
remains true then on behalf of my instinct of multiplying the fine touches by
which Newman should live and communicate life; and yet I still ask myself, I
confess, what I can have made of life, in my picture, at such a juncture as the
interval offered as elapsing between my hero's first accepted state and the
nuptial rites that are to crown it. Nothing here is in truth offered -
everything is evaded, and the effect of this, I recognise, is of the oddest. His
relation to Madame de Cintré takes a great stride, but the author appears to
view that but as a signal for letting it severely alone.
    I have been stupefied, in so thoroughly revising the book, to find, on
turning a page, that the light in which he is presented immediately after Madame
de Bellegarde has conspicuously introduced him to all her circle as her
daughter's husband-to-be is that of an evening at the opera quite alone; as if
he wouldn't surely spend his leisure, and especially those hours of it, with his
intended. Instinctively, from that moment, one would have seen them intimately
and, for one's interest, beautifully together; with some illustration of the
beauty incumbent on the author. The truth was that at this point the author, all
gracelessly, could but hold his breath and pass; lingering was too difficult -
he had made for himself a crushing complication. Since Madame de Cintré was
after all to back out every touch in the picture of her apparent loyalty would
add to her eventual shame. She had acted in clear good faith, but how could I
give the detail of an attitude, on her part, of which the foundation was yet so
weak? I preferred, as the minor evil, to shirk the attempt - at the cost
evidently of a signal loss of charm; and with this lady, altogether, I
recognise, a light plank, too light a plank, is laid for the reader over a dark
psychological abyss. The delicate clue to her conduct is never definitely placed
in his hand: I must have liked verily to think it was delicate and to flatter
myself it was to be felt with finger-tips rather than heavily tugged at. Here
then, at any rate, is the romantic tout craché - the fine flower of Newman's
experience blooming in a medium cut off and shut up to itself. I don't for a
moment pronounce any spell proceeding from it necessarily the less workable, to
a rejoicing ingenuity, for that; beguile the reader's suspicion of his
