The British Barbarians

INTRODUCTION

Which every reader of this book is requested to read before beginning the story.

This is a Hill-top Novel.  I dedicate it to all who have heart enough, brain enough, and soul enough to understand it.

What do I mean by a Hill-top Novel?  Well, of late we have been flooded with stories of evil tendencies:  a Hill-top Novel is one which raises a protest in favour of purity.

Why have not novelists raised the protest earlier?  For this reason.  Hitherto, owing to the stern necessity laid upon the modern seer for earning his bread, and, incidentally, for finding a publisher to assist him in promulgating his prophetic opinions, it has seldom happened that writers of exceptional aims have been able to proclaim to the world at large the things which they conceived to be best worth their telling it.  Especially has this been the case in the province of fiction.  Let me explain the situation.  Most novels nowadays have to run as serials through magazines or newspapers; and the editors of these periodicals are timid to a degree which outsiders would hardly believe with regard to the fiction they admit into their pages.  Endless spells surround them.  This story or episode would annoy their Catholic readers; that one would repel their Wesleyan Methodist subscribers; such an incident is unfit for the perusal of the young person; such another would drive away the offended British matron.  I do not myself believe there is any real ground for this excessive and, to be quite frank, somewhat ridiculous timidity.  Incredible as it may seem to the ordinary editor, I am of opinion that it would be possible to tell the truth, and yet preserve the circulation.  A first-class journal does not really suffer because two or three formalists or two or three bigots among its thousands of subscribers give it up for six weeks in a pet of ill-temper—­and then take it on again.  Still, the effect remains:  it is almost impossible to get a novel printed in an English journal unless it is warranted to contain nothing at all to which anybody, however narrow, could possibly object, on any grounds whatever, religious, political, social, moral, or aesthetic.  The romance that appeals to the average editor must say or hint at nothing at all that is not universally believed and received by everybody everywhere in this realm of Britain.  But literature, as Thomas Hardy says with truth, is mainly the expression of souls in revolt.  Hence the antagonism between literature and journalism.

Why, then, publish one’s novels serially at all?  Why not appeal at once to the outside public, which has few such prejudices?  Why not deliver one’s message direct to those who are ready to consider it or at least to hear it?  Because, unfortunately, the serial rights of a novel at the present day are three times as valuable, in money worth, as the final book rights.  A man who elects to publish direct, instead of running his story through the columns of a newspaper, is forfeiting, in other words, three-quarters of his income.  This loss the prophet who cares for his mission could cheerfully endure, of course, if only the diminished income were enough for him to live upon.  But in order to write, he must first eat.  In my own case, for example, up till the time when I published The Woman who Did, I could never live on the proceeds of direct publication; nor could I even secure a publisher who would consent to aid me in introducing to the world what I thought most important for it.  Having now found such a publisher—­having secured my mountain—­I am prepared to go on delivering my message from its top, as long as the world will consent to hear it.  I will willingly forgo the serial value of my novels, and forfeit three-quarters of the amount I might otherwise earn, for the sake of uttering the truth that is in me, boldly and openly, to a perverse generation.

For this reason, and in order to mark the distinction between these books which are really mine—­my own in thought, in spirit, in teaching—­and those which I have produced, sorely against my will, to satisfy editors, I propose in future to add the words, “A Hill-top Novel,” to every one of my stories which I write of my own accord, simply and solely for the sake of embodying and enforcing my own opinions.

Not that, as critics have sometimes supposed me to mean, I ever wrote a line, even in fiction, contrary to my own profound beliefs.  I have never said a thing I did not think:  but I have sometimes had to abstain from saying many things I did think.  When I wished to purvey strong meat for men, I was condemned to provide milk for babes.  In the Hill-top Novels, I hope to reverse all that—­to say my say in my own way, representing the world as it appears to me, not as editors and formalists would like me to represent it.

The Hill-top Novels, however, will not constitute, in the ordinary sense, a series.  I shall add the name, as a Trade Mark, to any story, by whomsoever published, which I have written as the expression of my own individuality.  Nor will they necessarily appear in the first instance in volume form.  If ever I should be lucky enough to find an editor sufficiently bold and sufficiently righteous to venture upon running a Hill-top Novel as a serial through his columns, I will gladly embrace that mode of publication.  But while editors remain as pusillanimous and as careless of moral progress as they are at present, I have little hope that I shall persuade any one of them to accept a work written with a single eye to the enlightenment and bettering of humanity.

Whenever, therefore, in future, the words “A Hill-top Novel” appear upon the title-page of a book by me, the reader who cares for truth and righteousness may take it for granted that the book represents my own original thinking, whether good or bad, on some important point in human society or human evolution.

Not, again, that any one of these novels will deliberately attempt to prove anything.  I have been amused at the allegations brought by certain critics against The Woman who Did that it “failed to prove” the practicability of unions such as Herminia’s and Alan’s.  The famous Scotsman, in the same spirit, objected to Paradise Lost that it “proved naething”:  but his criticism has not been generally endorsed as valid.  To say the truth, it is absurd to suppose a work of imagination can prove or disprove anything.  The author holds the strings of all his puppets, and can pull them as he likes, for good or evil:  he can make his experiments turn out well or ill:  he can contrive that his unions should end happily or miserably:  how, then, can his story be said to prove anything?  A novel is not a proposition in Euclid.  I give due notice beforehand to reviewers in general, that if any principle at all is “proved” by any of my Hill-top Novels, it will be simply this:  “Act as I think right, for the highest good of human kind, and you will infallibly and inevitably come to a bad end for it.”

Not to prove anything, but to suggest ideas, to arouse emotions, is, I take it, the true function of fiction.  One wishes to make one’s readers think about problems they have never considered, feel with sentiments they have disliked or hated.  The novelist as prophet has his duty defined for him in those divine words of Shelley’s: 

    “Singing songs unbidden
     Till the world is wrought
     To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.”

That, too, is the reason that impels me to embody such views as these in romantic fiction, not in deliberate treatises.  “Why sow your ideas broadcast,” many honest critics say, “in novels where mere boys and girls can read them?  Why not formulate them in serious and argumentative books, where wise men alone will come across them?” The answer is, because wise men are wise already:  it is the boys and girls of a community who stand most in need of suggestion and instruction.  Women, in particular, are the chief readers of fiction; and it is women whom one mainly desires to arouse to interest in profound problems by the aid of this vehicle.  Especially should one arouse them to such living interest while they are still young and plastic, before they have crystallised and hardened into the conventional marionettes of polite society.  Make them think while they are young:  make them feel while they are sensitive:  it is then alone that they will think and feel, if ever.  I will venture, indeed, to enforce my views on this subject by a little apologue which I have somewhere read, or heard,—­or invented.

A Revolutionist desired to issue an Election Address to the Working Men of Bermondsey.  The Rector of the Parish saw it at the printer’s, and came to him, much perturbed.  “Why write it in English?” he asked.  “It will only inflame the minds of the lower orders.  Why not allow me to translate it into Ciceronian Latin?  It would then be comprehensible to all University men; your logic would be duly and deliberately weighed:  and the tanners and tinkers, who are so very impressionable, would not be poisoned by it.”  “My friend,” said the Revolutionist, “it is the tanners and tinkers I want to get at.  My object is, to win this election; University graduates will not help me to win it.”

The business of the preacher is above all things to preach; but in order to preach, he must first reach his audience.  The audience in this case consists in large part of women and girls, who are most simply and easily reached by fiction.  Therefore, fiction is today the best medium for the preacher of righteousness who addresses humanity.

Why, once more, this particular name, “A Hill-top Novel”?  For something like this reason.

I am writing in my study on a heather-clad hill-top.  When I raise my eye from my sheet of foolscap, it falls upon miles and miles of broad open moorland.  My window looks out upon unsullied nature.  Everything around is fresh and pure and wholesome.  Through the open casement, the scent of the pines blows in with the breeze from the neighbouring firwood.  Keen airs sigh through the pine-needles.  Grasshoppers chirp from deep tangles of bracken.  The song of a skylark drops from the sky like soft rain in summer; in the evening, a nightjar croons to us his monotonously passionate love-wail from his perch on the gnarled boughs of the wind-swept larch that crowns the upland.  But away below in the valley, as night draws on, a lurid glare reddens the north-eastern horizon.  It marks the spot where the great wen of London heaves and festers.  Up here on the free hills, the sharp air blows in upon us, limpid and clear from a thousand leagues of open ocean; down there in the crowded town, it stagnates and ferments, polluted with the diseases and vices of centuries.

This is an urban age.  The men of the villages, alas, are leaving behind them the green fields and purple moors of their childhood, are foolishly crowding into the narrow lanes and purlieus of the great cities.  Strange decadent sins and morbid pleasures entice them thither.  But I desire in these books to utter a word once more in favour of higher and purer ideals of life and art.  Those who sicken of the foul air and lurid light of towns may still wander side by side with me on these heathery highlands.  Far, far below, the theatre and the music-hall spread their garish gas-lamps.  Let who will heed them.  But here on the open hill-top we know fresher and more wholesome delights.  Those feverish joys allure us not.  O decadents of the town, we have seen your sham idyls, your tinsel Arcadias.  We have tired of their stuffy atmosphere, their dazzling jets, their weary ways, their gaudy dresses; we shun the sunken cheeks, the lack-lustre eyes, the heart-sick souls of your painted goddesses.  We love not the fetid air, thick and hot with human breath, and reeking with tobacco smoke, of your modern Parnassus—­ a Parnassus whose crags were reared and shaped by the hands of the stage-carpenter!  Your studied dalliance with your venal muses is little to our taste.  Your halls are too stifling with carbonic acid gas; for us, we breathe oxygen.

And the oxygen of the hill-tops is purer, keener, rarer, more ethereal.  It is rich in ozone.  Now, ozone stands to common oxygen itself as the clean-cut metal to the dull and leaden exposed surface.  Nascent and ever renascent, it has electrical attraction; it leaps to the embrace of the atom it selects, but only under the influence of powerful affinities; and what it clasps once, it clasps for ever.  That is the pure air which we drink in on the heather-clad heights—­not the venomous air of the crowded casino, nor even the close air of the middle-class parlour.  It thrills and nerves us.  How we smile, we who live here, when some dweller in the mists and smoke of the valley confounds our delicate atmosphere, redolent of honey and echoing the manifold murmur of bees, with that stifling miasma of the gambling hell and the dancing saloon!  Trust me, dear friend, the moorland air is far other than you fancy.  You can wander up here along the purple ridges, hand locked in hand with those you love, without fear of harm to yourself or your comrade.  No Bloom of Ninon here, but fresh cheeks like the peach-blossom where the sun has kissed it:  no casual fruition of loveless, joyless harlots, but life-long saturation of your own heart’s desire in your own heart’s innocence.  Ozone is better than all the champagne in the Strand or Piccadilly.  If only you will believe it, it is purity and life and sympathy and vigour.  Its perfect freshness and perpetual fount of youth keep your age from withering.  It crimsons the sunset and lives in the afterglow.  If these delights thy mind may move, leave, oh, leave the meretricious town, and come to the airy peaks.  Such joy is ours, unknown to the squalid village which spreads its swamps where the poet’s silver Thames runs dull and leaden.

Have we never our doubts, though, up here on the hill-tops?  Ay, marry, have we!  Are we so sure that these gospels we preach with all our hearts are the true and final ones?  Who shall answer that question?  For myself, as I lift up my eyes from my paper once more, my gaze falls first on the golden bracken that waves joyously over the sandstone ridge without, and then, within, on a little white shelf where lies the greatest book of our greatest philosopher.  I open it at random and consult its sortes.  What comfort and counsel has Herbert Spencer for those who venture to see otherwise than the mass of their contemporaries?

“Whoever hesitates to utter that which he thinks the highest truth, lest it should be too much in advance of the time, may reassure himself by looking at his acts from an impersonal point of view.  Let him duly realise the fact that opinion is the agency through which character adapts external arrangements to itself—­that his opinion rightly forms part of this agency—­is a unit of force, constituting, with other such units, the general power which works out social changes; and he will perceive that he may properly give full utterance to his innermost conviction; leaving it to produce what effect it may.  It is not for nothing that he has in him these sympathies with some principles and repugnances to others.  He, with all his capacities, and aspirations, and beliefs, is not an accident, but a product of the time.  He must remember that while he is a descendant of the past, he is a parent of the future; and that his thoughts are as children born to him, which he may not carelessly let die.  He, like every other man, may properly consider himself as one of the myriad agencies through whom works the Unknown Cause; and when the Unknown Cause produces in him a certain belief, he is thereby authorised to profess and act out that belief.  For, to render in their highest sense the words of the poet—­

    ’Nature is made better by no mean,
     But nature makes that mean; over that art
     Which you say adds to nature, is an art
     That nature makes.’

“Not as adventitious therefore will the wise man regard the faith which is in him.  The highest truth he sees he will fearlessly utter; knowing that, let what may come of it, he is thus playing his right part in the world—­knowing that if he can effect the change he aims at—­well:  if not—­well also; though not so well.”

That passage comforts me.  These, then, are my ideas.  They may be right, they may be wrong.  But at least they are the sincere and personal convictions of an honest man, warranted in him by that spirit of the age, of which each of us is but an automatic mouthpiece.

G. A.