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"Limehouse Nights," "A Munster Twilight," and "The Echo of Voices" make this year so memorable in fiction that later years may well prove disappointing. These two new volumes continue the complete English edition of Dostoievsky which is being translated by Constance Garnett.
We are all frantic for fellow-souls, yet we shut souls out and bar the ways and bolster up the fiction of the Elect and the Superior when the great mass of men is capable of producing larger and larger numbers for every human height of attainment.
"But you don't know either," responded Alley, launching nobly into the purest fiction, from an impression that the character of her mistress required it for her defence, "you don't know that nobody is allowed to make buttons for the queen but a knight o' the garther." "Garther!" exclaimed the grazier, with astonishment. "Why what the dickens has garthers to do wid buttons?"
I sha'n't never get another place; I'm thrown out on the wide world!" It was a phrase she had got out of her penny fiction; and very remarkable indeed was the mixture of acting and real sentiment which marked her utterances throughout. Julian's shame and anger began to turn to compassion. A woman in tears was a sight which always caused him the keenest distress.
"You couldn't put me into no book. You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I think. Then how could you do it?" "Of course," she returned, turning squarely around to him and speaking seriously, "the story will be fiction, and the plot will have no foundation in fact. But I shall be very careful to have my characters talk and act naturally.
Then I got a special to town." "You are a swell!" I gasped. "What's your rank?" "Captain." That did not explain it. "What's your job?" "King's messenger." It was not yet nine-thirty. The anti-treating law would not let me give him a drink, but I led him to where one was. For he had restored my faith. He had replaced on his pedestal my favorite character in fiction.
Whether that diplomatist had been sent to censure, or in reality to approve, in the name of his master, of the Scottish Queen's execution, Alexander would leave to be discussed by Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris; but he was of opinion that the anger of the Queen with France was a fiction, and her supposed league with France and Germany against Spain a fact.
Some things in these statements seemed no fiction; that the little canton of the Eburones specially favoured by the Romans should have undertaken the attack of its own accord was in reality incredible, and, owing to the difficulty of effecting a communication with the other far-distant camps, the danger of being attacked by the whole mass of the insurgents and destroyed in detail was by no means to be esteemed slight; nevertheless it could not admit of the smallest doubt that both honour and prudence required them to reject the capitulation offered by the enemy and to maintain the post entrusted to them.
It was only a few evenings after the flight of Humphreys that Jonas had another talk with Cynthy Ann, in which he confessed that all his supposed case about a requisition from the governor of Kentucky for Humphreys's arrest was pure fiction. "But, Jonas, is is that air right? I'm afeard it a'n't right to tell an ontruth." "So 'ta'n't; but I only s'posed a case, you know."
Ibsen's study of women was evidently so close, and what he writes about them is usually so penetrating, that many legends have naturally sprung up about the manner in which he gained his experience. Of these, most are pure fiction.
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