BY SRIMATHI K. SAVITRI

If the whole group of successful English novelists may be divided into two main classes, two figures will stand out more remarkably than others, in the representation of their kind to the fullest detail. Between these two, the rest of the writers, with the exception perhaps of Sir Walter Scott, may be said to range themselves. As distant as the poles, they present quite a striking contrast to each other in their mode of writing and ways of thought. For, indeed, no two persons could be actuated by such wholly divergent impulses and influences as Charles Dickens and Miss Austen were. Literature owes much to them both, for the creation of the most fresh and original kind of novel writing.

The works of Charles Dickens, more numerous than any other writer's, reveal to us too plainly that the man is nothing but all soul and heart. He had eyes only for the poor and the miserable. The silent, suffering humanity whose feeble voice, if raised at all, is utterly lost amidst the joyous shouts of the vain and the prosperous, touched every fibre of his inmost being, and he heard the voice too distinctly to shut his ears against it. Charles Dickens created a world for himself, which was exclusively full of the weird and pathetic creatures he drew in an astonishing variety. He saw and heard deeper with a heart overcharged with feelings of an acute nature, and these he poured forth in his novels without any reservation: His men and women, grotesque and vulgar as they are, awaken the pity of the hardest, and deliberately move us often to tears.

The emotional kind of novel is the field where Dickens is held as the undisputed master, save, perhaps, the eminent French novelist, Victor Hugo, who unites a very lofty imagination with a heart tender as a flower and large as the Universe. For, who but himself could conceive of a Gilliat that paid so mute a self-sacrifice at the altar of his love, or a Jean Valjean, or even an Ursus? Victor Hugo created such grand characters that simple mortals could only stand awe-struck before them.

When we turn with our hearts torn to pieces by the deep pathos that is too full in these novels to Jane Austen, we seem indeed ‘to have dropped suddenly, as it were, through a hole into her world,’ which is altogether different. Poverty and misery are no more for us, and there is the peaceful country-side with scarcely other than ordinary, middle-class people. Unlike Dickens and Victor Hugo, Jane Austen saw only with her eyes, and derived her materials chiefly from what appealed to her intellect. Hence, no novel is more singularly free from any kind of fancy or play of emotions than those she has written. Verily, she seems a person whose head is all active, while the heart remains unusually calm in its place. The art, too, which she employs, is quite characteristic of her. For it is not upon a full, broad canvas that she works, nor with a bold brush in her hand, from where the free lines and touches could speak out eloquently for the extraordinary range and sweep of the worker's imagination. The material on which Miss Austen works with such finished skill is, as she herself says so aptly, ‘a little bit of ivory two inches wide on which I paint with the finest brush’.

The effect produced by this unique craft is something so rare, that only a class of mind can grasp the details in all their delicacy and fullness and enjoy them. Utterly devoid of pathos and any sense of emotion as her novels are, they still have a peculiar hold on our intellectual perception. None who is able to divine the presence of genius, can help feeling the profoundest admiration for the uncommon skill she displays in taking all her characters from those around her, and drawing them just as they are. ‘Three or four families in a village is the very thing to work on, and to make full use of them while they are favourably arranged.’ Such is her method as she herself observes, and accordingly her novels have but one common theme which she makes no attempt to vary. It is, however, no mean attribute of her literary excellence that she could make her characters reveal themselves in the course of their daily life, and on those trivial occasions when humanity does not take the trouble to act a part. With misery, sorrow and exalted feelings, she seldom seeks to concern herself. No sooner do we come to her than we are at once taken into her surroundings, and thrown there quite at home with the keenest enjoyment of the mind. The magic influence which, in her sphere, she is able to wield over us makes us indeed care very little sometimes even for those books, where the workings of the mind and heart are brought forward and dwelt upon.

If minds endowed with a rich imagination like Sir Walter Scott's could be induced to say in admiration for her art and style, "the big bow-vow strain I can do myself like any now going, but the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment is denied to me," we make no doubt as to what renders Jane Austen so perfect within her own range. Her whole greatness lies in her power of making her characters live. As we read about them, they emerge more and more from the cold print, and engage us in a warm, living companionship.

If the height of literary excellence is best achieved only by the writer's revelation of self as little as possible in his works, one may state without hesitation that few authors have shown a less obtrusive personality than Jane Austen. Like Shakespeare, she has made her characters speak for themselves, and take each a distinct shape and individuality after the fashion of God's own creation. Seeing Miss Austen's novels differ neither in manner nor in treatment, who will not have expected them to be monotonous and insipid? But no such thing! To those who have learnt to relish them they remain a joy forever.

Again, the inimitable satire that characterises her style in writing about those whom she ridicules, and the fine sense of humour that is revealed in the delineation of characters like Miss Bates, John Dashwood and Mr. Collins, invest her, in a sense, with a greater degree of fascination than any other author possesses. It is at once peculiar and remarkable of her rare genius that, though she has almost scrupulously avoided indu1ging in any feeling and tender love-passages, the reader nevertheless receives, with the lovers of the story, the sweet thrill of pleasure of ‘the supreme moment’. What true delight we feel at the love of Darey and Elizabeth, and how far more real and faithful to nature it appears than the high, romantic passions told with a wealth of feeling and art!

Few authors have tried to portray such ordinary characters as she has, yet they are all in fact ‘as perfectly discriminated as if they were the most eccentric of human beings. It is a gift which belongs to none but Miss Austen. What reader is not charmed at the fine distinction made between Sense and Sensibility, all by means of dialogue, and the beautiful and complete pictures therefrom of Elinor and Marianne? Elinor is all sense, and Marianne is nothing if not the high sensibility that she betrays from beginning to end. Nothing can be so felicitous as the extremely light and sparkling vein in which Emma with her blunders in match-making is conceived. The most unhumorous of persons can hardly fail to be affected by the lively humour that is never absent in this delightful book. Yet all this is done by touches so delicate that they elude analysis, and defy the power of criticism. And when thus much might be freely said of a writer, does not one feel the greatest praise has been paid?