Certain major novelists of the 19th century, particularly in France, reacted against romanticism by eliminating from their work those “softer” qualities—tenderness, idealism, chivalric passion, and the like—which seemed to them to hide the stark realities of life in a dreamlike haze. In Gustave Flaubert’s works there are such romantic properties—his novel Salammbô (1862), for instance, is a sumptuous representation of a remote pagan past—but they are there only to be punctured with realistic irony. On one level, his Madame Bovary may be taken as a kind of parable of the punishment that fate metes out to the romantic dreamer, and it is the more telling because Flaubert recognized a strong romantic vein in himself: “Madame Bovary, c’est moi” (“Madame Bovary is myself”). Stendhal and Balzac, on the other hand, admit no dreams and present life in a grim nakedness without poetic drapery.
Balzac’s mammoth fictional work—the 20-year succession of novels and stories he published under the collective title La Comédie humaine (The Human Comedy)—and Stendhal’s novels of the same period, The Red and the Black (1830) and The Charterhouse of Parma (1839), spare the reader nothing of those baser instincts in man and society that militate against, and eventually conquer, many human aspirations. Rejecting romanticism so energetically, however, they swing to an extreme that makes “realism” a synonym for unrelenting pessimism. Little comes right for the just or the weak, and base human nature is unqualified by even a modicum of good. But there is a kind of affirmative richness and energy about both writers that seems to belie their pessimistic thesis.
In England, George Eliot in her novel Middlemarch (1871–72) viewed human life grimly, with close attention to the squalor and penury of rural life. If “nature” in works by romantic poets like Wordsworth connoted a kind of divine benevolence, only the “red in tooth and claw” aspect was permitted to be seen in the novels of the realists. George Eliot does not accept any notion of Divine Providence, whether Christian or pantheistic, but her work is instinct with a powerful moral concern: her characters never sink into a deterministic morass of hopelessness, since they have free will, or the illusion of it. With Thomas Hardy, who may be termed the last of the great 19th-century novelists, the determinism is all-pervasive, and his final novel, Jude the Obscure (1896), represents the limit of pessimism. Behind him one is aware of the new science, initiated by the biologists Charles Darwin and T.H. Huxley, which displaces man as a free being, capable of choice, by a view of him as the product of blind mechanistic forces over which he has little control.
Realism in this sense has been a continuing impulse in the 20th-century novel, but few writers would go so far as Hardy in positing man’s near-total impotence in a hostile universe, with the gods killing human creatures for their sport. Realism in the Existentialist fiction of 20th-century France, for instance, makes man not merely wretched but absurd, yet it does not diminish his power of self-realization through choice and action. Realism has frequently been put in the service of a reforming design, which implies a qualified optimism. War novels, novels about the sufferings of the oppressed (in prison, ghetto, totalitarian state), studies of human degradation that are bitter cries against man-made systems—in all of these the realistic approach is unavoidable, and realistic detail goes much further than anything in the first realists. But there is a difference in the quality of the anger the reader feels when reading the end of Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles (1891) and that generated by Upton Sinclair’s Jungle (1906) or Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front (1929). In Hardy’s novel, pessimistic determinism, reducing human character to pain, frustration, and impotent anger, was—paradoxically—appropriate to an age that knew no major cataclysms or oppressions. The novels of Sinclair and Remarque reflect the 20th century, which saw the origin of all wrong in the human will, and set on a program of diagnosis and reform. Naturalism
The naturalistic novel is a development out of realism, and it is, again, in France that its first practitioners are to be found, with Émile Zola leading. It is difficult to separate the two categories, but naturalism seems characterized not only by a pessimistic determinism but also by a more thoroughgoing attention to the physical and biological aspects of human existence. Man is less a soul aspiring upward to its divine source than a product of natural forces, as well as genetic and social influences, and the novelist’s task is to present the physical essence of man and his environment. The taste of Balzac’s and Stendhal’s audiences was not easily able to accommodate itself to utter frankness about the basic processes of life, and the naturalists had to struggle against prejudice, and often censorship, before their literary candour was able to prevail. The 20th century takes the naturalistic approach for granted, but it is more concerned with a technique of presentation than with the somewhat mechanistic philosophy of Zola and his followers.
Naturalism received an impetus after World War I, when novelists felt they had a duty to depict the filth, suffering, and degradation of the soldier’s life, without euphemism or circumlocution. Joyce’s Ulysses, when it appeared in 1922, was the first novel to seek to justify total physical candour in terms of its artistic, as opposed to moral, aim—which was to depict with almost scientific objectivity every aspect of an ordinary urban day. Though Joyce had read Zola, he seems to invoke the spirit of a very much earlier naturalistic writer—the ribald French author of the 16th century, François Rabelais—and this is in keeping with the Catholic tradition that Joyce represents. Zola, of course, was an atheist.
It would have been a sin against his aesthetic canons for Joyce to have shown Leopold Bloom—the protagonist of Ulysses—eating breakfast or taking a bath and yet not defecating or masturbating. The technique of the interior monologue, which presented the unedited flow of a character’s unspoken thought and emotion, also called for the utmost frankness in dealing with natural functions and urges. Joyce, it is now recognized, had no prurient or scatological intention; his concern was with showing life as it is (without any of the didactic purpose of Zola), and this entailed the presentation of lust, perversion, and blasphemy as much as any of the traditionally acceptable human functions.
The naturalistic novelists have had their social and legal problems—obscenity indictments, confiscation, emasculation by timid publishers—but the cause was ultimately won, at least in Great Britain and the United States, where there are few limits placed on the contemporary novelist’s proclaimed right to be true to nature. In comparison with much contemporary fiction the pioneer work of Zola seems positively reticent. Impressionism
The desire to present life with frank objectivity led certain early 20th-century novelists to question the validity of long-accepted narrative conventions. If truth was the novelist’s aim, then the tradition of the omniscient narrator would have to go, to be replaced by one in which a fallible, partially ignorant character—one involved in the story and hence himself subject to the objective or naturalistic approach—recounted what he saw and heard. But the Impressionist painters of late 19th-century France had proclaimed a revision of the whole seeing process: they distinguished between what the observer assumed he was observing and what he actually observed. That cerebral editing which turned visual data into objects of geometric solidity had no place in Impressionist painting; the visible world became less definite, more fluid, resolving into light and colour.