UNIVERSITATEA “DUNĂREA DE JOS” DIN GALAŢI DEPARTAMENTUL PENTRU ÎNVĂŢĂMÂNT LA DISTANŢĂ ŞI CU

FRECVENŢĂ REDUSĂ

LECT. DR. GABRIELA IULIANA COLIPCĂ

CURS PRACTIC DE LITERATURA ENGLEZĂ

THE LANGUAGE OF LITERATURE

GALAŢI 2008

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. ON NARRATIVE ............................................................................................ 5

I. 1. GÉRARD GENETTE AND HIS THEORY OF NARRATIVE DISCOURSE............. 8

I. 1. 1. ORDER .............................................................................................................................. 9

I. 1. 2. DURATION..................................................................................................................... 11

I. 1. 3. FREQUENCY ................................................................................................................. 13

I. 1. 4. MOOD.............................................................................................................................. 14

I. 1. 5. VOICE.............................................................................................................................. 17

I. 2. MIEKE BAL’S NARRATOLOGY ................................................................................ 18

I. 2.1. TEXT: WORDS ............................................................................................................... 20

I. 2. 2. STORY: ASPECTS......................................................................................................... 25

I. 2. 3. FABULA: ELEMENTS.................................................................................................. 33

II. PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS................................................................. 37

II. 1. MODERNIST SHORT STORIES............................................................................... 37

II. 1. 1. JAMES JOYCE – THE DEAD..................................................................................... 37

II. 1. 2. VIRGINIA WOOLF – A HAUNTED HOUSE............................................................ 62

II. 2. POSTMODERNIST SHORT STORY........................................................................ 64

II. 2. 1. DAVID LODGE – HOTEL DES BOOBS .................................................................... 64

II. 2. 2. FAY WELDON – WEEKEND...................................................................................... 70

III. FINAL ACHIEVEMENT TESTING ....................................................... 80

BIBLIOGRAPHY ............................................................................................. 81

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I. ON NARRATIVE Nowadays, narratology is unanimously acknowledged as one of the most efficient instruments that allow for the better interpretation and understanding of texts. It is true that it has mainly developed throughout the twentieth century. But, as Ducrot and Schaeffer point out, it has not arisen ex nihilo. (1996: 149) Writers and literary theorists have shown their interest in “the what” and “the how” of different literary species ever since the Antiquity. Among the first issues thus theorized upon is the relationship between reality and fiction, translated for the first time into the dichotomic pair of mimesis and diegesis by Plato and Aristotle. Opposed to diegesis, i.e. summarizing narration, and defined as direct imitation of reality, prone to the representation of evil (see Mitchell, 1995: 14-5), therefore totally rejected by Plato,1 mimesis is rehabilitated by Aristotle. In his terms, mimesis can no longer simply be reduced to ‘semblance,’ but it functions as an “analogical cognitive vector,” which implies the creation of virtual models based upon similarity to the ‘serious’ models of reality. (Schaeffer, 2002) That means that both indirect-narrative and direct representation become varieties of mimesis. More thorough in his analysis of forms of mimesis, Aristotle has largely discussed the distinctions between literary genres considering different criteria such as the mode of representation, the mimetic status of the represented object or the truth/ the likelihood of the narrative that directly influence the readership’s response to it. That is how he has given literary theory the first narrative typologies. (For more details on Aristotle’s plot and character typologies, see Aristotle, 1996 and Pârvu, 1997: 21-2; 52-3) Over the next centuries – at least until the end of the nineteenth century – writers and critics have drawn upon the Aristotelian theory of mimesis, showing more concern with the extent to which literary works managed to comply with the constantly debated upon and redefined principle of verisimilitude. There have been, of course, some who, more or less explicitly, have investigated different aspects of narrative structure, calling into question the pre-established conventions of novel writing and challenging the readers’ expectations. Cervantes, Diderot and Sterne are but a few cases in point. Nevertheless, it is only from the nineteenth century on that narrative techniques become the subject of more systematic analysis and Flaubert or Henry James are among the first to pave the way for the development of narratology as a well-defined approach to narratives. The twentieth century has witnessed the development of different narratological schools. Especially over the first half of the century, the so-called Anglo-Saxon school has brought an important contribution to the creation of the first narrative models. Percy Lubbock’s study, The Craft of Fiction (1921) is worth mentioning in this respect for having provided a typology of narrative situations in which two sets of criteria are combined: on the one hand, the opposition between showing/ telling (as a result of Lubbock’s enlarging on the mimesis/ diegesis distinction), on the other hand, the distinction between different modes of representation or ‘points of view’2 (i.e. the panoramic

1 In constructing their narratological theories, both Gérard Genette and Mieke Bal (whose narratological models will be further discussed) refer to Plato and Aristotle’s different conceptions of narrative. Both theorists emphasise particularly Plato’s dislike of mimesis – whether represented by direct speech or descriptions – that led him to rewrite parts of Homer’s work, so that he might transform it into ‘pure narrative’ characterized by indirection and condensation. (see Genette, 1980: 162-3 and Bal, 1997: 37) 2 As further discussion of narratological models will show, contemporary narrative theory does not consider the concept of ‘point of view’ to be valid, owing to its confusing mixture of categories pertaining to two different

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survey, the dramatized narrator, the dramatized mind and pure drama). His typology has represented a starting point for Norman Friedman (1955), for instance, who, while relying mainly on the same criterion of the ‘point of view,’ further refined it so as to encompass eight distinct narrative situations (i.e. editorial omniscience, neutral omniscience, I as a witness, I as protagonist, multiple selective omniscience, selective omniscience, dramatic mode and camera).3

The interest in the main levels/ layers of investigation of narratives has led other theorists like E.M.Forster (1927) to express the distinction between “the what” and “the how” in terms of story and plot (two terms that ever since have been widely circulated in Anglo-American criticism). In order to make his readers better understand this distinction, he proposed an example that has already become classical and on the basis of which he could logically derive the definitions of the two terms. He compared thus:

“The king died and then the queen died” with

“The king died, and then the queen died of grief.” and further with

“The queen died, no one knew why, until it was discovered that it was through grief at the death of the king.”

The first example is a story, “a narrative of events arranged in their time-sequence.” (Forster, 1966:221) The second is a plot, i.e. “also a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality,” whereas the third is also a plot but with more mystery in it, with the time-sequence suspended and capable of further high development. (1966:221) And if Forster has taken a first step forward towards more clearly delineating the possible levels of analysis, Wayne Booth, although still maintaining the confusion between focalization and voice in his distinguishing between dramatized/ undramatized and reliable/ unreliable narrators, has, nevertheless, the merit of having clarified another essential aspect of narrative communication. According to him, the process of narrative production involves several instances pertaining to different levels, such as the narrator (on the internal communication level) and the implied author, itself distinct from the real-life author (on the external communication level). Anyway, narratological studies seem to owe their boom to a more general interest in the formal properties of literary texts, epitomised by two major critical trends, namely Russian Formalism and, respectively, Structuralism. The studies of Russian Formalists like Vladimir Propp, Boris Tomashevsky or Victor Shklovsky have reached results that come very close to Forster’s. The central distinction between what they term fabula/ sjuzet is roughly similar to Forster’s story/ plot. So, the fabula consists of the fundamental events, in their natural, logical and chronological order, with an accompanying inventory of roles of the characters and settings, whereas the sjuzet comprises the different techniques that authors choose to employ in representing in various manners the fabula. Inspired by linguistic studies, the Formalists have “devised methods for describing a story as linguists describe sentences, i.e. without regard to the meaning it may communicate, only to its structure.”

narrative layers, namely focalization and narrative voice. That is why, whenever this concept is referred to, inverted commas are used. 3 Ducrot and Schaeffer point out that, over the second half of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries, the so-called Anglo-Saxon and German schools actually developed in parallel focusing on the same issues regarding the modes of representation and the narrative perspective. (1996: 150) The most significant contribution seems to be that of Franz Stanzel whose narratological model relies on three narrative categories, namely person, perspective and mood. (See Genette, 1980: 187 and Lintvelt, 1994: 160-5)

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(Avădanei, 2002:9) Propp, above all, is known for his ‘transformational-like grammar’ of tales based on functions that involve different types and spheres of action. Closely related to Formalist theories in their goal of analysing literature according to modern linguistic models (such as Saussure’s), Structuralist theories have also taken up the task of creating a universal grammar of narratives. With its Structuralist representatives, the French school of narrative theory has finally managed to impose in narratological studies.4 Roland Barthes, Tzvetan Todorov, Benveniste maintain the two-fold distinction of fabula/ sjuzet translating it into French terms as histoire/récit. (On English grounds, the French terms will be transposed by Seymour Chatman, for instance, into story/ discourse.)

Narrative

Histoire/ Story

Récit/ Discourse

Events

Characters

Setting

In an attempt at more accurately identifying the fundamental structural units and the principles that govern their arrangement in narrative texts, A. J. Greimas has drawn on Propp’s theory and has reduced both the number of functions (to three main types of structures: contractual, performative and disjunctive) as well as the roles of the characters. Particularly his actantial model,5 made up of three binary pairs – subject/ object; sender/ receiver; helper/ opponent – has remained among the most influential and most widely applied until nowadays. Tzvetan Todorov’s work has developed along the same lines, but in a more refined manner (following the mechanism of the structuring process from propositions to sequences and texts), on the basis of the analogy between the structural units of language and the structural units of narrative. The need for clarity in the definitions of narrative categories and in the identification of the level of analysis has led the more recent generations of narratologists to replace the two-fold model with a three-fold one. The one to have first put forward the idea is Gérard Genette, who, as Michael 4 The only more remarkable contributions of the French school before the 1960s belong to Jean Pouillon (1946) and Georges Blin (1954). Pouillon, in particular, is often referred to as one of Todorov and Genette’s most important predecessors for his three-fold typology of narrative situations made up according to purely modal determinations. Genette, for example, finds it more acceptable in comparison with others that mix up mood and voice. (see Genette, 1980: 188 and Lintvelt, 1994: 54-5)

Of course, the discussion of Structuralist narrative models should not be limited to the French School. The Czech school, represented by Lubomír Doležel (1967, 1973) has put forward an interesting combination of functional and verbal models. Taking into account both linguistic criteria and traditional concepts like objective/ rhetoric/ subjective or Er-Form/ Ich-Form, Doležel’s typology is rather a hybrid between narrative and linguistic theory, yet worth mentioning as an interesting stage in the development of Structuralist narratology. Despite Doležel’s contribution, however, the Czech school could not rise to the level of the French one, which has dominated and revolutionized narratology studies over the last decades of the twentieth century. 5 Unlike Greimas, who tends to be more synthetic in his approach to narrative ‘syntax,’ Claude Brémond, also inspired by Propp, has tried to refine, almost exhaustively, the actantial typology. That makes his model more difficult to apply and hence, less used than Greimas.

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Toolan puts it, has argued in his accounts of poetics that the business of technical manipulation and presentation of the basic story, originally covered by discourse, involves in fact two distinct levels. (1992: 10) Thus, besides the level of histoire/ story, the levels of récit/ narrative and narration/ narrating have to be considered. This new model has been widely accepted by other narratologists, who, nonetheless, have brought their own contributions to improving and correcting it. Among them, Rimmon-Kenan and Mieke Bal have perhaps most notably challenged the Genettian theory. Genette’s histoire – récit – narration model has become story – text – narration, in Rimmon-Kenan’s terms, and has been further complicated in Bal’s fabula – story – text. Naturally, the terminological modifications have been doubled by the analysis, at least from a slightly different perspective, of the directions of interpretation of the three-fold narrative model.

To serve the purpose of the present practical course and to encourage students to look into the inner w

I. 1. GÉRARD GENETTE AND HIS THEORY OF NARRATIVE

ccording to Genette,6 many of the difficulties of narratolog come from the very ambiguity of the

e statement, the oral or written

2. succession of events,

3. omeone recounting something: the act of narrating

Out of the most widespread, i.e. narrative discourse/ narrative text, will be

French. Histoire) for the signified or narrative content; se/ narrative text itself;

whole of

The ana hips between:

ng; inscribed in the narrative discourse).

orkings of literary texts in keeping with clear theoretical guidelines, the two models of Genette and Mieke Bal, respectively, will be presented in detail in the subsequent pages in a relation of complementation and/ or supplementation.

DISCOURSE yA

term récit/ narrative for which he identifies three distinct meanings: 1. the most evident and central in common usage – “the narrativ

discourse that undertakes to tell of an event or series of events” (1980: 25) the one preferred by analysts and theorists of narrative content – “thereal or fictitious, that are the subjects of this discourse, and … their several relations of linking, opposition, repetition, etc.” (25) the oldest – “the event that consists of staken in itself.” (26) these three meanings,

focused upon and studied, constantly taking into consideration the relationships between the discourse and the events that it recounts (2nd meaning) and the same discourse and the act that produces it, actually or fictively, (3rd meaning). To avoid confusion, Genette proposes, therefore, a new terminology:

• Story (• Narrative (French Récit) for the signifier/ statement/ discour• Narrating (French Narration) for the producing narrative action and by extension, the

the real or fictional situation in which that action takes place. lysis of narrative discourse thus presupposes a study of the relations

- narrative and story; - narrative and narrati- story and narrating (to the extent this relationship is

6 The model to be further described is presented in Gérard Genette’s Narrative Discourse (translated by Jane E. Lewin), New York: Cornell University Press, 1980. Since all quotes are taken from the same bibliographical source, the pages will be simply mentioned in between brackets at the end of each quote.

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Considering the fact that all narrative is, above all, a linguistic production undertaking to tell of one or several events, Genette ranges the problems of narrative in three categories, i.e.:

• Tense – temporal relations between narrative and story • Mood – modalities (forms and degrees) of narrative representation • Voice (not person, which might mistakably lead to an association with the traditional

opposition between the ‘first-person’ and ‘third-person’ narratives, that Genette does not agree with) - the way in which the narrating itself (i.e. the narrative situation or its instance and its two protagonists, the narrator and the audience, real or implied) is implicated in the narrative.

Tense and Mood operate on the level of connection between Story and Narrative; Voice designates the relations between both Narrating and Narrative, on the one hand, and Narrating and Story, on the other. Thus described, the narrative levels and the categories that should be taken into account for their analysis could be graphically represented as follows:

STORY

NARRATIVE

NARRATING

TENSE AND MOOD VOICE

I. 1. 1. ORDER

Genette proposes to study the relations between it and the time of the story according to three essential determinations:

1. “connections between the temporal order of succession of the events in the story and the pseudo-temporal order of their arrangement in the narrative”;

2. connections of speed between “the variable duration of these events or story sections and the pseudo-duration (in fact, length of the text) of their telling in the narrative”;

3. “connections of frequency, that is (…) relations between the repetitive capacities of the story and those of the narrative.” (35)

To start with the temporal order of the narrative, Genette defines it as relying upon the comparison between “the order in which the events or temporal sections are arranged in the narrative discourse” and “the order of succession of the same events or temporal segments have in the story” as indicated more or less explicitly on the level of the narrative itself. (35) To describe the “various types of discordance between the two orderings of story and narrative” that might be conceived as deviations from a so-called, rather hypothetical, zero degree “that would be a condition of perfect temporal correspondence between narrative and story” (36), Genette proposes the term of anachrony. Several possible temporal relationships, such as “subjective and objective retrospections, subjective and

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objective anticipations, and simple returns to each of these two positions,” range under this label. In order to avoid the psychological connotations of such terms as “anticipation” and “retrospection,” Genette chooses to replace them with others that he considers more neutral, namely:

• prolepsis = “any narrative maneuver that consists of narrating or evoking in advance an event that will take place later” (40)

• analepsis = “any evocation after the fact of an event that took place earlier than the point in the story where we are at any given moment” (40)

• anachrony = “all forms of discordance between the two temporal orders of story and narrative.” (40)

Further details add to and help refine the description of and distinctions between anachronies. Thus, Genette points out that “an anachrony can reach into the past or the future, either more or less far from the ‘present’ moment (that is, from the moment in the story when the narrative was interrupted to make room for the anachrony): this temporal distance we will name the anachrony’s reach.” (48) Besides, the anachrony can cover a more or less long duration, referred to as the anachrony’s extent. (48) These two characteristics of reach and extent can be similarly categorized with respect to the ways in which they are connected to certain “higher” moments in the narrative.

Genette also maintains that, by establishing a so-called “first narrative,” i.e. “the temporal level of narrative with respect to which the anachrony is defined” (48), it is possible to distinguish between:

• external analepsis = “this analepsis whose extent remains external to the extent of the first narrative.” (49)

• internal analepsis • mixed analepsis = “whose reach goes back to a point earlier and whose extent arrives at a

point later than the beginning of the first narrative.” (49) According to Genette, the categorisation of analepses should not be limited to this distinction,

but should be developed so as to clearly indicate the differences between two types of internal analepses. On the one hand, there are those called heterodiegetic, “that is analepses dealing with a story line (and thus with a diegetic content) different from the content (or contents) of the first narrative.”(50) They classically deal either with a character recently introduced whose past the narrator wants to shed more light on or with a character that has been out of sight for some time and whose past the readers must catch up with. On the other hand, there are also internal homodiegetic analepses that deal with the same line of action as the first narrative and for which the risk of interference is apparently unavoidable. (50-1)

There is also another possibility of categorisation. On the one hand, there are completing analepses or “returns” comprising

“the retrospective sections that fill in, after the event, an earlier gap in the narrative (the narrative is thus organized by temporary omissions and more or less belated reparations, according to a narrative logic that is partially independent of the passing of time.) These earlier gaps can be ellipses pure and simple, that is breaks in the temporal continuity.” (51)

On the other hand, “certain retrospections, although dealing with individual events, can refer to iterative ellipses, that is, ellipses dealing not with a single portion of elapsed time but with several portions taken as if they were alike and to some extent repetitive.” (53) Genette calls the second type of (internal) homodiegetic analepses repeating analepses or “recalls.”

Last but not least, in his attempt at refining the categorization of analepses, this time particularly according to their extent, Genette identifies as distinct a special kind of retrospection, which ends on an ellipsis without rejoining the narrative (unlike the mixed analepsis), which he calls

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simple partial analepsis. (62), and that opposes the complete analepsis, which “joins the first narrative without any gap between the two sections of the story.” (62)

Unlike analepses, prolepses are less frequent in the Western narrative tradition. But they do occur and that happens more often than not in “first-person” narratives which are prone to anticipation, owing to their “avowedly retrospective character, which authorizes the narrator to allude to the future and in particular to his present situation, for these to some extent form part of his role.” (67) Like analepses, prolepses can be categorized as internal and external. As far as the external prolepses are concerned, Genette shows that they function most often as

“epilogues, serving to continue one or another line of action on to its logical conclusion, even if that conclusion takes place later than the day on which the hero decides to leave the world and withdraw into his work.” (68)

Internal prolepses, in their turn, present the same kind of problems that internal analepses do, i.e. “the problem of interference, of possible useless duplication between the first narrative and the narrative taken on by the proleptic section.” (71) Therefore, the distinction should be made between heterodiegetic prolepses, “for which the risk is nil, whether the anticipation is internal or external” and homodiegetic prolepses. The latter can themselves be subclassified as completing prolepses “that fill in ahead of time a later blank” and repeating prolepses “that –still ahead of time – double, however slightly, a narrative section to come.” (71) (In fact, it seems that repeating prolepses scarcely occur, except as brief allusions referring in advance to an event that will be told in full in its place. Their function is similar to that of repeating analepses or recalls in the sense that they play a role of advance notice.) According to their extent, prolepses can also be grouped into partial and complete prolepses, although as Genette emphasizes, it is very difficult to find examples of completeness and most of the prolepses are of the partial type, often interrupted in as abrupt a way as they were begun. (77) All in all, the classification of analepses/ prolepses can be summarized as follows:

Analepses/ Prolepses

External

Internal

Mixed

Heterodiegetic Homodiegetic

Partial Complete

Heterodiegetic Homodiegetic Completing

Repeating

I. 1. 2. DURATION

Genette acknowledges, from the very beginning, the difficulty of comparing the “duration” of a narrative to that of the story it tells, which springs out of the fact that no one can really measure the duration of a narrative. It could be associated with the time of reading, but it varies, in its turn, according to particular circumstances. There is no reference point or zero degree or “rigorous

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isochrony between narrative and story,” although Jean Ricardou seems to suggest that, in the case of a scene with dialogue, there is “a sort of equality between the narrative section and the fictive section.” (87) Genette accepts that, in the case of such a scene, there is “only a kind of conventional equality between narrative time and story time” (87), but that cannot serve as a reference point for a rigorous comparison of real durations. Yet, he maintains that the isochronism of a narrative can be defined, if not by comparing its duration to that of the story it tells, at least in terms of steadiness in speed. (87)

“By speed we mean the relationship between a temporal dimension and a spatial dimension (…): the speed of a narrative will be defined by the relationship between a duration (that of the story, measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years) and a length (that of the text, measured in lines and in pages).” (87-8)

In this respect, a zero degree would be represented by a narrative without changing speed, without accelerations or slow-downs, with a steady relationship between the duration of the story and the length of the narrative. Of course, such an isochronous narrative remains essentially hypothetical, which determines Genette to conclude that “a narrative can do without anachronies, but not without anisochronies, or, if one prefers (…), effects of rhythm.” (88)

Furthermore, if an analysis of the narrative in terms of anachronic movements can be carried out on the microscopic level, that of the narrative rhythm changes is relevant only at the macroscopic level of large narrative units. They can range in a continuous gradation from

“the infinite speed of ellipsis, where a nonexistent section corresponds to some duration of story, on up to the absolute slowness of descriptive pause where some section of narrative discourse corresponds to a nonexistent diegetic duration.” (93-4)

Emphasizing the parallelism between the classical tradition of music with its classification of possible speed of execution and the canonical forms of novel tempo, Genette stresses the importance of four basic forms of narrative movements: - descriptive pause (NT = n, ST = 0, thus NT ∞ > ST, i.e. NT is infinitely greater than ST); - scene, “most often in dialogue, which (…) realizes conventionally the equality of time between narrative and story” (p. 94) (NT = ST); - summary, “a form with a variable tempo (whereas the tempo of the other three is fixed, at least in principle) which with great flexibility of pace covers the entire range included between scene and ellipsis)” (94) (NT < ST); - ellipsis ( NT = 0, ST = n, thus NT < ∞ ST, i.e. NT is infinitely less than ST). (This schematic representation of the four movements is given on page 95.)

Further distinctions between ellipses can be identified from a formal point of view. Thus, there are: • explicit ellipses arising “either from an indication (definite or not) of the lapse of time they

elide, which assimilates them to the very quick summaries of the “some years passed” type (…); or else from elision pure and simple (zero degree of the elliptical text), plus, when the narrative starts up again, an indication of the time elapsed” of the “… years later” type (106). In both cases, according to Genette, it is possible to supplement the purely temporal indications with pieces of information having diegetic content (e.g. “some years of happiness passed” – original emphasis). The resulting characterizing ellipses can serve as resources of novelistic narration. (107)

• implicit ellipses “whose very presence is not announced in the text and which the reader can infer only from some chronological lacuna or gap in narrative continuity.” (108)

• purely hypothetical ellipses which are the most implicit forms of ellipsis, impossible to localize or to place in any spot at all and revealed after the event by an analepsis. (109)

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I. 1. 3. FREQUENCY

Narrative frequency can be defined as “the relations of frequency (or, more simply, of repetition) between the narrative and the diegesis” (113) Associated on the grammatical level to the category of aspect, repetition is an aspect of interest for the analysis of narrative temporality as well. Enlarging upon it, Genette takes care to underline the fact that, as a mental construction, “repetition” naturally eliminates from each occurrence what is peculiar to itself preserving only what it shares with the others from the same class. That is why such terms as “identical events” or “recurrence of the same event” should be taken with a grain of salt as they describe “series of similar events considered only in terms of their resemblance.” (113) Moreover, there is also the possibility of repeating the same narrative statements that has to be considered. Taking thus into account both kinds of “repetition” of narrated events (of the story) and narrative statements (of the text), Genette points out a system of relationships that can be established between them and that, in his opinion, can be reduced to four virtual types resulting from two possibilities given on both sides: the event that is repeated or not and the statement that is repeated or not. To be more specific, he distinguishes between:

a) Singulative narrative or, otherwise, narrating once what happened once. (e.g. Yesterday I went to bed early.): “… the singularness of the narrated statement corresponds to the singularness of the narrated event…” (114)

b) Repeating narrative or narrating n times what happened once (e.g. Yesterday I went to bed early, yesterday I went to bed early, yesterday I went to bed early, etc.) Although apparently rather hypothetical and irrelevant to literature, this kind of repetition has been successfully exploited at different stages in the evolution of the novel, here including the eighteenth-century epistolary novel, or novels in which stress is laid on the repetition doubled by stylistic or viewpoint variations or that display repeating anachronies such the advance notices and the recalls. (115)

c) Iterative narrative or narrating one time (or rather at one time) what happened n times: “a single narrative utterance takes upon itself several occurrences together of the same event (in other words, once again, several events considered only in terms of their analogy)” (116) Far from eliciting much interest, this third type of repetition deals with a “linguistic proceeding,” as Genette puts it, that in its different forms is completely common and probably universal. (116)

As, more often than not, iterative sections are subordinated to singulative scenes to which they provide an informative frame or background, it becomes obvious that their classic function comes very close to that of description. They both are both “at the service of the narrative ‘as such’ which is the singulative narrative” and, consequently, establish very often close relation (for instance in completing a moral portrait.). (117)

The discussion of Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (the novel on which he consistently applies his narrative theory) provides Genette with concrete examples of different types of iterative narrative such as:

• generalizing iterations or external iterations: “ the temporal field covered by the iterative section obviously extends well beyond the temporal field of the scene it is inserted into: the iterative to some extent opens a window onto the external period.” (118)

• internal or synthesizing iterations: “the iterative syllepsis extends not over a wider period of time but over the period of time of the scene itself.” (119) The duration of the scene itself is

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treated in an iterative form and the scene is then synthesised by a sort of paradigmatic classification of the events composing it. (118-9)

The two types of syllepses may contaminate the singulative narrative separately or at the same time, and should be distinguished from the so-called pseudo-iterative (“scenes presented, particularly by their wording in the imperfect, as iterative, whereas their richness and precision of detail ensure that no reader can seriously believe they occur and reoccur in that manner, several times, without any variation.” – 121).

I. 1. 4. MOOD

Another category ‘moulded’ upon a grammatical model is that of the narrative mood, which, like its grammatical counterpart, has its own degrees:

“The narrative can furnish the reader with more or fewer details, and in a more or less direct way, and can thus seem (…) to keep at a greater or lesser distance from what it tells. The narrative can also choose to regulate the information it delivers, not with a sort of even screening, but according to the capacities of knowledge of one or another participant in the story (a character or group of characters), with the narrative adopting or seeming to adopt what we ordinarily call the participant’s ‘vision’ or ‘point of view;’ the narrative seems in that case (…) to take on, with regard to the story, one or another perspective.” (162)

As the quote shows, therefore, Genette’s analysis of modalities of regulation of narrative information will be focused upon the two categories of distance and perspective.

In the larger context of the centuries-long debate on the dichotomic distance-based pair of mimesis and diegesis, Genette puts forward his own terms: narrative of events and narrative of words.

The former, i.e. the narrative of events, is defined as a narrative “transcription of the (supposed) non-verbal into the verbal” whose illusion of mimesis depends, like every illusion, on the highly variable relationship between the sender and the receiver (165), that, in its turn, is influenced to a great extent by the evolution of aesthetic principles and the position that individuals, groups, and periods take in the debate on the possibilities of representing reality.

Going back to Plato’s comments with respect to mimesis and diegesis, Genette identifies as strictly textual mimetic factors “the quantity of narrative information (a more developed or more detailed narrative) and the absence (or minimal presence) of the informer – in other words, of the narrator.” (p. 166) Therefore, what is usually referred to as “showing” can be only a way of telling which means either saying about it as much as one can, ensuring the dominance of the scene (as in James’s detailed narrative), or saying this “much” as little as possible, as in the cases that display a kind of (pseudo-)Flaubertian transparency of the narrator. (166) To make this contrast between mimesis and diegesis easier to understand, a mathematical-like formula is suggested:

Information + informer = C “which implies that the quantity of information and the presence of the informer are in inverse ratio.” (166) Hence,

MIMESIS = A MAXIMUM OF INFORMATION AND A MINIMUM OF THE INFORMER DIEGESIS = A MAXIMUM OF THE INFORMER AND A MINIMUM OF INFORMATION.

Such definitions help establish a connection between the category of mood, on the one hand, and those of temporal determination/ narrative speed (since “the quantity of information is solidly in inverse

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ratio to the speed of the narrative”) and voice (“the degree to which the narrating instance is present”) respectively. (166)

As for the narrative of events, the French critic includes under this label different states of the characters’ speech (either uttered or “inner”) which, according to their relation with the narrative distance, can be classified as follows:

1. Narratized or narrated speech, obviously the most ‘distant’ and, generally, the most reduced. (Genette identifies as a peculiar species of narratized discourse the narrative of an inner debate, or, as he puts it, the analysis or the narrative of thoughts or narratized inner speech. e.g. uttered speech: “I informed my mother of my decision to marry Albertine.”; inner speech: “I decided to marry Albertine.”) (p. 171)

2. Transposed speech, in indirect style: “Although a little more mimetic than narrated speech, […] this form never gives the reader any guarantee – or above all any feeling – of literal fidelity to the words ‘really’ uttered: the narrator’s presence is still too perceptible in the very syntax of the sentence for the speech to impose itself with the documentary autonomy of a quotation.” (171) (e.g. uttered speech: “I told my mother that I absolutely had to marry Albertine.”; inner speech: “I thought that I absolutely had to marry Albertine.”) Words are not simply reported in subordinate clauses, but condensed, integrated into the narrator’s own speech.

In order to avoid any confusion between what he calls transposed speech and the free indirect style, Genette insists on the differences between the two, given, above all, by the presence or absence of explicit subordination indicators, such as the declarative verb or the subordinating conjunction. He draws the attention to the danger of confusion that the absence of such indicators might cause in the case of free indirect speech:

- on the one hand, the confusion between the uttered speech and inner speech: e.g. “I went to find my mother; it was absolutely necessary to marry Albertine.”

- on the other hand, the confusion between the speech (uttered or inner) of the character and that of the narrator.

3. Reported speech, the most ‘mimetic’ form (that Plato rejected) in which the narrator pretends literally to give the floor to his character. E.g. “I said to my mother/ I thought: It is absolutely necessary to marry Albertine.”

Largely popular up to the end of the nineteenth century as long as the novel has been conceived as “mimesis at two degrees, imitation of imitation” (173), reported speech is pushed, in the modern novel of late nineteenth century and then of the twentieth century, to its limit, “obliterating the last traces of the narrating instance and giving the floor to the character right away.” (173) Hence, from Joyce to Beckett or Nathalie Sarraute, etc, the popularity of interior monologue, or as Genette calls it, “immediate speech,” which “happens on its own, without the intermediary of a narrating instance which is reduced to silence and whose function the monologue takes on.” (174)

Both instruments of the stream of consciousness technique, the interior monologue and the free indirect style are sometimes erroneously confused and Genette emphasises that it is essential to clearly delineate them. Thus, he points out: “in the free indirect style, the narrator takes on the speech of the character, or, if one prefers, the character speaks through the voice of the narrator and the two instances are then merged; in immediate speech the narrator is obliterated and the character substitutes for him.” (174)

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The second mode of regulating information that Genette terms as narrative perspective arises from the choice of a certain, more or less restrictive, “point of view” and has been, as Genette rightfully remarks, one of the concepts most frequently studied by narrative technique theoreticians since the end of the nineteenth century. Genette, however, chooses to challenge most of the theories on this subject on the ground of their promoting a “regrettable confusion” between the two different questions which he proposes to answer separately in the discussion of the categories of mood and voice. These questions are:

- Who is the character whose point of view orients the narrative perspective? - Who is the narrator? (186)

Trying to avoid the too specifically visual connotations of such terms as vision, field or point of view, inspired by Brooks and Warren’s expression “focus of narration,” Genette introduces his own term, i.e. focalization and re-discusses the classification of narratives according to the perspective they are representative for as follows:

• Nonfocalized narrative or narrative with zero focalization; • Narrative with internal focalization:

o Fixed (e.g. The Ambassadors, where everything passes through Strether, or What Maisie Knew, where we almost never leave the point of view of the little girl)

o Variable (e.g. Madame Bovary, where the focal character is first Charles, then Emma, then again Charles)

o Multiple (e.g. epistolary novels) • Narrative with external focalization (e.g. Hemingway’s novellas “the Killers” or “Hills Like

White Elephants;” Walter Scott, Jules Verne, Alexandre Dumas, Balzac etc.) Genette takes care to underline the fact that the commitment to a certain kind of focalization is not necessarily steady over the whole length of a narrative. Besides, he admits that “the distinction between different points of view is not always as clear as the consideration of pure types alone could lead one believe.” (191)Special emphasis is laid on internal focalization, which, according to Genette, is rarely applied in a totally rigorous way:

“the very principle of this narrative mode implies in all strictness that the focal character never be described or even referred to from the outside, and that his thoughts or perceptions never be analysed objectively by the narrator.” (192)

The internal focalization (that seems to be fully realized only in the interior monologue) should be taken in a less strict sense, as mainly based on what Roland Barthes calls the personal mode of narrative. Genette subscribes to Barthes’s definition of this mode as

“the possibility of rewriting the narrative section under consideration into the first person (if it is not in that person already) without the need for “any alteration of the discourse other than the change of grammatical pronouns.” (193)

E.g.: “He [James Bond] saw a man in his fifties, still young-looking …” → internal focalization ↓ “I saw a man in his fifties, still young-looking …” E.g.: “The tinkling of ice cubes against the glass seemed to awaken in Bond a sudden inspiration…” ↓

external focalization, given the narrator’s marked ignorance with respect to the hero’s real thoughts. (193-4)

Genette has also emphasized the fact that, on the macro-level of a narrative, there can be changes in focalization. Especially when such changes can be isolated within a coherent context, he suggests that they should be analysed as merely momentary infractions of the code, that, however, do not call

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into question the existence of the code. Thus, he gives the name alterations to “those isolated infractions when the coherence of the whole still remains strong enough for the notion of dominant mode/ mood to continue relevant.” (195) There are two such kinds of alterations which result either from giving less information than necessary, or from giving more information than authorized by the dominant focalization code. The first kind, referred to in connection with completing anachronies, is known as lateral omission or paralipsis. The second, which takes up and gives information that should be left aside, is known as paralepsis. Among the most significant such cases of alterations, Genette mentions:

1. the paralipsis in the code of internal focalization – “the omission of some important action or thought of the focal hero, which neither the hero nor the narrator can be ignorant of but which the narrator chooses to conceal from the reader.” (196)

2. the paralepsis as an inroad into the consciousness of a character in the code of external focalization;

3. paralepsis in internal focalization – “incidental information about the thoughts of a character other than the focal character, or about a scene that the latter is not able to see.” (197)

I. 1. 5. VOICE

The last major category that Genette discusses is that of voice, the analysis of which should not be limited, as the scholar shows, to “the person who carries out or submits to the action, but also the person (the same one or another) who reports it, and, if need be, all those people who participate, even though passively, in this narrating activity.” (213) However, along the years, narratologists have been facing the difficulty of approaching the generating instance of narrative discourse, that Genette calls narrating.

“On the one hand, (…) critics restrict questions of narrative enunciating to questions of “point of view;” on the other hand they identify the narrating instance with the instance of “writing,” the narrator with the author, and the recipient of the narrative with the reader of the work…” (213)

Or the role of the narrator is fictitious. Consequently, Genette intends to consider more thoroughly the narrating instance, that can anyway vary in the course of a single narrative work, according to the traces it has left in the narrative discourse it is assumed to have produced. A “tight web of connections among the narrating act, its protagonists, its spatio-temporal determinations, its relationship to the other narrating situations involved in the same narrative, etc.” is thus examined in an attempt at characterising such categories subordinated to voice as time of the narrating, narrative level and “person.” (215)

According to Genette, a story can be told without specifying the place where it happens or whether that place is more or less distant from the place where it is told, but it would be impossible not to locate it in time with respect to the narrating act by using different grammatical tenses. Thus, he concludes that “the temporal determinations of the narrating instance are manifestly more important than its spatial determinations.” (215) The chief temporal determination of the narrating instance is its position relative to the story. According to this criterion, four types of narrative can be distinguished:

• subsequent – the classical position of the past-tense narrative, by far the most frequent. The use of past tense is enough to make the narrative subsequent, although without indicating the temporal interval separating the moment of the narrating from that of the story. As a rule, in the “third-person” narrative, the interval is indeterminate, yet, there are also cases of

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convergence or relative contemporaneity of story time and narrating time marked by the use of the present tense, either at the beginning (e.g. Tom Jones) or at the end (e.g. Madame Bovary). Genette considers such cases worth mentioning as they reveal “a temporal isotopy between the story and its narrator, an isotopy which until then was hidden.” (221) As for the “first-person” narratives, this isotopy is evident from the very beginning and the final convergence is the rule. (e.g. Robinson Crusoe) All in all, unlike the simultaneous or the interpolated narrating which exist through their duration and the relations between that duration and the story’s, subsequent narrating exists through a paradox, in the sense that “it possesses at the same time a temporal situation (with respect to the past story) and an atemporal essence (since it has no duration proper).” (223)

• prior – predictive narrative, generally in the future tense, but not prohibited from being conjugated in the present, which has been less used than the other type of narrating, even in the novels of anticipation. (219-20)

• simultaneous – narrative in the present contemporaneous with the action, which, in principle, should eliminate any sort of interference or temporal game. However, the blending of the instances can function in two opposite directions, according to whether the emphasis is put on the story or on the narrative discourse. In the first case, the present-tense narrative of the “behaviourist” type and strictly of the moment (see Hemingway or the French “New Novel”) may seem like objective, but in the second case, when emphasis is laid on the narrating itself (see the narratives with interior monologues), the simultaneousness operates in favour of the discourse and the action is reduced, even abolished. All in all, as Genette seems to suggests, the use of the present tense is not the guarantee of the equilibrium of instances, on the contrary. (218-9)

• interpolated – between the moments of the action. It is the most complex type as it involves narrating with several instances and the very close entanglement of the story and the narrating. One of the best cases in point is the epistolary novel with several correspondents in which the letter is at the same time a medium of the narrative and an element of the plot. Furthermore, “the extreme closeness of story to narrating produces […] a very subtle effect of friction […] between the slight temporal displacement of the narrative of events (‘Here is what happened to me today’) and the complete simultaneousness in the report of thoughts and feelings (‘Here is what I think about it this evening’).” (217-8)

Next, Genette proceeds to defining the differences in level between narrating instances in the following terms:

“any event a narrative recounts is at a diegetic level immediately higher than the level at which the narrating act producing this narrative is placed.” (228)

The first level is the extradiegetic level, followed by the diegetic/ intradiegetic level, whereas the second degree narrative belongs to the metadiegetic level.

I. 2. MIEKE BAL’S NARRATOLOGY

Unlike Genette’s study, Mieke Bal’s covers a wider scope. First of all, the Dutch narratologist adopts a definition in broader terms of narratology itself as the theory of narratives, narrative texts, images, spectacles, events; cultural artifacts that ‘tell a story.’ Such a theory helps to understand, analyse and evaluate narratives. (Narratology – Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 1997: 3)

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Secondly, she does not strictly focus on the narrative discourse. She clearly expresses her intention of identifying all the characteristics that make a text narrative and then describing the narrative system with all the variations that are possible when the narrative system is concretized into narrative texts.(3) Before embarking upon a more developed analysis, M. Bal defines a series of key concepts, thus already announcing some of the lines along which she deviates from the Genettian model: • narrative text: A narrative text is a text in which an agent relates (‘tells’) a story in a particular

medium. (5) • story: A story is a fabula that is presented in a certain manner. (5) • fabula: A fabula is a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused or

experienced by actors. (5) • event: An event is the transition from one state to another state. (5) • actor: Actors are agents that perform actions. They are not necessarily human. (5) • to act: To act is defined here as to cause or to experience an event. (5)

A clear-cut difference should be made between text and story. The same story can be related in different narrative texts. Consequently, throughout the study, ‘text’ will be used to refer to narratives in any medium with an emphasis on structuredness, not necessarily on the linguistic nature. (6) Considering the above given definitions, the study of the narrative texts should be conducted, according to M. Bal, on the three levels/layers of text, story and fabula. (Of course, like Genette, she takes care to remind that, out of these three layers, only the text layer, represented by language, visual images, etc., is directly accessible.)

I. THE FABULA can be defined as a series of events, constructed according to the rules of the logic of events, that make up the material or content that is worked into a story. Having thus revived the term preferred by the Russian Formalists and by some of the Structuralists, M. Bal briefly sketches the theoretical background against which she intends to further examine the rules that govern the series of events. Thus, she reconsiders the Structuralist position that has assimilated the rules governing events in narratives with those controlling human behaviour, which further justifies the interest in the function of the instruments of action, i.e. the actors. Some theorists, like Greimas for instance, have suggested that events and actors should be considered in their relation, yet, M. Bal points out that would not be enough since there are also other elements in the fabula that have to be taken into account. One of them is the time that takes for an event, no matter how insignificant, to ‘happen’ (the verb happen has been used in between inverted commas as, in fact, events in the fabula do not actually take place or even if they do, their reality status is not relevant for their internal logic.). Another element is space/ location; events always occur somewhere, be it a place that actually exists (…) or an imaginary place.(7) Altogether, events, actors, time and location constitute the material of a fabula. (To differentiate the components of this layer from other narrative constituents, M. Bal refers to them as elements.)

II. THE STORY results from the arrangement of the above mentioned elements in relation to one another so that they could produce a certain effect (convincing, moving, disgusting, aesthetic, etc.). Several processes are involved in ordering the fabula elements in the story and M. Bal describes them as follows:

1. The events are arranged in a sequence which can differ from the chronological sequence. 2. The amount of time which is allotted in the story to the various elements of the fabula is

determined with respect to the amount of time which these elements take up in the fabula. 3. The actors are provided with distinct traits. In this manner, they are individualized and

transformed into characters.

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4. The locations where events occur are also given different characteristics and are thus transformed into specific places.

5. In addition to the necessary relationships among actors, events, locations and time, all of which were already describable in the layer of the fabula, other relationships (symbolic, allusive, traditional, etc.) may exist among the various elements.

6. A choice is made from among the various ‘points of view’ from which the elements can be presented. The resulting focalization, the relation between ‘who perceives’ and what is perceived, ‘colours’ the story with subjectivity. (8)

All the results of these processes that vary from one story to another are referred to as aspects. III.THE TEXT, in its turn, results from the conversion of the story into signs that are related/‘uttered’ by

an agent. Obviously that agent should not be taken for the real author, whether a writer, a painter or a filmmaker. It is rather a fictitious narrative instance, technically referred to as the narrator. That is a distinction that M. Bal constantly and unambiguously insists upon throughout the study (unlike Genette). Furthermore, a text does not consist solely of narration in the specific sense. (8) That means that what is said and how it is said should also be examined on the text layer. Paying attention to an opinion about something, a disclosure on the part of the narrator which is not directly connected with the events, a description of a face or of a location, etc. the text could be classified as narrative, descriptive, argumentative, having an ideological or aesthetic thrust. The interest in how the story is related could lead to emphasizing differences in style between the narrator and the actors. (8-9)

Given this three-fold distinction between layers, M. Bal also remarks for the benefit of a better understanding and interpretation of narrative texts that some narrative categories, traditionally constituted as a unified whole, will be dealt with separately at different stages in the study. The best case in point is that of what is traditionally referred to as the ‘character.’ As a matter of fact, it should be more appropriately called ‘actor’ on the layer of the fabula where it is envisaged as an anthropomorphic figure, ‘character’ on the layer of the story and ‘speaker’ on that of the text. (9)

I. 2.1. TEXT: WORDS

Taking as a starting point the definition of the narrative text as a text in which a narrative agent tells a story (16), M. Bal proposes as a main issue for discussion on the textual layer the identity and status of the narrative agent, or the narrator, that she describes as the linguistic subject, a function and not a person, which expresses itself in the language that constitutes the text. (16) The very definition of the narrator indicates that it is of utmost importance for the analysis to make the distinction between the narrative agent/ the narrator and the author as the historical subject who wrote the text (unfortunately, sometimes ambiguously treated in Genette’s study). Another distinction referred to, pointed out, for the first time, by Wayne Booth (1961) and taken over by Genette as well, is that between the narrator and the implied author. The latter term, originally used to discuss the ideological and moral stances in a narrative text without referring directly to the biographical author, denotes the totality of meanings that can be inferred from a text (18) and not the source of that meaning. Since it is not limited to narrative text and can be applied to virtually any text, the notion of an implied author is not perceived as specific to narratology. Hence, to be more specific, out of the three stances of the author, the implied author and the narrator only the last must be considered for the analysis of the narrative text.

The narrator is the most central concept in the analysis of narrative texts. The identity of the narrator, the degree to which and the manner in which that identity is indicated in the text, and the choices

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that are implied lend the text its specific character.(19) But that has also caused the traditional, but inappropriate identification of the narrator with the focalization. They both determine what has been called narration – incorrectly in Bal’s opinion, since she argues that it is only the narrator who narrates, i.e. utters the language that represents the story, whereas the focalizor is merely an aspect of the story the narrator tells. In other words, she is against seeing focalization as part of narration, because that would mean to fail making the distinction between linguistic, i.e. textual, agents and the purpose, the object, of their activity. (19) That is why the narrator and the focalizor should be analysed on different narrative layers. Enlarging strictly on the nature of the narrator, M. Bal further speaks of another traditional case of misconception, reflected on the terminological level as well, between the so-called ‘first-person’ and ‘third-person’ novels, or exceptionally ‘second-person’ experiments (such as Michel Butor’s La Modification). (21) Neither the Dutch narratologist can accept such a distinction made in terms of first-person/vs./third-person as valid. In agreement with the Genettian argument with regard to the narrator, she states that: In principle, it does not make a difference to the status of the narration whether a narrator refers to itself or not. As soon as there is language, there is a speaker who utters it; as soon as those linguistic utterances constitute a narrative text, there is a narrator, a narrating subject. From a grammatical point of view, this is always a ‘first-person.’ In fact, the term third-person narrator is absurd: a narrator is not a ‘he’ or ‘she.’ At best the narrator can narrate about someone else, a ‘he’ or ‘she’ – who might, incidentally, happen to be a narrator as well. (22) Briefly, the speaking subject is always the same, ‘I’ and the difference rests in the object of the utterance. Thus, there are cases in which the ‘I’ speaks about itself, just as there are cases when it speaks about someone else. Coining her own terms to describe these different cases, M. Bal distinguishes between: • the external narrator (EN), when in a text the narrator never speaks explicitly to itself as a

character (…). After all, the narrating agent does not figure in the fabula as an actor. (22) • the character-bound narrator (CN), if the ‘I’ is to be identified with a character in the fabula it

itself narrates. (22) Furthermore, the theorist remarks that the difference in the object of utterance – others or

himself/herself – also entails differences in the narrative rhetoric of ‘truth.’ Thus, a CN usually proclaims that it recounts true facts about her- or himself. ‘It’ pretends to be writing ‘her’ autobiography, even if the fabula is blatantly implausible, fantastic, absurd, metaphysical. (22) On the other hand, the rhetoric of an EN appears more complex as it could be used to present a story about the others as true, but could also point to the presence of invention. There are numerous indicators by means of which the narrator may openly indicate the fictionality of the story, among which M. Bal mentions narrations of impossible or unknowable situations or such generic indicators as ‘Once upon a time…’ etc. (25) As further refinement of the classification of narratives is possible, M. Bal actually distinguishes between several narrative situations according to the relationship of the narrative ‘I’ to the object of narration and the focalization. Thus, the narrator may remain outside the fabula, narrating about (and perceiving) the others, or it can act within the fabula, either as an active actor or as mere witness; there is, of course, the possibility of identification of the agents, i.e. the narrator and the focalizor could be both the same character. Moreover, there are cases in which the narrative situation changes: a narrator may remain imperceptible for a long time, but suddenly begin to refer to itself, sometimes in such a subtle manner that the reader hardly notices. (29) The focalization may also be subject to modifications: it could stay with the same agent, but more often than not, the narrative voice associates, then dissociates itself from, characters who are temporarily focalizing. (29) There is no doubt, however, that not all the sentences/ pieces of text are narrative, which makes the alternation between narrative and non-narrative comments also worth analyzing. Such

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analysis could contribute to underscoring more precisely the differences between the text’s overt ideology, as stated in such comments, and its more hidden or naturalized ideology, as embodied in the narrative representations. (31)

The commentary of the external narrator may often exceed the function of narrating. It could refer, for instance, to something general and be described as argumentative: Argumentative textual passages do not refer to an element (process or object) of the fabula, but to an external topic. (32-3) Opinions as well as declarations with regard to the factual state of the world could fall under this definition, hence, the label of argumentative could be used for any statement that refers to something of general knowledge outside the fabula. (33) Moreover, part of the commentary can be descriptive. Anyway, whether argumentative, descriptive, or simply narrative, different parts of the text can communicate ideology in different manners. The argumentative parts of the text often give explicit information about the ideology of a text. It is, however, quite possible that such explicit statements are treated ironically in other parts of the text to such an extent that the reader must distance herself from them. If we want to evaluate the ideological tenor of a text, an analysis of the relationship between these three textual forms within the totality of the entire text is a crucial element. (34)

A privileged site of focalization, with a great impact not only on the ideological but also on the aesthetic dimension of the text, description is worth insisting upon, perhaps more than argumentation. Although often limited and apparently of marginal importance in narrative texts, descriptive passages are, in fact, both practically and logically necessary. Passages endowed with the descriptive function mainly present features attributed to objects. Within the realistic tradition, such passages have always been regarded as problematic and Plato himself, for example, has rejected descriptions rewriting Homer’s descriptive passages so as to turn them into ‘true’ narratives. In the nineteenth-century realistic novel, if not discarded or narrativised, descriptive passages were at least narratively motivated. That invites to further investigation regarding the motivation of the descriptions that interrupt the line of the fabula.

According to M. Bal, the ways in which descriptions are inserted characterize the rhetorical strategy of the narrator. (37) In realistic narratives in particular, motivation appears as an essential aspect of the narrative rhetoric, capable of suggesting probability, thus making the contents believable, plausible. Three types of motivation can be thus distinguished between: • motivation via looking – the most effective, the most frequent, and the least noticeable, it appears as

a function of focalization: A character sees an object. The description is the reproduction of what the character sees. Looking at something requires time, and, in this fashion, the description is incorporated into the time lapse.(…)Furthermore, the character must have both the time to look and the reason to look at an object. (37)

• motivation via speaking – When a character not only looks but also describes what it sees, a certain shift in motivation occurs… (38)

• motivation via acting – Resembling what theoreticians usually call the Homeric description, this kind of motivation occurs when on the level of the fabula, the actor carries out an action with an object. The description is then made fully narrative. (38) That makes it much more difficult (practically impossible) to distinguish from the narrative proper.

Next, Mieke Bal chooses to focus on the distinctions between the levels of narration, which she conceives in different terms from her predecessor Gérard Genette. As a starting point for the analysis of narrative situations, she considers the differences between language situations, namely personal and impersonal, that are clearly indicated by certain references in the text (see 47-8):

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personal impersonal 1. personal pronouns I/you he/she 2. grammatical person first and second

person third person

3. tense not all past tenses are possible

all past tenses

this/these that/those here/there in that place

4. deixis: indicative pronouns adverbs of place adverbs of time today/tomorrow that day/ the

day after 5. emotive words and aspects Oh! (absent) 6. conative words and aspects (address, command, question)

Please (absent)

7. modal verbs and adverbs which indicate uncertainty in the speaker

perhaps (absent)

Accordingly, when the signals of the personal linguistic situation refer to the language

situation of the narrator, we are dealing with a perceptible narrator (N1(p)).When the signals refer to the language situation of the actors, and a clear change of level has been indicated by means of a declarative verb, a colon, a quotation mark, etc., we speak of a personal language situation at the second level (CN2). This situation can be called dramatic: just as on the stage, actors communicate through speech in a personal language situation. When, however, the signals refer to a personal language situation in which the actors participate without previously stepping down from their narrative level, then we have text interference. (48) To put it in a nutshell, only the direct speech/ discourse preserves the narrator’s personal language situation separately delineated from that of the actors (the change of level is explicit). Otherwise, both indirect discourse and free indirect discourse are forms of text interference. To facilitate the analysis and the distinction between these forms of discourse, three characteristics are specifically underlined: 1. Indirect discourse is narrated at a higher level than the level at which the words in the fibula are

supposed to have been spoken. 2. The narrator’s text explicitly indicates that the words of an actor are narrated by means of a

declarative verb, or a substitute for it. 3. The words of the actor appear to have been rendered with maximum precision and elaboration. (49)

The first characteristic indicates the difference between indirect discourse and direct discourse, the second, that between the indirect discourse and free indirect discourse, while the last, and the most arbitrary, points to the difference between (free) indirect discourse and the narrator’s text.

When characteristic 2 of indirect discourse is left out, and characteristic 3 is present, we have free indirect discourse. Then we have a form of interference between narrator’s text and actor’s text. Signals of the personal language situation of the actor and of the (im)personal language situation of the narrator cross without explicit reference to this. (50)

The most difficult is not to distinguish indirect discourse from free indirect discourse, but free indirect discourse from the narrator’s text. To be positive that a piece of text really displays the representation of the words of an actor, three categories of indications must be taken into account: 1. The above-mentioned signals of a personal language situation, referring to an actor. 2. A strikingly personal style, attributable to an actor. 3. More details about what has been said than is necessary for the course of the fabula. (50)

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E.g.: Elizabeth said: ‘I refuse to go on living like this.’ the narrator’s text the actor’s text Direct Discourse E.g. Elizabeth said she refused/ would not go on living like this.

The narrator represents the words of the actor as it is supposed to have uttered them. Indirect Discourse E.g. Elizabeth would be damned if she’d go on living like this. Elizabeth would not go on living like this. Impersonal language situation: the personal language situation third person, past tense of the actor: deixis, modality,

conative words

Free Indirect Discourse E.g. Elizabeth did not want to go on living in the manner disclosed. Elizabeth had had it. the narrator’s text (the words of the actor are not presented as text, but as an act – no text interference) When there is text interference, narrator’s text and actor’s text are so closely related that a distinction into narrative levels can no longer be made. (…) When the texts do not interfere, but are clearly separate, there may still be a difference in the degree to which the embedded actor’s text and the primary narrator’s text are related. (52) Then, several relationships, different in kind and intensity, can establish between the primary and the embedded texts. The most typical example of narrative structure based upon such relations is that of the so-called frame narratives in which complete stories can be told at the second, or even at the third level. (e.g. The Arabian Nights) (Generally speaking, the further presentation of types of relationships between primary and embedded texts and fabulas roughly corresponds to Genette’s, as presented on p. 37, but with Bal, the distinctions are better stressed out and that makes her classification better systematized.) On the one hand, a relation can establish between the primary fabula and the embedded text. The narrating act of the actor-narrator which produces the embedded text becomes in itself an important ‘event’ in the fabula of the primary text. The relationship between the primary text and the narrative subject lies in the relationship between the primary fabula and embedded narrative act. (53) On the other hand, another possible relationship appears when the two fabulas are related somehow to each other. In this case, two more possibilities arise: 1. The embedded fabula explains the primary fabula. (54) Often signaled by the very actor narrating the

embedded story, this relationship does not necessarily impose the primary fabula as more important than the embedded. On the contrary, the primary fabula often appears more as an occasion for a perceptible, character-bound narrator to narrate a story. In particular, the embedded fabula could not only explain but also determine the primary fabula. In such cases, the explanation of the starting situation may lead to a change, in other words, the exposition of the embedded story comes to influence the primary fabula. Consequently, the structure of

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narrative levels becomes more than a mere story-telling device; it is part of the narrative’s poetics, and needs to be understood for the narrative to be fully appreciated. (54)

2. The fabulas ‘resemble one another.’ (55) Of course, resemblance should not be understood as absolute identity, although, theoretically, that is also possible. Actually, there can be stronger or weaker resemblance: we speak of resemblance when two fabulas can be paraphrased in such a way that the summaries have one or more striking elements in common. The degree of resemblance is determined by the number of terms the summaries share. An embedded text that presents a story which, according to this criterion, resembles the primary fibula may be taken as a sign of the primary fabula.(56)

Confining the discussion of the relations between primary and embedded narrative texts only to these two possibilities, the Dutch narratologist could not, however, fail to point out the peculiar form, comparable to infinite regress, that the ‘resemblance’ relationship takes in the so-called mise en abyme structure, that she prefers to describe by means of the term ‘mirror-text.’ (58) According to the place it takes in the primary text, the mirror-text can function as a sign to the reader, either creating suspense, or enhancing significance. Furthermore, it could be a sign for the actor her-/himself, giving her/him the possibility of better understanding the course of the fabula in which (s)he is involved, discovering its double meaning and influencing its outcome.

But not all embedded texts are narrative. In fact, most of them are non-narrative containing: assertions about things in general, discussions between actors, descriptions, confidences, etc. The most predominant form seems to be that of the dialogue in which the actors themselves, not the primary narrator, utter language. As a particular case, the embedded text can be uttered or ‘thought’ by only one actor and then, it is a soliloquy or monologue, which, in its turn, may contain confidences, descriptions, reflections, self-reflection, whatever the actor wishes.

I. 2. 2. STORY: ASPECTS

On this second layer of Mieke Bal’s narrative model, the same material that the text or the fabula consist in is dealt with but from a different angle and several new aspects have to be taken thus into account. First of all, if one regards the text primarily as the product of the use of a medium, and the fabula primarily as the product of imagination, the story could be regarded as the result of an ordering. (78) The presentation of the events in an order different from the chronological one is by far the most easy to grasp on this level. Secondly, if, in the fabula, the relations between various actors as abstract units and the events are analyzed, in the story, it is equally important to investigate the features that contribute to individualizing the actors, such as looks, character, psychological qualities, and past. When those relations are clear, it is easier to distinguish between those relations and the relations between the reader and the characters in the story, and the flows of sympathy and antipathy between the characters and from the reader to the individual characters. (79) Thirdly, if actors are ‘manipulated’ so as to become specific characters, similarly, locations can be ‘manipulated’ as to be turned into specific places with mutual symbolic and circumstantial relations. Last but not least, reference should be made to the most important means of ‘manipulation’ that has been known, for decades, as ‘point of view’ or perspective. As Mieke Bal puts it, the point of view from which the elements of the fabula are being presented is often of decisive importance for the meaning the reader will assign to the fabula. (79) That is why, all analysis of the story layer should include remarks regarding focalization – for this is the term that Mieke Bal thinks characterizes best this narrative aspect – which has far more influence on meaning than ordering. Following in Genette’s footsteps, Mieke Bal discusses what she calls sequential ordering. The differences between the arrangement in the story and the chronology of the fabula are

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referred to as anachronies or chronological deviations. Although, here, she preserves the Genettian term, she proposes, nevertheless, her own approach to the issue and identifies three aspects of chronological deviation, namely direction, distance, and range. As far as direction is concerned, there are two possibilities, which, although not termed, as Genette puts it, as analepsis and prolepsis, refer actually to the same kinds of deviations: Seen from that moment in the fabula which is being presented when the anachrony intervenes, the event presented in the anachrony lies either in the past or in the future. For the first category the term retroversion can be used; for the second, anticipation is a suitable term. (84) (Like Genette, Mieke Bal avoids such terms as ‘flash-back’ and ‘flash-forward’ because of their vagueness and psychological connotations.) Further nuances are added to this distinction. The complexity of the anachronies can be enhanced by embedding, which sometimes makes them very difficult to analyse, while, in texts based on the ‘stream-of-consciousness technique,’ differences are made between subjective and objective anachronies. A subjective anachrony is an anachrony which can only be regarded as such if the ‘contents of consciousness’ lie in the past or the future; not the past of being ‘conscious,’ the moment of thinking itself. (87) By distance, Mieke Bal means that an event presented in anachrony is separated by an interval, large or small, from the ‘present;’ that is, from the moment in the development of the fabula with which the narrative is concerned at the time the anachrony interrupts it. (89) On the basis of ‘distance,’ she then distinguishes between the following kinds of anachrony: • Whenever a retroversion takes place completely outside the time span of the primary fabula, we refer

to an external analepsis, an external retroversion. • If the retroversion occurs within the time span of the primary fabula, then we refer to an internal

analepsis, an internal retroversion. • If the retroversion begins outside the primary span and ends within it, we refer to a mixed

retroversion.(90) (As it can be seen, she continues to draw on the Genettian theory, confirming thus the validity of Genette’s original distinctions.) The next distinction made is in terms of span, i.e. the stretch of time covered by an anachrony.(92) In this respect, anachronies can appear as either incomplete or complete. A retroversion is incomplete if after a (short) span a forward jump is made once again. Disconnected information is thus given about a section of the past, or, in the case of anticipation, of the future. (92) (e.g. detective novels). When, on the contrary, the distance and the span cover each other exactly, the retroversion ends where it began and it could be described as complete. (e.g. novels beginning ‘in media res’) (93) An even more effective classification according to the span, in the sense that it is easier to determine, would include two other types of anachronies, described by terms borrowed from the linguistic distinction of time-aspects of verb tenses, namely punctual and durative. Durative anachronies usually sketch a situation which may or may not be the result of an event that is recalled in a punctual anachrony. Sometimes this distinction covers that between incomplete and complete anachronies. (94) The combination of punctual and durative anachronies sometimes seems to be very relevant regarding the narrative ‘style:’ Frequent use of punctual anachrony sometimes makes for a businesslike style; systematic combinations of punctual and durative retroversions can create – or at least add to – the impression that the story is developing according to clear, causative laws: a certain event causes a situation to emerge which makes another event possible, and so on. If durative retroversions are dominant, then the reader quickly receives the impression that nothing spectacular is happening. The narrative appears to be a succession of inevitable situations.(94)

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As for the anticipations, besides the fact that they occur much less frequently, they seem to be rather restricted to single allusions to the outcome of the fabula and serve to generate tension or to express a fatalistic vision of life (robbing the narrative of a certain kind of suspense). One more or less traditional form of anticipation is the summary at the beginning. The rest of the story gives the explanation of the outcome presented at the beginning. (95). In addition to this special case, anticipations usually take the form of explicit announcements that indeed work against suspense. Nevertheless, in certain narratives, they can also take the form of implicit hints – as the clues in detective novels, for instance – with the exactly opposite effect, saving and even increasing the suspense. More suitable in ‘first-person’ texts, anticipations are also grouped as internal and external. The former, especially, could either complement a future ellipsis or paralipsis or have a connecting/accentuating function. But by far the most effective is the third type of anticipation, the so-called iterative anticipation. In an iterative anticipation an event is presented as the first in a series.(…) One obvious technical advantage of this form is that it offers a good opportunity for showing the scene through the eyes of an inquisitive newcomer, which makes its detailed character immediately more plausible. Precisely this combination of iterativity and the uniqueness of the first time gives this form its special possibilities.(96)

Anachronies

retroversions external internal mixed

complete incomplete punctualdurative

anticipations external internal iterative

Like Genette, Mieke Bal finishes the analysis of deviations from chronological order by referring to achronies and points to: • anticipation-within-retroversion which verges on achrony and can have the effect of a confrontation

between an expected and a realized ‘present.’ In that capacity it may even partake of the aspects that contribute to an implied meta-narrative commentary, e.g. by emphasizing the fictionality of the fabula. (98) E.g. : When she asked me to marry her, she promised she would be home every evening, that she would have a lot of time for me. (These were the expectations, but the realized ‘present’ is in utter contrast with them: she comes home later and later and takes interest only in her business.)

• retroversion-within-anticipation which occurs, for instance, when we are told beforehand how circumstances in the ‘present’ will be presented to us. The meaning of an event can only be made known later, and the coming of that revelation is announced ‘now.’ (98) E.g. Later, John would understand that he had wrongly interpreted Mary’s absence.

• when an anticipation in relation to the fabula turns out to be a retroversion in the story. An event which has yet to take place chronologically has already been presented, e.g. in embedded speech, in the story. Then an allusion is made to it which is an anticipation with respect to the fabula, but a retroversion with respect to the story. (98-9) E.g.: Later John understood that …

• ‘undated’ definite ‘achrony’: deviations which are impossible to analyse because of lack of information regarding direction, distance and span. (99) E.g.: I have never seen him without his wig.

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• grouping of events on the grounds of other than chronological criteria, without any mention of chronological sequence. (for instance, spatial connections instead of chronological ones).

Discussing under the label of rhythm what Genette has called duration, Mieke Bal draws on the same background of early narratological studies to emphasize, on the one hand, the importance of the distinction between a summarizing, accelerating presentation and a broad, scenic one (see Percy Lubbock, 1921), on the other hand, the ensuing solution put forth by Müller and his followers to describe the variation in the narrative speed, namely: the amount of time covered by the fabula can be juxtaposed with the amount of space in the text each event requires (the number of pages, lines or words.) (100) Like Genette, she accepts the convention that a dialogue without commentary takes as long in TF as it does in TS, therefore, that the dialogue, and in principle every scene, is a segment of text in which TF = TS. (102) Furthermore, she does not limit the range of rhythm alteration to the scene and the summary, but extends it: on the one hand, we can distinguish the ellipsis, an omission in the story of a section of the fabula. When a certain part of the time covered by the fabula is given absolutely no attention at all, the amount of TF (time of the fabula) is infinitely larger than the TS (story-time). On the other hand, we can distinguish the pause, when an element that takes no fabula-time (so an object, not a project) is presented in detail. TF is then infinitely smaller than TS. Usually, this is the case in descriptive or argumentative fragments.(102) The difference between her model of rhythm alterations and Genette’s lies in her adding a fifth one that she calls slow-down, which should be viewed relatively and in relation to the summary. All in all, her five tempi are: • ellipsis TF = n TS = 0 thus TF > ∞TS • summary TF > TS • scene TF < ~ TS • slow-down TF < TS • pause TF = 0 TS = n thus TF < ∞TS (102) Ellipses cannot be perceived, but they can sometimes be logically deduced on the basis of certain information that something has been omitted. The reader’s attention could be directed towards an elided event by means of a retroversion. In case, the ellipsis is indicated, then we can actually speak of a pseudo-ellipsis or mini-summary, which proves how flexible the borderline between these two tempi can be. The summary is a suitable instrument for presenting background information, for connecting various scenes or ‘dramatic climaxes’ and its place in the story depends on the type of fabula in the sense that a crisis-fabula will require much less summarizing than a developing fabula. (105) Traditionally combined with summaries to vary the tempo and avoid overtiring/ boring the readers, although conventionally described as based on the coincidence of TF and TS, scenes can never really display such perfect overlapping. Most scenes are full of retroversions, anticipations, non-narrative fragments such as general observations, or atemporal sections such as descriptions.(106) Although she separately distinguishes the slow-down, Mieke Bal admits that in practice this tempo occurs very seldom, but she tries then to counterbalance this remark by pointing out its possible effects, i.e. functioning as a magnifying glass at moments or great suspense, or getting associated with the subjective retroversion when breaking briefly within a scene. (107) Finally, the more frequently used pauses come into focus. Causing the fabula to remain stationary for a while, pauses have a strongly retarding effect, but the reader easily forgets that the fabula has been stopped, whereas in a slow-down the attention is directed towards the fact that the passage of time has slowed down. (108)

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The survey of aspects of time on the story level ends, as in Genette’s Narrative Discourse, with references to frequency or, otherwise narrative repetition, which the Dutch narratologist seems to accept as such, with the same observation that repetition means, in fact, different events or alternative presentations of events, which show similarities and whose differences are ignored. Various possibilities, comparable to Gennete’s, are envisaged: a) The most recurrent frequency is the singular presentation of a singular event. (112) According to Bal,

there is also another possibility namely that an event occurs more often and is presented as often as it occurs. Thus, there is a repetition on both levels so that, again we should really term this a singular representation. (112)

b) repetitive presentation: a second distinct type of repetition is that when an event occurs only once and is presented a number of times. (112) Sometimes disguised, to a certain extent, by stylistic variations, this type of repetition is also closely associated with variations in ‘perspective:’ the event may be the same, but each actor views it in his own or her own way. (112) (see epistolary novels)

c) iterative presentation: a whole series of identical events is presented at once. (112) A second major aspect that Mieke Bal brings into discussion concerns the character seen as distinct from the actor on the fabula level. Whereas the latter is rather general and abstract, the former appears as an actor provided with distinctive characteristics which make it resemble more a human being. (114) The presence of individualizing characteristics also determines different reactions of the readers to the characters. Bal stresses that, although characters resemble human beings, they are not: they have no real psyche, personality, ideology, or competence to act, only possess characteristics which make psychological and ideological descriptions possible. (115) Hence, the problem of drawing a clear dividing line between human person and character. (115) A detailed portrait ‘creates’ indeed the character, maps it out, builds it up, but it should not be reduced to a psychological ‘portrait’ that has more bearing on the reader’s own desire than on the interchange between story and fabula. (116) To determine which material can be usefully included in the description of a character is not always easy, since, besides what a figure does is as important as what (s)he thinks, feels, remembers, or looks like. Another problem is the division of characters into the kinds of categories literary criticism is so fond of. (116) To take but one example, Mieke Bal refers to E. M. Forster’s distinction between round and flat characters, that, like other character-typologies, can be applicable to a rather limited corpus. A third problem comes from the so-called extra-textual situation, namely the influence of reality on the story, in so far as reality plays a part in it.(118) Finally, there is the problem of ideological colour that critics themselves, perhaps unaware, lend to the description of a character. In an attempt at categorizing these problems, Mieke Bal advances a model of character analysis and she starts from the relationship with ‘reality’ or ‘the outside world,’ discussed under the label of predictability. Characters can be described as predictable on the basis of the information regarding ‘reality’ that makes up the so-called frame of reference. In this respect, the best examples would be perhaps the historical, but also the legendary characters. All these characters, which we could label referential characters because of their obvious slots in a frame of reference, act according to the pattern that we are familiar with from other sources. Or not. In both cases, the image we receive of them is determined to a large extent by the confrontation between, on the other hand, our previous knowledge and the expectations it produces, and on the other, the realization of the character in the narrative. (121) More strongly determined, referential characters remain, however, like all other characters, more or less predictable because of certain limitations that can be related to gender, for instance, or the actantial position which the character holds. The very name of a character can function as such a limitation: when a character is allotted its own name, this determined not only its sex/gender (as a rule),

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but also its social status, geographical origin, sometimes even more. Names can also be motivated, can have a bearing upon some of the character’s characteristics. (123) The portrait/ the description of the exterior character, the profession, the external factors may further sustain the predictability of a character, but may just as easily limit the possibilities. When predictability is indeed achieved, coherence of the character’s image (and sometimes suspense) is easily achieved. As far as the construction of a character is concerned, several principles seem to help substantiate it: 1. Repetition: The qualities that are implied in that first presentation are not all ‘grasped’ by the reader.

In the course of the narrative the relevant characteristics are repeated so often – in a different form, however – that they emerge more and more clearly. (125)

2. Pilling up of data: The accumulation of characteristics causes odd facts to coalesce, complement each other, and then form a whole: the image of a character. (125)

3. relations to other characters (or to oneself) 4. the changes/ transformation a character undergoes which can alter in part or entirely the

configuration of the character. To decide which characteristics are relevant and which are of secondary importance, two methods could be used: 1. the selection of relevant semantic axes (semantic axes = pairs of contrary meanings). A powerful tool

for critique, this selection that contributes to determining the image of numerous characters positively or negatively, mapping out the similarities and opposition between them, also involves a certain ideological position. (127-8)

2. the examination of the connections existing between the various characteristics. E.g. the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century novels, the connections between the male sex and a military ideology or, though not as systematic, between the female sex and a pacifist attitude. (129)

Several sources of information can contribute to underscoring the features of a certain character. Firstly, there is the character itself talking about itself, to itself, practicing self-analysis in a diary, confession or autobiographical novel, or talking to others, which elicits an answer and correspondingly engenders other sources of qualification. Secondly, a character can talk about another character in its presence or absence, which may or may not lead to a confrontation. Thirdly, the source of explicit qualification may lie with a third party outside the fabula: the narrator, as a more or less reliable judge, makes statements about the character.

Moreover, when a character is presented by means of her actions, we deduce from these certain implicit qualifications. Such an implicit, indirect qualification may be labelled a qualification by function. The reader’s frame of reference becomes a crucial element in picking up such qualifications. (…) The implicit qualification through action can be split up into potential actions (plans) and realized ones. (130-1) Like the character, the concept of space is sandwiched between that of focalization, of which the representation of space constitutes in a way a specialized case, and that of place, a category of fabula elements. (133) As a matter of fact, both the concept of place and that of space are fictional. The imaginary faculties dictate that places should be included in the fabula and, in the process of the fabula presentation in the story, places are linked to certain points of perception, usually characters who live ‘there.’ Using their senses (sight, hearing, touch), the characters participate in the presentation of space in the story and establish different kinds of relations with it. The space in which the character is situated, or is precisely not situated, is regarded as the frame.(134) Within this framework, the character may feel safe, while outside, it may feel unsafe. Or, on the contrary, the inner space may be perceived as

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confining, while the outer space may represent liberation and security. In both cases, the space has a symbolic function, a function that can be, nevertheless, culturally accepted, changed, or rejected. The semantic content of spatial aspects can be constructed in the same way as the semantic content of a character. Here, too, mention should be made of the preliminary combination of determination achieved on the basis of the reader’s frame of reference, repetition, accumulation, transformation, and relations between various spaces. (135-6) The functions of space can also largely vary. It could appear as a mere frame, presented in a more or less detail, or it could be ‘thematized,’ becoming an object of presentation itself, for its own sake, an ‘acting-place’ rather than the place of action. (136) In both cases, space could function either steadily or dynamically: A steady space is a fixed frame, thematized or not, within which the events take place. A dynamically functioning space is a factor which allows for the movement of characters. (136) More or less described, according to their function in the narrative, spaces can establish two types of relationships: with the characters that inhabit them or travel through (to the point that sometimes, they may even, symbolically, influence their mood) and with time, becoming thus important for the narrative rhythm. The former seems particularly significant, especially since it establishes between aspects that are determined by a peculiar way of perception. Having thus come to the question ‘Who sees?,’ the narratologist goes on to focus on the key concept of her theory of the narrative, i.e. focalization. Given the multiple factors that influence perception, it is virtually impossible to speak of objectivity in the presentation of the elements of the fabula on the story level. That is why, it is important to thoroughly consider the relations that establish between the elements presented and the vision through which they are presented. Focalization is, then, the relation between the vision and that which is ‘seen,’ perceived. (142) The choice of focalization to describe this story aspect is explained, as in Genette’s narrative theory, in contrast with the previous developments in this respect, which heavily relied on the ‘point of view’ or narrative perspective. Focalization, a technical term that can be widely applied to painting, photography and film study as well, seems more appropriate. The two components of this relationship known as focalization, i.e. the agent that sees and that which is seen, or the subject of focalization – the focalizor and the object of focalization – the focalized, must be studied separately. The subject of focalization, the focalizor, is the point from which the elements are viewed. That point can lie with a character (i.e. an element of the fabula), or outside it. (146) Sometimes, the focalizor may coincide with one of the characters (character-bound focalizor, CF), which would give it an advantage over the others. (Memory itself can appear as a special case of focalization. Memory is an act of ‘vision’ of the past, but, as an act, situated in the present of the memory. It is often a narrative act: loose elements come to cohere into a story, so that they can be remembered and eventually told. Of course, memory is unrealiable. Besides, memory as an act of focalization, acquires a peculiar relevance in its connection with time and space.– 147-8) But character-bound focalization (CF) is not necessarily fixed. It can vary, shift from one character to another, even if the narrator remains constant. Thus the readers are shown a better picture of the conflict and of how differently the various characters view the same facts. Since this kind of focalization lies with one/ several characters, present as actor(s) within the fabula, it could also be referred to as internal focalization. (148) On the contrary, in case the focalization lies with an anonymous agent, situated outside the fabula, it is known as external, non character-bound focalization (EF). The narrative can then appear objective, because the events are not presented from the point of view of the characters. The focalizor’s bias is, then, not absent, since there is no such thing as ‘objectivity,’ but it remains implicit. (149)

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But an analysis of focalization should not be restricted to references to the focalizor. It is not only that the focalizor determines the image we receive of an object, but the way in which that image is presented says something about the focalizor itself. According to Mieke Bal, three questions are relevant, as far as focalization is concerned: 1. What does the character focalize: what is it aimed at? 2. How does it do this: with what attitude does it view things? 3. Who focalizes it: whose focalized object is it? (150) To answer the first question, the fact should be pointed out that the focalized is not always a character. Objects, landscapes, events, in short, all elements are focalized, either by an EF or by a CF.(150) That also causes the degree to which a presentation includes an opinion to vary: the degree to which the focalizor points out its interpretative activities and makes them explicit also varies.(150) The way in which the object is presented further leads to finding the answer to the third question as it reveals information not only about the object, but also about the focalizor. At this point, it could be important to know whether the focalized is perceptible, i.e. if the focalizor ‘really’ sees something outside itself, or, non-perceptible, i.e. if it perceives something that ‘exists’ only inside its head and then it is the only one to have access to it. Non-perceptible objects occur in cases in which the contents of dreams, fantasies, thoughts or even the feelings of a character are presented. This distinction could be, in Bal’s terms, of importance for an insight into the power-structure between the characters and has a strongly manipulative effect (especially in the so-called ‘first-person’ novels). (153-4) Mieke Bal also speaks about several levels of focalization which function, without any fundamental difference, in both ‘first-person narratives’ and ‘third-person narratives:’ In a so-called ‘first-person narrative’ too an external focalizor, usually the ‘I’ grown older, gives its vision of a fabula in which it participates earlier as an actor, from the outside. At some moments it can present the vision of its younger alter ego, so that a CF is focalizing on the second level. (158) Hence, at least two levels can be distinguished: a first level (F1) at which the focalizor is external and a second level (F2) at which the external focalizor delegates focalization to an internal focalizor. Several other levels are possible and the passage from one level to another can be marked by the so-called attributive signs, chief among which the verb ‘to see.’ (Of course, these signs can also be implicit or deduced from other less clear information.) There also seems to be another possibility of focalization that could be referred to as double, since EF ‘looks over the shoulder’ of CF. To put it in different terms, the external EF can also watch along with a person, without leaving focalization entirely to a CF. This happens when an object (which a character can perceive) is focalized, but nothing clearly indicates whether it is actually perceived. This procedure is comparable to free indirect speech, in which the narrating party approximates as closely as possible the character’s own words without letting it speak directly.(159) (An alternative label for this rather ambiguous kind of focalization could be that of ‘free indirect’ focalization.) Focalization could be very well used to sustain various kinds of suspense. Defined as the result of the procedures by which the reader or the character is made to ask questions which are only answered later (160), suspense is directly related to the focalizor’s manipulation of the image it present (either by announcements or temporary silence). In principle, the image that focalizor presents to the reader should coincide with the one that it has itself. But there are cases in which the focalizor’s image is incomplete because: • The characters ‘know’ more than the focalizor and this ‘knowing more’ appears later. (160) • The focalizor purposely falsifies an image, leaving out certain elements and hiding them from the

readers. → the characters ‘know more’ than the reader. (160)

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• The focalizor can be in the possession of information which the characters do not know; for instance, about the origins of events. Then the reader, along with the focalizor, knows more than the character. (160)

It becomes thus obvious that the focalizor determines the image the reader receives. By considering the ‘knowledge’ of reader and character on the basis of the information provided by the focalizor (as previously mentioned), four possibilities emerge in the analysis of suspense: • reader – character – (riddle, detective story, search): neither the reader, nor the character can answer the

rising question (Who did it? What happened? How will it end?) • reader + character – (threat): the reader does know the answer, but the character does not. The

important matter then becomes when the character will discover it for itself. • reader – character + (secret): the reader does not know the answer, but the characters do. Then the

answer will revealed gradually and by means of various focalizors. • reader + character + (no suspense): as the both the reader and the character know the answer, there

is no suspense.

I. 2. 3. FABULA: ELEMENTS

In the presentation of her narrative model, Mieke Bal goes finally beyond the limits of the conceptual components of the narrative discourse and, unlike Genette, brings into discussion that ‘rough material’ to be shaped into a peculiar story and text, that she calls fabula. Roland Barthes’s theory of the fabula is taken as a reference point in this respect. Despite their many different forms, the fact that narrative texts, recognizable as such, can be found in all cultures, all levels of society, all countries, and all periods of human history led Barthes to conclude that all of these narrative texts are based upon one common model, a model that causes the narrative to be recognizable as narrative. (175) Most fabulas can be said to be constructed according to the demands of human ‘logic of events,’ provided that this concept is not too narrowly understood. ‘Logic of events’ may be defined as a course of events that is experienced by the reader as natural and in accordance with some form of understanding of the world. (177) Before enlarging on the principles that underlie the ‘logic’ of events, the narratologist develops the definition of the concept of event itself, as given in the introduction of her study, according to three criteria, i.e.: 1. Change: it is only in a series that events become meaningful for the further development of the fabula.

(184) 2. Choice. This second criterion helps distinguish between functional and non-functional events.

Functional events open a choice between two possibilities, realize this choice, or reveal the results of such a choice. Once a choice is made, it determines the subsequent course of events in the developments of the fabula.(184)

3. Confrontation. Drawing on Hendricks’s theory (William Hendricks, Methodology of Narrative Structural Analysis in Semiotica 7, 1973), according to which every phase of the fabula consists of three components, i.e., in logical terms, two arguments and one predicate, Mieke Bal comes to the conclusion that only those segments of the text that can be represented by a basis sentence of the subject – predicate – (direct) object type (two actors and one action) can constitute a functional event. (185-6)

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Once the necessary observations regarding the definition of the event are clearly made, another fact is insisted upon, that, within the fabula, the events are related logically and chronologically. To describe the resulting structure accurately, the narratologist revisits Claude Brémond’s general model of fabula. According to him, the narrated universal is regulated by the same rules as those which control human thought and action. These rules are determined by logical and conventional restrictions. (…) Conventional restrictions could be seen as the interpretation, by historically and culturally determined groups, of logical rules in concrete situations. Also included among the conventional restrictions are the traditional rules to which texts of specific genres must conform. (…) Finally, conventional restrictions are based in ideological and political assumptions. (188) Translating events in abstract terms and taking into account the above-mentioned restrictions, the French Structuralist has created a model of narrative cycles in which fabula, on the whole, appears as a process and every event, as a part of this process. Relying on theories as old as Aristotle’s, Brémond distinguishes between three phases, i.e. the possibility (or virtuality), the event (or realization), and the result (or conclusion) of the process. None of these three phases is indispensable. A possibility can just as well be realized as not. And even if the event is realized, a successful conclusion is not always ensured. (189) This grouping is known as an elementary series. The series of events can be combined into complex series so as to obtain a variety of forms. The combinations can be based on succession or embedding and thus, an infinite number of fabulas can be created. The model of narrative cycles provided by Brémond seems, furthermore, to reflect another principle that he thinks essential for the definition of narrative texts. According to him, a narrative consists of a language act by which a succession of events having human interest are integrated into the unity of this same act. (191) It is this criterion of human interest that helps distinguishing between processes of improvement and processes of deterioration. Both sorts can become possible, both can be realized or not, and both can conclude successfully or not. (192) These processes of improvement and deterioration, grouped in certain combinations, make up Brémond’s narrative cycles. By applying semantic label to the events that compose them, Brémond hopes to make the comparison between different fabulas easier. That is why, he distinguishes between: the fulfillment of the task the intervention of allies the elimination of the opponent Processes of improvement the negotiation the attack the satisfaction (Further possibilities could be added to this list: satisfaction, for example, can take the form of punishment, revenge, or reward, and these sorts of satisfaction can, in turn, be further specified. – 193) the misstep the creation of an obligation the sacrifice Processes of deterioration the endured attack the endured punishment The initial situation in a fabula will always be a state of deficiency in which one or more actors want to introduce changes. The development of the fabula reveals that, according to certain patterns, the process of change involves an improvement or a deterioration with regard to the initial situation. (193)

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Of course, Brémond’s model is not the only one to be taken into consideration. There are other possibilities that could be viably used to organize events in fabulas: • according to the identity of the actors involved: The events in which the two most important actors are

confronted by one another can be contrasted with events in which only one of these two actors is involved with another, secondary, actor, etc. (194)

• according to the nature of the confrontation (verbal/spoken, mental – via thoughts, feelings, observations, bodily; successful/ unsuccessful)

• according to the time lapse: Some events can occur at the same time, others succeed one another. Or the succession of events can be interrupted by a time span in which nothing occurs (or at least nothing is narrated).

• according to the location at which the events occur (inside/outside, above/below, city/country, here/there, etc.)

As the very definition of the event indicates, any discussion of event sequences should be directly related to actor typologies. It is true that not all the actors cause or undergo functional events. When they do not, they should not be taken into consideration as part of functional categories, but that should not diminish in the least their significance in the overall fabula (social stratification, specific use of space, etc.). Starting from the assumption that human thinking and action are always directed towards an aim, structuralists like Greimas have put forth a model of universal validity based on relationships, or functions, that establish between classes of actors called actants. In Greimas’s model, the first and the most important relationship establishes between the actor who follows an aim and the aim itself, or, to put it in different terms, between the subject and the object. An important remark that should be made at this point is that, as far as the object is concerned, it may not always be an actor, it could also be a state, whereas the subject is usually a person or a personified animal (in fables), but not an object. (197) The intention of the actor-subject is not, however, sufficient to reach the object. There are always powers who either allow it to reach its aim or prevent it from doing so. This relation might be seen as a form of communication and we can, consequently, distinguish a class of actors –consisting of those who support the subject in the realization of its intention, supply the object, or allow to be supplied or given – whom we shall call the power. The person to whom the object is ‘given’ is the receiver. (198) The power is, in many cases, not a person, but rather an abstraction (society, fate, time, human self-centredness, cleverness). The receiver, on the contrary, is often embodied in a person, even the same person as the subject him-/herself. There is hence the possibility of coalescence of two actants in one actor, or the reverse, which shows that the basis of Greimas’s model is the principle of numerical inequality (principle which functions, anyway, on all the levels of the model, not only regarding these two types of relationships.) There is also a third relationship that has to be taken into account, which determines the circumstances under which the subject’s enterprise is brought to an end. There are actants that might be regarded as adverbial adjuncts and that Greimas calls helpers and opponents. Such actants might appear unnecessary, but, in practice, they are numerous and determine, sometimes, to a great extent, the various adventures of the subject and their outcome. A clear-cut distinction should be made here between power and helper and Mieke Bal summarizes the differences as follows:

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Power Helper has power over the whole enterprise

can give only incidental aid

is often abstract is mostly concrete often remains in the background often comes to the fore usually only one usually multiple

The same differences could be identified between a negative power and an opponent. (201) The presence of helpers and opponents does not only enrich the actantial pattern of the fabula, but also makes it suspenseful and readable. This is the typical pattern, but the relationships between its main actants may always get more complicated, as for instance in the case when the subject is doubled by an anti-subject, which should not be mistaken for an opponent. While the opponent opposes the subject only at certain moments in his/her pursuit of the object, an anti-subject pursues his or her own object, and this pursuit is, at a certain moment, at cross purposes with that of the first subject. (203) As a matter of fact, a more complex fabula may include different lines which may touch or cross. References to other possible categorizations of actor classes, besides Greimas’s, round off the section dedicated to this particular element of the fabula. Thus, Mieke Bal also mentions the possibility of approaching the relations between actors from a psychological and/or ideological perspective. Each of these relations may give a specific content to the relation between subject and power, between subject and anti-subject, but they may also be studied separately from the actantial model. (207) Psychological relations determine the specification of actors into ‘psychic instances;’ ideological relations contribute to emphasizing the opposition between the individual and the collective, or, otherwise, the actors and the world in which they move. Although, sometimes, the oppositions between certain actors are not always obvious from the very beginning, they may become manifest when linked to psychological and ideological aspects, which reveals new important information about the actors in the framework of the fabula under analysis. (207-8) Like any other processes, events also presuppose a succession in time or a chronology. Consequently, the time span of the fabula is the next element to comment upon. Perhaps at least one distinction is worth mentioning in this context, namely that between crisis and development: the first term indicates a short span of time into which events have been compressed, the second a longer period of time which shows a development. (209) The two types of duration are specifically appropriate for certain fabulas, as they imply a certain vision of reality. As for the chronological order or the events, it is hardly preserved as such. As previously shown, more often than not, it is modified by condensation, elimination (ellipsis), changes in the sequencing of events. The reconstruction of the original chronological sequence of events of the fabula becomes more difficult especially when parallel strings of one fabula are elaborated and several events seem to happen at the same time. Achronicity, the impossibility of establishing a precise chronology, is often the result of the criss-crossing of several lines. (213) Last but not least, events happen somewhere, which makes location the last element to be discussed on the fabula layer. Sometimes locations are indicated, other times they are simply deduced. Anyway, they may play an important role in the fabula, making possible the investigation of the connection between the kind of events, the identity of the actors, and the location. The subdivision of locations into groups is a manner of gaining insight into the relations between elements. (215)

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II. PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS

II. 1. MODERNIST SHORT STORIES

II. 1. 1. JAMES JOYCE – THE DEAD

Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought of that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies’ dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there, gossiping and laughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of the stairs, peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to ask her who had come.

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan’s annual dance. Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends of the family, the members of Julia’s choir, any of Kate’s pupils that were grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane’s pupils too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid style, as long as anyone could remember; ever since Kate and Julia, after the death of their brother Pat, had left the house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece, to live with them in the dark, gaunt house on Usher’s Island, the upper part of which they had rented from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground floor. That was a good thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little girl in short clothes, was now the main prop of the household, for she had the organ in Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy and gave a pupils’ concert every year in the upper room of the Antient Concert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families on the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also did their share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the leading soprano in Adam and Eve’s, and Kate, being too feeble to go about much, gave music lessons to beginners on the old square piano in the back room. Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, did housemaid’s work for them. Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well; the best of everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best bottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders, so that she got on well with her three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. But the only thing they would not stand was back answers.

Of course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then it was long after ten o’clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his wife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid that Freddy Malins might turn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds that any of Mary Jane’s pupils should see him under the influence; and when he was like that it was sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late, but they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what brought them every two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel or Freddy come.

“O, Mr. Conroy,” said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him, “Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good-night, Mrs. Conroy.”

“I’ll engage they did,” said Gabriel, “but they forget that my wife here takes three mortal hours to dress herself.”

He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while Lily led his wife to the foot of the stairs and called out:

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“Miss Kate, here’s Mrs. Conroy.” Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of them kissed Gabriel’s wife,

said she must be perished alive, and asked was Gabriel with her. “Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I’ll follow,” called out Gabriel from the

dark. He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women went upstairs, laughing, to the

ladies’ dressing-room. A light fringe of snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and like toecaps on the toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.

“Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?” asked Lily. She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled at the

three syllables she had given his surname and glanced at her. She was a slim; growing girl, pale in complexion and with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry made her look still paler. Gabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the lowest step nursing a rag doll.

“Yes, Lily,” he answered, “and I think we’re in for a night of it.” He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the stamping and shuffling of feet on

the floor above, listened for a moment to the piano and then glanced at the girl, who was folding his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf.

“Tell me. Lily,” he said in a friendly tone, “do you still go to school?” “O no, sir,” she answered. “I’m done schooling this year and more.” “O, then,” said Gabriel gaily, “I suppose we’ll be going to your wedding one of these fine days

with your young man, eh? “ The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great bitterness: “The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.” Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, without looking at her, kicked off his

goloshes and flicked actively with his muffler at his patent-leather shoes. He was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to his

forehead, where it scattered itself in a few formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face there scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left by his hat.

When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled his waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coin rapidly from his pocket.

“O Lily,” he said, thrusting it into her hands, “it’s Christmastime, isn’t it? Jus . . . here’s a little. . . . ”

He walked rapidly towards the door. “O no, sir!” cried the girl, following him. “Really, sir, I wouldn’t take it.” “Christmas-time! Christmas-time!” said Gabriel, almost trotting to the stairs and waving his

hand to her in deprecation. The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him: “Well, thank you, sir.” He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, listening to the skirts that

swept against it and to the shuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl’s bitter and sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from Robert Browning, for he feared they would be above the

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heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they would recognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The indelicate clacking of the men’s heels and the shuffling of their soles reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them which they could not understand. They would think that he was airing his superior education. He would fail with them just as he had failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utter failure.

Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies’ dressing-room. His aunts were two small, plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was her large flaccid face. Though she was stout in build and stood erect, her slow eyes and parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face, healthier than her sister’s, was all puckers and creases, like a shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned way, had not lost its ripe nut colour.

They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew the son of their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the Port and Docks.

“Gretta tells me you’re not going to take a cab back to Monkstown tonight, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate.

“No,” said Gabriel, turning to his wife, “we had quite enough of that last year, hadn’t we? Don’t you remember, Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way, and the east wind blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. Gretta caught a dreadful cold.”

Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word. “Quite right, Gabriel, quite right,” she said. “You can’t be too careful.” “But as for Gretta there,” said Gabriel, “she’d walk home in the snow if she were let.” Mrs. Conroy laughed. “Don’t mind him, Aunt Kate,” she said. “He’s really an awful bother, what with green shades for

Tom’s eyes at night and making him do the dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The poor child! And she simply hates the sight of it! . . . O, but you’ll never guess what he makes me wear now!”

She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, whose admiring and happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed heartily, too, for Gabriel’s solicitude was a standing joke with them.

“Goloshes!” said Mrs. Conroy. “That’s the latest. Whenever it’s wet underfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted me to put them on, but I wouldn’t. The next thing he’ll buy me will be a diving suit.”

Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, while Aunt Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia’s face and her mirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew’s face. After a pause she asked:

“And what are goloshes, Gabriel?” “Goloshes, Julia!” exclaimed her sister “Goodness me, don’t you know what goloshes are? You

wear them over your . . . over your boots, Gretta, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Conroy. “Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now. Gabriel says everyone

wears them on the Continent.” “O, on the Continent,” murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head slowly. Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered: “It’s nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funny because she says the word reminds

her of Christy Minstrels.”

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“But tell me, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. “Of course, you’ve seen about the room. Gretta was saying . . . ”

“O, the room is all right,” replied Gabriel. “I’ve taken one in the Gresham.” “To be sure,” said Aunt Kate, “by far the best thing to do. And the children, Gretta, you’re not anxious about them?” “O, for one night,” said Mrs. Conroy. “Besides, Bessie will look after them.” “To be sure,” said Aunt Kate again. “What a comfort it is to have a girl like that, one you can

depend on! There’s that Lily, I’m sure I don’t know what has come over her lately. She’s not the girl she was at all.”

Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, but she broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandered down the stairs and was craning her neck over the banisters.

“Now, I ask you,” she said almost testily, “where is Julia going? Julia! Julia! Where are you going?”

Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and announced blandly: “Here’s Freddy.” At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the pianist told that the waltz had

ended. The drawing-room door was opened from within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear:

“Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he’s all right, and don’t let him up if he’s screwed. I’m sure he’s screwed. I’m sure he is.”

Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could hear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy Malins’ laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.

“It’s such a relief,” said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, “that Gabriel is here. I always feel easier in my mind when he’s here. . . . Julia, there’s Miss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment. Thanks for your beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time.”

A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy skin, who was passing out with his partner, said:

“And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?” “Julia,” said Aunt Kate summarily, “and here’s Mr. Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them in,

Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power.” “I’m the man for the ladies,” said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips until his moustache bristled and

smiling in all his wrinkles. “You know, Miss Morkan, the reason they are so fond of me is——” He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out of earshot, at once led the

three young ladies into the back room. The middle of the room was occupied by two square tables placed end to end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straightening and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and plates, and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The top of the closed square piano served also as a sideboard for viands and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young men were standing, drinking hop-bitters.

Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, to some ladies’ punch, hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never took anything strong, he opened three bottles of lemonade for them. Then he asked one of the young men to move aside, and, taking hold of the decanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The young men eyed him respectfully while he took a trial sip.

“God help me,” he said, smiling, “it’s the doctor’s orders.” His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young ladies laughed in musical echo

to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to and fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders. The boldest said: “O, now, Mr. Browne, I’m sure the doctor never ordered anything of the kind.”

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Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling mimicry: “Well, you see, I’m like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reported to have said: ‘Now, Mary Grimes, if I don’t take it, make me take it, for I feel I want it.’” His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he had assumed a very low Dublin

accent so that the young ladies, with one instinct, received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong, who was one of Mary Jane’s pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the name of the pretty waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing that he was ignored, turned promptly to the two young men who were more appreciative.

A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly clapping her hands and crying:

“Quadrilles! Quadrilles!” Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying: “Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!” “O, here’s Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan,” said Mary Jane. “Mr. Kerrigan, will you take Miss

Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr. Bergin. O, that’ll just do now.” “Three ladies, Mary Jane,” said Aunt Kate. The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the pleasure, and Mary Jane

turned to Miss Daly. “O, Miss Daly, you’re really awfully good, after playing for the last two dances, but really we’re

so short of ladies tonight.” “I don’t mind in the least, Miss Morkan.” “But I’ve a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D’Arcy, the tenor. I’ll get him to sing later on. All

Dublin is raving about him.” “Lovely voice, lovely voice!” said Aunt Kate. As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane led her recruits quickly

from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the room, looking behind her at something.

“What is the matter, Julia?” asked Aunt Kate anxiously. “Who is it?” Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her sister and said, simply, as if

the question had surprised her: “It’s only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him.” In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins across the landing. The

latter, a young man of about forty, was of Gabriel’s size and build, with very round shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, a blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he had been telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye.

“Good-evening, Freddy,” said Aunt Julia. Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed an offhand fashion by

reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then, seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him from the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in an undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel.

“He’s not so bad, is he?” said Aunt Kate to Gabriel. Gabriel’s brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered: “O, no, hardly noticeable.”

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“Now, isn’t he a terrible fellow!” she said. “And his poor mother made him take the pledge on New Year’s Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the drawing-room.”

Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne by frowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Browne nodded in answer and, when she had gone, said to Freddy Malins:

“Now, then, Teddy, I’m going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade just to buck you up.” Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offer aside impatiently but

Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy Malins’ attention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and handed him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins’ left hand accepted the glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanical readjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose face was once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself a glass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded, before he had well reached the climax of his story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and, setting down his untasted and overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye, repeating words of his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him.

Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece, full of runs and difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He liked music but the piece she was playing had no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for the other listeners, though they had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men, who had come from the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the piano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only persons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane herself, her hands racing along the key-board or lifted from it at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing at her elbow to turn the page.

Gabriel’s eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax under the heavy chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower which Aunt Julia had worked in red, blue and brown wools when she was a girl. Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work had been taught for one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthday present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with little foxes’ heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having round mulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother had had no musical talent though Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had always seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her photograph stood before the pierglass. She held an open book on her knees and was pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed in a man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen the name of her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family life. Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in Balbrigan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the Royal University. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen opposition to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still rankled in his memory; she had once spoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had nursed her during all her last long illness in their house at Monkstown.

He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she was playing again the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar and while he waited for the end the resentment died down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in the treble and a final deep octave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as, blushing and rolling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The most vigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had gone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had come back when the piano had stopped.

Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled face and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-

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cut bodice and the large brooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto.

When they had taken their places she said abruptly: “I have a crow to pluck with you.” “With me?” said Gabriel. She nodded her head gravely. “What is it?” asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner. “Who is G.C.?” answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him. Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not understand, when she said

bluntly: “O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express. Now, aren’t you

ashamed of yourself?” “Why should I be ashamed of myself?” asked Gabriel, blinking his eyes and trying to smile. “Well, I’m ashamed of you,” said Miss Ivors frankly. “To say you’d write for a paper like that. I

didn’t think you were a West Briton.” A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel’s face. It was true that he wrote a literary column

every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton surely. The books he received for review were almost more welcome than the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pages of newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching in the college was ended he used to wander down the quays to the second-hand booksellers, to Hickey’s on Bachelor’s Walk, to Web’s or Massey’s on Aston’s Quay, or to O’Clohissey’s in the bystreet. He did not know how to meet her charge. He wanted to say that literature was above politics. But they were friends of many years’ standing and their careers had been parallel, first at the University and then as teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued blinking his eyes and trying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing political in writing reviews of books.

When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed and inattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and said in a soft friendly tone:

“Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now.” When they were together again she spoke of the University question and Gabriel felt more at ease. A

friend of hers had shown her his review of Browning’s poems. That was how she had found out the secret: but she liked the review immensely. Then she said suddenly:

“O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles this summer? We’re going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid out in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr. Clancy is coming, and Mr. Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be splendid for Gretta too if she’d come. She’s from Connacht, isn’t she?”

“Her people are,” said Gabriel shortly. “But you will come, won’t you?” said Miss Ivors, laying her arm hand eagerly on his arm. “The fact is,” said Gabriel, “I have just arranged to go——” “Go where?” asked Miss Ivors. “Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellows and so—” “But where?” asked Miss Ivors. “Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,” said Gabriel awkwardly. “And why do you go to France and Belgium,” said Miss Ivors, “instead of visiting your own

land?” “Well,” said Gabriel, “it’s partly to keep in touch with the languages and partly for a change.”

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“And haven’t you your own language to keep in touch with—Irish?” asked Miss Ivors. “Well,” said Gabriel, “if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my language.” Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabriel glanced right and left

nervously and tried to keep his good humour under the ordeal which was making a blush invade his forehead.

“And haven’t you your own land to visit,” continued Miss Ivors, “that you know nothing of, your own people, and your own country?”

“O, to tell you the truth,” retorted Gabriel suddenly, “I’m sick of my own country, sick of it!” “Why?” asked Miss Ivors. Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him. “Why?” repeated Miss Ivors. They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss Ivors said warmly: “Of course, you’ve no answer.” Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with great energy. He avoided her

eyes for he had seen a sour expression on her face. But when they met in the long chain he was surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him from under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:

“West Briton!” When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of the room where Freddy

Malins’ mother was sitting. She was a stout feeble old woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son’s and she stuttered slightly. She had been told that Freddy had come and that he was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether she had had a good crossing. She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow and came to Dublin on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that she had had a beautiful crossing and that the captain had been most attentive to her. She spoke also of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and of all the friends they had there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel tried to banish from his mind all memory of the unpleasant incident with Miss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or whatever she was, was an enthusiast but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he ought not to have answered her like that. But she had no right to call him a West Briton before people, even in joke. She had tried to make him ridiculous before people, heckling him and staring at him with her rabbit’s eyes.

He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples. When she reached him she said into his ear:

“Gabriel. Aunt Kate wants to know won’t you carve the goose as usual. Miss Daly will carve the ham and I’ll do the pudding.”

“All right,” said Gabriel. “She’s sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is over so that we’ll have the table

to ourselves.” “Were you dancing?” asked Gabriel. “Of course I was. Didn’t you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?” “No row. Why? Did she say so?” “Something like that. I’m trying to get that Mr. D’Arcy to sing. He’s full of conceit, I think.” “There was no row,” said Gabriel moodily, “only she wanted me to go for a trip to the west of

Ireland and I said I wouldn’t.” His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump. “O, do go, Gabriel,” she cried. “I’d love to see Galway again.” “You can go if you like,” said Gabriel coldly.

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She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Malins and said: “There’s a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins.” While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs. Malins, without adverting to the

interruption, went on to tell Gabriel what beautiful places there were in Scotland and beautiful scenery. Her son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes and they used to go fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One day he caught a beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their dinner.

Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming near he began to think again about his speech and about the quotation. When he saw Freddy Malins coming across the room to visit his mother Gabriel left the chair free for him and retired into the embrasure of the window. The room had already cleared and from the back room came the clatter of plates and knives. Those who still remained in the drawing room seemed tired of dancing and were conversing quietly in little groups. Gabriel’s warm trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!

He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad memories, the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated to himself a phrase he had written in his review: “One feels that one is listening to a thought-tormented music.” Miss Ivors had praised the review. Was she sincere? Had she really any life of her own behind all her propagandism? There had never been any ill-feeling between them until that night. It unnerved him to think that she would be at the supper-table, looking up at him while he spoke with her critical quizzing eyes. Perhaps she would not be sorry to see him fail in his speech. An idea came into his mind and gave him courage. He would say, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the generation which is now on the wane among us may have had its faults but for my part I think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour, of humanity, which the new and very serious and hypereducated generation that is growing up around us seems to me to lack.” Very good: that was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts were only two ignorant old women?

A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr. Browne was advancing from the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his arm, smiling and hanging her head. An irregular musketry of applause escorted her also as far as the piano and then, as Mary Jane seated herself on the stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling, half turned so as to pitch her voice fairly into the room, gradually ceased. Gabriel recognised the prelude. It was that of an old song of Aunt Julia’s—Arrayed for the Bridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spirit the runs which embellish the air and though she sang very rapidly she did not miss even the smallest of the grace notes. To follow the voice, without looking at the singer’s face, was to feel and share the excitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with all the others at the close of the song and loud applause was borne in from the invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a little colour struggled into Aunt Julia’s face as she bent to replace in the music-stand the old leather-bound songbook that had her initials on the cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head perched sideways to hear her better, was still applauding when everyone else had ceased and talking animatedly to his mother who nodded her head gravely and slowly in acquiescence. At last, when he could clap no more, he stood up suddenly and hurried across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized and held in both his hands, shaking it when words failed him or the catch in his voice proved too much for him.

“I was just telling my mother,” he said, “I never heard you sing so well, never. No, I never heard your voice so good as it is tonight. Now! Would you believe that now? That’s the truth. Upon my word and honour that’s the truth. I never heard your voice sound so fresh and so . . . so clear and fresh, never.”

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Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something about compliments as she released her hand from his grasp. Mr. Browne extended his open hand towards her and said to those who were near him in the manner of a showman introducing a prodigy to an audience:

“Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!” He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins turned to him and said: “Well, Browne, if you’re serious you might make a worse discovery. All I can say is I never

heard her sing half so well as long as I am coming here. And that’s the honest truth.” “Neither did I,” said Mr. Browne. “I think her voice has greatly improved.” Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride: “Thirty years ago I hadn’t a bad voice as voices go.” “I often told Julia,” said Aunt Kate emphatically, “that she was simply thrown away in that

choir. But she never would be said by me.” She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against a refractory child while Aunt

Julia gazed in front of her, a vague smile of reminiscence playing on her face. “No,” continued Aunt Kate, “she wouldn’t be said or led by anyone, slaving there in that choir

night and day, night and day. Six o’clock on Christmas morning! And all for what?” “Well, isn’t it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?” asked Mary Jane, twisting round on the piano-

stool and smiling. Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said: “I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it’s not at all honourable for the

pope to turn out the women out of the choirs that have slaved there all their lives and put little whipper-snappers of boys over their heads. I suppose it is for the good of the Church if the pope does it. But it’s not just, Mary Jane, and it’s not right.”

She had worked herself into a passion and would have continued in defence of her sister for it was a sore subject with her but Mary Jane, seeing that all the dancers had come back, intervened pacifically:

“Now, Aunt Kate, you’re giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is of the other persuasion.” Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusion to his religion, and said

hastily: “O, I don’t question the pope’s being right. I’m only a stupid old woman and I wouldn’t

presume to do such a thing. But there’s such a thing as common everyday politeness and gratitude. And if I were in Julia’s place I’d tell that Father Healey straight up to his face . . . ”

“And besides, Aunt Kate,” said Mary Jane, “we really are all hungry and when we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome.”

“And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome,” added Mr. Browne. “So that we had better go to supper,” said Mary Jane, “and finish the discussion afterwards.” On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wife and Mary Jane trying to

persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors, who had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak, would not stay. She did not feel in the least hungry and she had already overstayed her time.

“But only for ten minutes, Molly,” said Mrs. Conroy. “That won’t delay you.” “To take a pick itself,” said Mary Jane, “after all your dancing.” “I really couldn’t,” said Miss Ivors. “I am afraid you didn’t enjoy yourself at all,” said Mary Jane hopelessly. “Ever so much, I assure you,” said Miss Ivors, “but you really must let me run off now.” “But how can you get home?” asked Mrs. Conroy. “O, it’s only two steps up the quay.”

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Gabriel hesitated a moment and said: “If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I’ll see you home if you are really obliged to go.” But Miss Ivors broke away from them. “I won’t hear of it,” she cried. “For goodness’ sake go in to your suppers and don’t mind me.

I’m quite well able to take care of myself.” “Well, you’re the comical girl, Molly,” said Mrs. Conroy frankly. “Beannacht libh,” cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran down the staircase. Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on her face, while Mrs. Conroy leaned

over the banisters to listen for the hall-door. Gabriel asked himself was he the cause of her abrupt departure. But she did not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone away laughing. He stared blankly down the staircase.

At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, almost wringing her hands in despair.

“Where is Gabriel?” she cried. “Where on earth is Gabriel? There’s everyone waiting in there, stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose!”

“Here I am, Aunt Kate!” cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, “ready to carve a flock of geese, if necessary.”

A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, on a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside this was a round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocks of blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna figs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tall celery stalks. In the centre of the table there stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges and American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, one containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were three squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up according to the colours of their uniforms, the first two black, with brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white, with transverse green sashes.

Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having looked to the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the goose. He felt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver and liked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a well-laden table.

“Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?” he asked. “A wing or a slice of the breast?” “Just a small slice of the breast.” “Miss Higgins, what for you?” “O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy.” While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates of ham and spiced beef Lily

went from guest to guest with a dish of hot floury potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary Jane’s idea and she had also suggested apple sauce for the goose but Aunt Kate had said that plain roast goose without any apple sauce had always been good enough for her and she hoped she might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils and saw that they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia opened and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale for the gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a great deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of orders and counter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers. Gabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finished the first round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudly so

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that he compromised by taking a long draught of stout for he had found the carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper but Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round the table, walking on each other’s heels, getting in each other’s way and giving each other unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of them to sit down and eat their suppers and so did Gabriel but they said there was time enough, so that, at last, Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid general laughter.

When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling: “Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffing let him or her speak.” A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily came forward with three

potatoes which she had reserved for him. “Very well,” said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory draught, “kindly forget my

existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few minutes.” He set to his supper and took no part in the conversation with which the table covered Lily’s

removal of the plates. The subject of talk was the opera company which was then at the Theatre Royal. Mr. Bartell D’Arcy, the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with a smart moustache, praised very highly the leading contralto of the company but Miss Furlong thought she had a rather vulgar style of production. Freddy Malins said there was a Negro chieftain singing in the second part of the Gaiety pantomime who had one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard.

“Have you heard him?” he asked Mr. Bartell D’Arcy across the table. “No,” answered Mr. Bartell D’Arcy carelessly. “Because,” Freddy Malins explained, “now I’d be curious to hear your opinion of him. I think he

has a grand voice.” “It takes Teddy to find out the really good things,” said Mr. Browne familiarly to the table. “And why couldn’t he have a voice too?” asked Freddy Malins sharply. “Is it because he’s only

a black?” Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back to the legitimate opera. One of

her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon. Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think of poor Georgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther still, to the old Italian companies that used to come to Dublin—Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo. Those were the days, he said, when there was something like singing to be heard in Dublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the old Royal used to be packed night after night, of how one night an Italian tenor had sung five encores to Let me like a Soldier fall, introducing a high C every time, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm unyoke the horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull her themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never play the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Because they could not get the voices to sing them: that was why.

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Bartell D’Arcy, “I presume there are as good singers today as there were then.”

“Where are they?” asked Mr. Browne defiantly. “In London, Paris, Milan,” said Mr. Bartell D’Arcy warmly. “I suppose Caruso, for example, is

quite as good, if not better than any of the men you have mentioned.” “Maybe so,” said Mr. Browne. “But I may tell you I doubt it strongly.” “O, I’d give anything to hear Caruso sing,” said Mary Jane. “For me,” said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, “there was only one tenor. To please

me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard of him.” “Who was he, Miss Morkan?” asked Mr. Bartell D’Arcy politely.

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“His name,” said Aunt Kate, “was Parkinson. I heard him when he was in his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was ever put into a man’s throat.”

“Strange,” said Mr. Bartell D’Arcy. “I never even heard of him.” “Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right,” said Mr. Browne. “I remember hearing of old Parkinson but

he’s too far back for me.” “A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English tenor,” said Aunt Kate with enthusiasm.

Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to the table. The clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel’s wife served out spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates down the table. Midway down they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished them with raspberry or orange jelly or with blancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt Julia’s making and she received praises for it from all quarters She herself said that it was not quite brown enough.

“Well, I hope, Miss Morkan,” said Mr. Browne, “that I’m brown enough for you because, you know, I’m all brown.”

All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out of compliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery had been left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and ate it with his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capital thing for the blood and he was just then under doctor’s care. Mrs. Malins, who had been silent all through the supper, said that her son was going down to Mount Melleray in a week or so. The table then spoke of Mount Melleray, how bracing the air was down there, how hospitable the monks were and how they never asked for a penny-piece from their guests.

“And do you mean to say,” asked Mr. Browne incredulously, “that a chap can go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and live on the fat of the land and then come away without paying anything?”

“O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they leave.” said Mary Jane. “I wish we had an institution like that in our Church,” said Mr. Browne candidly. He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two in the morning and slept in

their coffins. He asked what they did it for. “That’s the rule of the order,” said Aunt Kate firmly. “Yes, but why?” asked Mr. Browne. Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr. Browne still seemed not to understand.

Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he could, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins committed by all the sinners in the outside world. The explanation was not very clear for Mr. Browne grinned and said:

“I like that idea very much but wouldn’t a comfortable spring bed do them as well as a coffin?” “The coffin,” said Mary Jane, “is to remind them of their last end.” As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of the table during which Mrs.

Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour in an indistinct undertone: “They are very good men, the monks, very pious men.” The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolates and sweets were now

passed about the table and Aunt Julia invited all the guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr. Bartell D’Arcy refused to take either but one of his neighbours nudged him and whispered something to him upon which he allowed his glass to be filled. Gradually as the last glasses were being filled the conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at the tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen patted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came and Gabriel pushed back his chair.

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The patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceased altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of upturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing-room door. People, perhaps, were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air was pure there. In the distance lay the park where the trees were weighted with snow. The Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashed westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.

He began: “Ladies and Gentlemen, “It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform a very pleasing task but a task

for which I am afraid my poor powers as a speaker are all too inadequate.” “No, no!” said Mr. Browne. “But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the will for the deed and to lend

me your attention for a few moments while I endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings are on this occasion.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time that we have gathered together under this hospitable roof, around this hospitable board. It is not the first time that we have been the recipients—or perhaps, I had better say, the victims—of the hospitality of certain good ladies.”

He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone laughed or smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane who all turned crimson with pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:

“I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid—and I wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come—the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us.”

A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot through Gabriel’s mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had gone away discourteously: and he said with confidence in himself:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, “A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated by new ideas and new

principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day. Listening tonight to the names of all those great singers of the past it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living in a less spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be called spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at least, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let die.”

“Hear, hear!” said Mr. Browne loudly. “But yet,” continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer inflection, “there are always in

gatherings such as this sadder thoughts that will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of youth, of changes, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our path through life is strewn with many such sad

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memories: and were we to brood upon them always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work among the living. We have all of us living duties and living affections which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous endeavours.

“Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy moralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered together for a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday routine. We are met here as friends, in the spirit of good-fellowship, as colleagues, also to a certain extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie, and as the guests of—what shall I call them? —the Three Graces of the Dublin musical world.”

The table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. Aunt Julia vainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her what Gabriel had said.

“He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia,” said Mary Jane. Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at Gabriel, who continued in the same

vein: “Ladies and Gentlemen, “I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played on another occasion. I will not attempt

to choose between them. The task would be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. For when I view them in turn, whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart, whose too good heart, has become a byword with all who know her, or her sister, who seems to be gifted with perennial youth and whose singing must have been a surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last but not least, when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful, hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies and Gentlemen, that I do not know to which of them I should award the prize.”

Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile on Aunt Julia’s face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate’s eyes, hastened to his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, while every member of the company fingered a glass expectantly, and said loudly:

“Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health, wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they long continue to hold the proud and self-won position which they hold in their profession and the position of honour and affection which they hold in our hearts.”

All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards the three seated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader:

For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,Which nobody can deny.

Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and even Aunt Julia seemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with his pudding-fork and the singers turned towards one another, as if in melodious conference, while they sang with emphasis:

Unless he tells a lie,Unless he tells a lie,

Then, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang:

For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,Which nobody can deny.

The acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door of the supper-room by many of the other guests and renewed time after time, Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high.

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The piercing morning air came into the hall where they were standing so that Aunt Kate said: “Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will get her death of cold.” “Browne is out there, Aunt Kate,” said Mary Jane. “Browne is everywhere,” said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice. Mary Jane laughed at her tone. “Really,” she said archly, “he is very attentive.” “He has been laid on here like the gas,” said Aunt Kate in the same tone, “all during the

Christmas.” She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added quickly: “But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope to goodness he didn’t hear me.” At that moment the hall-door was opened and Mr. Browne came in from the doorstep, laughing

as if his heart would break. He was dressed in a long green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and collar and wore on his head an oval fur cap. He pointed down the snow-covered quay from where the sound of shrill prolonged whistling was borne in.

“Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out,” he said. Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, struggling into his overcoat and,

looking round the hall, said: “Gretta not down yet?” “She’s getting on her things, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate. “Who’s playing up there?” asked Gabriel. “Nobody. They’re all gone.” “O no, Aunt Kate,” said Mary Jane. “Bartell D’Arcy and Miss O’Callaghan aren’t gone yet.” “Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow,” said Gabriel. Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne and said with a shiver: “It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled up like that. I wouldn’t like to face

your journey home at this hour.” “I’d like nothing better this minute,” said Mr. Browne stoutly, “than a rattling fine walk in the

country or a fast drive with a good spanking goer between the shafts.” “We used to have a very good horse and trap at home,” said Aunt Julia sadly. “The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny,” said Mary Jane, laughing. Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too. “Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?” asked Mr. Browne. “The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather, that is,” explained Gabriel, “commonly

known in his later years as the old gentleman, was a glue-boiler.” “O, now, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate, laughing, “he had a starch mill.” “Well, glue or starch,” said Gabriel, “the old gentleman had a horse by the name of Johnny. And

Johnny used to work in the old gentleman’s mill, walking round and round in order to drive the mill. That was all very well; but now comes the tragic part about Johnny. One fine day the old gentleman thought he’d like to drive out with the quality to a military review in the park.”

“The Lord have mercy on his soul,” said Aunt Kate compassionately. “Amen,” said Gabriel. “So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessed Johnny and put on his very

best tall hat and his very best stock collar and drove out in grand style from his ancestral mansion somewhere near Back Lane, I think.”

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel’s manner and Aunt Kate said: “O, now, Gabriel, he didn’t live in Back Lane, really. Only the mill was there.”

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“Out from the mansion of his forefathers,” continued Gabriel, “he drove with Johnny. And everything went on beautifully until Johnny came in sight of King Billy’s statue: and whether he fell in love with the horse King Billy sits on or whether he thought he was back again in the mill, anyhow he began to walk round the statue.”

Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid the laughter of the others. “Round and round he went,” said Gabriel, “and the old gentleman, who was a very pompous old

gentleman, was highly indignant. ‘Go on, sir! What do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most extraordinary conduct! Can’t understand the horse!”

The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel’s imitation of the incident was interrupted by a resounding knock at the hall door. Mary Jane ran to open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins, with his hat well back on his head and his shoulders humped with cold, was puffing and steaming after his exertions.

“I could only get one cab,” he said. “O, we’ll find another along the quay,” said Gabriel. “Yes,” said Aunt Kate. “Better not keep Mrs. Malins standing in the draught.” Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr. Browne and, after many

manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malins clambered in after her and spent a long time settling her on the seat, Mr. Browne helping him with advice. At last she was settled comfortably and Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into the cab. There was a good deal of confused talk, and then Mr. Browne got into the cab. The cabman settled his rug over his knees, and bent down for the address. The confusion grew greater and the cabman was directed differently by Freddy Malins and Mr. Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window of the cab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr. Browne along the route, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped the discussion from the doorstep with cross-directions and contradictions and abundance of laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless with laughter. He popped his head in and out of the window every moment to the great danger of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion was progressing, till at last Mr. Browne shouted to the bewildered cabman above the din of everybody’s laughter:

“Do you know Trinity College?” “Yes, sir,” said the cabman. “Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates,” said Mr. Browne, “and then we’ll tell you

where to go. You understand now?” “Yes, sir,” said the cabman. “Make like a bird for Trinity College.” “Right, sir,” said the cabman. The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay amid a chorus of laughter and

adieus. Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark part of the hall gazing up the

staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see her face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife. She was leaning on the banisters, listening to something. Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained his ear to listen also. But he could hear little save the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps, a few chords struck on the piano and a few notes of a man’s voice singing.

He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that the voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the

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bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.

The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane came down the hall, still laughing.

“Well, isn’t Freddy terrible?” said Mary Jane. “He’s really terrible.” Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife was standing. Now that the

hall-door was closed the voice and the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer’s hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:

O, the rain falls on my heavy locksAnd the dew wets my skin,My babe lies cold . . .

“O,” exclaimed Mary Jane. “It’s Bartell D’Arcy singing and he wouldn’t sing all the night. O, I’ll get him to sing a song before he goes.”

“O, do, Mary Jane,” said Aunt Kate. Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before she reached it the singing

stopped and the piano was closed abruptly. “O, what a pity!” she cried. “Is he coming down, Gretta?” Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. A few steps behind

her were Mr. Bartell D’Arcy and Miss O’Callaghan. “O, Mr. D’Arcy,” cried Mary Jane, “it’s downright mean of you to break off like that when we

were all in raptures listening to you.” “I have been at him all the evening,” said Miss O’Callaghan, “and Mrs. Conroy, too, and he told

us he had a dreadful cold and couldn’t sing.” “O, Mr. D’Arcy,” said Aunt Kate, “now that was a great fib to tell.” “Can’t you see that I’m as hoarse as a crow?” said Mr. D’Arcy roughly. He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken aback by his rude

speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject. Mr. D’Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning.

“It’s the weather,” said Aunt Julia, after a pause. “Yes, everybody has colds,” said Aunt Kate readily, “everybody.” “They say,” said Mary Jane, “we haven’t had snow like it for thirty years; and I read this

morning in the newspapers that the snow is general all over Ireland.” “I love the look of snow,” said Aunt Julia sadly. “So do I,” said Miss O’Callaghan. “I think Christmas is never really Christmas unless we have

the snow on the ground.” “But poor Mr. D’Arcy doesn’t like the snow,” said Aunt Kate, smiling. Mr. D’Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in a repentant tone told them

the history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very careful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join in the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart.

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“Mr. D’Arcy,” she said, “what is the name of that song you were singing?” “It’s called The Lass of Aughrim,” said Mr. D’Arcy, “but I couldn’t remember it properly.

Why? Do you know it?” “The Lass of Aughrim,” she repeated. “I couldn’t think of the name.” “It’s a very nice air,” said Mary Jane. “I’m sorry you were not in voice tonight.” “Now, Mary Jane,” said Aunt Kate, “don’t annoy Mr. D’Arcy. I won’t have him annoyed.” Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, where good-night was said: “Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening.” “Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!” “Good- night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Goodnight, Aunt Julia.” “O, good-night, Gretta, I didn’t see you.” “Good-night, Mr. D’Arcy. Good-night, Miss O’Callaghan.” “Good-night, Miss Morkan.” “Good-night, again.” “Good-night, all. Safe home.” “Good-night. Good night.” The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over the houses and the river; and the sky

seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.

She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D’Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel’s eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his veins; and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous.

She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to the man at the furnace:

“Is the fire hot, sir?” But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. He might have

answered rudely. A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm flood along

his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her household cares had not quenched all their souls’ tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: “Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?”

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Like distant music these words that he had written years before were borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. He would call her softly:

“Gretta!” Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. Then something in his voice

would strike her. She would turn and look at him. . . . At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of its rattling noise as it saved

him from conversation. She was looking out of the window and seemed tired. The others spoke only a few words, pointing out some building or street. The horse galloped along wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon.

As the cab drove across O’Connell Bridge Miss O’Callaghan said: “They say you never cross O’Connell Bridge without seeing a white horse.” “I see a white man this time,” said Gabriel. “Where?” asked Mr. Bartell D’Arcy. Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then he nodded familiarly to it and

waved his hand. “Good-night, Dan,” he said gaily. When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spite of Mr. Bartell D’Arcy’s

protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a shilling over his fare. The man saluted and said: “A prosperous New Year to you, sir.” “The same to you,” said Gabriel cordially. She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and while standing at the

curbstone, bidding the others good- night. She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.

An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a candle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They followed him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt tightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. The porter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle. They halted, too, on the steps below him. In the silence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray and the thumping of his own heart against his ribs.

The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set his unstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were to be called in the morning.

“Eight,” said Gabriel. The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered apology, but Gabriel cut

him short. “We don’t want any light. We have light enough from the street. And I say,” he added, pointing

to the candle, “you might remove that handsome article, like a good man.”

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The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised by such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night and went out. Gabriel shot the lock to.

A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one window to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed the room towards the window. He looked down into the street in order that his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said:

“Gretta!” She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of light towards him. Her

face looked so serious and weary that the words would not pass Gabriel’s lips. No, it was not the moment yet.

“You looked tired,” he said. “I am a little,” she answered. “You don’t feel ill or weak?” “No, tired: that’s all.” She went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel waited again and then, fearing

that diffidence was about to conquer him, he said abruptly: “By the way, Gretta!” “What is it?” “You know that poor fellow Malins?” he said quickly. “Yes. What about him?” “Well, poor fellow, he’s a decent sort of chap, after all,” continued Gabriel in a false voice. “He

gave me back that sovereign I lent him, and I didn’t expect it, really. It’s a pity he wouldn’t keep away from that Browne, because he’s not a bad fellow, really.”

He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something? If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to be master of her strange mood.

“When did you lend him the pound?” she asked, after a pause. Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal language about the sottish Malins

and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But he said:

“O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop in Henry Street.” He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come from the window. She

stood before him for an instant, looking at him strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him.

“You are a very generous person, Gabriel,” she said. Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase, put his

hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when he was wishing for it she had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts had been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire that was in him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that she had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been so diffident.

He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one arm swiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly:

“Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?”

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She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, softly: “Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I know?” She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears: “O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim.” She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her arms across the bed-rail, hid her

face. Gabriel stood stockstill for a moment in astonishment and then followed her. As he passed in the way of the cheval-glass he caught sight of himself in full length, his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expression always puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her and said:

“What about the song? Why does that make you cry?” She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the back of her hand like a child. A

kinder note than he had intended went into his voice. “Why, Gretta?” he asked. “I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song.” “And who was the person long ago?” asked Gabriel, smiling. “It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my grandmother,” she said. The smile passed away from Gabriel’s face. A dull anger began to gather again at the back of his

mind and the dull fires of his lust began to glow angrily in his veins. “Someone you were in love with?” he asked ironically. “It was a young boy I used to know,” she answered, “named Michael Furey. He used to sing that

song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate.” Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested in this delicate boy. “I can see him so plainly,” she said, after a moment. “Such eyes as he had: big, dark eyes! And

such an expression in them—an expression!” “O, then, you are in love with him?” said Gabriel. “I used to go out walking with him,” she said, “when I was in Galway.” A thought flew across Gabriel’s mind. “Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl?” he said coldly. She looked at him and asked in surprise: “What for?” Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said: “How do I know? To see him, perhaps.” She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window in silence. “He is dead,” she said at length. “He died when he was only seventeen. Isn’t it a terrible thing to

die so young as that?” “What was he?” asked Gabriel, still ironically. “He was in the gasworks,” she said. Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation of this figure from the

dead, a boy in the gasworks. While he had been full of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another. A shameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the light lest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead.

He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice when he spoke was humble and indifferent.

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“I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta,” he said. “I was great with him at that time,” she said. Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would be to try to lead her

whither he had purposed, caressed one of her hands and said, also sadly: “And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?” “I think he died for me,” she answered. A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if, at that hour when he had hoped to triumph,

some impalpable and vindictive being was coming against him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But he shook himself free of it with an effort of reason and continued to caress her hand. He did not question her again, for he felt that she would tell him of herself. Her hand was warm and moist: it did not respond to his touch, but he continued to caress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that spring morning.

“It was in the winter,” she said, “about the beginning of the winter when I was going to leave my grandmother’s and come up here to the convent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and wouldn’t be let out, and his people in Oughterard were written to. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never knew rightly.”

She paused for a moment and sighed. “Poor fellow,” she said. “He was very fond of me and he was such a gentle boy. We used to go

out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, like the way they do in the country. He was going to study singing only for his health. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey.”

“Well; and then?” asked Gabriel. “And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up to the convent he was

much worse and I wouldn’t be let see him so I wrote him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the summer, and hoping he would be better then.”

She paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then went on: “Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother’s house in Nuns’ Island, packing up, and

I heard gravel thrown up against the window. The window was so wet I couldn’t see, so I ran downstairs as I was and slipped out the back into the garden and there was the poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering.”

“And did you not tell him to go back?” asked Gabriel. “I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get his death in the rain. But he

said he did not want to live. I can see his eyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wall where there was a tree.”

“And did he go home?” asked Gabriel. “Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent he died and he was buried in

Oughterard, where his people came from. O, the day I heard that, that he was dead!” She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flung herself face downward on the

bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the window.

She was fast asleep. Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and

half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not

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like to say even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt’s supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

(from James Joyce, Dubliners, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Classics, 2001, pp. 127-160)

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TOPICS FOR WORKSHOP PRACTICE 1. Identify the main elements of Joyce’s fabula, specifying the event sequences and the roles of the

actants, the time span and the location within the framework of which the events take place. 2. Discuss all deviations from chronology that influence the order in which the events are introduced in

the story. 3. Comment on the way Joyce’s characters take shape on the discourse level. 4. Discuss the thematisation of space in Joyce’s short story and the extent to which it determines the

message conveyed. 5. Consider Joyce’s use of focalization and its consequences on the discourse level. 6. Describe the combination of narrative movements in Joyce’s short story, specifying the impact on

the story rhythm and the potential causes influencing the author’s choices. 7. Identify the type of narrator and analyse its relation to the implied author. 8. Discuss the potential functions of the non-narrative comments in the text. 9. Identify and analyse the levels of narration (whether there are cases of text interference or not) in

Joyce’s text.

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II. 1. 2. VIRGINIA WOOLF – A HAUNTED HOUSE

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shunting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.

“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room...” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure yours.”

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the trees—” “Upstairs—” “In the garden—” “When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.”

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”

(from Virginia Woolf, Haunted House and Other Short Stories, London: Penguin Books, 1974)

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TOPICS FOR WORKSHOP PRACTICE 1. Point out the fabula elements (events, actants, time span, location). 2. Refer to the anachronic deviations on the story level. 3. Discuss the function of the description in Virginia Woolf’s story and comment on its

consequences for the thematization of space. 4. Identify the main symbols and provide them with multiple interpretations. 5. Consider the type of focalization and its functions in the context of the story. 6. Identify the type of narrator in the short story. 7. Discuss Virginia Woolf’s use of free indirect discourse as a form of text interference. Pinpoint as

specifically as possible its features using examples from the text.

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II. 2. POSTMODERNIST SHORT STORY

II. 2. 1. DAVID LODGE – HOTEL DES BOOBS

‘Hotel des Pins’ said Harry ‘More like Hotel des Boobs’ ‘Come away from that window’, said Brenda ‘Stop behaving like a ‘Peeping Tom’. ‘What d’you mean, a Peeping Tom’ said Harry continuing to stare down at the pool area

through the slats of their bedroom shutters. ‘A Peeping Tom is someone who interferes with someone else’s privacy’.

‘This is a private hotel’. ‘Hotel des Tits. Hotel des Bristols. Hey, that’s not bad!’ He turned his head to flash a grin

across the room. ‘Hotel Bristols, in the plural, Geddit?’ If Brenda got it, she wasn’t impressed. Harry resumed his watch. ‘I’m not interfering with

anyone’s privacy,’ he said. ‘If they don’t want people to look at their tits, why don’t they cover them up?’ ‘Well go and look, then. Don’t peep. Go down to the pool and have a good look’. Brenda

dragged a comb angrily through her hair. ‘Hold an inspection.’ Brenda snorted derisively. ‘Why not? You’ve nothing to be ashamed of! He turned his head again to leer encouragingly

at her. ‘You’ve still got a fine pair.’ ‘Thanks very much. I’m sure.’ Said Brenda. ‘But I intend to keep them covered as per usual.’ ‘When in Rome.’ said Harry. ‘This isn’t Rome, it’s the Côte d’Azur.’ ‘Côte des Tits.’ Said Harry. ‘Côte des Knockers.’ ‘If I’d known you were going to go on like this,’ said Brenda, ‘Id never have come here.’ For years Harry and Brenda had taken family holidays every summer in Guernsey, where

Brenda’s parents lived. But now that the children were grown up enough to make their own arrangements, they had decided to have a change. Brenda had always wanted to see the South of France, and they felt they’d earned the right to treat themselves for once. They were quite comfortably off, now that Brenda, a recent graduate of the Open University, had a full-time job as a teacher. It had caused an agreeable stir in the managerial canteen at Barnard Castings when Harry dropped the name of their holiday destination in among the Benidorms and Palmas, the Costas of this and that, whose merits were being debated by his colleagues.

‘The French Riviera, Harry?’ ‘Yes, a little hotel near St. Raphael, Brenda got the name out of a book.’ ‘Going up in the world, aren’t we?’ ‘Well, it is pricey. But we thought, well, why not be extravagant, while we’re still young

enough to enjoy it.’ ‘Enjoy eyeing all those topless birds, you mean.’ ‘Is that right? said Harry, with an innocence that was not entirely feigned. Of course he knew

in theory that in certain parts of the Mediterranean girls sunbathed topless on the beach, and he had seen pictures of the phenomenon in this secretary’s daily newspaper, which he filched regularly for the sake of such illustrations. But the reality had been a shock. Not so much the promiscuous, anonymous breastbaring of the beach, as the more intimate and socially complex nudity around the hotel pool. What made the pool different, and more disturbing was that the women who lay half-naked around its

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perimeter all day were the same as those you saw immaculately dressed for dinner in the evening, or nodded and smiled politely at in the lobby, or exchanged small talk about the weather with in the bar. And since Brenda found the tree-shaded pool, a few miles inland, infinitely preferable to the heat and glare and crowdedness of the beach (not to mention the probable pollution of the sea), it became the principal theatre of Harry’s initiation into the new code of mammary manners.

Harry – he didn’t mind admitting it – had always had a thing about women’s breasts. Some men went for legs, or bums, but Harry had always been what the boys at Barnard’s called a tit-fancier. ‘You were weaned too early,’ Brenda used to say, a diagnosis that Harry accepted with a complacent grin. He always glanced, a simple reflex action, at the bust of any sexually interesting female that came within his purview, and had spent many idle moments speculating about the shapes that were concealed beneath their sweaters, blouses and brassieres. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to find this harmless pastime rendered totally redundant under the Provençal sun. He had scarcely begun to assess the figures of the women at the Hotel des Pins before they satisfied his curiosity to the last pore. Indeed, in most cases, he saw them half-naked before he met them, as it were, socially. The snooty Englishwoman, for instance, mother of twin boys and wife to the tubby stockbroker never without yesterday’s Financial Times in his hand and a smug smile on his face. Or the female partner of the German couple who worshipped the sun with religious zeal, turning and anointing themselves according to a strict timetable and with the aid of a quartz alarm. Or the deeply tanned brunette of a certain age whom Harry had privately christened Carmen Miranda, because she spoke an eager and rapid Spanish, or it might have been Portuguese, into the cordless telephone which the waiter Antoine brought to her at frequent intervals.

Mrs. Snooty had hardly any breasts at all when she was lying down, just boyish pads of what looked like muscle, tipped with funny little turned-up nipples that quivered like the noses of two small rodents when side stood up and moved about. The German lady’s breasts were perfect cones, smooth and firm as if turned on a lathe, and never seemed to change their shape whatever posture she adopted; whereas Carmen Miranda’s were like two brown satin bags filled with a viscous fluid that ebbed and flowed across her rib-cage in continual motion as she turned and twisted restlessly on her mattress, awaiting the next phone call from her absent lover. And this morning there were a pair of teenage girls down by the pool whom Harry hadn’t seen before, reclining side by side, one in green bikini pants and the other in yellow, regarding their recently acquired breasts, hemispheres smooth and flawless as jelly moulds, with the quiet satisfaction of housewives watching scones rise.

‘There are two newcomers today’, said Harry. ‘Or should I say, four.’ ‘Are you coming down?’ said Brenda, at the door. ‘Or are you going to spend the morning

peering through the shutters?’ ‘I’m coming Where’s my book?’ He looked around the room for his Jack Higgins paperback. ‘You’re not making much progress with it, are you?’, said Brenda sarcastically. ‘I think you

ought to move the bookmark every day, for appearance’s sake.’ A book was certainly basic equipment for discreet boob-watching down by the pool:

something to peer over, or round, something to look up from, as if distracted by a sudden noise or movement, at the opportune moment, just as the bird a few yards away slipped her costume off her shoulders, or rolled on to her back. Another essential item was a pair of sunglass, as dark as possible, to conceal the precise direction of one’s gaze. For there was, Harry realized, a protocol involved in toplessness. For a man to stare at, or even let his eyes rest for a measurable span of time upon, a bared bosom, would be bad form, because it would violate the fundamental principle upon which the whole practice was based, namely, that there was nothing noteworthy about it, that it was the most natural, neutral thing in the world. (Antoine was particularly skilled in managing to serve his female clients

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cold drinks, or take their orders for lunch, stooping low over their prone figures, without seeming to notice their nakedness.) Yet his principle was belied by another, which confined toplessness to the pool and its margins. As soon as they moved on to the terrace, or into the hotel itself, the women covered their upper halves. Did bare tits gain and lose erotic value in relation to arbitrary territorial zones? Did the breast eagerly gazed upon, fondled and nuzzled by husband, or lover in the privacy of the bedroom, become an object of indifference, a mere anatomical protuberance no more interesting than an elbow or kneecap, on the concrete rim of the swimming pool? Obviously not. The idea was absurd. Harry had little doubt that, like himself, all the men present, including Antoine, derived considerable pleasure and stimulation from the toplessness of most of the women, and it was unlikely that the women themselves were unaware of this fact. Perhaps they found it exciting, Harry speculated, to expose themselves knowing that the men must not betray any sign of arousal; and their own menfolk might share, in a vicarious, proprietorial way in this excitement. Especially if one’s own wife was better endowed than some of the others. To intercept the admiring and envious glace of another man at your wife’s boobs, to think silently to yourself. ‘Yes, all right mate, you can look as long as it’s not too obvious, but only I’m allowed to touch’em, see?’ That might be very exciting.

Lying beside Brenda at the poolside, dizzy from the heat and the consideration of these puzzles and paradoxes, Harry was suddenly transfixed by an arrow of perverse desire: to see his wife naked, and lust after her, through the eyes of other men. He rolled over on to his stomach and put his mouth to Brenda’s ear.

‘If you’ll take your top off,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll buy you that dress we saw in St. Raphael. The one for twelve hundred francs.’

The author had reached this point in his story, which he was writing seated at an umbrella-shaded table on the terrace overlooking the hotel pool, using a fountain pen and ruled foolscap, as was his wont, and having accumulated many cancelled and rewritten pages, as was also his wont, when without warning a powerful wind arose. It made the pine trees in the hotel grounds shiver and hiss, raised wavelets on the surface of the pool, knocked over several umbrellas, and whirled the leaves of the author’s manuscript into the air. Some of these floated back on to the terrace, or the margins of the pool, or into the pool itself, but many were funneled with astonishing speed high into the air, above the trees, by the hot breath of the wind. The author staggered to his feet and gaped unbelievingly at the leaves of foolscap rising higher and higher, like escaped kites, twisting and turning in the sun, white against the azure sky. It was like the visitation of some god or daemon, a Pentecost in reverse, drawing woods away instead of imparting then. The author felt raped. The female sunbathers around the pool, as if similarly conscious, covered their naked breasts as they stood and watched the whirling leavers of paper recede into the distance. Faces were turned towards the author, smiles of sympathy mixed with Schadenfreude. Bidden by the sharp voice of their mother, the English twins scurried round the pool’s edge collecting up loose sheets, and brought them with doggy eagerness back to their owner. The German, who had been in the pool at the time of the wind, came up with two sodden pages, covered with weeping longhand, held between finger and thumb, and laid them carefully on the author’s table to dry. Pierre, the waiter, presented another sheet on his tray. ‘C’est le petit mistral,’ he said with a moue of commiseration. ‘Quel dommage!’ The author thanked them mechanically, his eyes still on the airborne pages, now mere specks in the distance, sinking slowly down into the pine woods. Around the hotel the air was quite still again. Slowly the guests returned to their loungers and mattresses. The women discreetly uncovered their bosoms, renewed the application of Ambre Solaire, and resumed the pursuit of the perfect tan.

‘Simon! Jasper! Said the Englishwoman, ‘Why don’t you go for a walk in the woods and see if you can find any more of the gentleman's papers?’

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‘Oh, no,’ said the author urgently. ‘Please don’t bother. I’m sure they’re miles away by now. And they’re really not important.’

‘No bother’, said the Englishwoman. ‘They’ll enjoy it.’ ‘Like a treasure hunt,’ said her husband. ‘Or rather, paper chase.’ He chuckled at his own joke. The boys trotted off obediently into the woods. The author

retired to his room, to await the return of his wife, who had missed all the excitement, from St. Raphael.

‘I’ve bought the most darling little dress,’ she announced as she entered the room. ‘Don’t ask me how much it cost.’

‘Twelve hundred francs? ‘Good God, no. Not as much as that. Seven hundred and fifty, actually. What’s the matter, you

look funny?’ ‘We’ve got to leave this hotel.’ He told her what had happened. ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said his wife. ‘Those little brats probably won’t find any more sheets.’ ‘Oh yes they will. They’ll regard it as a challenge, like the Duke of Edinburgh Award. They’ll

comb the pine woods for miles around. And if they find anything, they’re sure to read it.’ ‘They wouldn’t understand.’ ‘Their parents would. Imagine Mrs. Snooty finding her nipples compared to the nose tips of

small rodents.’ The author’s wife spluttered with laughter. ‘You are a fool,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he protested. ‘The wind sprang out of nowhere.’ ‘An act of God?’ ‘Precisely.’ ‘Well, I don’t suppose He approved of that story. I can’t say I cared much for it myself. How

was it going to end?’ The author’s wife knew the story pretty well as far as he had got with it, because he had read it

out to her in bed the previous night. ‘Brenda accepts the bribe to go topless.’ ‘I don’t think she would.’ ‘Well, she does. And Harry is pleased as Punch. He feels that he and Brenda have finally

liberated themselves, joined the sophisticated set. He imagines himself telling the boys back at Barnard Castings about it, making them ribaldly envious. He gets such a hard-on that he has to lie on his stomach all day.’

‘Tut, tut!’ said his wife, ‘How crude.’ ‘He can’t wait to get to bed that night. But just as they’re retiring, they separate for some

reason I haven’t worked out yet, and Harry goes up to their room first. She doesn’t come at once, so Harry gets ready for bed, lies down, and falls asleep. He wakes up two hours later and finds Brenda is still missing. He is alarmed and puts on his dressing gown and slippers to go in search of her. Just at that moment, she comes in. Where the hell have you been? he says. She has a peculiar look on her face, goes to the fridge in their room and drinks a bottle of Perrier water before she tells him her story. She says that Antoine intercepted her downstairs to present her with a bouquet. It seems that each week all the male staff of the hotel take a vote on which female guest has shapeliest breasts, and Brenda has come tip of the poll. The bouquet was a mark of their admiration and respect. She is distressed because she left it behind in Antoine’s room.’

‘Antoine’s room?’

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‘Yes, he had coaxed her into seeing his room, a little chalet in the woods, and gave her a drink, and one thing led to another, and she ended up letting him make love to her.’

‘How improbable.’ ‘Not necessarily. Taking off her bra in public released some dormant streak of wantonness in

Brenda that Harry had never seen before. She is rather drunk and quite shameless. She taunts him with graphic testimony to Antoine’s skill as a lover, and compares Harry’s genital equipment unfavourably to the Frenchman’s.’

‘Worse and worse,’ said the author’s wife. ‘At that point Harry hits her.’ ‘Oh, nice! Very nice.’ ‘Brenda half undresses and crawls into bed. A couple of hours later, she wakes up. Harry is

standing by the window staring down at the empty pool, a ghostly blue in the light of the moon. Brenda gets out of bed, comes across and touches him gently on the arm. Come to bed, she says. It wasn’t true, what I told you. He turns his face slowly towards her. Not true? No, she says, I made it up, I went and sat in the car for two hours with a bottle of wine, and I made it up. Why? He says. I don’t know why, she says. To teach you a lesson, I suppose. But I shouldn’t have. Come to bed. But Harry just shakes his head and turns back to stare out of the window. I never knew, he says, in a dead sort of voice, that you cared about the size of my prick. But I don’t, she says. I made it all up. Harry shakes his head disbelievingly, gazing down at the blue, breastless margins of the pool. That’s how the story was going to end, with those words, “the blue, breastless margins of the pool.”

As he spoke these words, the author was himself standing at the window, looking down at the hotel pool from which all the guests had departed to change for dinner. Only the solitary figure of Pierre moved among the umbrellas and tables, collecting bathing towels and tea-trays.

‘Hmm,’ said the author’s wife. ‘Harry’s fixation on women’s breasts, you see,’ said the author, ‘has been displaced by an

anxiety about his own body from which he will never be free.’ ‘Yes, I see that. I’m not stupid, you know.’ The author’s wife came to the window and looked

down. ‘Poor Pierre,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t dream of making a pass at me, or any of the other women. ‘He’s obviously gay.’

‘Fortunately,’ said the author, ‘I didn’t get that far with my story before the wind scattered it all over the countryside. But you’d better get out the Michelin and find another hotel. I can’t stand the thought of staying on here, on tenterhooks all the time in case one of the guests comes back from a walk in the woods with a compromising piece of fiction in their paws. What an extraordinary thing to happen.’

‘You know,’ said the author’s wife. ‘It’s really a better story.’ ‘Yes,’ said the author, ‘I think I shall write it. I’ll call it “Tit for Tat”. ‘No, call it “Hotel des Boobs”, said the author’s wife. “Theirs and yours.” ‘What about yours?’ ‘Just leave them out of it, please.’ Much later that night, when they were in bed and just dropping off to sleep, the author’s wife

said: ‘You don’t really wish I would go topless, do you?’ ‘No, of course not,’ said the author. But he didn’t sound entirely convinced, or convincing.

(in Malcolm Bradbury (ed), Modern British Short Stories, London: Penguin Books, 1988, pp. 326-333)

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TOPICS FOR WORKSHOP PRACTICE: 1. Discuss the text in terms of overt/covert metafiction. 2. Which metafictional area is mainly targeted here? Develop. 3. Consider story/ discourse. Analyse the relationship between the two. 4. Work out the self-reflexivity of the text. Give textual evidence. 5. Comment on the central incident: the loss of the manuscript. 6. Delineate the two halves of the short story, comparing and contrasting them. 7. Concentrate on the symbolism of the breasts as developed throughout the short story. Relate it to metafictional practices.

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II. 2. 2. FAY WELDON – WEEKEND

By seven-thirty they were ready to go. Martha had everything packed into the car and the three children appropriately dressed and in the back seat, complete with educational games and wholewheat biscuits. When everything was ready in the car Martin would switch off the television, come downstairs, lock up the house, front and back, and take the wheel.

Weekend! Only two hours’ drive down to the cottage on Friday evenings, three hours’ drive back on Sunday nights. The pleasures of greenery and guests in between. They reckoned themselves fortunate, how fortunate! On Fridays Martha would get home on the bus at six-twelve and prepare tea and sandwiches for the family: then she would strip four beds and put the sheets and quilt covers in the washing machine for Monday: take the country bedding from the airing basket, plus the books and games, plus the weekend food – acquired at intervals throughout the week, to lessen the load – plus her own folder of work from the office, plus Martin’s drawing materials (she was a market researcher in an advertising agency, he a freelance designer) plus hairbrushes, jeans, spare T-shirts, Jolyon’s antibiotics (he suffered from sore throats), Jenny’s recorder, Jasper’s cassette player and so on – ah, the so on! – and would pack them all, skillfully and quickly, into the boot. Very little could be left in the cottage during the week. (‘An open invitation to burglars’: Martin.) Then Martha would run round the house tidying and wiping, doing this and that, finding the cat at one’s neighbour and delivering it to another, while the others ate their tea; and would usually, proudly, have everything finished by the time they had eaten their fill. Martin would just catch the BBC2 news, while Martha cleared away the tea table, and the children tossed up for the best positions in the car. ‘Martha,’ said Martin, tonight, ‘you ought to get Mrs. Hodder to do more. She takes advantage of you.’ Mrs. Hodder came in twice a week to clean. She was over seventy. She charged two pounds an hour. Martha paid her out of her own wages: well, the running of the house was Martha’s concern. If Martha chose to go out to work – as was her perfect right, Martin allowed, even though it wasn’t the best thing for the children, but that must be Martha’s moral responsibility – Martha must surely pay her domestic stand-in. An evident truth, heard loud and clear and frequent in Martin’s mouth and Martha’s heart. ‘I expect you’re right,’ said Martha. She did not want to argue. Martin had had a long hard week, and now had to drive. Martha couldn’t. Martha’s licence had been suspended four months back for drunken driving. Everyone agreed that the suspension was unfair: Martha seldom drank to excess: she was for one thing usually too busy pouring drinks for other people or washing other people’s glasses to get much inside herself. But Martin had taken her out to dinner on her birthday, as was his custom, and exhaustion and excitement mixed had made her imprudent, and before she knew where she was, why there she was, in the dock, with a distorted lamp-post to pay for and new bonnet for the car and six months’ suspension. So now Martin had to drive her car down to the cottage, and he was always tired on Fridays, and hot and sleepy on Sundays and every rattle and clank and bump in the engine she felt to be somehow her fault. Martin had a little sports car for London and work: it could nip in and out of the traffic nicely: Martha’s was an old estate car, with room for the children, picnic baskets, bedding, food, games, plants, drink, portable television and all the things required by the middle classes for weekends in the

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country. It lumbered rather than zipped and made Martin angry. He seldom spoke a harsh word, but Martha, after the fashion of wives, could detect his mood from what he did not say rather than what he did, and from the tilt of his head, and the way his crinkly, merry eyes seemed crinklier and merrier still – and of course from the way he addressed Martha’s car. ‘Come along, you old banger you! Can’t you do better than that? You’re too old, that’s your trouble. Stop complaining. Always complaining, it’s only a hill. You’re too wide about the hips. You’ll never get through there.’ Martha worried about her age, her tendency to complain, and the width of her hips. She took the remarks personally. Was she right to do so? The children noticed nothing: it was just funny lively laughing Daddy being witty about Mummy’s car. Mummy, done for drunken driving. Mummy, with the roots of melancholy somewhere deep beneath the bustling, busy, every-day self. Busy: ah so busy! Martin would only laugh if she said anything about the way he spoke to her car and warn her against paranoia. ‘Don’t get like your mother, darling.’ Martha’s mother had, towards the end, thought that people were plotting against her. Martha’s mother had led a secluded, suspicious life, and made Martha’s childhood a chilly and a lonely time. Life now, by comparison, was wonderful for Martha. People, children, houses, conversations, food, drink, theatres – even, now, a career. Martin standing between her and the hostility of the world – popular, easy, funny Martin, beckoning the rest of the world into earshot. Ah, she was grateful: little earnest Martha, with her shy ways and her penchant for passing boring exams – how her life had blossomed out! Three children too – Jasper, Jenny and Jolyon – all with Martin’s broad brow and open looks, and the confidence born of her love and care, and the work she had put into them since the dawning of their days. Martin drives. Martha, for once, drowses. The right food, the right words, the right play. Doctors for the tonsils: dentists for the molars. Confiscate guns: censor television: encourage creativity. Paints and paper to hand: books on the shelves: meetings with teachers. Music teachers. Dancing lessons. Parties. Friends to tea. School plays. Open days. Junior orchestra. Martha is jolted awake. Traffic lights. Martin doesn’t like Martha to sleep while he drives. Clothes. Oh, clothes! Can’t wear this: must wear that. Dress shops. Piles of clothes in corners: duly washed, but waiting to be ironed, waiting to be put away. Get the piles off the floor, into the laundry baskets. Martin doesn’t like a mess. Creativity arises out of order, not chaos. Five years off work while the children were small: back to work with seniority lost. What, did you think something was for nothing? If you have children, mother, that is your reward. It lies not in the world. Have you taken enough food? Always hard to judge. Food. Oh, food! Shop in the lunch-hour. Lug it all home. Cook for the freezer on Wednesday evenings while Martin is at his car-maintenance class, and isn’t there to notice you being unrestful. Martin likes you to sit down in the evenings. Fruit, meat, vegetables, flour for home bread. Well, shop bread is full of pollutants. Frozen food, even your own, loses flavour. Martin often remarks on it. Condiments. Everyone loves mango chutney. But the expense! London Airport to the left. Look, look, children! Concorde? No, idiot, of course it isn’t Concorde. Ah, to be all things to all people: children, husband, employer, friends! It can be done: yes, it can: super woman.

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Drink. Home-made wine. Why not? Elderberries grown thick and rich in London: and at least you know what’s in it. Store it in high cupboards: lots of room: up and down the step-ladder. Careful! Don’t slip. Don’t break anything. No such thing as an accident. Accidents are Freudian slips: they are willful, bad-tempered things. Martin can’t bear bad temper. Martin likes slim ladies. Diet. Martin rather likes his secretary. Diet. Martin admires slim legs and big bosoms. How to achieve them both? Impossible. But try, oh try, to be what you ought to be, not what you are. Inside and out. Martin brigs back flowers and chocolates: whisks Martha off for holiday weekends. Wonderful! The best husband in the world: look into his crinkly, merry, gentle eyes; see it there. So the mouth slopes away into something of a pout. Never mind. Gaze into the eyes. Love. It must be love. You married him. You. Surely you deserve true love? Salisbury Plain. Stonehenge. Look, children, look! Mother, we’ve seen Stonehenge a hundred times. Go back to sleep. Cook! Ah cook. People love to come to Martin and Martha’s dinners. Work it out in your head in the lunch-hour. If you get in at six-twelve, you can seal the meat while you beat the egg white while you feed the cat while you lay the table while you string the beans while you set out the cheeses, goat’s cheese, Martin loves goat’s cheese, Martha tries to like goat’s cheese – oh, bed, sleep, peace, quiet. Sex! Ah sex. Orgasm, please. Martin requires it. Well, so do you. And you don’t want his secretary providing a passion you neglected to develop. Do you? Quick, quick, the cosmic bond. Love. Married love.

Secretary! Probably a vulgar suspicion: nothing more. Probably a fit of paranoics, à la mother, now dead and gone. At peace. R.I.P. Chilly, lonely mother, following her suspicions where they led.

Nearly there, children. Nearly in paradise, nearly at the cottage. Have another biscuit. Real roses round the door. Roses. Prune, weed, spray, feed, pick. Avoid thorns. One of Martin’s few harsh words. ‘Martha, you can’t not want roses! What kind of person am I married to? An anti-rose personality?’ Green grass. Oh, God, grass. Grass must be mown. Restful lawns, daisies bobbing, buttercups glowing. Roses and grass and books. Books. Please, Martin, do we have to have the two hundred books, mostly twenties’ first editions, bought at Christie’s book sale on one of your afternoons off? Books need dusting. Roars of laughter from Martin, Jasper, Jenny and Jolyon. Mummy says we shouldn’t have the books: books need dusting! Roses, green grass, books and peace. Martha woke up with a start when they got to the cottage, and gave a little shriek which made them all laugh. Mummy’s waking shriek, they called it. Then there was the car to unpack and the beds to make up, and the electricity to connect, and the supper to make, and the cobwebs to remove, while Martin made the fire. Then supper pork chops in sweet and sour sauce (‘Pork is such a dull meat if you don’t cook it properly’: Martin), green salad from the garden, or such green salad as the rabbits had left. (‘Martha, did you really net them properly? Be honest, now!’: Martin) and sauté potatoes. Mash is so stodgy and ordinary, and instant mash unthinkable. The children studied the night sky with the aid of their star map. Wonderful, rewarding children! Then clear up the supper: set the dough to prove for the bread: Martin already in bed: exhausted by the drive and lighting the fire. (‘Martha, we really ought to get the logs stacked properly. Get the

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children to do it, will you?’: Martin) Sweep and tidy: get the TV aerial right. Turn up Jasper’s jeans where he has trodden the hem undone. (‘He can’t go around like that, Martha. Not even Jasper’: Martin) Midnight. Good night. Weekend guests arriving in the morning. Seven for lunch and dinner on Saturday. Seven for Sunday breakfast, nine for Sunday lunch. ‘Don’t fuss, darling. You always make such a fuss’: Martin) Oh, God, forgotten the garlic squeezer. That means ten minutes with the back of a spoon and salt. Well, who wants lumps of garlic? No one. Not Martin’s guests. Martin said so. Sleep. Colin and Katie. Colin is Martin’s oldest friend. Katie is his new young wife. Janet, Colin’s other, earlier wife, was Martha’s friend. Janet was rather like Martha, quieter and duller than her husband. A nag and a drag, Martin rather thought, and said, and of course she’d let herself go, everyone agreed. No one exactly excused Colin for walking out, but you could see the temptation. Katie versus Janet. Katie was languid, beautiful and elegant. She drawled when she spoke. Her hands were expressive: her feet were little and female. She had no children. Janet plodded round on very flat, rather large feet. There was something wrong with them. They turned out slightly when she walked. She had two children. She was, frankly, boring. But Martha liked her: when Janet came down to the cottage she would wash up. Not in the way that most guests washed up – washing dutifully and setting everything out on the draining board, but actually drying and putting away too. And Janet would wash the bath and get the children all sat down, with chairs for everyone, even the littlest, and keep them quiet and satisfied so the grown-ups – well, the men – could get on with their conversation and their jokes and love of country weekends, while Janet stared into space, as if grateful for the rest, quite happy. Janet would garden, too. Weed the strawberries, while the men went for their walk; her great feet standing firm and square and sometimes crushing a plant or so, but never mind, oh never mind. Lovely Janet; who understood. Now Janet was gone and here was Katie. Katie talked with the men and went for walks with the men, and moved her ashtray rather impatiently when Martha tried to clear the drinks round it. Dishes were boring, Katie implied by her manner, and domesticity was boring, and anyone who bothered with that kind of thing was a fool. Like Martha. Ash should be allowed to stay where it was, even if it was in the butter, and conversations should never be interrupted. Knock, knock. Katie and Colin arrived at one-fifteen on Saturday morning, just after Martha had got to bed. ‘You don’t mind? It was the moonlight. We couldn’t resist it. You should have seen Stonehenge! We didn’t disturb you? Such early birds!’ Martha rustled up a quick meal of omelettes. Saturday nights’ eggs (‘Martha makes a lovely omelette’: Martin) (‘Honey, make one of your mushroom omelettes: cook the mushrooms, separately, remember, with lemon. Otherwise the water from the mushrooms gets into the eggs, and spoils everything.’) Sunday supper mushrooms. But ungracious to say anything. Martin had revived wonderfully at the sight of Colin and Katie. He brought out the whisky bottle. Glasses. Ice. Jug for water. Wait. Wash up another sinkful, when they’re finished. 2 a.m. ‘Don’t do it tonight, darling.’ It’ll only take a sec.’ Bright smile, not a hint of self-pity. Self-pity can spoil everyone’s weekend. Martha knows that if breakfast for seven is to be manageable the sink must be cleared of dishes. A tricky meal, breakfast. Especially if bacon, eggs and tomatoes must all be cooked in separate pans. (‘Separate pans means separate flavours!’: Martin) She is running around in her nightie. Now if that had been Katie – but there’s something so practical about Martha. Reassuring, mind; but the skimpy nightie and the broad rump and the thirty-

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eight years are all rather embarrassing. Martha can see it in Colin and Katie’s eyes. Martin’s too. Martha wishes she did not see so much in other people’s eyes. Her mother did, too. Dear, dead mother. Did I misjudge you? This was the second weekend Katie had been down with Colin but without Janet. Colin was a photographer: Katie had been his accessorizer. First Colin and Janet: then Colin, Janet and Katie: now Colin and Katie! Katie weeded with rubber gloves on and pulled out pansies in mistake for weeds and laughed and laughed along with everyone when her mistake was pointed out to her, but the pansies died. Well, Colin had become with the years fairly rich and fairly famous, and what does a fairly rich and famous man want with a wife like Janet when Katie is at hand? On the first day of the Colin/Janet/Katie weekends Katie had appeared – out of the bathroom. ‘I say,’ said Katie, holding out a damp towel with evident distaste. ‘I can only find this. No hope of a dry one?’ and Martha had run to fetch a dry towel and amazingly found one, and handed it to Katie who flashed her a brilliant smile and said, ‘I can’t bear damp towels. Anything in the world but damp towels,’ as if speaking to a servant in a time of shortage of staff, and took all the water so there was none left for Martha to wash up. The trouble, of course, was drying anything at all in the cottage. There were no facilities for doing so, and Martin had a horror of clothes lines which might spoil the view. He toiled and moiled all week in the city simply to get a country view at the weekend. Ridiculous to spoil it by draping it with wet towels! But now Martha had bought more towels, so perhaps everyone could be satisfied. She would take nine damp towels back on Sunday evenings in a plastic bag and see to them in London. On this Saturday morning, straight after breakfast, Katie went out to the car – she and Colin had a new Lamborghini; hard to imagine Katie in anything duller – and came back waving a new Yves St Laurent towel. ‘See! I brought my own, darlings.’ They’d brought nothing else. No fruit, no meat, no vegetables, not even bread, certainly not a box of chocolates. They’d gone off to bed with alacrity, the night before, and the spare room rocked and heaved: well, who’d want to do washing-up when you could do that, but what about the children? Would they get confused? First Colin and Janet, now Colin and Katie? Martha murmured something of her thoughts to Martin, who looked quite shocked. ‘Colin’s my best friend. I don’t expect him to bring anything,’ and Martha felt mean. ‘And good heavens, you can’t protect the kids from sex for ever; don’t be so prudish,’ so that Martha felt stupid as well. Mean, complaining and stupid. Janet had rung Martha during the week. The house had been sold over her head, and she and the children had been moved into a small flat. Katie was trying to persuade Colin to cut down on her allowance, Janet said. ‘It does one no good to be materialistic,’ Katie confided. ‘I have nothing. No home, no family, no ties, no possessions. Look at me! Only me and a suitcase of clothes.’ But Katie seemed highly satisfied with the me, and the clothes were stupendous. Katie drank a great deal and became funny. Everyone, laughed, including Martha. Katie had been married twice. Martha marveled at how someone could arrive in their mid-thirties with nothing at all to their name, neither husband, nor children, nor property and not mind. Mind you, Martha could see the power of such helplessness. If Colin was all Katie had in the world, how could Colin abandon her? And to what? Where would she go? How would she live? Oh, clever Katie. ‘My teacup’s dirty,’ said Katie, and Martha ran to clean it, apologizing, and Martin raised his eyebrows, at Martha, not Katie.

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‘I wish you’d wear scent,’ said Martin to Martha, reproachfully. Katie wore lots. Martha never seemed to have time to put any on, though Martin bought her bottle after bottle. Martha leaped out of bed each morning to meet some emergency – miaowing cat, coughing child, faulty alarm clock, postman’s knock – when was Martha to put on scent? It annoyed Martin all the same. She ought to do more to charm him. Colin looked handsome and harrowed and younger than Martin, though they were much the same age. ‘Youth’s catching,’ said Martin in bed that night.’ ‘It’s since he found Katie.’ Found, like some treasure. Discovered; something exciting and wonderful, in the dreary world of established spouses.

On Saturday morning Jasper trod on a piece of wood (‘Martha, why isn’t he wearing shoes? It’s too bad’: Martin) and Martha took him into the hospital to have a nasty splinter removed. She left the cottage at ten and arrived back at one, and they were still sitting in the sun, drinking, empty bottles glinting in the long grass. The grass hadn’t been cut. Don’t forget the bottles. Broken glass means more mornings at the hospital. Oh, don’t fuss. Enjoy yourself. Like other people. Try. But no potatoes peeled, no breakfast cleared, nothing. Cigarette ends still amongst old toast, bacon rind and marmalade. ‘You could have done the potatoes,’ Martha burst out. Oh, bad temper! Prime sin. They looked at her in amazement and dislike. Martin too. ‘Goodness,’ said Katie, ‘Are we doing the whole Sunday lunch bit on Saturday? Potatoes? Ages since I’ve eaten potatoes. Wonderful!’ ‘The children expect it,’ said Martha. So they did. Saturday and Sunday lunch shone like reassuring beacons in their lives. Saturday lunch: family lunch: fish and chips. (‘So much better cooked at home than bought’: Martin) Sunday. Usually roast beef, potatoes, peas, apple pie. Oh, of course. Yorkshire pudding. Always a problem with oven temperatures. When the beef’s going slowly the Yorkshire should be going fast. How to achieve that? Like big bosom and little hips. ‘Just relax,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll cook dinner, all in good time. Splinters always work their own way out: no need to have taken him to hospital. Let life drift over you, my love. Flow with the waves, that’s the way.’ And Martin flashed Martha a distant, spiritual smile. His hand lay on Katie’s slim brown arm, with its many gold bands. ‘Anyway, you do too much for the children,’ said Martin. ‘It isn’t good for them. Have a drink.’ So Martha perched uneasily on the step and had a glass of cider, and wondered how, if lunch was going to be late, she would get cleared up and the meat out of the marinade for the rather formal dinner that would be expected that evening. The marinated lamb ought to cook for at least four hours in a low oven; and you couldn’t use that and the grill at the same time and Martin liked his fish grilled, not fried. Less cholesterol. She didn’t say as much. Domestic details like this were very boring, and any mild complaint was registered by Martin as a scene. And to make a scene was so ungrateful. This was the life. Well, wasn’t it? Smart friends in large cars and country living and drinks before lunch and roses and bird song – ‘Don’t drink too much,’ said Martin, and told them about Martha’s suspended driving licence. The children were hungry so Martha opened them a can of beans and sausages and heated them up. (‘Martha, do they have to eat that crap? Can’t they wait?: Martin) Katie was hungry: she said so, to keep the children in face. She was lovely with children – most children. She did not particularly like Colin and Janet’s children. She said so, and he accepted it. He only saw them once a month, now. Not once a week.

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‘Let me make lunch,’ Katie said to Martha. ‘You do so much, poor thing!’ And she pulled out of the fridge all the things Martha had put away for the next day’s picnic lunch party – Camembert cheese and salad and salami and made a wonderful tomato salad in two minutes and opened the white wine – ‘not very cold, darling. Shouldn’t it be chilling?’ – and had it all on the table in five amazing competent minutes. ‘That’s all we need, darling,’ said Martin. ‘You are funny with your fish-and-chip Saturdays! What could be nicer than this? Or simpler?’ Nothing, except there was Sunday’s buffet lunch for nine gone, in place of Saturday’s fish for six, and would the fish stench? No. Katie had had quite a lot to drink. She pecked Martha on the forehead. ‘Funny little Martha,’ she said. ‘She reminds me of Janet. I really do like Janet.’ Colin did not want to be reminded of Janet, and said so. ‘Darling, Janet’s a fact of life,’ said Katie. ‘If you’d only think about her more, you might manage to pay her less.’ And she yawned and stretched her lean, childless body and smiled at Colin with her inviting, naughty little girl eyes, and Martin watched her in admiration. Martha got up and left them and took a paint pot and put a coat of white gloss on the bathroom wall. The white surface pleased her. She was good at painting. She produced a smooth, even surface. Her legs throbbed. She feared she might be getting varicose veins. Outside in the garden the children played badminton. They were bad-tempered, but relieved to be able to look up and see their mother working, as usual: making their lives for ever better and nicer: organizing, planning, thinking ahead, sidestepping disaster, making preparations, like a mother hen, fussing and irritating: part of the natural boring scenery of the world. On Saturday night Katie went to bed early: she rose from her chair and stretched and yawned and poked her head into the kitchen where Martha was washing saucepans. Colin had cleared the table and Katie had folded the napkins into pretty creases, while Martin blew at the fire, to make it bright. ‘Good night,’ said Katie. Katie appeared three minutes later, reproachfully holding out her Yves St Laurent towel, sopping wet. ‘Oh dear,’ cried Martha. ‘Jenny must have washed her hair!’ And Martha was obliged to rout Jenny out of bed to rebuke her, publicly, if only to demonstrate that she knew what was right and proper. That meant Jenny would sulk all weekend, and that meant a treat or an outing mid-week, or else by the following week she’d be having an asthma attack. ‘You fuss the children too much,’ said Martin. ‘That’s why Jenny has asthma.’ Jenny was pleasant enough to look at, but not stunning. Perhaps she was a disappointment to her father? Martin would never say so, but Martha feared he thought so. As egg and an orange each child, each day. Then nothing too bad would go wrong. And it hadn’t. The asthma was very mild. A calm, tranquil environment, the doctor said. Ah, smile, Martha smile. Domestic happiness depends on you. 21x52 oranges a year. Each one to be purchased, carried, peeled and washed up after. And what about potatoes. 12x52 pounds a year? Martin liked his potatoes carefully peeled. He couldn’t bear to find little cores of black in the mouthful. (‘Well, it isn’t very nice, is it?’: Martin) Martha dreamt she was eating coal, by handfuls, and liking it. Saturday night. Martin made love to Martha three times. Three times? How virile he was, and clearly turned on by the sounds from the spare room. Martin said he loved her. Martin always did. He was a courteous lover; he knew the importance of foreplay. So did Martha. Three times. Ah, sleep. Jolyon had a nightmare. Jenny was woken by a moth. Martin slept through everything. Martha pottered about the house in the night. There was a moon. She sat at the window and stared out into the summer night for five minutes, and was at peace, and then went back to bed because she ought to be fresh for the morning.

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But she wasn’t. She slept late. The others went for a walk. They’d left a note, a considerate note: ‘Didn’t wake you. You looked tired. Had a cold breakfast so as not to make too much mess. Leave everything ’til we get back.’ But it was ten o’clock, and guests were coming at noon, so she cleared away the bread, the butter, the crumbs, the smears, the jam, the spoons, the spilt sugar, the cereal, the milk (sour by now) and the dirty plates, and swept the floors, and tidied up quickly, and grabbed a cup of coffee, and prepared to make a rice and fish dish, and a chocolate mousse and sat down in the middle to eat a lot of bread and jam herself. Broad hips. She remembered the office work in her file and knew she wouldn’t be able to do it. Martin anyway thought it was ridiculous for her to bring work back at the weekends. ‘It’s your holiday,’ he’d say. ‘Why should they impose?’ Martha loved her work. She didn’t have to smile at it. She just did it. Katie came back upset and crying. She sat in the kitchen while Martha worked and drank glass after glass of gin and bitter lemon. Katie liked ice and lemon in gin. Martha paid for all the drink out of her wages. It was part of the deal between her and Martin – the contract by which she went out to work. All things to cheer the spirit, otherwise depressed by a working wife and mother, were to be paid for by Martha. Drink, holidays, petrol, outings, puddings, electricity, heating: it was quite a joke between them. It didn’t really make any difference: it was their joint money, after all. Amazing how Martha’s wages were creeping up, almost to the level of Martin’s. One day they would overtake. Then what? Work, honestly, was a piece of cake. Anyway, poor Katie was crying. Colin, she’d discovered, kept a photograph of Janet and the children in his wallet. ‘He’s not free of her. He pretends he is, but he isn’t. She has him by a stranglehold. It’s the kids. His bloody kids. Moaning Mary and that little creep Joanna. It’s all he thinks about. I’m nobody.’ But Katie didn’t believe it. She knew she was somebody all right. Colin came in, in a fury. He took out the photograph and set fire to it, bitterly, with a match. Up in smoke they went. Mary and Joanna and Janet. The ashes fell on the floor. (Martha swept them up when Colin and Katie had gone. It hardly seemed polite to do so when they were still there.) ‘Go back to her,’ Katie said. ‘Go back to her. I don’t care. Honestly, I’d rather be on my own. You’re a nice old fashioned thing. Run along then. Do your thing, I’ll do mine. Who cares?’ ‘Christ, Katie, the fuss! She only just happens to be in the photograph. She’s not there on purpose to annoy. And I do feel bad about her. She’s been having a hard time’. ‘And haven’t you, Colin? She twists a pretty knife, I can tell you. Don’t you have rights too? Not to mention me. Is a little loyalty too much to expect?’ They were reconciled before lunch, up in the spare room. Harry and Beryl Elder arrived at twelve-thirty. Harry didn’t like to hurry on Sundays; Beryl was flustered with apologies for their lateness. They’d brought artichokes from their garden. ‘Wonderful,’ cried Martin. ‘Fruits of the earth? Let’s have a wonderful soup! Don’t fret, Martha. I’ll do it.’ ‘Don’t fret.’ Martha clearly hadn’t been smiling enough. She was in danger, Martin implied, of ruining everyone’s weekend. There was an emergency in the garden very shortly – an elm tree which had probably got Dutch elm disease – and Martha finished the artichokes. The lid flew off the blender and there was artichoke purée everywhere. ‘Let’s have lunch outside,’ said Colin. ‘Less work for Martha.’ Martin frowned at Martha: he thought the appearance of martyrdom in the face of guests to be an unforgivable offence. Everyone happily joined in taking the furniture out, but it was Martha’s experience that nobody ever helped to bring it in again. Jolyon was stung by a wasp. Jasper sneezed and sneezed from

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hay fever and couldn’t find the tissues and he wouldn’t use loo paper. (Surely you remembered the tissues, darling?’: Martin) Beryl Elder was nice. ‘Wonderful to eat out,’ she said, fetching the cream for her pudding, while Martha fished a fly from the liquefying Brie (‘You shouldn’t have bought it so ripe, Martha’: Martin) – ‘except it’s just some other woman has to do it. But at least it isn’t me.’ Beryl worked too, as a secretary, to send the boys to boarding school, where she’d rather they weren’t. But her husband was from a rather grand family, and she’d been only a typist when he married her, so her life was a mass of amends, one way or another. Harry had opted out of the stockbroking rat race and become an artist, choosing integrity rather than money, but that choice was his alone and couldn’t of course be inflicted on the boys. Katie found the fish and rice dish rather strange, toyed at it with her fork, and talked about Italian restaurants she knew. Martin lay back soaking in the sun: crying, ‘Oh, this is the life.’ He made coffee, nobly, and the lid flew off the grinder and there were coffee beans all over the kitchen especially in amongst the row of cookery books which Martin gave Martha Christmas by Christmas. At least they didn’t have to be brought back every weekend. (‘The burglars won’t have the sense to steal those’: Martin) Beryl fell asleep and Katie watched her, quizzically. Beryl’s mouth was open and she had a lot of filings, and her ankles were thick and her waist was going, and she didn’t look after herself. ‘I love women,’ sighed Katie. ‘They look so wonderful asleep. I wish I could be an earth mother.’ Beryl woke with a start and nagged her husband into going home, which he clearly didn’t want to do, so didn’t. Beryl thought she had to get back because his mother was coming round later. Nonsense! Then Beryl tried to stop Harry drinking more homemade wine and was laughed at by everyone. He was driving. Beryl couldn’t, and he did have a nasty scar on his temple from a previous road accident. Never mind. ‘She does come on strong, poor soul,’ laughed Katie when they’d finally gone. ‘I’m never going to get married,’ – and Colin looked at her yearningly because he wanted to marry her more than anything in the world and Martha cleared the coffee cups. ‘Oh don’t do that,’ said Katie, ‘do just sit down, Martha, you make us all feel bad,’ and Martin glared at Martha who sat down and Jenny called out for her and Martha went upstairs and Jenny had started her first period and Martha cried and cried and knew she must stop because this must be a joyous occasion for Jenny or her whole future would be blighted, but for once, Martha couldn’t. Her daughter, Jenny: wife, mother, friend.

(in Malcolm Bradbury (ed.), Modern British Short Stories, London: Penguin Books, 1988, pp. 309-325)

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TOPICS FOR WORKSHOP PRACTICE 1. Consider the function of the implied narrator and discuss the feminist/ non-feminist positions

adopted. 2. Identify the roles played by the central character and develop on the message conveyed by the

whole text. 3. Point to the plurality of voices obvious in the text and show how it is forwarded at the level of

content and form. 4. Comment on the status of women in the contemporary world and Weldon’s implied criticism of it. 5. What is the ratio between showing and telling? Analyse their individual functions. 6. Consider the shifts from the verbal to the non-verbal. 7. Discuss time in the short story (objective/subjective; narrated/narrating)

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III. FINAL ACHIEVEMENT TESTING For the final evaluation, students will be required to use the knowledge they acquired throughout this practical course in order to analyse, on their own, one of the four modernist and postmodernist short stories here enclosed (James Joyce, The Dead; Virginia Woolf, A Haunted House; David Lodge, Hotel de Boobs; Fay Weldon, Weekend). They are invited to use the sets of Topics for Workshop Practice (pages 61, 63, 69 and 79) as general guidelines in considering the most important aspects in the chosen short story. Reference should be specifically made to both “the what” and “the how” of the analysed text so as to relate the choices in narrative patterns to the presence of representative features of the main literary trends the short stories belong to (modernist or postmodernist).

Students should in keep in mind that both their conforming to the rules of academic essay writing (title, coherent structuring of paragraphs, acknowledgement of sources both in the essay and in the final bibliographical list, etc.) and the cohesion, thoroughness and originality of the analysis will be taken into consideration in the marking process. The ensuing essays will be handed in before a deadline to be agreed on.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

FICTION

o Joyce, James (2001) Dubliners, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Classics o Woolf, Virginia (1974) Haunted House and Other Short Stories, London: Penguin Books o Bradbury, Malcolm (ed.) (1988) Modern British Short Stories, London: Penguin Books

LITERARY THEORY

o Aristotle (1996) Metaphysics: Books I-IX, translated by Hugh Tredennick, Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

o Avădanei, Ştefan (2002) Introduction to Poetics II, Iaşi: Institutul European. o Bal, Mieke (1997, 1999, 2002) Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, Toronto,

Buffalo, London: University of Toronto Press. o Brémond, Claude (1981) Logica povestirii, Bucureşti : Univers. o Ducrot, Oswald, Schaeffer, Jean-Marie (1996) Noul dicţionar enciclopedic al ştiinţelor

limbajului, Bucureşti: Babel. o Friedman, Norman (1975) Form and Meaning in Fiction, The University of Georgia Press. o Genette, Gérard (1980) Narrative Discourse (translated by Jane E. Lewin), New York:

Cornell University Press. o Greimas, A. -J. (1983) Structural Semantics: An Attempt at a Method, Lincoln: University of

Nebraska Press. o Lintvelt, Jaap (1981) Essai de typologie narrative. Le “point de vue.” Théorie et analyse, Paris:

Librairie José Corti. o Lubbock, Percy (1957) The Craft of Fiction, The Viking Press, Inc. 7 o Lubomir, Doležel (1973) Narrative Modes in Czech Literature, Toronto: University of

Toronto Press (in transl. Doležel, Lubomir, Poetica occidentală, Editura Univers, Bucureşti, 1998).

o Mitchell, W.J.T. (1995) ‘Representation’ in Frank Lentricchia and Thomas McLaughlin, Critical Terms for Literary Study, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

o Pârvu, Sorin (1997) Poetics of the Novel, Iaşi: Junimea. o Schaeffer, Jean-Marie (2002) ‘De l’imagination à la fiction’ in Vox Poetica (http://www.vox-

poetica.org/t/fiction.htm). o Todorov, Tzvetan (1975) Poetica. Gramatica Decameronului, Bucureşti: Univers. o Toolan, Michael (1992) Narrative. A Critical Linguistic Introduction, London, New York:

Routledge.

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