THE SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND.* Is criticising this remarkable and
provoking book, we shall take it
for granted that "Maxwell Gray" is the real name of its author, that that author is a man and not a woman, and that this is his first effort in fiction. It is possible, perhaps even probable, that two at least of these surmises are incorrect,—that Maxwell Gray is no more a man than George Eliot, who is obviously his or her master (we use " master " advisedly) in fiction ; and that The Silence of Dean Maitland is no more Maxwell Gray's first novel
than—nine out of ten of the critics notwithstanding—Far
from the Madding Crowd turned out to be the first book of the author of A Pair of Blue Eyes. But the only safe method of dealing with the possible mystifications of authors—writers of fiction are too prone to mystification nowadays, and in con- sequence some of their number have to suffer for the sins of others—is to treat their statements as simple and
sober statements of the truth. Such a preliminary word of caution is necessary in the present instance, for Dean Maitland, the remarkable hero-villain of Mr. Maxwell Gray's story, strikes us as unreal, because he is the impersonation not of errant male, bat of errant female passion. The first of Dean Maitland's offences, the foundation of that marvellous temple of hypocrisy and crime which he pulls down about himself in the third volume with almost Samsonian force and Miltonic dignity, is his seduction of Alma Lee. The majority of readers will say that it is quite incredible that a man so refined, sensitive, and ambitious as Cyril Maitland is in reality, and not merely on the
surface, should have done such a thing. Nor is there any dis- puting that they would be in the right, unless it be conceded that
Cyril, while apparently the seducer, is really the seduced. It is this hermaphrodite sort of man that certain lady-novelists take a delight in portraying,—thus, Cyril Maitland has in him a good deal of Stephen Guest, though Alma has none of Maggie Tulliver.
It is advisable, therefore, to regard it as quite possible that Max- well Gray may be of the same sex as George Eliot.
We have said that The Silence of Dean Maitland is a re- markable, but also a provoking book. It is remarkable, because there is undoubted power in it, —power of realising human passion, power of realising natural scenery, that power of style which sometimes means eloquence, but sometimes also is nothing more than "that blessed word Mesopotamia.' " But it is also a provoking book, and for two different reasons. In the first place, one has a suspicion that the writer of it is not an original artist, but a very industrious imitator, that he has not actually seen his rustics, his impulse-driven hero, his " bits of Nature," but that he has got them up out of George Eliot and Mr. Hardy, much as Moore got up Persia preparatory to writing Lalla Bookh. Here is a passage which illustrates our meaning :—
"On New Year's Eve, the wheelwright's windows were all lighted up, and there was even a lantern at the little front wicket, which gazed out like a friendly eye, as if to bid people enter and make merry within, and threw a yellow, fan-shaped radiance on the steep road without. The porch door was open, and disclosed a passage lighted by a candle in a tin sconce adorned with holly. On one side, an open door revealed the chill dignities of the best parlour, which not even a blazing fire and abundance of holly berries could quite warm. On a haircloth sofa in this state apartment sat Mrs. Hale, of Melbourne Mill, and Mrs. Wax, the schoolmaster's wife, both exceedingly upright, and both holding a handkerchief of Gargantuan dimensions over the hands they crossed on their laps. Opposite, in a horse-hair arm-chair, sat an elderly lady in a plum-coloured silk gown, gold chain, and a splendid cap, also very upright, and also holding a Gargantuan handkerchief. This was Mrs. Cave, the wife of a small farmer in the neighbourhood. Each lady's face wore a resigned expression, mingled with the calm exultation natural to people who know themselves to be the most aristocratic persons in a social gathering. Each realised that Wilrde hat Bii/rde, and felt herself equal to the occasion ; each paused before making or replying to an observation, to consider the most genteel subjects of conversa- tion and the most genteel language in which to clothe them."
This is undeniably clever, and the conceit about the lantern at the front window serving as a friendly eye is better than clever. But the whole is forced, artificial, and spun out; there is a touch ef affectation in the repetition of " Gargantuan" and "genteel," and Mr. Hardy, had he been in the writer's place, would have
• The Silence of Dean Maitland. By Maxwell Gray. London: Kogan Patti, Trencb, and Co. 1885.
reproduced materialistically "the chill dignities of the best parlour," instead of merely referring to them as "revealed," by "an open door." Altogether, this passage—which is a typical one—is imitative realism.
But The Silence of Dean Maitland is provoking in another way. The author compels the reader to take an interest in his utterly incredible plot, in spite of himself and under protest. Cyril Maitland is, as we have already seen, a refined, impres- sionable clergyman, a "priest" of the Church of England, fitted to be what some irreverent wit has styled "an ecclesiastical ladies' doctor." He is attached to an amiable girl in his own station. Yet be allows himself to seduce—or be seduced by—Alma Lee, a rustic beauty. One crime leads to another. In self-defence, he " murders " Alma Lee's father. He permits the blame of his sins to rest, with the help of grotesquely improbable circum- stances, on his friend Everard, whom his own sister loves. Thanks to him and the perjury of Alma, who—this, too, is incredible — swears that Everard was the man who killed her father, this unfortunate man wastes the best years of his life as a convict. Meanwhile, Maitland prospers. He does not go mad as so sensitive a man would, and, perhaps, should have done; but he marries, gains a reputation as a preacher, reaches the position of a Dean, is on the point of being made a Bishop. Then, of course, the crash comes. Everard's term of eighteen years at Dartmoor ends. He is able to revisit the scenes of his earlier and happier life. He hears Dean Maitland preach, and sends him a letter in which he forgives the treachery that has aged him before his time. This letter has an effect upon Maitland that the severest reproaches would not have had. He resolves to unbosom him- self at last; and he does so after a fashion which has never occurred even to the most ingenious of playwrights. He has to deliver a sermon before a distinguished audience, including the Prime Minister of the day. This sermon consists of a full con- fession of his crimes. At the close he is found dead in the pulpit. One feels almost ashamed to be carried away by such a plot as this, and especially to be impressed by the eloquence of the dying Dean. Bat we defy any honest lover of a story not to be so carried away and so impressed. And, after all, the power to produce such results is the test of any novelist, who depends at least as much upon plot as upon character.
If the author of The Silence of Dean Maitland has in it made his first essay, he needs encouragement and warning in about equal measure. He is evidently a man of culture, and has made a study of style ; but he must beware lest he be "inebriated by the exuberance of his own verbosity." He has an eye to Nature and to character, especially character in humble life ; let him use that eye, and not the spectacles of any "master." Let him eschew " incidents " of the Hetty Sorrel or Alma Lee sort. Let him, above all things, seek to represent—if need be to idealise— the tragedy of real life, not the melodrama of the transpontine stage. It will be a matter for surprise and regret if the author of The Silence of Dean Maitland does not greatly improve upon this book, which may be unfavourably criticised, but cannot be despised or ignored.
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