It is
accomplishing expensively what might have been accomplished for less.
That is the disability of the dramatic scene; and I imagine the
novelist taking thought to ensure that he shall press upon it as
little as possible. As far as may be he will use the scene for the
purpose which it fulfils supremely--to clinch a matter already
pending, to demonstrate a result, to crown an effect half-made by
other means. In that way he has all the help of its strength without
taxing its weakness. He secures its salient relief, and by saving it
from the necessity of doing all the work he enables it to act swiftly
and sharply. And then the scene exhibits its value without drawback;
it becomes a power in a story that is entirely satisfying, and a thing
of beauty that holds the mind of the reader like nothing else. It has
often seemed that novelists in general are over-shy of availing
themselves of this opportunity. They squander the scene; they are
always ready to break into dialogue, into dramatic presentation, and
often when there is nothing definitely to be gained by it; but they
neglect the fully wrought and unified scene, amply drawn out and
placed where it gathers many issues together, showing their outcome.
Such a scene, in which every part of it is active, advancing the
story, and yet in which there is no forced effort, attempting a task
not proper to it, is a rare pleasure to see in a book.
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