“And she told you I was her oldest friend,” he said, getting up and going back to the mantelpiece.
“I first met Miss Dear” he resumed after a pause, speaking like a witness “last Christmas. I called in at Baker Street and found the superintendent had four of her disengaged nurses down with influenza. At her request I ran up to see them. Miss Dear was one of the number. Since that date she has summoned me at all hours on any and every pretext. What I can, I have done for her. She knows perfectly well her condition. She has her back against the wall. She’s making a splendid fight. But the one thing that would give her a chance she obstinately refuses to do. Last summer I found for her employment in a nursing home in the South of France. She refused to go, though I told her plainly what would be the result of another winter in England.”
“Ought she to marry?” said Miriam suddenly, closely watching him.
“Is she thinking of marrying, my dear girl” he answered, looking at his nails.
“Well of course shemight——”
“Is there a sweetheart on the horizon?”
“Well she inspires a great deal of affection. I think she is inspiring affectionnow.”
Dr. Densley threw back his head with a laugh that caught his breath and gasped in and out on a high tone, leaving his silent mouth wide open when he again faced Miriam with the laughter still in his eyes.
“Tell me my dear girl” he said smiting her knee with gentle affection, “is there someone who would like to marry her?”
“What I want toknow” said Miriam very briskly “iswhether such a person ought to know about the state of her health.” She found herself cold and trembling as she asked. Miss Dear’s eyes seemed fixed upon her.
“The chance of a tuberculous woman in marriage” recited Dr. Densley “is a holding up of the disease with the first child; after the second she usually fails.”
Why children? A doctor could see nothing in marriage but children. This man saw women with a sort of admiring pity. He probably estimated all those women on the mantelpiece according to their child-bearing capacity.
“Personally, I do not believe in forbidding the marriage of consumptives; provided both parties know what they are doing; and if they are quite sure they cannot do without each other. We know so little about heredity and disease, we do not know always what life is about. Personally I would not divide two people who are thoroughly devoted to each other.”
“No” said Miriam coldly.
“Is the young man in a position to take her abroad?”
“I can’t tell you more than I know” said Miriam impatiently getting up.
Dr. Densley laughed again and rose.
“I’m very glad you came my dear girl. Come again soon and report progress. You’re so near you can run in any time when you’re free.”
“Thank you” said Miriam politely, scrutinising him calmly as he waved and patted her out into the hall.
Impelled by an uncontrollable urgency she made her way along the Marylebone Road. Miss Dear was not expecting her till late. But the responsibility, the urgency. She must go abroad. About Dr. Densley. That was easy enough. There was a phrase ready about that somewhere. Three things. But she could not go abroad to-night. Why not go to the Lyons at Portland Road station and have ameal and get calm and think out a plan? But there was no time to lose. There was not a moment to lose. She arrived at the dark gate breathless and incoherent. A man was opening the gate from the inside. He stood short and compact in the gloom holding it open for her.
“Is it Miss Henderson?” he said nervously as she passed.
“Yes” said Miriam stopping dead, flooded with sadness.
“I have been hoping to see you for the last ten days” he said hurriedly and as if afraid of being overheard. In the impenetrable gloom darker than the darkness his voice was a thread of comfort.
“Oh yes.”
“Could you come and see me?”
“Oh yes of course.”
“If you will give me your number in Wimpole Street I will send you a note.”
“Mydear!”
The tall figure, radiant, lit from head to foot, “as the light on a falling wave” ... “as the light on a falling wave.” ...
Everything stood still as they gazed at each other. Her own self gazed at her out of Miss Dear’s eyes.
“Well I’mbothered” said Miriam at last, sinking into a chair.
“No need to be bothered any more dear” laughed Miss Dear.
“It’s extraordinary.” She tried to recover the glory of the first moment in speechless contemplation of the radiant figure now moving chairs near to the lamp. The disappearance of the gas, the shaded lamp, the rector’s wife’s manner, the rector’s wife’s quiet stylish costume; it was like a prepared scene. How funny it would be to know a rector’s wife.
“He’s longing to meet you. I shall have a second room to-morrow. We will have a tea party.”
“It was to-day, of course.”
“Just before you came” said Miss Dear her glowing face bent, her hands brushing at the new costume. “You’ll be our greatest friend.”
“But how grand you are.”
“He made my future his care some days ago dear. As long as I live you shall want for nothing he said.”
“And to-day it all came out.”
“Of course he’ll have to get alivingdear. But we’ve decided to ignore the world.”
What did she mean by that.... “You won’t have to.”
“Well dear I mean let the world go by.”
“I see. He’s a jewel. I think you’ve made a very good choice. You can make your mind easy about that. I saw the great medicine man to-day.”
“It was all settled without that dear. I never even thought about him.”
“You needn’t. No woman need. He’s a man who doesn’t know his own mind and never will. I doubt very much whether he has a mind to know. If he ever marries he will marry awife, not any particular woman; a smart worldly woman for his profession, or a thoroughly healthy female who’ll keep a home in the country for him and have children and pour out his tea and grow things in the garden, while he flirts with patients in town. He’s most awfully susceptible.”
“I expect we shan’t live in London.”
“Well that’ll be better for you won’t it?”
“How do you mean de-er?”
“Well. I ought to tell you Dr. Densley told me you ought to go abroad.”
“There’s no need for me to go abroad dear, I shall be all right if I can lookaftermyself and get into the air.”
“I expect you will. Everything’s happened just right hasn’t it?”
“It’s all been in the hands of an ’igher power, dear.”
Miriam found herself chafing again. It had all rushed on, in a few minutes. It was out of her hands completely now. She did not want to know Mr. and Mrs. Taunton. There was nothing to hold her any longer. She had seen Miss Dear in the new part. To watch the working out of it, to hear about the parish, sudden details about people she did not know—intolerable.
Theshort figure looked taller in the cassock, funny and hounded, like all curates; pounding about and arranging a place for her and trying to collect his thoughts while he repeated how good it was of her to have come. He sat down at last to the poached eggs and tea laid on one end of the small book-crowded table.
“I have a service at four-thirty” he said busily eating and glaring in front of him with unseeing eyes, a little like Mr. Grove only less desperate because his dark head was round and his eyes were blue—“so you must excuse my meal. I have a volume ofPlatohere.”
“Oh yes” said Miriam doubtfully.
“Are you familiar with Plato?”
She pondered intensely and rushed in just in time to prevent his speaking again.
“Ishouldlike him I know—I’ve come across extracts in other books.”
“He is a great man; my favourite companion. I spend most of my leisure up here with Plato.”
“What a delightful life” said Miriam enviously, looking about the small crowded room.
“As much time as I can spare from my work at the Institute and the Mission chapel; they fill myactivehours.”
Where would a woman, a wife-woman, be in a life like this? He poured himself out a cup of tea; the eyes turned towards the tea-pot were worried and hurried; his whole compact rounded form was a little worried and anxious.There was something—bunnyish about him. Reading Plato the expression of his person would still have something of the worried rabbit about it. His face would be calm and intent. Then he would look up from the page, taking in a thought and something in his room would bring him back again to worry. But he was too stout to belong to a religious order.
“You must have a very busy life” said Miriam, her attention wandering rapidly off hither and thither.
“Of course” he said turning away from the table to the fire beside which she sat. “I think the clergy should keep in touch to some extent with modern thought—in so far as it helps them with their own particular work.”
Miriam wondered why she felt no desire to open the subject of religion and science; or any other subject. It was so extraordinary to find herself sitting tête-à-tête with a clergyman, and still more strange to find him communicatively trying to show her his life from the inside. He went on talking, not looking at her but gazing into the fire. She tried in vain to tether her attention. It was straining away to work upon something, upon some curious evidence it had collected since she came into the room; and even with her eyes fixed upon his person and her mind noting the strange contradiction between the thin rippling many-buttoned cassock and the stout square-toed boots protruding beneath it, she could not completely convince herself that he was there.
“... novels; my friends to recommend any that might be helpful.”
He had looked up towards her with this phrase.
“Oh yes, Red Pottage” she said grasping hurriedly and looking attentive.
“Have you read that novel?”
“No. I imagined that you had because you lent it to Miss Dear.”
“Miss Dear has spoken to you of me.”
“Oh yes.”
“Of you she has spoken a great deal. You know her very well. It is because of your long friendship with her that I have taken courage to ask you to come here and discuss with me about her affairs.”
“I have known Miss Dear only a very short time” said Miriam, sternly gazing into the fire. Nothing should persuade her to become the caretaker of the future Mrs. Taunton.
“That surprises me very much indeed” he said propping his head upon his hand by one finger held against a tooth. He sat brooding.
“She is very much in need of friends just now” he said suddenly and evenly towards the fire without removing his finger from his tooth.
“Yes” said Miriam gravely.
“You are, nevertheless, the only intimate woman friend to whom just now she has access.”
“I’ve done little things for her. I couldn’t do much.”
“You were sorry for her.” Mr. Taunton was studying her face and waiting.
“Well—I don’t know—she” she consulted the fire intensely, looking for the truth; “she seems to me too strong for that.” Light! Women have no pity on women ... theyknowhowstrongwomen are; a sick manismore helpless and pitiful than a sick woman; almost as helpless as a child. People in order of strength ... women, men, children. This man without his worldly props, his money and his job and his health had not a hundredth part of the strength of a woman ... nor had Dr. Densley....
“I think shefascinatedme.”
Mr. Taunton gathered himself together in his chair and sat very upright.
“She has an exceptional power of inspiring affection—affection and the desire to give her the help she so sorely needs.”
“Perhaps that is it” said Miriam judicially. But you are very much mistaken in calling on me for help ...‘domestic work and the care of the aged and the sick’—very convenient—all the stuffy nerve-racking never-ending things to be dumped on to women—who are to be openly praised and secretly despised for their unselfishness—I’ve got twice the brain power you have. You are something of a scholar; but there is a way in which my time is more valuable than yours. There is a way in which it is more right for you to be tied to this woman than for me. Your reading is a habit, like most men’s reading, not a quest. You don’t want it disturbed. But you are kinder than I am. You are splendid. It will be awful—you don’t know how awful yet—poor little man.
“I think it has been so in my case if you will allow me to tell you.”
“Oh yesdo” said Miriam a little archly—“of course—I know—I mean to say Miss Dear has told me.”
“Yes” he said eagerly.
“How things are” she finished looking shyly into the fire.
“Nevertheless if you will allow me I should like to tell you exactly what has occurred and to ask your advice as to the future. My mother and sisters are in the Midlands.”
“Yes” said Miriam in a carefully sombre non-committal tone; waiting for the revelation of some of the things men expect from mothers and sisters and wondering whether he was beginning to see her unsuitability for the rôle of convenient sister.
“When my rector sent me to look up Miss Dear” he began heavily “I thought it was an ordinary parish case and I was shocked beyond measure to find a delicately nurtured ladylike girl in such a situation. I came back here to my rooms and found myself unable to enter into my usual employments. I was haunted by the thought of what that lonely girl who might have been one of my own sisters—must be suffering and enduring and I returned to give what relief I could without waiting to report the case to my rector for ordinary parish relief. I am not dependent on my stipend and I felt that I could not withholdthe help she ought to have. I saw her landlady and made arrangements as to her feeding and called each day myself to take little things to cheer her—as a rule when my day’s work was done. I have never come in contact with a more pathetic case. It did not occur to me for ... a moment that she viewed my visits and the help I was so glad to be able to give ... in ... in any other light ... that she viewed me as other than her parish priest.”
“Ofcoursenot” said Miriam violently.
“She is a singularly attractive and lovable nature. That to my mind makes her helplessness and resourcelessness all the more painfully pathetic. Her very name——” he paused gazing into the fire. “I told her lately in one of her moments of deep depression that she would never want for friends, that she would always inspire affection wherever she went and that as long as I lived she should never know want. Last week—the day I met you at the gates—finding her up and apparently very much better, I suggested that it would be well to discontinue my visits for the present, pointing out the social reasons and so forth.... I had with me a letter from a very pleasant Home in Bournemouth. She had hinted much earlier that a long rest in some place such as Bournemouth was what she wanted to set her up in health. I am bound to tell you what followed. She broke down completely, told me that, socially speaking, it was too late to discontinue my visits; that people in the house were already talking.”
“People inthathouse!”—you little simpleton—“Who? It is the most monstrous thing I ever heard.”
“Well—there you have the whole story. The poor girl’s distress and dependence were most moving. I have a very great respect for her character and esteem for her personality—and of course I am pledged.”
“I see,” said Miriam narrowly regarding him. Do you want to be saved—ought I to save you—why should I save you—it is a solution of the whole thing and a use for yourmoney—you won’t marry her when you know how ill she is.
“It is of course the immediate future that causes me anxiety and disquietude. It is there I need your advice and help.”
“I see. Is Miss Dear going to Bournemouth?”
“Well; that is just it. Now that the opportunity is there she seems disinclined to avail herself of it. I hope that you will support me in trying to persuade her.”
“Of course. Shemustgo.”
“I am glad you think so. It is obvious that definite plans must be postponed until she is well and strong.”
“You would be able to go down and see her.”
“Occasionally, as my duties permit, oh yes. It is a very pleasant place and I have friends in Bournemouth who would visit her.”
“She ought to be longing to go” said Miriam on her strange sudden smile. It had come from somewhere; the atmosphere was easier; suddenly in the room with her was the sense of bluebells, a wood blue with bluebells, and dim roofs, roofs in a town ... sur les toits ... and books; people reading books under them.
Mr. Taunton smiled too.
“Unfortunately that is not so” he said leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs comfortably.
“You know” he said turning his blue gaze from the fire to Miriam’s face, “I have never been so worried in my life as I have during the last ten days. It’s upsetting my winter’s work. It is altogether too difficult and impossible. I cannot see any possible adjustment. You see I cannot possibly be continually interrupted and in such—strange ways. She came here yesterday afternoon with a list of complaints about her landlady. Ireallycannot attend to these things. She sends metelegrams. Only this morning there was atelegram. Come at once. Difficulty with chemist. Of course it was impossible for me to leave my work at a moment’s notice. This afternoon I called. It seems that she was under the impression that there had been some insolence ... it absorbs so muchtimeto enter into long explanations with regard to all these people. I cannot do it. That is what it comes to. I cannot do it.”
Ah.You’ve lost your temper; like anyone else. You want to shelve it. Anyone would. But being a man you want to shelve it on to a woman. You don’t care who hears the long tales as long as you don’t....
“Have you seen her doctor?”
“No. I think just now he is out of town.”
“Really?Are you sure?”
“You think I should see him.”
“Certainly.”
“I will do so on the first opportunity. That is the next step. Meantime I will write provisionally to Bournemouth.”
“Oh, she must go to Bournemouth anyhow; that’s settled.”
“Perhaps her medical man may help there.”
“He won’t make her do anything she doesn’t mean to do.”
“I see you are a reader of character.”
“I don’t think I am. I always begin by idealising people.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Yes, always; and then they grow smaller and smaller.”
“Is that your invariable experience of humanity?”
“I don’t think I’m an altruist.”
“I think one must have one’s heroes.”
“In life or in books?”
“In both perhaps—one has them certainly in books—in records. Do you know this book?”
Miriam sceptically accepted the bulky volume he took down from the book-crowded mantelshelf.
“Oh how interesting” she said insincerely when she had read Great Thoughts from Great Lives on the cover....I ought to have said I don’t like extracts. “Lives of great men all remind us. We can make our lives sublime,” she read aloud under her breath from the first page.... I ought to go. I can’t enter into this.... I hate ‘great men’ I think....
“That book has been a treasure-house to me—for many years. I know it now almost by heart. If it interests you, you will allow me I hope to present it to you.”
“Oh you must not let me deprive you of it—ohno. It is very kind of you; but you really mustn’t.” She looked up and returned quickly to the fascinating pages. Sentences shone out striking at her heart and brain ... names in italics; Marcus Aurelius ... Lao-Tse. Confucius ... Clement of Alexandria ... Jacob Boehme. “It’s full of the most fascinating things. Oh no; I couldn’t think of taking it. You must keep it. Who is Jacob Boehme? That name alwaysfascinatesme. I must have read something, somewhere, a long time ago. I can’t remember. But it is such awonderfulname.”
“Jacob Boehme was a German visionary. You will find of course all shades of opinion there.”
“All contradicting each other; that’s the worst of it. Still, I suppose all roads lead to Rome.”
“I see you have thought a great deal.”
“Well” said Miriam feverishly, “there’s alwaysscience, always all that awful business of science, and no getting rid of it.”
“I think—in that matter—one must not allow one’s mind to be led away?”
“But one must keep anopenmind.”
“Are you familiar with Professor Tyndall?”
“Only by meeting him in books about Huxley.”
“Ah—he was very different; very different.”
“Huxley” said Miriam with intense bitterness “was an egoisticadolescent—all his life. Inevercame acrossanythinglike his conceited complacency in my life. The very look of his side-whiskers,—well, there you have the whole man.”Her heart burned and ached, beating out the words. She rose to go holding the volume in hands that shook to the beating of her heart. Far away in the bitter mist of the darkening room was the strange little figure.
“Let me just write your name in the book.”
“Oh, well, really, it is too bad—thank you very much.”
He carried the book to the window-sill and stood writing his bent head very dark and round in the feeble grey light. Happy monk alone up under the roof with his Plato. It was ashame.
“Whatahugeroom?”
“Isn’t it a big room. Come in young lady.”
Miriam crossed to the fireplace through a warm faintly sweet atmosphere. A small fire was smoking and the gas was partly turned down but the room was warm with a friendly brown warmth. Something had made her linger in the hall until Mrs. Bailey had come to the dining-room door and stood there with the door wide open and something to communicate waiting behind her friendly greetings. As a rule there was nothing behind her friendly greetings but friendly approval and assurance. Miriam had never seen the dining-room door open before and sought distraction from the communicativeness by drifting towards it and peering in. Once in and sitting in the chair between the fireplace and Mrs. Bailey’s tumbled work-basket standing on the edge of the long table, bound to stay taking in the room until Mrs. Bailey returned, she regretted looking in. The hall and the stairs and her own room would be changed now she knew what this room was like. In her fatigue she looked about half taking in half recoiling from the contents of the room. “He stopped and got off his bicycle and I said you don’t seem very pleased toseeme.” Already he knew that they were tiresome strangers to each other. “I can’t go dancing off to Bournemouth at a moment’s notice dear.” “Well, I strongly advise you to go as soon as you can.” “OfcourseI’m going, but I can’t just dance off.” “Don’t let him get into the habit of associating you with the idea of worry.” If she didn’tworryhim and was always a little ill, and pretty ... “he says he can’t do without her. I’ve told him without reserve what the chances are and given them my blessing.” Did he really feel that suddenly sitting there in the consulting-room? If only she wouldn’t be so mysterious and important about nothing....
There was a hugeness in the room, radiating from the three-armed dim-globed chandelier, going up and up; to the high heavily-moulded smoke-grimed ceiling, spreading out right and left along the length of the room, a large enclosed quietness, flowing up to the two great windows, hovering up and down the dingy rep and dingy lace curtains and the drab coloured venetian blinds through whose chinks the street came in. Tansley Street was there, pressing its secret peace against the closed windows. Between the windows a long strip of mirror framed in tarnished gilt, reflected the peace of the room. Miriam glanced about peering for its secret; her eye running over the length of the faded patterned deep fringed table cover, the large cracked pink bowl in the centre, holding an aspidistra ... brown cracked leaves sticking out; the faded upholstery of the armchair opposite her, the rows of dining-room chairs across the way in line with the horsehair sofa; the piano in the space between the sofa and the window; the huge mirror in the battered tarnished gilt frame sweeping half way up the wall above the mantelpiece, reflecting the pictures and engravings hung rather high on the opposite wall, bought and liked long ago, the faded hearthrug under her feet, the more faded carpet disappearing under the long table, the dark stare of the fireplace, the heavy marble mantelpiece, the marble cased clock and opaque pink glass fat-bodied jugs scrolled with a dingy pattern, dusty lustres, curious objects in dull metal....
“It’ll give my chicks a better chance. It isn’t fair on them—living in the kitchen and seeing nobody.”
“And you mean to risk sending the lodgers away.”
“I’ve been thinking about it some time. When the dining-room left I thought I wouldn’t fill up again. Miss Campbell’s going too.”
“Miss Campbell?”
“The drawn-room and drawn-room bedroom ... my word ... had her rooms turned out every week, carpets up and all.”
“Everyweek!”
“Always talking about microbes. Myword.”
“How awful. And all the other people?”
“I’ve written them” smiled Mrs. Bailey at her busily interlacing fingers.
“Oh.”
“For the 14th prox; they’re all weekly.”
“Then if they don’t stay as boarders they’ll have to trot out at once.”
“Well I thought if I was going to begin I’d better take the bull by the horns. I’ve heard of two. Norwegian young gentlemen. They’re coming next week and they both want large bedrooms.”
“I think it’s awfully plucky if you’ve had no experience.”
“Well, young lady, I see it like this. Whatothershave done, I can. I feel I must do something for the children. Mrs. Reynolds has married three of her daughters to boarders. She’s giving up. Elsie is going into the typing.”
“You haven’t written tome.”
“You stay where you are, young lady.”
“Well—I think it’s awfully sweet of you Mrs. Bailey.”
“Don’t you think about that. It needn’t make any difference to you.”
“Well—of course—if you heard of a boarder——”
Mrs. Bailey made a little dab at Miriam’s knee. “You stay where youaremy dear.”
“I do hope it will be a success. The house will be completely changed.”
“I know it’s a risk. But if you get on it pays better.There’s less work in it and you’ve got a house to live in. Nothing venture, nothinghave. It’s no good to be backward in coming forward nowadays. We’ve got to march with the times.”
Miriam tried to see Mrs. Bailey presiding, the huge table lined with guests. She doubted. Those boarding-houses in Woburn Place, the open windows in the summer, the strange smart people, in evening dress, the shaded lamps, she would be lost. She could never hold her own. The quiet house would be utterly changed. There would be people going about, in possession, all over the front steps and at the dining-room windows and along the drawing-room balcony.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND
The Novels ofDorothy RichardsonBy MAY SINCLAIRExtracts from an article published in “The Egoist,” April, 1918.... By imposing very strict limitations on herself she has brought her art, her method, to a high pitch of perfection, so that her form seems to be newer than it perhaps is. She herself is unaware of the perfection of her method. She would probably deny that she has written with any deliberate method at all. She would say: “I only know there are certain things I mustn’t do if I was to do what I wanted.” Obviously, she must not interfere; she must not analyse or comment or explain. Rather less obviously, she must not tell a story or handle a situation or set a scene; she must avoid drama as she avoids narration. And there are some things she must not be. She must not be the wise, all-knowing author. She must be Miriam Henderson. She must not know or divine anything that Miriam does not know or divine; she must not see anything that Miriam does not see. She has taken Miriam’s nature upon her. She is not concerned, in the way that other novelists are concerned, with character. Of the persons who move through Miriam’s world you know nothing but what Miriam knows. If Miriam is mistaken, well, she and not Miss Richardson is mistaken. Miriam is an acute observer, but she is very far from seeing the whole of these people. They are presented to us in the same vivid but fragmentary way in which they appeared to Miriam, the fragmentary way in which people appear to most of us. Miss Richardson has only imposed on herself the conditions that life imposes on us all. And if you are going to quarrel with those conditions you will not find her novels satisfactory. But your satisfaction is not her concern.And I find it impossible to reduce to intelligible terms this satisfaction that I feel. To me these three novels show an art and method and form carried to punctilious perfection. Yet I have heard other novelists say that they have no art and no method and no form, and that it is this formlessness that annoys them. They say that they have no beginning and no middle and no end, and that to have form a novel must have an end and a beginning and a middle. We have come to words that in more primitive times would have been blows on this subject. There is a certain plausibility in what they say, but it depends on what constitutes a beginning and a middle and an end. In this series there is no drama, no situation, no set scene. Nothing happens. It is just life going on and on. It is Miriam Henderson’s stream of consciousness going on and on. And in neither is there any grossly discernible beginning or middle or end.In identifying herself with this life, which is Miriam’s stream of consciousness, Miss Richardson produces her effect of being the first, of getting closer to reality than any of our novelists who are trying so desperately to get close. No attitude or gesture of her own is allowed to come between her and her effect. Whatever her sources and her raw material, she is concerned and we ought to be concerned solely with the finished result, the work of art. It is to Miriam’s almost painfully acute senses that we owe what in any other novelist would be called the “portraits” of Miriam’s mother, of her sister Harriett, of the Corries and Joey Banks inHoneycomb, of the Miss Pernes and Julia Doyle, and the North London schoolgirls, inBackwater, of Fräulein Pfaff and Mademoiselle, of the Martins and Emma Bergmann and Ulrica and “the Australian” inPointed Roofs. The mere “word-painting” is masterly....It is as if no other writers had ever used their senses so purely and with so intense a joy in their use.This intensity is the effect of an extreme concentration on the thing seen or felt. Miss Richardson disdains every stroke that does not tell. Her novels are novels of an extraordinary compression, and of an extenuation more extraordinary still. The moments of Miriam’s consciousness pass one by one, or overlapping; moments tense with vibration, moments drawn out fine, almost to snapping-point.
The Novels ofDorothy Richardson
By MAY SINCLAIR
Extracts from an article published in “The Egoist,” April, 1918.
... By imposing very strict limitations on herself she has brought her art, her method, to a high pitch of perfection, so that her form seems to be newer than it perhaps is. She herself is unaware of the perfection of her method. She would probably deny that she has written with any deliberate method at all. She would say: “I only know there are certain things I mustn’t do if I was to do what I wanted.” Obviously, she must not interfere; she must not analyse or comment or explain. Rather less obviously, she must not tell a story or handle a situation or set a scene; she must avoid drama as she avoids narration. And there are some things she must not be. She must not be the wise, all-knowing author. She must be Miriam Henderson. She must not know or divine anything that Miriam does not know or divine; she must not see anything that Miriam does not see. She has taken Miriam’s nature upon her. She is not concerned, in the way that other novelists are concerned, with character. Of the persons who move through Miriam’s world you know nothing but what Miriam knows. If Miriam is mistaken, well, she and not Miss Richardson is mistaken. Miriam is an acute observer, but she is very far from seeing the whole of these people. They are presented to us in the same vivid but fragmentary way in which they appeared to Miriam, the fragmentary way in which people appear to most of us. Miss Richardson has only imposed on herself the conditions that life imposes on us all. And if you are going to quarrel with those conditions you will not find her novels satisfactory. But your satisfaction is not her concern.
And I find it impossible to reduce to intelligible terms this satisfaction that I feel. To me these three novels show an art and method and form carried to punctilious perfection. Yet I have heard other novelists say that they have no art and no method and no form, and that it is this formlessness that annoys them. They say that they have no beginning and no middle and no end, and that to have form a novel must have an end and a beginning and a middle. We have come to words that in more primitive times would have been blows on this subject. There is a certain plausibility in what they say, but it depends on what constitutes a beginning and a middle and an end. In this series there is no drama, no situation, no set scene. Nothing happens. It is just life going on and on. It is Miriam Henderson’s stream of consciousness going on and on. And in neither is there any grossly discernible beginning or middle or end.
In identifying herself with this life, which is Miriam’s stream of consciousness, Miss Richardson produces her effect of being the first, of getting closer to reality than any of our novelists who are trying so desperately to get close. No attitude or gesture of her own is allowed to come between her and her effect. Whatever her sources and her raw material, she is concerned and we ought to be concerned solely with the finished result, the work of art. It is to Miriam’s almost painfully acute senses that we owe what in any other novelist would be called the “portraits” of Miriam’s mother, of her sister Harriett, of the Corries and Joey Banks inHoneycomb, of the Miss Pernes and Julia Doyle, and the North London schoolgirls, inBackwater, of Fräulein Pfaff and Mademoiselle, of the Martins and Emma Bergmann and Ulrica and “the Australian” inPointed Roofs. The mere “word-painting” is masterly....
It is as if no other writers had ever used their senses so purely and with so intense a joy in their use.
This intensity is the effect of an extreme concentration on the thing seen or felt. Miss Richardson disdains every stroke that does not tell. Her novels are novels of an extraordinary compression, and of an extenuation more extraordinary still. The moments of Miriam’s consciousness pass one by one, or overlapping; moments tense with vibration, moments drawn out fine, almost to snapping-point.
Transcriber’s NotesThe original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. In “The Tunnel”, Dorothy Richardson experimented with punctuation, in particular leaving out many commas, in order to promote “creative collaboration” with the reader. Therefore, punctuation was mostly left unchanged, as was the varying usage of hyphens.In a few cases, perhaps to mark Madame Szigmondy’s pronounciation, “r” has been substituted by “g” (“pgonounce”, “Thégèse”, “rgun”, “cgeature”). This seems to be intentional and has not been corrected.Onpage 272,a few lines from Schiller’s “Des Mädchens Klage”are cited in German with numerous spelling deviations. This has not been changed, as it was not clear whether the deviations (most present even in later editions) were not intentional. The original reads like this:Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!Likewise, onpage 125, the correct German would be: “Es war ein König in Thule”.Onpage 18, Richardson refers to Byron two times wrongly as Tennyson. On pages195-196, Bassanio (from the “Merchant of Venice”) has in later editions been corrected to Antonio. In both cases, the names have been preserved as in the original.A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after):... about the house, a heavy dark mountain, fringes,bugles, ...... about the house, a heavy dark mountain, fringes,bulges, ...... go right away to some other part of London.Mayanswered ...... go right away to some other part of London.Maganswered ...... married. Besides anyhow;thingof the awful people.” ...... married. Besides anyhow;thinkof the awful people.” ...... unless they allknowwhat she was. If she could say clever ...... unless they allknewwhat she was. If she could say clever ...... voice.Thoyoung men were quiet. For a few moments ...... voice.Theyoung men were quiet. For a few moments ...... pieces ofChauminade, those things by Liszt whom somebody ...... pieces ofChaminade, those things by Liszt whom somebody ...... “Yes;Johnis Londonised; she looks German; her ...... “Yes;Janis Londonised; she looks German; her ...... that had been a half-heardobligatoto her vision of last ...... that had been a half-heardobbligatoto her vision of last ...... feltitall, all the time, they would go mad or die.” “No, ...... feltatall, all the time, they would go mad or die.” “No, ...... the worrying challenge ofisdisappeared in the joy of the ...... the worrying challenge ofitdisappeared in the joy of the ...... the collar of the well-cut grey coat clothing the firmbalk...... the collar of the well-cut grey coat clothing the firmbulk...... she was free tostopout and there was hardly any time left. ...... she was free tostepout and there was hardly any time left. ...... Outside the life relationship men andwoman...... Outside the life relationship men andwomen...... darkness bynightof riding through the day. Leaning ...... darkness byrightof riding through the day. Leaning ...... and goldthenever. There was a deep lace frill on the ...... and goldthanever. There was a deep lace frill on the ...... and the curiouswidesoftness of his voice. Suddenly ...... and the curiouswisesoftness of his voice. Suddenly ...
Transcriber’s Notes
The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. In “The Tunnel”, Dorothy Richardson experimented with punctuation, in particular leaving out many commas, in order to promote “creative collaboration” with the reader. Therefore, punctuation was mostly left unchanged, as was the varying usage of hyphens.
In a few cases, perhaps to mark Madame Szigmondy’s pronounciation, “r” has been substituted by “g” (“pgonounce”, “Thégèse”, “rgun”, “cgeature”). This seems to be intentional and has not been corrected.
Onpage 272,a few lines from Schiller’s “Des Mädchens Klage”are cited in German with numerous spelling deviations. This has not been changed, as it was not clear whether the deviations (most present even in later editions) were not intentional. The original reads like this:
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,
Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!
Likewise, onpage 125, the correct German would be: “Es war ein König in Thule”.
Onpage 18, Richardson refers to Byron two times wrongly as Tennyson. On pages195-196, Bassanio (from the “Merchant of Venice”) has in later editions been corrected to Antonio. In both cases, the names have been preserved as in the original.
A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after):