He extends his account of it so far, nevertheless, that he has written
two thirds of the book by the time the young man is finally despatched
to the Indies. It means that the duration of the story--and the
duration is the principal fact in it--is hardly considered at all,
after the opening of the action. There is almost no picture of the
slowly moving years; there is little but a concise chronicle of the
few widely spaced events. Balzac is at no pains to sit with Eugenie in
the twilight, while the seasons revolve; not for him to linger, gazing
sympathetically over her shoulder, tenderly exploring her sentiments.
He is actually capable of beginning a paragraph with the casual
announcement, "Five years went by in this way," as though he belonged
to the order of story-tellers who imagine that time may be expressed
by the mere statement of its length. Yet there is time in his book, it
is very certain--time that lags and loiters till the girl has lost her
youth and has dropped into the dull groove from which she will
evidently never again be dislodged. Balzac can treat the story as
concisely as he will, he can record Eugenie's simple experience from
without, and yet make the fading of her young hope appear as gradual
and protracted as need be; and all because he has prepared in advance,
with his picture of the life of the Grandets, a complete and enduring
impression.
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