instinctive conviction that imagination is the without-which-nothing of the art of fiction.  Miss Stella Benson is one who is not unobservant of disagreeables, but when she writes she can convey her satire in flashing, fantastic absurdity, in a heavenly chiding so delicate and subtle that the victim hardly knows he is being chidden.  The photographic facsimile of life always seems to us the lesser art, because it is so plainly the easier course.

We fear we are not acute enough to explain just why it is that Mr. Lewis’s salute to Mrs. Scott bothers us so.  But it does bother us a good deal.  We have nourished ourself, in the main, upon the work of two modern writers:  Robert Louis Stevenson and Joseph Conrad; we like to apply as a test such theories as we have been able to glean from those writers.  Faulty and erring as we are, we always rise from Mr. Conrad’s books purged and, for the moment, strengthened.  Apparent in him are that manly and honourable virtue, that strict saline truth and scrupulous regard for life, that liberation from cant, which seem to be inbred in those who have suffered the exacting discipline of the hostile sea.  Certainly Conrad cannot be called a writer who has neglected the tragic side of things.  Yet in his “Notes on Life and Letters,” we find this: 

What one feels so hopelessly barren in declared pessimism is just its arrogance.  It seems as if the discovery made by many men at various times that there is much evil in the world were a source of proud and unholy joy unto some of the modern writers.  That frame of mind is not the proper one in which to approach seriously the art of fiction....  To be hopeful in an artistic sense it is not necessary to think that the world is good.  It is enough to believe that there is no impossibility of its being made so....  I would ask that in his dealings with mankind he [the writer] should be capable of giving a tender recognition to their obscure virtues.  I would not have him impatient with their small failings and scornful of their errors.

We fear that our mild protest is rather mixed and muddled.  But what we darkly feel is this:  that no author “belongs,” or “understands,” or is “definitely an artist” who merely makes the phantoms of his imagination paltry or ridiculous.  They may be paltry, but they must also be pitiable; they may be ridiculous, but they must also be tragic.  Many authors have fallen from the sublime to the ridiculous; but, as Mr. Chesterton magnificently said, in order to make that descent they must first reach the sublime.

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LETTING OUT THE FURNACE