velist naturally turns to
the obvious method if there is no clear reason for refusing it. In The
Awkward Age, to look back at it once more, it may be that there is
such a reason; the beauty of its resolute consistency is of course a
value in itself, and it may be great enough to justify a _tour de
force_. But a _tour de force_ it is, when a novelist seeks to render
the general life of his story in the particular action, and in the
action alone; for his power to support the drama pictorially is always
there, if he likes to make use of it.

XIV

Since he practically always does so, readily enough, it may seem
unnecessary to insist upon the matter. Not often have we seen a
novelist pushing his self-denial beyond reason, rejecting the easy way
for the difficult without good cause. But in order to make sure of
breaking a sound rule at the right point, and not before--to take
advantage of laxity when strictness becomes unrewarding, and only
then--it is as well to work both ways, from the easy extreme to the
difficult and back again. The difficult extreme, in fiction, is the
dramatic rule absolute and unmitigated; having reached it from the
other end, having begun with the pictorial summary and proceeded from
thence to drama, we face the same stages reversed. And it is now, I
think, that we best appreciate the liberties taken with the resources
of the novelist by Balzac. His is a case that should be approached
indirectly. If one plunges straight into Balzac, at the beginning of
criticism, it is hard to find the right line through the abundance of
good and bad in his books; there is so much of it, and all so strong
and staring. It looks at first sight as though his good and his bad
alike were entirely conspicuous and unmistakable. His devouring
passion for life, his grotesque romance, his truth and his falsity,
these cover the whole space of the Comedie between them, and nobody
could fail to recognize the full force of either. He is tremendous,
his taste is abominable--what more is there to say of Balzac? And that
much has been said so often, in varied words, that there can be no
need to say it again for the ten-thousandth time.

Such is the aspect that Balzac presents, I could feel, when a critic
tries to face him immediately; his obviousness seems to hide
everything else. But if one passes him by, following the track of the
novelist's art elsewhere, and then returns to him with certain
definite conclusions, his as