Pattern and Rhythm

OUR interludes, gay and grave, are over, and we return to the general scheme of the course. We began with the story, and having considered human beings, we proceeded to the plot which springs out of the story. Now we must consider something which springs mainly out of the plot, and to which the characters and any other element present also contribute. For this new aspect there appears to be no literary word—indeed the more the arts develop the more they depend on each other for definition. We will borrow from painting first and call it the pattern. Later we will borrow from music and call it rhythm. Unfortunately both these words are vague—when people apply rhythm or pattern to literature they are apt not to say what they mean and not to finish their sentences: it is, "Oh, but surely the rhythm ..." or "Oh, but if you call that pattern ..."

Our interludes, cheerful and serious, are over, and we return to the course’s general plan. We began with the story. After considering human beings, we moved on to the plot, which grows out of the story. Now we must consider something that grows mainly out of the plot. The characters and any other elements present also contribute to this new aspect. There seems to be no literary term for it. Indeed, the more the arts develop, the more they depend on one another for definitions. We will first borrow a term from painting and call this aspect pattern. Later we will borrow from music and call it rhythm. Unfortunately, both words are vague. When people apply rhythm or pattern to literature, they tend not to explain their meaning or finish their sentences. They say, "Oh, but surely the rhythm ..." or "Oh, but if you call that pattern ..."

Before I discuss what pattern entails, and what qualities a reader must bring to its appreciation, I will give two examples of books with patterns so definite that a pictorial image sums them up: a book the shape of an hour-glass and a book the shape of a grand chain in that old-time dance, the Lancers.

Before discussing what pattern involves and what readers need to appreciate it, I will give two examples. These books have patterns so clear that a visual image sums up each one. One book is shaped like an hourglass. The other is shaped like a grand chain in the old-fashioned dance, the Lancers.

Thais, by Anatole France, is the shape of an hour-glass.

Thais, by Anatole France, is shaped like an hourglass.

There are two chief characters, Paphnuce the ascetic, Thais the courtesan. Paphnuce lives in the desert, he is saved and happy when the book starts. Thais leads a life of sin in Alexandria, and it is his duty to save her. In the central scene of the book they approach, he succeeds; she goes into a monastery and gains salvation, because she has met him, but he, because he has met her, is damned. The two characters converge, cross, and recede with mathematical precision, and part of the pleasure we get from the book is due to this. Such is the pattern of Thais—so simple that it makes a good starting-point for a difficult survey. It is the same as the story of Thais, when events unroll in their time-sequence, and the same as the plot of Thais, when we see the two characters bound by their previous actions and taking fatal steps whose consequence they do not see. But whereas the story appeals to our curiosity and the plot to our intelligence, the pattern appeals to our æsthetic sense, it causes us to see the book as a whole. We do not see it as an hour-glass—that is the hard jargon of the lecture room which must never be taken literally at this advanced stage of our enquiry. We just have a pleasure without knowing why, and when the pleasure is past, as it is now, and our minds are left free to explain it, a geometrical simile such as an hour-glass will be found helpful. If it was not for this hour-glass the story, the plot, and the characters of Thais and Paphnuce would none of them exert their full force, they would none of them breathe as they do. "Pattern," which seems so rigid, is connected with atmosphere, which seems so fluid.

There are two main characters: Paphnuce the ascetic and Thais the courtesan. Paphnuce lives in the desert. When the book begins, he is saved and happy. Thais lives a sinful life in Alexandria, and his duty is to save her. In the book’s central scene, the two come together, and he succeeds. She enters a monastery and finds salvation because she has met him. But he is damned because he has met her. The two characters come together, cross paths, and move apart with mathematical precision. Part of our pleasure in the book comes from this movement. Such is the pattern of Thais. The pattern is so simple that it offers a good starting point for a difficult study. The pattern is the same as the story of Thais, when events unfold in chronological order. The pattern is also the same as the plot of Thais. In the plot, we see the two characters bound by their past actions, taking fateful steps without seeing the consequences. But while the story appeals to our curiosity and the plot to our intelligence, the pattern appeals to our aesthetic sense. The pattern makes us see the book as a whole. We do not see the book as an hourglass. That is the rigid jargon of the lecture room, which we must never take literally this far into our inquiry. We simply feel pleasure without knowing why. Once that pleasure has passed, as it has now, our minds are free to explain the pleasure. Then a geometric comparison, such as an hourglass, becomes helpful. Without this hourglass pattern, the story, plot, and characters of Thais and Paphnuce would not have their full power. None would feel as alive as they do. "Pattern," which seems so rigid, is connected with atmosphere, which seems so fluid.

Now for the book that is shaped like the grand chain: Roman Pictures by Percy Lubbock.

Now for the book shaped like the grand chain: Roman Pictures by Percy Lubbock.

Roman Pictures is a social comedy. The narrator is a tourist in Rome; he there meets a kindly and shoddy friend of his, Deering, who rebukes him superciliously for staring at churches and sets him out to explore society. This he does, demurely obedient; one person hands him on to another; café, studio, Vatican and Quirinal purlieus are all reached, until finally, at the extreme end of his career he thinks, in a most aristocratic and dilapidated palazzo, whom should he meet but the second-rate Deering; Deering is his hostess's nephew, but had concealed it owing to some backfire of snobbery. The circle is complete, the original partners have rejoined, and greet one another with mutual confusion which turns to mild laughter.

Roman Pictures is a social comedy. The narrator is a tourist in Rome, where he meets his kind but shabby friend Deering. Deering scolds him condescendingly for staring at churches and sends him off to explore society. The narrator quietly obeys, and one person passes him on to another. He reaches cafés, studios, and the circles around the Vatican and Quirinal. Finally, in a very aristocratic but run-down palazzo, he thinks he has reached the height of his social progress. And whom should he meet but the second-rate Deering? Deering is his hostess's nephew, but had hidden the connection because of some misfiring of his snobbery. The circle is complete, and the original pair are together again. They greet each other with shared embarrassment, which turns to gentle laughter.

What is so good in Roman Pictures is not the presence of the "grand chain" pattern—any one can organize a grand chain—but the suitability of the pattern to the author's mood. Lubbock works all through by administering a series of little shocks, and by extending to his characters an elaborate charity which causes them to appear in a rather worse light than if no charity was wasted on them at all. It is the comic atmosphere, but sub-acid, meticulously benign. And at the end we discover to our delight that the atmosphere has been externalized, and that the partners, as they elide together in the marchesa's drawing-room, have done the exact thing which the book requires, which it required from the start, and have bound the scattered incidents together with a thread woven out of their own substance.

What makes Roman Pictures so good is not its "grand chain" pattern. Anyone can organize a grand chain. What matters is how well the pattern suits the author's mood. Throughout the book, Lubbock delivers a series of little shocks and treats his characters with elaborate generosity. This generosity makes them look rather worse than if he had wasted no generosity on them at all. The atmosphere is comic, but mildly sharp and painstakingly kind. And at the end, we discover to our delight that this atmosphere has taken outward form. As the partners merge together in the marchesa's drawing-room, they do exactly what the book needs. The book has needed this from the start. The partners have tied the scattered incidents together with a thread woven from their own substance.

Thais and Roman Pictures provide easy examples of pattern; it is not often that one can compare a book to a pictorial object with any accuracy, though curves, etc., are freely spoken of by critics who do not quite know what they want to say. We can only say (so far) that pattern is an æsthetic aspect of the novel, and that though it may be nourished by anything in the novel—any character, scene, word—it draws most of its nourishment from the plot. We noted, when discussing the plot, that it added to itself the quality of beauty; beauty a little surprised at her own arrival: that upon its neat carpentry there could be seen, by those who cared to see, the figure of the Muse; that Logic, at the moment of finishing its own house, laid the foundation of a new one. Here, here is the point where the aspect called pattern is most closely in touch with its material; here is our starting point. It springs mainly from the plot, accompanies it like a light in the clouds, and remains visible after it has departed. Beauty is sometimes the shape of the book, the book as a whole, the unity, and our examination would be easier if it was always this. But sometimes it is not. When it is not I shall call it rhythm. For the moment we are concerned with pattern only.

Thais and Roman Pictures offer easy examples of pattern. It is not often possible to compare a book accurately to a visual object. Yet critics freely talk about curves and the like when they do not quite know what they mean. So far, we can only say that pattern is an aesthetic aspect of the novel. Although anything in the novel can nourish pattern, any character, scene, or word, most nourishment comes from the plot. When discussing plot, we noted that it took on the quality of beauty, with beauty a little surprised to arrive. Those who cared to look could see the figure of the Muse in the plot’s neat carpentry. Logic, at the very moment of finishing its own house, laid the foundations of a new one. Here, right here, pattern comes closest to the material that gives rise to it. Here is our starting point. Pattern springs mainly from the plot and accompanies the plot like a light in the clouds. Pattern remains visible after the plot has gone. Sometimes beauty is the book’s shape, the book as a whole, its unity. Our examination would be easier if beauty always took this form. But sometimes beauty does not. When beauty does not take this form, I shall call it rhythm. For now, we are concerned only with pattern.

Let us examine at some length another book of the rigid type, a book with a unity, and in this sense an easy book, although it is by Henry James. We shall see in it pattern triumphant, and we shall also be able to see the sacrifices an author must make if he wants his pattern and nothing else to triumph.

Let us look closely at another book with a rigid structure. It has unity and is easy to follow in that sense, although it is by Henry James. We shall see its pattern triumph. We shall also see the sacrifices an author must make if he wants his pattern, and nothing else, to triumph.

The Ambassadors, like Thais, is the shape of an hour-glass. Strether and Chad, like Paphnuce and Thais, change places, and it is the realization of this that makes the book so satisfying at the close. The plot is elaborate and subtle, and proceeds by action or conversation or meditation through every paragraph. Everything is planned, everything fits; none of the minor characters are just decorative like the talkative Alexandrians at Nirias' banquet; they elaborate on the main theme, they work. The final effect is pre-arranged, dawns gradually on the reader, and is completely successful when it comes. Details of intrigue, of the various missions from America, may be forgotten, but the symmetry they have created is enduring.

The Ambassadors, like Thais, has the shape of an hourglass. Strether and Chad, like Paphnuce and Thais, change places. Recognizing this exchange makes the book’s ending so satisfying. The plot is complex and subtle, advancing through action, conversation, or reflection in every paragraph. Everything is planned, and everything fits. None of the minor characters are merely decorative, like the talkative Alexandrians at Nirias' banquet. Instead, they develop the main theme and serve a purpose. The final effect is planned in advance and gradually becomes clear to the reader. When that effect fully emerges, it is completely successful. The details of the intrigue and the various missions from America may be forgotten. But the symmetry those details have created lasts.

Let us trace the growth of this symmetry.⁹

Let’s trace how this symmetry develops.⁹

Strether, a sensitive middle-aged American, is commissioned by his old friend, Mrs. Newsome, whom he hopes to marry, to go to Paris and rescue her son Chad, who has gone to the bad in that appropriate city. The Newsomes are sound commercial people, who have made money over manufacturing a small article of domestic utility. Henry James never tells us what the small article is, and in a moment we shall understand why. Wells spits it out in Tono Bungay, Meredith reels it out in Evan Harrington, Trollope prescribes it freely for Miss Dunstable, but for James to indicate how his characters made their pile—it would not do. The article is somewhat ignoble and ludicrous—that is enough. If you choose to be coarse and daring and visualize it for yourself as, say, a button-hook, you can, but you do so at your own risk: the author remains uninvolved.

Strether, a sensitive middle-aged American, is sent to Paris by his old friend, Mrs. Newsome, whom he hopes to marry. His task is to rescue her son Chad, who has gone astray in that fitting city. The Newsomes are solid business people who have made money manufacturing a small, useful household item. Henry James never tells us what the item is, and in a moment we shall understand why. Wells blurts it out in Tono Bungay, Meredith spins it out in Evan Harrington, and Trollope prescribes it freely for Miss Dunstable. But for James to reveal how his characters made their fortune would never do. The item is rather undignified and ridiculous. That is enough. If you choose to be crude and daring and picture the item as, say, a button-hook, you can. But you do so at your own risk: the author remains uninvolved.

Well, whatever it is, Chad Newsome ought to come back and help make it, and Strether undertakes to fetch him. He has to be rescued from a life which is both immoral and unremunerative.

Well, whatever it is, Chad Newsome ought to come back and help make it. And Strether takes on the job of bringing him back. Chad has to be rescued from a life that is both immoral and unprofitable.

Strether is a typical James character—he recurs in nearly all the books and is an essential part of their construction. He is the observer who tries to influence the action, and who through his failure to do so gains extra opportunities for observation. And the other characters are such as an observer like Strether is capable of observing—through lenses procured from a rather too first-class oculist. Everything is adjusted to his vision, yet he is not a quietist—no, that is the strength of the device; he takes us along with him, we move as well as look on.

Strether is a typical James character. His type appears in nearly all the books and is essential to their structure. He is an observer who tries to influence events. And his failure to influence events gives him more opportunities to observe. The other characters are the kind an observer like Strether can see, through lenses from a rather too first-class optician. Everything is adjusted to his vision, yet he does not simply stand back. No, the strength of this approach is that he takes us along with him. We move as well as watch.

When he lands in England (and a landing is an exalted and enduring experience for James, it is as vital as Newgate for Defoe; poetry and life crowd round a landing): when Strether lands, though it is only old England, he begins to have doubts of his mission, which increase when he gets to Paris. For Chad Newsome, far from going to the bad, has improved; he is distinguished, he is so sure of himself that he can be kind and cordial to the man who has orders to fetch him away; his friends are exquisite, and as for "women in the case" whom his mother anticipated, there is no sign of them whatever. It is Paris that has enlarged and redeemed him—and how well Strether himself understands this!

Strether arrives in England. (For James, arriving by sea is an uplifting experience with a lasting impact, as vital as Newgate is for Defoe. Poetry and life crowd around such an arrival.) Though Strether has arrived in only old England, he begins to doubt his mission. His doubts grow when he reaches Paris. For Chad Newsome, far from going downhill, has improved. He has distinction and is so confident that he can welcome warmly the man sent to bring him home. His friends are exquisite. As for the "women in the case" his mother expected, there is no sign of them at all. Paris has broadened his outlook and redeemed him. And how well Strether himself understands what Paris has done for Chad!

Thus, exquisitely and firmly, James sets his atmosphere—Paris irradiates the book from end to end, it is an actor though always unembodied, it is a scale by which human sensibility can be measured, and when we have finished the novel and allow its incidents to blur that we may see the pattern plainer, it is Paris that gleams at the centre of the hour-glass shape—Paris—nothing so crude as good or evil. Strether sees this soon, and sees that Chad realizes it better than he himself can; and when he has reached this stage of initiation the novel takes a turn: there is, after all, a woman in the case; behind Paris, interpreting it for Chad, is the adorable and exalted figure of Mme. de Vionnet. It is now impossible for Strether to proceed. All that is noble and refined in life concentrates in Mme. de Vionnet and is reinforced by her pathos. She asks him not to take Chad away. He promises—without reluctance, for his own heart has already shown him as much—and he remains in Paris not to fight it but to fight for it.

With delicacy and assurance, James establishes his atmosphere. Paris lights up the book from beginning to end. The city is an actor, though never physically embodied. It is a measure of human sensitivity. When we finish the novel, we let its events blur so that we can see the pattern more clearly. Then Paris shines at the centre of the hourglass shape. Paris, nothing so crude as good or evil. Strether soon sees this quality in Paris. He also sees that Chad understands it better than he does. Once Strether has reached this stage of understanding, the novel takes a turn. There is, after all, a woman involved. Behind Paris, interpreting the city for Chad, stands the lovable and noble figure of Mme. de Vionnet. Now Strether cannot go ahead. Everything noble and refined in life comes together in Mme. de Vionnet, strengthened by the sadness of her situation. She asks him not to take Chad away. He promises without reluctance, for his own heart has already led him to the same decision. And he stays in Paris, not to fight the city but to fight for it.

For the second batch of ambassadors now arrives from the New World. Mrs. Newsome, incensed and puzzled by the unseemly delay, has despatched Chad's sister, his brother-in-law, and Mamie, the girl whom he is supposed to marry. The novel now becomes, within its ordained limits, most amusing. There is a superb set-to between Chad's sister and Mme. de Vionnet, while as for Mamie—here is disastrous Mamie, seen as we see all things, through Strether's eyes.

For now the second group of ambassadors arrives from the New World. Mrs. Newsome is furious and puzzled by the improper delay. She has sent Chad's sister, his brother-in-law, and Mamie, the girl he is supposed to marry. Within its set limits, the novel now becomes very amusing. There is a superb clash between Chad's sister and Mme. de Vionnet. As for Mamie, here is disastrous Mamie, seen, like everything else, through Strether's eyes.

Mamie! She is another Henry James type; nearly every novel contains a Mamie—Mrs. Gereth in The Spoils of Poynton for instance, or Henrietta Stackpole in The Portrait of a Lady. He is so good at indicating instantaneously and constantly that a character is second rate, deficient in sensitiveness, abounding in the wrong sort of worldliness; he gives such a character so much vitality that its absurdity is delightful.

Mamie! She is another Henry James type. Nearly every novel contains a Mamie. Examples include Mrs. Gereth in The Spoils of Poynton or Henrietta Stackpole in The Portrait of a Lady. James is so good at making it immediately and consistently clear that a character is second-rate. Such characters lack sensitivity and have far too much of the wrong kind of worldliness. He gives such a character so much life that the character’s absurdity becomes delightful.

So Strether changes sides and loses all hopes of marrying Mrs. Newsome. Paris is winning—and then he catches sight of something new. Is not Chad, as regards any fineness in him, played out? Is not Chad's Paris after all just a place for a spree? This fear is confirmed. He goes for a solitary country walk, and at the end of the day he comes across Chad and Mme. de Vionnet. They are in a boat, they pretend not to see him, because their relation is at bottom an ordinary liaison, and they are ashamed. They were hoping for a secret week-end at an inn while their passion survived; for it will not survive, Chad will tire of the exquisite Frenchwoman, she is part of his fling; he will go back to his mother and make the little domestic article and marry Mamie. They know all this, and it is revealed to Strether though they try to hide it; they lie, they are vulgar—even Mme. de Vionnet, even her pathos, once so exquisite, is stained with commonness.

So Strether changes sides and loses all hope of marrying Mrs. Newsome. Paris is winning, and then he notices something new. Hasn’t Chad exhausted whatever finer qualities he had? Isn’t Paris, for Chad, really just a place for a fling? Strether’s fear is confirmed. He goes for a walk alone in the country. At the end of the day, he comes across Chad and Mme. de Vionnet. They are in a boat and pretend not to see him. Their relationship is, at bottom, an ordinary affair, and they are ashamed. They were hoping for a secret weekend at an inn while their passion lasted. For their passion will not last. Chad will tire of the exquisite Frenchwoman. She is part of his fling. He will return to his mother, manufacture the little household item, and marry Mamie. Chad and Mme. de Vionnet know all this. Strether sees the truth, though they try to hide it. They lie. They are vulgar. Even Mme. de Vionnet is tainted by this commonness, even the sadness about her that once seemed so exquisite.

So Strether loses them too. As he says: "I have lost everything—it is my only logic." It is not that they have gone back. It is that he has gone on. The Paris they revealed to him—he could reveal it to them now, if they had eyes to see, for it is something finer than they could ever notice for themselves, and his imagination has more spiritual value than their youth. The pattern of the hour-glass is complete; he and Chad have changed places, with more subtle steps than Thais and Paphnuce, and the light in the clouds proceeds not from the well-lit Alexandria, but from the jewel which "twinkled and trembled and melted together, and what seemed all surface one moment seemed all depth the next."

So Strether loses them too. As he says: "I have lost everything. It is my only logic." Not because they have gone back, but because he has moved forward. They showed him Paris, but now he could show it to them, if they had eyes to see. For the Paris he sees is finer than anything they could ever notice for themselves. And his imagination has more spiritual value than their youth. The hourglass pattern is complete. He and Chad have changed places, taking subtler steps than Thais and Paphnuce. And the light in the clouds comes not from brightly lit Alexandria, but from the jewel. The jewel "twinkled and trembled and melted together, and what seemed all surface one moment seemed all depth the next."

The beauty that suffuses The Ambassadors is the reward due to a fine artist for hard work. James knew exactly what he wanted, he pursued the narrow path of æsthetic duty, and success to the full extent of his possibilities has crowned him. The pattern has woven itself with modulation and reservations Anatole France will never attain. Woven itself wonderfully. But at what sacrifice!

The beauty that fills The Ambassadors is a fine artist’s well-earned reward for hard work. James knew exactly what he wanted. He followed the narrow path of artistic duty and achieved all the success he was capable of. The pattern has woven itself with subtle variations and restraint that Anatole France will never achieve. Woven itself wonderfully. But at what cost!

So enormous is the sacrifice that many readers cannot get interested in James, although they can follow what he says (his difficulty has been much exaggerated), and can appreciate his effects. They cannot grant his premise, which is that most of human life has to disappear before he can do us a novel.

The sacrifice is so great that many readers cannot get interested in James, although they can follow what he says. (The difficulty of his writing has been greatly exaggerated.) These readers can also appreciate the effects he achieves. But they cannot accept his premise: most of human life has to disappear before he can write a novel.

He has, in the first place, a very short list of characters. I have already mentioned two—the observer who tries to influence the action, and the second-rate outsider (to whom, for example, all the brilliant opening of What Maisie Knew is entrusted). Then there is the sympathetic foil—very lively and frequently female—in The Ambassadors. Maria Gostrey plays this part; there is the wonderful rare heroine, whom Mme. de Vionnet approached and who is consummated by Milly in The Wings of the Dove; there is sometimes a villain, sometimes a young artist with generous impulses; and that is about all. For so fine a novelist it is a poor show.

First, he uses a very small range of character types. I have already mentioned two: the observer who tries to influence events, and the second-rate outsider. For example, the second-rate outsider is entrusted with the whole brilliant opening of What Maisie Knew. Then there is the sympathetic foil, a very lively character who is often female. In The Ambassadors, Maria Gostrey plays this role. There is also the wonderful, rare heroine. Mme. de Vionnet comes close to this ideal, and Milly in The Wings of the Dove fully realizes it. Sometimes there is a villain, sometimes a young artist with generous impulses. And that is about all. For so fine a novelist, it is a poor showing.

In the second place, the characters, beside being few in number, are constructed on very stingy lines. They are incapable of fun, of rapid motion, of carnality, and of nine-tenths of heroism. Their clothes will not take off, the diseases that ravage them are anonymous, like the sources of their income, their servants are noiseless or resemble themselves, no social explanation of the world we know is possible for them, for there are no stupid people in their world, no barriers of language, and no poor. Even their sensations are limited. They can land in Europe and look at works of art and at each other, but that is all. Maimed creatures can alone breathe in Henry James's pages—maimed yet specialized. They remind one of the exquisite deformities who haunted Egyptian art in the reign of Akhenaton—huge heads and tiny legs, but nevertheless charming. In the following reign they disappear.

Second, the characters are not only few in number but also drawn within very narrow limits. They are incapable of fun, quick movement, sexual desire, and nine-tenths of heroism. Their clothes cannot come off. The diseases that ravage them go unnamed, as do their sources of income. Their servants are silent or resemble their employers. These characters cannot offer any social explanation of the world we know. For their world has no stupid people, no language barriers, and no poor people. Even their sensations are limited. They can arrive in Europe and look at works of art and at each other, but that is all. Only maimed creatures can breathe in Henry James's pages. They are maimed, yet specialized. They recall the exquisitely deformed figures that haunted Egyptian art during the reign of Akhenaton. Those figures had huge heads and tiny legs, but were nevertheless charming. In the next reign, they disappear.

Now this drastic curtailment, both of the numbers of human beings and of their attributes, is in the interests of the pattern. The longer James worked, the more convinced he grew that a novel should be a whole—not necessarily geometric like The Ambassadors, but it should accrete round a single topic, situation, gesture, which should occupy the characters and provide a plot, and should also fasten up the novel on the outside—catch its scattered statements in a net, make them cohere like a planet, and swing through the skies of memory. A pattern must emerge, and anything that emerged from the pattern must be pruned off as wanton distraction. Who so wanton as human beings? Put Tom Jones or Emma or even Mr. Casaubon into a Henry James book, and the book will burn to ashes, whereas we could put them into one another's books and only cause local inflammation. Only a Henry James character will suit, and though they are not dead—certain selected recesses of experience he explores very well—they are gutted of the common stuff that fills characters in other books, and ourselves. And this castrating is not in the interests of the Kingdom of Heaven, there is no philosophy in the novels, no religion (except an occasional touch of superstition), no prophecy, no benefit for the superhuman at all. It is for the sake of a particular æsthetic effect which is certainly gained, but at this heavy price.

This drastic reduction in both the number of human beings and their qualities serves the novel’s pattern. The longer James worked, the more convinced he became that a novel should form a whole. It need not be geometric like The Ambassadors. But it should grow around a single topic, situation, or gesture that occupies the characters and provides a plot. This central focus should also bind the novel together from the outside. It should gather the novel’s scattered statements in a net, forming a coherent planet that swings through memory’s skies. A pattern must emerge, and anything that strays beyond the pattern must be pruned away as a needless distraction. Who strays more freely than human beings? Put Tom Jones or Emma or even Mr. Casaubon into a Henry James book, and the book will burn to ashes. Yet we could put these characters into one another’s books and cause only local inflammation. Only a Henry James character will fit, and yet his characters are not dead. He explores certain selected corners of experience very well. But his characters are emptied of the common substance that fills characters in other books, and ourselves. And this castration does not serve the Kingdom of Heaven. There is no philosophy in the novels, no religion (except an occasional touch of superstition), and no prophecy. Nothing in them serves anything beyond the human at all. This castration serves a particular artistic effect, which James certainly achieves, but at this heavy price.

H. G. Wells has been amusing on this point, and perhaps profound. In Boon—one of his liveliest works—he had Henry James much upon his mind, and wrote a superb parody of him.

H. G. Wells has been funny on this point, and perhaps profound. In Boon, one of his liveliest works, he was thinking a great deal about Henry James. He wrote a superb parody of James.

Wells sent Boon as a present to James, apparently thinking the master would be as much pleased by such heartiness and honesty as was he himself. The master was far from pleased, and a most interesting correspondence ensued.¹⁰ Each of the eminent men becomes more and more himself as it proceeds. James is polite, reminiscent, bewildered, and exceedingly formidable: he admits that the parody has not "filled him with a fond elation," and regrets in conclusion that he can sign himself "only yours faithfully, Henry James." Wells is bewildered too, but in a different way; he cannot understand why the man should be upset. And, beyond the personal comedy, there is the great literary importance of the issue. It is this question of the rigid pattern: hour-glass or grand chain or converging lines of the cathedral or diverging lines of the Catherine wheel, or bed of Procrustes—whatever image you like as long as it implies unity. Can it be combined with the immense richness of material which life provides? Wells and James would agree it cannot, Wells would go on to say that life should be given the preference, and must not be whittled or distended for a pattern's sake. My own prejudices are with Wells. The James novels are a unique possession and the reader who cannot accept his premises misses some valuable and exquisite sensations. But I do not want more of his novels, especially when they are written by some one else, just as I do not want the art of Akhenaton to extend into the reign of Tutankhamen.

Wells sent Boon as a gift to James. Apparently, Wells thought the master would enjoy its warmth and honesty as much as he did. The master was far from pleased, and a most interesting exchange of letters followed.¹⁰ As the exchange continues, each of these distinguished men becomes more and more himself. James is polite, full of memories, bewildered, and extremely formidable. He admits that the parody has not "filled him with a fond elation," and ends by expressing regret. He can sign himself "only yours faithfully, Henry James." Wells is bewildered too, but in a different way. He cannot understand why James should be upset. Beyond the personal comedy, the issue has great literary importance. The question concerns rigid patterns: an hourglass, a grand chain, a cathedral's converging lines, a Catherine wheel's diverging lines. Or a bed of Procrustes. Choose whatever image you like, as long as the image suggests unity. Can such a pattern accommodate the immense richness of material that life provides? Wells and James would agree that it cannot. Wells would go on to say that life should come first. Life must not be cut down or stretched to fit a pattern. My own sympathies are with Wells. James's novels are a unique treasure. Readers who cannot accept his premises miss some valuable and exquisite experiences. But I do not want more of his novels, especially when someone else writes them. Just as I do not want the art of Akhenaton to extend into the reign of Tutankhamen.

That then is the disadvantage of a rigid pattern. It may externalize the atmosphere, spring naturally from the plot, but it shuts the doors on life and leaves the novelist doing exercises, generally in the drawing-room. Beauty has arrived, but in too tyrannous a guise. In plays—the plays of Racine, for instance—she may be justified because beauty can be a great empress on the stage, and reconcile us to the loss of the men we knew. But in the novel, her tyranny as it grows powerful grows petty, and generates regrets which sometimes take the form of books like Boon. To put it in other words, the novel is not capable of as much artistic development as the drama: its humanity or the grossness of its material hinder it (use whichever phrase you like). To most readers of fiction the sensation from a pattern is not intense enough to justify the sacrifices that made it, and their verdict is "Beautifully done, but not worth doing."

That, then, is the drawback of a rigid pattern. It may give outward form to the atmosphere and arise naturally from the plot. But it shuts out life and leaves the novelist doing exercises, usually in the drawing room. Beauty has arrived, but as too much of a tyrant. In plays, such as those of Racine, her rule may be justified. Beauty can be a great empress on stage and reconcile us to losing the people we knew. But in the novel, the more powerful her tyranny becomes, the pettier it becomes. It creates regrets that sometimes take the form of books like Boon. In other words, the novel cannot develop as far artistically as drama can. Its humanity, or the crudeness of its material, holds it back (use whichever phrase you like). For most fiction readers, the feeling a pattern produces is not intense enough to justify the sacrifices needed to create it. Their verdict is "Beautifully done, but not worth doing."

Still this is not the end of our quest. We will not give up the hope of beauty yet. Cannot it be introduced into fiction by some other method than the pattern? Let us edge rather nervously towards the idea of "rhythm."

Still, our search is not over. We will not give up hope of beauty yet. Can't beauty be brought into fiction in some way other than pattern? Let us move rather nervously toward the idea of "rhythm."

Rhythm is sometimes quite easy. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, for instance, starts with the rhythm "diddidy dum," which we can all hear and tap to. But the symphony as a whole has also a rhythm—due mainly to the relation between its movements—which some people can hear but no one can tap to. This second sort of rhythm is difficult, and whether it is substantially the same as the first sort only a musician could tell us. What a literary man wants to say though is that the first kind of rhythm, the diddidy dum, can be found in certain novels and may give them beauty. And the other rhythm, the difficult one—the rhythm of the Fifth Symphony as a whole—I cannot quote you any parallels for that in fiction, yet it may be present.

Rhythm is sometimes quite easy. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, for instance, starts with the rhythm "diddidy dum," which we can all hear and tap to. But the symphony as a whole also has a rhythm, mainly because of the relationship between its movements. Some people can hear this overall rhythm, but no one can tap to it. This second kind of rhythm is difficult. Only a musician could tell us whether it is essentially the same as the first kind. What someone writing about literature wants to say, though, is that the first kind appears in certain novels. This diddidy dum rhythm may give those novels beauty. As for the other, difficult rhythm, the rhythm of the Fifth Symphony as a whole, I cannot offer any parallels in fiction. Yet that kind of rhythm may be present.

Rhythm in the easy sense, is illustrated by the work of Marcel Proust.¹¹

Rhythm, in the simpler sense, is illustrated by Marcel Proust’s work.¹¹

Proust's conclusion has not been published yet, and his admirers say that when it comes everything will fall into its place, times past will be recaptured and fixed, we shall have a perfect whole. I do not believe this. The work seems to me a progressive rather than an æsthetic confession, and with the elaboration of Albertine the author was getting tired. Bits of news may await us, but it will be surprising if we have to revise our opinion of the whole book. The book is chaotic, ill constructed, it has and will have no external shape; and yet it hangs together because it is stitched internally, because it contains rhythms.

Proust's ending has not been published yet. His admirers say that when it appears, everything will fall into place. The past will be recaptured and fixed in place, and we shall have a perfect whole. I do not believe them. The work seems to me a confession unfolding over time rather than one shaped by artistic design. And as the author developed Albertine in greater detail, he was getting tired. Bits of news may await us, but it will be surprising if we must rethink our view of the whole book. The book is chaotic and poorly constructed. It has no overall shape and never will. Yet it holds together because it is stitched together from within, because it contains rhythms.

There are several examples (the photographing of the grandmother is one of them) but the most important from the binding point of view is his use of the "little phrase" in the music of Vinteuil. It does more than anything else—more even than the jealousy which successively destroys Swann, the hero, and Charlus—to make us feel that we are in a homogeneous world. We first hear Vinteuil's name in hideous circumstances. The musician is dead—an obscure little country organist, unknown to fame—and his daughter is defiling his memory. The horrible scene is to radiate in several directions, but it passes, we forget about it.

There are several examples (photographing the grandmother is one of them). But his use of the "little phrase" in Vinteuil's music is the most important way he holds everything together. The phrase does more than anything else to make us feel we are in a unified world. It does more even than the jealousy that destroys Swann, the hero, and Charlus in turn. We first hear Vinteuil's name in hideous circumstances. The musician is dead. He was an obscure organist in the countryside, unknown to fame, and his daughter is dishonoring his memory. The horrible scene will have effects in several directions, but the scene passes, and we forget about it.

Then we are at a Paris salon. A violin sonata is performed and a little phrase from its andante catches the ear of Swann and steals into his life. It is always a living being, but takes various forms. For a time it attends his love for Odette. The love affair goes wrong, the phrase is forgotten, we forget it. Then it breaks out again when he is ravaged by jealousy, and now it attends his misery and past happiness at once, without losing its own divine character. Who wrote the sonata? On hearing it is by Vinteuil, Swann says, "I once knew a wretched little organist of that name—it couldn't be by him." But it is, and Vinteuil's daughter and her friend transcribed and published it.

Then we are in a Paris salon. A violin sonata is played. A little phrase from its andante catches Swann's ear and slips into his life. The phrase is always a living being, but takes different forms. For a time, the phrase accompanies his love for Odette. The love affair goes wrong, the phrase is forgotten, and we forget it too. Then the phrase bursts out again when Swann is tormented by jealousy. Now the phrase accompanies both his misery and his past happiness, without losing its own divine character. Who wrote the sonata? When Swann hears that the composer is Vinteuil, he says, "I once knew a miserable little organist of that name. The sonata couldn't be by him." But the sonata is by Vinteuil, and Vinteuil's daughter and her friend transcribed and published it.

That seems all. The little phrase crosses the book again and again, but as an echo, a memory; we like to encounter it, but it has no binding power. Then, hundreds and hundreds of pages on, when Vinteuil has become a national possession, and there is talk of raising a statue to him in the town where he has been so wretched and so obscure, another work of his is performed—a posthumous sextet. The hero listens—he is in an unknown rather terrible universe while a sinister dawn reddens the sea. Suddenly for him and for the reader too, the little phrase of the sonata recurs—half heard, changed, but giving complete orientation, so that he is back in the country of his childhood with the knowledge that it belongs to the unknown.

That seems to be all. The little musical phrase returns again and again throughout the book, but as an echo, a memory. We like coming across it, but it has no power to hold things together. Then, hundreds and hundreds of pages later, Vinteuil has become a national treasure. There is talk of putting up a statue of him in the town where he was so miserable and unknown. Another work of his is performed, a sextet published after his death. The hero listens. He is in an unknown, rather terrifying universe, while an ominous dawn turns the sea red. Suddenly, for him and for the reader too, the little phrase from the sonata returns. It is half heard and changed, but gives him a complete sense of where he is. So he is back in the landscape of his childhood, knowing that this landscape belongs to the unknown.

We are not obliged to agree with Proust's actual musical descriptions (they are too pictorial for my own taste): but what we must admire is his use of rhythm in literature, and his use of something which is akin by nature to the effect it has to produce—namely a musical phrase. Heard by various people—first by Swann, then by the hero—the phrase of Vinteuil is not tethered; it is not a banner such as we find George Meredith using—a double-blossomed cherry tree to accompany Clara Middleton, a yacht in smooth waters for Cecilia Halkett. A banner can only reappear, rhythm can develop, and the little phrase has a life of its own, unconnected with the lives of its auditors, as with the life of the man who composed it. It is almost an actor, but not quite, and that "not quite" means that its power has gone towards stitching Proust's book together from the inside, and towards the establishment of beauty and the ravishing of the reader's memory. There are times when the little phrase—from its gloomy inception, through the sonata into the sextet—means everything to the reader. There are times when it means nothing and is forgotten, and this seems to me the function of rhythm in fiction; not to be there all the time like a pattern, but by its lovely waxing and waning to fill us with surprise and freshness and hope.

We do not have to agree with Proust's actual descriptions of music. (They are too much like pictures for my taste.) But we must admire his use of rhythm in literature. We must also admire his use of a musical phrase, whose nature suits the effect he wants to create. Various people hear Vinteuil's phrase, first Swann, then the hero, but the phrase is not tied to them. It is not a banner of the kind George Meredith uses. Meredith gives Clara Middleton a double-blossomed cherry tree and Cecilia Halkett a yacht in smooth waters. A banner can only reappear, but rhythm can develop. The little phrase has a life of its own, independent of its listeners' lives and of its composer's life. The phrase is almost an actor, but not quite. And that "not quite" means its power has helped stitch Proust's book together from within. That power has also helped create beauty and enchant the reader's memory. At times, the little phrase means everything to the reader, from its dark beginnings, through the sonata into the sextet. At other times, the phrase means nothing and is forgotten. To me, this seems to be the role of rhythm in fiction. Rhythm should not be there all the time like a pattern. Instead, through its beautiful rise and fall, rhythm should fill us with surprise and freshness and hope.

Done badly, rhythm is most boring, it hardens into a symbol and instead of carrying us on it trips us up. With exasperation we find that Galsworthy's spaniel John, or whatever it is, lies under the feet again; and even Meredith's cherry trees and yachts, graceful as they are, only open the windows into poetry. I doubt that it can be achieved by the writers who plan their books beforehand, it has to depend on a local impulse when the right interval is reached. But the effect can be exquisite, it can be obtained without mutilating the characters, and it lessens our need of an external form.

Handled badly, rhythm is extremely boring. It hardens into a symbol and trips us up instead of carrying us forward. We find, in exasperation, that Galsworthy's spaniel John, or whatever it is, is underfoot again. And even Meredith's cherry trees and yachts, graceful as they are, only open windows into poetry. I doubt that writers who plan their books in advance can achieve rhythm. Rhythm has to depend on a spontaneous impulse when the right interval is reached. But the effect can be exquisite. Writers can achieve rhythm without distorting the characters, and rhythm reduces our need for an external form.

That must suffice on the subject of easy rhythm in fiction: which may be defined as repetition plus variation, and which can be illustrated by examples. Now for the more difficult question. Is there any effect in novels comparable to the effect of the Fifth Symphony as a whole, where, when the orchestra stops, we hear something that has never actually been played? The opening movement, the andante, and the trio-scherzo-trio-finale-trio-finale that composes the third block, all enter the mind at once, and extend one another into a common entity. This common entity, this new thing, is the symphony as a whole, and it has been achieved mainly (though not entirely) by the relation between the three big blocks of sound which the orchestra has been playing. I am calling this relation "rhythmic." If the correct musical term is something else, that does not matter; what we have now to ask ourselves is whether there is any analogy to it in fiction.

That is enough about simple rhythm in fiction, which may be defined as repetition plus variation and illustrated with examples. Now for the harder question. Can novels produce an effect like that of the Fifth Symphony as a whole? When the orchestra stops, we hear something that has never actually been played. The opening movement, the andante, and the trio-scherzo-trio-finale-trio-finale that makes up the third block all enter the mind at once. They extend one another, forming a unified whole. This unified whole, this new thing, is the symphony as a whole. It has been created mainly, though not entirely, by the relationship between the three large blocks of sound the orchestra has played. I am calling this relationship "rhythmic." If the correct musical term is something else, that does not matter. What we must now ask ourselves is whether anything in fiction works in a similar way.

I cannot find any analogy. Yet there may be one; in music fiction is likely to find its nearest parallel.

I cannot find a comparison. Yet there may be one. Fiction is likely to find its closest parallel in music.

The position of the drama is different. The drama may look towards the pictorial arts, it may allow Aristotle to discipline it, for it is not so deeply committed to the claims of human beings. Human beings have their great chance in the novel. They say to the novelist: "Recreate us if you like, but we must come in," and the novelist's problem, as we have seen all along, is to give them a good run and to achieve something else at the same time. Whither shall he turn? not indeed for help but for analogy. Music, though it does not employ human beings, though it is governed by intricate laws, nevertheless does offer in its final expression a type of beauty which fiction might achieve in its own way. Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must cling to. Not completion. Not rounding off but opening out. When the symphony is over we feel that the notes and tunes composing it have been liberated, they have found in the rhythm of the whole their individual freedom. Cannot the novel be like that? Is not there something of it in War and Peace?—the book with which we began and in which we must end. Such an untidy book. Yet, as we read it, do not great chords begin to sound behind us, and when we have finished does not every item—even the catalogue of strategies—lead a larger existence than was possible at the time?

Drama is in a different position. Drama may look to the visual arts and may let Aristotle impose order on it. For drama is not so deeply committed to the demands of human beings. Human beings have their great chance in the novel. They say to the novelist: "Recreate us if you like, but we must be included." As we have seen throughout, the novelist must give human beings room to develop while also achieving something else. Where should the novelist turn, not for help, but for comparison? Music uses no human beings and is governed by complex laws. Yet the finished work offers a kind of beauty that fiction might achieve in its own way. Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must hold on to. Not completion. Not tying things up, but opening them out. When a symphony ends, we feel that its notes and melodies have been set free. Within the rhythm of the whole, each has found its individual freedom. Could the novel not be like that? Is there not something of that freedom in War and Peace? We began with this book, and we must end with it. Such an untidy book. Yet, as we read, do great chords not begin to sound behind us? And when we finish, does every detail, even the catalogue of strategies, not take on a larger life? Does each not become more than it could have been when we first encountered it?