To the next
in order each stage of the story is steadily directed. By the time the
scene is reached, nothing is wanting to its opportunity; the action is
ripe, the place is resonant; and then the incident takes up the story,
conclusively establishes one aspect of it and opens the view towards
the next. And the more rapid summary that succeeds, with its pauses
for a momentary sight of Emma's daily life and its setting, carries
the book on once more to the climax that already begins to appear in
the distance.
But the most obvious point of method is no doubt the difficult
question of the centre of vision. With which of the characters, if
with any of them, is the writer to identify himself, which is he to
"go behind"? Which of these vessels of thought and feeling is he to
reveal from within? I suppose his unwritten story to rise before him,
its main lines settled, as something at first entirely objective, the
whole thing seen from without--the linked chain of incident, the men
and women in their places. And it may be that the story can be kept in
this condition while it is written, and that the completed book will
be nothing but an account of things seen from the point of view of the
author, standing outside the action, without any divulging of
anybody's thought. But this is rare; such restraint is burdensome,
unless in a very compact and straightforward tale.
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