In such a case I suppose the first instinct of almost any story-teller
would be to lengthen the narrative of her loneliness by elaborating
the picture of her state of mind, drawing out the record of expectancy
and patience and failing hope. If nothing befalls her from without, or
so little, the time must be filled with the long drama of her
experience within; the centre of the story would then be cast in her
consciousness, in which there would be reflected the gradual drop of
her emotion from glowing newness to the level of daily custom, and
thence again to the chill of disillusion. It is easy to imagine the
kind of form which the book would take. In order to assure its full
value to Eugenie's monotonous suffering, the story would be given from
her point of view, entirely from hers; the external facts of her
existence would all be seen through her eyes, making substance for her
thought. We should live _with_ Eugenie, throughout; we should share
her vigil, morning and evening, summer and winter, while she sat in
the silent house and listened to the noises of life in the street,
while the sun shone for others and not for her, while the light waned,
the wind howled, the snow fell and hushed the busy town--still Eugenie
would sit at her window, still we should follow the flow of her
resigned and uncomplaining meditations; until at last the author could
judge that five years, ten years, whatever it may be, had been
sufficiently shown in their dreary lapse, and that Charles might now
come back from the Indies.
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