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Howells's work is essential to the student of the American provincial novel, as it is also to the student of our more generalized types of story-writing, and that he has never in his long career written an insincere, a slovenly, or an infelicitous page.
"It's beyond sounding," Bobby said, "for my grandfather's death last night and the disturbance of his body this afternoon seemed calculated to condemn me absolutely, yet Howells's murder and the movement of his body, with the disappearance of the cast and the handkerchief, seem designed to save me. Are there two influences at work in this house one for me, one against me?"
Jenkins is sure it came from outside the house. That is significant." "Wherever it came from," Bobby said softly, "it was like some one mourning for Howells." Jenkins started. "The policeman!" Bobby remembered that Jenkins hadn't been aroused by the discovery of Howells's murder. "You'd know in a few minutes anyway," he said. "Howells has been killed as my grandfather was."
There are others who exhibit those great qualities as greatly as he does, but only by intervaled distributions of rich moonlight, with stretches of veiled and dimmer landscape between; whereas Howells's moon sails cloudless skies all night and all the nights. In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howells has no superior, I suppose.
We miss the lure of the imagination, such as Hawthorne gave to all his pictures of real things. Only one of Howells's volumes have I found too thin for me to finish his "London Films" was too filmy for me. But Howells's "Eighty Years and After" will live as a classic. Oh, the felicity of his style! I am trying again to read Bergson's "Creative Evolution," with poor success.
Howells's bright vein of humor. But, putting aside the humor and comedy of "The Rise of Silas Lapham," the book has other points of value, and, as a study of a business-man whom success floats to the crest of the wave only to let him be overwhelmed by disaster as the surge retreats, presents a striking similitude to Balzac's "César Birotteau."
It would be well if they could be relieved from duty and flung out in the literary back yard to rot and disappear along with the discarded and forgotten "steeds" and "halidomes" and similar stage-properties once so dear to our grandfathers. But I am friendly to Mr. Howells's stage directions; more friendly to them than to any one else's, I think.
Howells's chief "visiting-card to posterity." We cannot here follow him to New York and to a new phase of novel writing, begun with "A Hazard of New Fortunes," nor can we discuss the now antiquated debate upon realism which was waged in the eighteen-eighties over the books of Howells and James. We must content ourselves with saying that a knowledge of Mr.
Howells's "Their Wedding Journey" and Miss Howard's "One Summer" are Novelettes, although an American editor, who had offered a prize for a list of the ten best Short-stories, allowed them to be included. Mr. Anstey's "Vice Versa," Mr. Besant's "Case of Mr. Lucraft," and Mr.
Blackburn didn't die a natural death. If reporters get in don't talk to them. I don't want that damned foreigner reading in the papers what's going on here. I'd give my job to have him in that chair for five minutes now." Graham cleared his throat. "I scarcely know how to suggest this, since it is sufficiently clear, because of Howells's suspicions, that you have Mr.
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