As for my Lords Castlewood—Thomas, and Francis _père et fils_—their creator has not taken so much trouble with them; but they are never “out”. The least of a piece, I think, is Rachel’s too fortunate or too unfortunate husband. The people who regard Ibsen’s great triumph in the _Doll’s House_ as consisting in the conduct of the husband as to the incriminating documents, ought to admire Thackeray’s management of the temporary loss of Rachel’s beauty. They are certainly both touches of the baser side of human nature ingeniously worked in. But the question is, What, in this wonderful book, is _not_ ingeniously worked in—character or incident, description or speech?
If the champions of “Unity” were wise, they would take _Esmond_ as a battle-horse, for it is certain that, great as are its parts, the whole is greater than almost any one of them—which is certainly not the case with _Pendennis_. And it is further certain that, of these parts, the personages of the hero and the heroine stand out commandingly, which is certainly not the case with _Pendennis_, again. The unity, however, is of a peculiar kind: and differs from the ordinary non-classical “Unity of Interest” which Thackeray almost invariably exhibits. It is rather a Unity of _Temper_, which is also present (as the all-pervading motto _Vanitas Vanitatum_ almost necessitates) in all the books, but here reaches a transcendence not elsewhere attained. The brooding spirit of _Ecclesiastes_ here covers, as it were, with the shadow of one of its wings the joys and sorrows, the failures and successes of a private family and their friends, with the other the fates of England and Europe; the fortunes of Marlborough and of Swift on their way from dictatorship, in each case, to dotage and death; the big wars and the notable literary triumphs as well as the hopeless passions or acquiescent losses. It is thus an instance—and the greatest—of that revival of the historical novel which was taking place, and in which the novel of Scott(1)—simpler, though not so very simple as is sometimes thought—is being dashed with a far heavier dose of the novel-element as opposed to the romance, yet without abandonment of the romance-quality proper. Of these novel-romance scenes, as they may be called, the famous mock-duel at the end is of course the greatest. But that where the Duke of Hamilton has to acknowledge the Marquis of Esmond, and where Beatrix gives the kiss of Beatrix, is almost as great: and there are many others. It is possible that this very transcendence accounts to some extent for the somewhat lukewarm admiration which it has received. The usual devotee of the novel of analysis dislikes the historic, and has taught himself to consider it childish; the common lover of romance (not the better kind) feels himself hampered by the character-study, as Émile de Girardin’s subscribers felt themselves hampered by Gautier’s style. All the happier those who can make the best of both dispensations!