MR. BENNETT AND
MRS. BROWN
VIRGINIA WOOLF
PUBLISHED BY LEONARD AND VIRGINIA WOOLF
AT THE HOGARTH PRESS TAVISTOCK SQUARE
LONDON W.C.I
1924
MR. BENNETT AND
MRS. BROWN[1]
It seems to me possible, perhaps desirable, that I may be the onlyperson in this room who has committed the folly of writing, trying towrite, or failing to write, a novel. And when I asked myself, as yourinvitation to speak to you about modern fiction made me ask myself, whatdemon whispered in my ear and urged me to my doom, a little figure rosebefore me—the figure of a man, or of a woman, who said, "My name isBrown. Catch me if you can."
Most novelists have the same experience. Some Brown, Smith, or Jonescomes before them and says in the most seductive and charming way in theworld, "Come and catch me if you can." And so, led on by thiswill-o'-the-wisp, they flounder through volume after volume, spendingthe best years of their lives in the pursuit, and receiving for the mostpart very little cash in exchange. Few catch the phantom; most have tobe content with a scrap of her dress or a wisp of her hair.
My belief that men and women write novels because they are lured on tocreate some character which has thus imposed itself upon them has thesanction of Mr. Arnold Bennett. In an article from which I will quote hesays: "The foundation of good fiction is character-creating and nothingelse. . . . Style counts; plot counts; originality of outlook counts.But none of these counts anything like so much as the convincingness ofthe characters. If the characters are real the novel will have a chance;if they are not, oblivion will be its portion. . . ." And he goes on todraw the conclusion that we have no young novelists of first-rateimportance at the present moment, because they are unable to createcharacters that are real, true, and convincing.
These are the questions that I want with greater boldness thandiscretion to discuss to-night. I want to make out what we mean when wetalk about "character" in fiction; to say something about the questionof reality which Mr. Bennett raises; and to suggest some reasons why theyounger novelists fail to create characters, if, as Mr. Bennett asserts,it is true that fail they do. This will lead me, I am well aware, tomake some very sweeping and some very vague assertions. For the questionis an extremely difficult one. Think how little we know aboutcharacter—think how little we know about art. But, to make a clearancebefore I begin, I will suggest that we range Edwardians and Georgiansinto two camps; Mr. Wells, Mr. Bennett, and Mr. Galsworthy I will callthe Edwardians; Mr. Forster, Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Strachey, Mr. Joyce, andMr. Eliot I will call the Georgians. And if I speak in the first person,with intolerable egotism, I will ask you to excuse me. I do not want toattribute to the world at large the opinions of one solitary,ill-informed, and misguided individual.
My first assertion is one that I think you will grant—that every one inthis room is a judge of character. Indeed it would be impossible to livefor a year without disaster unless one practised character-reading andhad some skill in the art. Our marriages, our friendships depend on it;our business largely depends on it; every day questions arise which canonly be solved by its help. And now I will hazard a second assertion,which is more disputable perhaps, to the effect that on or aboutDecember 1910 human character changed.
I am not saying that one went out, as one might into a gard