When I was actually experiencing the thrill, it camedelightfully, however, blended with a threat that proclaimed theimminent consequence of dismay. I appreciated the coming of thethrill, as a rare and unexpected “dramatic moment.” Isavoured and enjoyed it as a real adventure suddenly presented inthe midst of the common business of life. I imaginativelytransplanted the scene from the Hall of Thorp-Jervaise to aWest-End theatre; and in my instant part of unoccupied spectator Iadmired the art with which the affair had been staged. It is soseldom that we are given an opportunity to witness one of these“high moments,” and naturally enough I beganinstinctively to turn the scene into literature; admitting withouthesitation, as I am often forced to admit, that the detail ofreality is so much better and more typical than any I caninvent.
But, having said that, I wonder how far one does invent in suchan experience? The same night I hinted something of my appreciationof the dramatic quality of the stir at the Hall door to FrankJervaise, Brenda’s brother, and he, quite obviously, hadaltogether missed that aspect of the affair. He scowled with thatforensic, bullying air he is so successfully practising at theJunior Bar, as he said, “I suppose you realise just what thismay mean, to all of us?”
Jervaise evidently had failed to appreciate the detail that Ihad relished with such delight. He had certainly not savoured thequality of it. And in one sense I may claim to have invented thebusiness of the scene. I may have added to it by my imaginativeparticipation. In any case my understanding as interpreter was theprime essential—a fact that shows how absurd it is to speakof “photographic detail” in literature, or indeed toattempt a proper differentiation between realism and romance.
We were all of us in the Hall, an inattentive, chatteringaudience of between twenty and thirty people. The last dance hadbeen stopped at ten minutes to twelve, in order that the localparson and his wife—their name was Sturton—might be outof the house of entertainment before the first stroke of Sundaymorning. Every one was wound up to a pitch of satisfied excitement.The Cinderella had been a success. The floor and the music and thesupper had been good, Mrs. Jervaise had thrown off her air ofpre-occupation with some distasteful suspicion, and we had all beenentertained a