious novels, to reason so lucidly and patiently about the subconscious; he is introducing mysticism at the wrong stage of the process. However that is his affair. As a critic he is most stimulating, and the various bundles of words he has called Les Faux Monnayeurs will be enjoyed by all who cannot tell what they think till they see what they say, or who weary of the tyranny by the plot and of its alternative, tyranny by characters.

People familiar with contemporary France say the present generation follows the advice of Gide and the old lady. It throws itself firmly into confusion. Indeed, it admires English novelists because they so rarely succeed at what they attempt. Compliments are always delightful, but this particular compliment is rather backhanded. It is like trying to lay an egg and being told you have produced a paraboloid. That is more curious than satisfying. And I cannot imagine what happens when you try to lay a paraboloid. Perhaps the hen dies. That seems to be the danger in Gide's approach. He sets out to lay a paraboloid. If he wants to write subconscious novels, he is unwise to reason so clearly and patiently about the subconscious. He is introducing mysticism at the wrong stage of the process. But that is his business. As a critic, he is highly stimulating. And the various bundles of words he has called Les Faux Monnayeurs will appeal to two groups. They will please all who cannot tell what they think until they see what they say. They will also please all who tire of the tyranny of plot and its alternative, the tyranny of characters.

There is clearly something else in view, some other aspect or aspects which we have yet to examine. We may suspect the claim to be consciously subconscious, nevertheless there is a vague and vast residue into which the subconscious enters. Poetry, religion, passion—we have not placed them yet, and since we are critics—only critics—we must try to place them, to catalogue the rainbow. We have already peeped and botanized upon our mothers' graves.

Clearly, something else is in view, some other aspect or aspects we have yet to examine. We may doubt the claim to be consciously subconscious. Still, a vast, vague remainder includes the subconscious. Poetry, religion, passion: we have not yet found their place. And since we are critics, only critics, we must try to place them, to catalogue the rainbow. We have already peeked and studied the plants on our mothers' graves.

The numbering of the warp and woof of the rainbow must accordingly be attempted and we must now bring our minds to bear on the subject of fantasy.

So we must try to count the rainbow’s lengthwise and crosswise threads. And we must now turn our attention to fantasy.