“Mrs. Chater—”
A massive hand signalled Stop. “I said
‘not a word.’ That is all. Good
night.”
And Mary, crimson, to her room.
Of Glimpses at a Period of this History: of Love
and of War.
Notes On The Building Of Bridges.
Within the limits of this short section of our story
we shall cram two months of history, taking but a
furtive peep or two at our personages as they plod
through it.
This is well within our power, since the position
of the novelist in regard to his characters may be
compared with that of the destiny which in the largest
comedy moves to and fro mankind its actors. As
destiny moves its puppets, so the novelist moves his—upraising,
debasing; favouring, tormenting; creating, wiping from
the page.
And of the pair the novelist is the more just.
Has villainy in a novel ever gone unpunished?
Has virtue ever failed of its reward? Your novelist
is of all autocrats the most zealous of right and wrong.
Villain may through two-thirds of his career enjoy
his wicked pleasures, exceedingly prosper despite
his baseness; but ever above him the cold eye of his
judge keeps watch, and in the end he is apportioned
the most horrible deserts that any could wish.
Virtue may by the gods be hounded and harried till
the reader’s heart is wrung. But spare
your tears; before Finis is written, down swoops the
judge; the dogs are whipped off; Virtue is led to
fair pastures and there left smiling.
Contrasted with this autocrat of the printed page,
the destiny whose comedy began with the world and
is indefinitely continued makes sorry show. Here
the wicked exceedingly flourish and keep at it to the
end of their chapter; here virtue, battling with tremendous
waves of adversity, is at last engulfed and miserably
drowned. Truly, their fit rewards are apportioned,
we are instructed, after death. But there is
something of a doubt; the novelist, in regard to his
characters, takes no risks.
Upon another head, moreover, the novelist shows himself
the more kindly autocrat. There is his power,
so freely exercised, to bridge time. Whereas
destiny makes us to watch those in whom we are interested
plod every inch and step of their lives-over each rut,
through each swamp, up each hill,-the novelist, upon
his characters coming to places dull or too difficult,
immediately veils from us their weary struggles.
Destiny will never grant such a boon: we must
watch our friends even when they bore us, even when
they cause us pain. Yet this boon is the commonest
indulgence of the novelist-as it now (to become personal)
is mine.
I bridge two months.
