RUDYARD =LING'S FIRST NOVEL.* THOUGH Mr. Rudyard Kipling has perhaps
been more talked about and more reviewed than most of our present writers, it may not be altogether useless to examine his last tale, which has been advertised as his " first long story." Fresh from the perusal of it, we willingly own to having read it with great pleasure, and we think no one can put down The Light that Failed without giving it the hearty word of praise it deserves. We find ourselves carried away by its dash, its humour, its pathos ; and our first idea is that here is a bit of true life photographed for us by an experienced hand. The outline of the story is simple in the extreme ; indeed, it can hardly be said to possess a plot at all. Dick Heldar, the hero, falls in love with a little girl who has, as well as himself, the misfortune to be under the care of a female virago calling herself a Christian gentlewoman. After a Jong separation, the two meet again by chance in London. Dick is now a "special artist" and war-correspondent, and Maisie is giving herself up to art. The point of the book lies in the question whether she loves Dick well enough to marry him, or whether she prefers the pursuit of art, for which she has no real talent. Among the other very few characters in the book we must mention the genial Torpenhow, who is Dick's friend, and a poor unfortunate girl, Bessie, who plays the part of villain in this short novel.
We do not quarrel with the length of this book, or with the few characters it contains, and we must allow that it shows a great deal of originality to be able to dispense entirely with the heroine's surname, and to sketch with real delicacy a pathetic figure whose only appellative is "the red-haired girl;" but, judged by the standard of art—such as we understand it—we must say that, in our estimation, Mr. Rudyard Kipling has not succeeded in adding to his literary reputation by using a larger canvas. We do not affirm, as some -foolish prophets are apt to do, that the author will _never write a good long story, because what he requires in order to succeed is a skill that can be learnt either by great labour or by long practice ; but we do say that, judging from this book, it is extremely doubtful if the Rudyard-Kipling mind will ever acquire the power to write a sustained work ; but then, is it necessary that he should do so P His genius is in one sense 'unique, but it is limited ; he has not yet grasped the laws of proportion, the patient dovetailing of facts and probabilities, nor has he that sure insight into true character which forces the raison crave of every creation upon the reader's mind. All this supreme finish of workmanship which helps to make a great novelist or a great writer of any kind, has not been learnt by the author, and he has not the good fortune to possess it by nature. He fails—it may seem strange to say this when his figures appear so full of life—in the highest kind of imagination. The personal note is too clearly sounded in all his work, even though he has a marvellous facility for mating himself some one else. All his characters are touched. in with a Rudyard-Kipling personality, and have not been -created in that realm where an unfettered imagination reigns .supreme. The result of this is that the author may fall, and does fall, into a habit of repeating himself. The note struck may be true, musical, crisp, but we have heard it before,—such, for instance, as the opening scene of the two children under the charge of the odious Mrs. Jennett, which is a variation of "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep." Without knowing it, we feel sure that this is autobiographical ; that the boy's sensitive nature, ruined by injustice, is not evolved or imagined by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, but photographed,—and here lies the secret of his art, the secret, too, of his success and his failure. Like photography, there is truth, but very often it is out of proportion ; what is brought • 'P7to Liglit that Failed. By Rudyard Kipling. (In Liaineolt's Magazine, January, 1891.) London: Ward, Look, and Co,
too near, is apt to be out of drawing,—in fact, it is not true art, for true art cannot be produced instantaneously, but requires patient labour. In art, the personal element should be subservient to the imagination, if true proportion is to be kept.
The Light that Failed Is simply a series of Mr. Rudyard Kipling's short, crisp photographs strung together, each excellent, each of high merit; but when united, they fail to make a perfect whole. We are told too much and too little ; the links are weak, and the several pictures overbalance each other. The conversations are excellent, but belong to a longer work. At one moment we are led into the inner chamber of the mind, but at the same time we are kept in ignorance of the highways which lead to that sacred spot. For instance, the hero and heroine are so entirely isolated from every human relationship, that they might as well be Adam and Eve when first created ; but both these forlorn 'creatures have been pro- vided with yearly incomes by provident relations, who, never- theless, have left no trace on the mind or existence of Dick and Maisie, and who are never referred to by either of them ! We are asked to believe at one and the same time in intense probability and intense improbability; hence the effect on the mind is weakened, and a permanent basis of truth is not established. This is especially exemplified in Maisie, the heroine, who utterly fails to interest the reader, even when she so fully gives in at the end, because her last act is quite at variance with her previous character. For these reasons, we think that Mr. Rudyard Kipling will always be seen at his best when he gives us short, strong sketches ; that, like Bret Harte, he works more successfully on a small canvas, whip* does not betray his want of balance and composition. For these reasons, also, we cannot raise the author of The Light that Failed to the high pinnacle where some would place him; but we do give him a special niche of his own, and this is probably as great a reward as he himself would wish to reap. It may be that in time the artist will learn to paint on a large surface, but we imagine that he will always prefer to work by electric-light instead of the more sober light of day; but daylight work is necessary, if even genius is to build an edifice which shall remain standing after the fashion of the hour has gone by.
These criticisms are, we imagine, similar to those which the author would make about his own work, if he were asked to criticise it, for he has the insight of genius, and this insight is very often exhibited in the present story. Apart from criticism, we feel sure that this -novel will be, and rightly so, appreciated by many readers, and we are certain that no one will finish it without thanking the author for the pleasure it has given him during its perusal.
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