It is to
be found in stories of "big business" where trickery and rascality
are made virtuous at the end by sentimental baptism. If I choose
for the hero of my novel a director in an American trust; if I
make him an accomplice in certain acts of ruthless economic
tyranny; if I make it clear that at first he is merely subservient
to a stronger will; and that the acts he approves are in complete
disaccord with his private moral code--why then, if the facts
should be dragged to the light, if he is made to realize the exact
nature of his career, how can I end my story? It is evident that
my hero possesses little insight and less firmness of character.
He is not a hero; he is merely a tool. In, let us say, eight cases
out of ten, his curve is already plotted. It leads downward--not
necessarily along the villain's path, but toward moral
insignificance.
And yet, I cannot end my story that way for Americans. There _must_ be
a grand moral revolt. There must be resistance, triumph, and not only
spiritual, but also financial recovery. And this, likewise, is
sentimentality. Even Booth Tarkington, in his excellent "Turmoil," had
to dodge the logical issue of his story; had to make his hero exchange
a practical literary idealism for a very impractical, even though a
commercial, utopianism, in order to emerge apparently successful at
the end of the book.
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