The fiercest excitements of a romance de cape et d’epee, the romance of yard-arm and boarding pike so dear to youth, whose knowledge of action (as of other things) is imperfect and limited, are matched, for the quickening of our maturer years, by the tasks set, by the difficulties presented, to the sense of truth, of necessity—­before all, of conduct—­of Mr. Henry James’s men and women.  His mankind is delightful.  It is delightful in its tenacity; it refuses to own itself beaten; it will sleep on the battlefield.  These warlike images come by themselves under the pen; since from the duality of man’s nature and the competition of individuals, the life-history of the earth must in the last instance be a history of a really very relentless warfare.  Neither his fellows, nor his gods, nor his passions will leave a man alone.  In virtue of these allies and enemies, he holds his precarious dominion, he possesses his fleeting significance; and it is this relation in all its manifestations, great and little, superficial or profound, and this relation alone, that is commented upon, interpreted, demonstrated by the art of the novelist in the only possible way in which the task can be performed:  by the independent creation of circumstance and character, achieved against all the difficulties of expression, in an imaginative effort finding its inspiration from the reality of forms and sensations.  That a sacrifice must be made, that something has to be given up, is the truth engraved in the innermost recesses of the fair temple built for our edification by the masters of fiction.  There is no other secret behind the curtain.  All adventure, all love, every success is resumed in the supreme energy of an act of renunciation.  It is the uttermost limit of our power; it is the most potent and effective force at our disposal on which rest the labours of a solitary man in his study, the rock on which have been built commonwealths whose might casts a dwarfing shadow upon two oceans.  Like a natural force which is obscured as much as illuminated by the multiplicity of phenomena, the power of renunciation is obscured by the mass of weaknesses, vacillations, secondary motives and false steps and compromises which make up the sum of our activity.  But no man or woman worthy of the name can pretend to anything more, to anything greater.  And Mr. Henry James’s men and women are worthy of the name, within the limits his art, so clear, so sure of itself, has drawn round their activities.  He would be the last to claim for them Titanic proportions.  The earth itself has grown smaller in the course of ages.  But in every sphere of human perplexities and emotions, there are more greatnesses than one—­not counting here the greatness of the artist himself.  Wherever he stands, at the beginning or the end of things, a man has to sacrifice his gods to his passions, or his passions to his gods.  That is the problem, great enough, in all truth, if approached in the spirit of sincerity and knowledge.