ive pleasure to a reader of
taste. Rather hard on the class that alone has made novel-writing a
profession in which a man can earn a reasonable livelihood!

* * * * *

The explanation of this state of affairs is obscure. True, that
distinguished artists are very seldom born into the class. But such an
explanation would be extremely inadequate. Artists often move creatively
with ease far beyond the boundaries of their native class. Thomas Hardy is
not a peasant, nor was Stendhal a marquis. I could not, with any sort of
confidence, offer an explanation. I am, however, convinced that only a
supreme artist could now handle successfully the material presented by the
class in question. The material itself lacks interest, lacks essential
vitality, lacks both moral and spectacular beauty. It powerfully repels
the searcher after beauty and energy. It may be in a decay. One cannot
easily recall a great work of art of which the subject is decadence.

The backbone of the novel-reading public is excessively difficult to
please, and rarely capable of enthusiasm. Listen to Mudie subscribers on
the topic of fiction, and you will scarcely ever hear the accent of
unmixed pleasure. It is surprising how even favourites are maltreated in
conversation. Some of the most successful favourites seem to be hated, and
to be read under protest. The general form of approval is a doubtful
"Ye-es!" with a whole tail of unspoken "buts" lying behind it.
Occasionally you catch the ecstatic note, "Oh! _Yes_; a _sweet_ book!" Or,
with masculine curtness: "Fine book, that!" (For example, "The Hill," by
Horace Annesley Vachell!) It is in the light of such infrequent
exclamations that you may judge the tepid reluctance of other praise. The
reason of all this is twofold; partly in the book, and partly in the
reader. The backbone dislikes the raising of any question which it deems
to have been decided: a peculiarity which at once puts it in opposition to
all fine work, and to nearly all passable second-rate work. It also
dislikes being confronted with anything that it considers "unpleasant,"
that is to say, interesting. It has a genuine horror of the truth neat. It
quite honestly asks "to be taken out of itself," unaware that to be taken
out of itself is the very last thing it really desires. What it wants is
to be confirmed in itself. Its religion is the _status quo_. The
difficulties of the enterprise of not offending it either