21 MAY 1932, Page 8

Writers at Bay-

BY E. M. FORSTER.

THE author, a creature invariably at his worst, is never more so than when he is being questioned

In this ordeal the poet is in the best position, because almost the only question that can be put to a poet is, " However do you think of that wonderful stuff ? " His answer will be unsatisfactory, but it will be uninteresting, which saves him. No one expects poetry to have any meaning, and when one has inspected the poet's physical appearance, and marvelled aloud at his existence, he may be suffered to depart. He laughed unassumingly. He wore a poplin tie. And the historian—if a historian be an author, and Lytton Strachey has perhaps dragged him into that disrepute—the historian has also his way of escape, for he can take refuge in the mysterious fortress known as " the authorities." " Why were you so horrid about the Countess Matilda ? But perhaps you dislike women." This question, so fatal to the novelist, need not perturb the historian. He has only to say, " Oh, but the authorities . . . you see there's that Cracow MS. . . . " " Cracow ? " echoes the half-pleased bird. " Yes—the new Southern Slav stuff," and Countess Matilda is forgotten, and all is scholarship and sunshine.

No, it is the novelist who really goes in peril. The

novelist is the only writer who is credited with ordinary common sense, and this compliment has proved his un- doing. He is supposed to have eyes and a tongue in his head, and to answer questions. " Do you think first of your plot or of your characters ? " is the brainiest of these questions, and held to be as legitimate as asking the cook whether she melts the butter first or lets it wait for the eggs. The cook can reply and so should her literary confrere. There should not be this unseemly hesitation. " Do you work at certain fixed hours, or when the spirit moves you ? " Something on the lines of " It depends largely on the oven " is expected, and so with " How long does it take to get an average novel done ? " and " Are short stories quicker in proportion or slower ? " Happy the author whose examination ends here. He will be well advised to expatiate and to chant with the cook : " Melt the eggs and fry for six hours the butter of course first naturally the whole not taking more than ten minutes say," until curiosity tires. For so he may be spared the most dangerous of all the questions : " Do you put real people into your books ? "

He answers " No," and he lies. But what else is he to

do, ever since Mr. Jones won that libel action ? There was a dishonest business man in a novel called Jones, and Mr. Jones was in business, so won. The safe reply is, indeed, " I neither put real people into my books nor do

I give them real names. Jones is pronounced like ' ponies.' " And even that may not save him. For if the case come into court he will have against him the envy of the magistrate—himself an unsuccessful author— and the mistrust of the jury, who, however much they indulge in secret reading, are not disposed. to condone

literature publicly, Jonies may win again. And anyhow, there is a second reason for lying : conceit. Writers are vain of their creative powers and most reluctant to admit that they have " taken " a character from life, particularly from contemporary life. They like it to be supposed that they have acquired experience in a pre- natal dream. They simply are not to be trusted on this point ; they just are liars ; and if the observer wishes them to continue in his good graces he will be wise to desist, murmur " Genius has its own ways," and end the dialogue in a manner creditable to all.

Let us take a few of the novels that have been accused of containing real people—Bleak House, Diana of the Crossways, Men like Gods, Chrome Yellow, Cakes and Ale—and, playing always for safety, let us take the most remote of these, and watch Dickens all over the shop. He begins by congratulating himself on Harold Skimpole as " an exact portrait, the absolute reproduction of a real man." Then comes the row. Skimpole is said to be Leigh Hunt. Dickens denies it indignantly, and tries to throw the blame on America. With the death of Leigh Hunt a further stage is reached ; remorse starts ; Dickens enters the confessional and tries to tell the truth. He is not sure what it is, but he tries. He admits that he did " yield too much to the temptation of making Skimpole speak like his old friend," did borrow Hunt's " gay and ostentatious wilfulness," but there the parallel ended. He would have us think that Skimpole consists of a slab of Hunt and slabs of unpleasing and unknown origin. What he does not see, or will not say, is that the matter cannot be argued out, because the fusion between the slabs took place when he was in the creative state. And a man in that state is very ruthless and will make the cruellest discoveries and statements about a friend. His is a poor defence, but none of his successors have thought of a better one. The less said the wiser ; and, indeed, an author's safest course in any questionnaire is to try to be a bore. He may find it more difficult than hitherto.

To refer to the writer as " he " is no doubt an anachronism, yet when a creature is under inquisition one can scarcely imagine it as female. Somehow or other a writeress at bay is unthinkable. What would she do ? Give notice perhaps, the cook's final and primal preroga- tive? Or court martyrdom by-wearing male attire, like Joan of Arc ? Or would she follow the advice of Stendhal, and cover herself with titles and decorations ? These are, he informs us, the only armour that will protect literature against impertinence.