LITERARY THEORY AND CRITICISM

(POST) STRUCTURALIST NARRATOLOGY

Conf. dr. Gabriela-Iuliana Colipcă-Ciobanu

Table of Contents

I. Mieke Bal and Her Theory of Narrative Discourse..............................................2

1. Text: Words................................................................................................................3
2. Story: Aspects............................................................................................................8
3. Fabula: Elements.....................................................................................................16
II. APPENDIX: Mieke Bal’s and Gérard Genette’s Narratological Models –....20
A Contrastive Approach............................................................................................20
III. Practice to increase understanding...................................................................23
References..................................................................................................................33

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 LITERARY THEORY AND CRITICISM
(POST) STRUCTURALIST NARRATOLOGY

Mieke Bal and Her Theory of Narrative Discourse

Unlike Gérard Genette’s study on narrative discourse, Mieke Bal’s covers a wider scope. The Dutch
narratologist adopts a definition in broader terms of narratology itself as “the theory of narratives,
narrative texts, images, spectacles, events; cultural artefacts that ‘tell a story.’ Such a theory helps to
understand, analyse and evaluate narratives” (1997: 3). She clearly expresses her intention of
identifying all the characteristics that make a text narrative and then describing the narrative system
with all “the variations that are possible when the narrative system is concretized into narrative
texts” (3).
Before embarking upon a more detailed presentation of her analytical grid, M. Bal defines a
series of key concepts, thus already announcing some of the lines along which she deviates from the
Genettian model:
 narrative text: “A narrative text is a text in which an agent relates (‘tells’) a story in a particular
medium.” (5)
 story: “A story is a fabula that is presented in a certain manner.” (5)
 fabula: “A fabula is a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused or
experienced by actors.” (5)
 event: “An event is the transition from one state to another state.” (5)
 actor: “Actors are agents that perform actions. They are not necessarily human.” (5)
 to act: “To act is defined here as to cause or to experience an event.” (5)
A clear-cut difference should be made between text and story. The same story can be related
in different narrative texts. Consequently, throughout Bal’s study, ‘text’ will be used to refer to
narratives in any medium with an emphasis on structuredness, not necessarily on the linguistic
nature. (6)
Considering the above given definitions, the study of the narrative texts should be
conducted, according to Bal, on the three levels/layers of text, story and fabula. (Of course, like
Genette, she takes care to remind us that, out of these three layers, only the text layer, represented
by language, visual images, etc., is directly accessible.)
 THE FABULA can be defined as a series of events, constructed according to the rules of the
logic of events, that make up the material or content that is worked into a story. Having thus
revived the term preferred by the Russian Formalists and by some of the Structuralists, M. Bal
briefly sketches the theoretical background against which she intends to further examine the
rules that govern the series of events. Thus, she reconsiders the Structuralist position that has
assimilated the rules governing events in narratives with those controlling human behaviour,
which further justifies the interest in the function of the instruments of action, i.e. the actors.
Some theorists, like Greimas for instance, have suggested that events and actors should be
considered in their relation, yet, M. Bal points out that would not be enough since there are also
other elements in the fabula that have to be taken into account. One of them is the time that
takes for an event, no matter how insignificant, to ‘happen’ (the verb happen has been used in
between inverted commas as, in fact, events in the fabula do not actually take place or even if
they do, their reality status is not relevant for their internal logic.). Another element is space/
location; “events always occur somewhere, be it a place that actually exists (…) or an
imaginary place.” (7) Altogether, events, actors, time and location constitute the material of a
fabula. (To differentiate the components of this layer from other narrative constituents, M. Bal
refers to them as elements.)

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 THE STORY results from the arrangement of the above mentioned elements in relation to one
another so that they could produce a certain effect (convincing, moving, disgusting, aesthetic,
etc.). Several processes are involved in ordering the fabula elements in the story and M. Bal
describes them as follows:
 “The events are arranged in a sequence which can differ from the chronological
sequence.
 The amount of time which is allotted in the story to the various elements of the
fabula is determined with respect to the amount of time which these elements take up
in the fabula.
 The actors are provided with distinct traits. In this manner, they are individualized
and transformed into characters.
 The locations where events occur are also given different characteristics and are thus
transformed into specific places.
 In addition to the necessary relationships among actors, events, locations and time,
all of which were already describable in the layer of the fabula, other relationships
(symbolic, allusive, traditional, etc.) may exist among the various elements.
 A choice is made from among the various ‘points of view’ from which the elements
can be presented. The resulting focalization, the relation between ‘who perceives’
and what is perceived, ‘colours’ the story with subjectivity.” (8)
All the results of these processes that vary from one story to another are referred to
as aspects.
 THE TEXT, in its turn, results from the conversion of the story into signs that are
related/‘uttered’ by an agent. Obviously that agent should not be taken for the real author,
whether a writer, a painter or a filmmaker. It is rather a fictitious narrative instance, technically
referred to as the narrator. That is a distinction that M. Bal constantly and unambiguously
insists upon throughout the study (unlike Genette). Furthermore, “a text does not consist solely
of narration in the specific sense”. (8) That means that what is said and how it is said should
also be examined on the text layer. Paying attention to an opinion about something, a disclosure
on the part of the narrator which is not directly connected with the events, a description of a
face or of a location, etc. the text could be classified as narrative, descriptive, argumentative,
having an ideological or aesthetic thrust. The interest in how the story is related could lead to
emphasizing differences in style between the narrator and the actors. (8-9)
Given this three-fold distinction between layers, M. Bal also remarks for the benefit of a
better understanding and interpretation of narrative texts that some narrative categories, traditionally
constituted as a unified whole, will be dealt with separately at different stages in the study. The best
case in point is that of what is traditionally referred to as the ‘character.’ As a matter of fact, it
should be more appropriately called ‘actor’ on the layer of the fabula where it is envisaged as an
anthropomorphic figure, ‘character’ on the layer of the story and ‘speaker’ on that of the text. (9)

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1. Text: Words
Taking as a starting point the definition of the narrative text as “a text in which a narrative
agent tells a story” (16), M. Bal proposes as a main issue for discussion on the textual layer the
identity and status of the narrative agent, or the narrator, that she describes as “the linguistic
subject, a function and not a person, which expresses itself in the language that constitutes the text”.
(16) The very definition of the narrator indicates that it is of utmost importance for the analysis to
make the distinction between the narrative agent/ the narrator and the author as the historical
subject who wrote the text (firstly pointed out by Wayne Booth and later, unfortunately, sometimes
ambiguously treated by Genette). Such a distinction, once a structuralist reification of textual
subjectivity, carries a certain strategic weight in the sense of the problematic of interpretation and the
challenge to the authorial authority, while helping “to disentangle the different voices that speak in a
text so as to make room for the reader’s input in the relative persuasiveness of those voices”. (18)
Another distinction referred to, pointed out, for the first time, by Wayne Booth (1961) and
taken over by Genette as well, is that between the narrator and the implied author. The latter
term, originally used to discuss the ideological and moral stances in a narrative text without
referring directly to the biographical author, denotes “the totality of meanings that can be inferred
from a text” (18) and not the source of that meaning. Since it is not limited to narrative text and can
be applied to virtually any text, the notion of an implied author is not perceived as specific to
narratology. Hence, to be more specific, out of the three stances of the author, the implied author
and the narrator only the last must be considered for the analysis of the narrative text.
The narrator is the most central concept in the analysis of narrative texts. “The identity of
the narrator, the degree to which and the manner in which that identity is indicated in the text, and
the choices that are implied lend the text its specific character.” (19) But that has also caused the
traditional, but inappropriate identification of the narrator with the focalization. They both
determine what has been called narration – incorrectly in Bal’s opinion, since she argues that it is
only the narrator who narrates, i.e., utters the language that represents the story, whereas the
focalizor is merely an aspect of the story the narrator tells. In other words, she is against seeing
focalization as part of narration, because that would mean to fail making “the distinction between
linguistic, i.e. textual, agents and the purpose, the object, of their activity”. (19) That is why, the
narrator and the focalizor should be analysed on different narrative layers.
Enlarging strictly on the nature of the narrator, M. Bal further speaks of another traditional
case of misconception, reflected on the terminological level as well, between the so-called ‘first-
person’ and ‘third-person’ novels, or exceptionally ‘second-person’ experiments (such as Michel
Butor’s La Modification). (21) Neither the Dutch narratologist can accept such a distinction made in
terms of first-person/vs./third-person as valid. In agreement with the Genettian argument with
regard to the narrator, she states that:
“In principle, it does not make a difference to the status of the narration whether a narrator
refers to itself or not. As soon as there is language, there is a speaker who utters it; as soon
as those linguistic utterances constitute a narrative text, there is a narrator, a narrating
subject. From a grammatical point of view, this is always a ‘first-person.’ In fact, the term
third-person narrator is absurd: a narrator is not a ‘he’ or ‘she.’ At best the narrator can
narrate about someone else, a ‘he’ or ‘she’ – who might, incidentally, happen to be a narrator
as well.” (22)
Briefly, the speaking subject is always the same, ‘I’, and the difference lies in the object of the
utterance. Thus, there are cases in which the ‘I’ speaks about itself, just as there are cases when it
speaks about someone else. Coining her own terms to describe these different cases, M. Bal
distinguishes between:
 the external narrator (EN), “when in a text the narrator never speaks explicitly to itself as a
character (…). After all, the narrating agent does not figure in the fabula as an actor”. (22)
 the character-bound narrator (CN), “if the ‘I’ is to be identified with a character in the fabula
it itself narrates”. (22)
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 Furthermore, the theorist remarks that the difference in the object of utterance – others or
himself/herself – also entails differences in the narrative rhetoric of ‘truth.’ Thus, “a CN usually
proclaims that it recounts true facts about her- or himself. ‘It’ pretends to be writing ‘her’
autobiography, even if the fabula is blatantly implausible, fantastic, absurd, metaphysical.” (22) On
the other hand, the rhetoric of an EN appears more complex as it could be used to present a story
about the others as true, but could also point to the presence of invention. There are numerous
indicators by means of which the narrator may openly indicate the fictionality of the story, among
which M. Bal mentions narrations of impossible or unknowable situations or such generic
indicators as ‘Once upon a time…’ etc. (25)
As further refinement of the classification of narratives is possible, M. Bal actually distinguishes
between several narrative situations according to the relationship of the narrative ‘I’ to the object of
narration and the focalization. Thus, the narrator may remain outside the fabula, narrating about (and
perceiving) the others, or it can act within the fabula, either as an active actor or as mere witness; there
is, of course, the possibility of identification of the agents, i.e. the narrator and the focalizor could be
both the same character. Moreover, there are cases in which the narrative situation changes: “a narrator
may remain imperceptible for a long time, but suddenly begin to refer to itself, sometimes in such a
subtle manner that the reader hardly notices.” (29) The focalization may also be subject to
modifications: it could stay with the same agent, but more often than not, “the narrative voice
associates, then dissociates itself from, characters who are temporarily focalizing.” (29)
There is no doubt, however, that not all the sentences/ pieces of text are narrative, which
makes the alternation between narrative and non-narrative comments also worth analyzing. Such
analysis could contribute to underscoring more precisely “the differences between the text’s overt
ideology, as stated in such comments, and its more hidden or naturalized ideology, as embodied in
the narrative representations.” (31)
The commentary of the external narrator may often exceed the function of narrating. It
could refer, for instance, to something general and be described as argumentative: “Argumentative
textual passages do not refer to an element (process or object) of the fabula, but to an external
topic.” (32-3) Opinions as well as declarations with regard to the factual state of the world could
fall under this definition, hence, the label of argumentative could be used for “any statement that
refers to something of general knowledge outside the fabula.” (33) Moreover, part of the
commentary can be descriptive. Anyway, whether argumentative, descriptive, or simply narrative,
different parts of the text can communicate ideology in different manners. “The argumentative parts
of the text often give explicit information about the ideology of a text. It is, however, quite possible
that such explicit statements are treated ironically in other parts of the text to such an extent that the
reader must distance herself from them. If we want to evaluate the ideological tenor of a text, an
analysis of the relationship between these three textual forms within the totality of the entire text is
a crucial element.” (34)
A privileged site of focalization, with a great impact not only on the ideological but also on
the aesthetic dimension of the text, description is worth insisting upon, perhaps more than
argumentation. Although often limited and apparently of marginal importance in narrative texts,
descriptive passages are, in fact, both practically and logically necessary. Passages endowed with
the descriptive function mainly present features attributed to objects. Within the realistic tradition,
such passages have always been regarded as problematic and Plato himself, for example, has
rejected descriptions rewriting Homer’s descriptive passages so as to turn them into ‘true’
narratives. In the nineteenth-century realistic novel, if not discarded or narrativised, descriptive
passages were at least narratively motivated. That invites to further investigation regarding the
motivation of the descriptions that interrupt the line of the fabula.
According to M. Bal, “the ways in which descriptions are inserted characterize the rhetorical
strategy of the narrator.” (37) In realistic narratives in particular, motivation appears as an essential
aspect of the narrative rhetoric, capable of suggesting probability, thus making the contents
believable, plausible. Three types of motivation can be thus distinguished between:

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 motivation via looking – the most effective, the most frequent, and the least noticeable, it
appears as a function of focalization: “A character sees an object. The description is the
reproduction of what the character sees. Looking at something requires time, and, in this fashion,
the description is incorporated into the time lapse. (…) Furthermore, the character must have both
the time to look and the reason to look at an object.” (37)
 motivation via speaking – “When a character not only looks but also describes what it sees, a
certain shift in motivation occurs…” (38)
 motivation via acting – Resembling what theoreticians usually call the Homeric description, this
kind of motivation occurs when “on the level of the fabula, the actor carries out an action with an
object. The description is then made fully narrative.” (38) That makes it much more difficult
(practically impossible) to distinguish from the narrative proper.
Identifying the type of motivation can be indeed helpful in the sense that it makes explicit
the relationship between elements. But, whatever the type, motivation remains, nevertheless, rather
arbitrary.
Having rounded off the discussion of description, Mieke Bal chooses to focus next on the
distinctions between the levels of narration, which she conceives in different terms from Gérard
Genette. As a starting point for the analysis of narrative situations, she considers the differences
between language situations, namely personal and impersonal, that are clearly indicated by
certain references in the text (47-8):

personal impersonal
1. personal pronouns I/you he/she
2. grammatical person first and second person third person
3. tense not all past tenses are all past tenses
possible
4. deixis: indicative pronouns this/these that/those
adverbs of place here/there in that place
adverbs of time today/tomorrow that day/the day
after
5. emotive words and aspects Oh! (absent)
6. conative words and aspects (address, Please (absent)
command, question)
7. modal verbs and adverbs which indicate perhaps (absent)
uncertainty in the speaker

Accordingly, “when the signals of the personal linguistic situation refer to the language
situation of the narrator, we are dealing with a perceptible narrator (N1(p)).When the signals refer
to the language situation of the actors, and a clear change of level has been indicated by means of a
declarative verb, a colon, a quotation mark, etc., we speak of a personal language situation at the
second level (CN2). This situation can be called dramatic: just as on the stage, actors communicate
through speech in a personal language situation. When, however, the signals refer to a personal
language situation in which the actors participate without previously stepping down from their
narrative level, then we have text interference.” (48) To put it in a nutshell, only the direct speech/
discourse preserves the narrator’s personal language situation separately delineated from that of the
actors (the change of level is explicit). Otherwise, both indirect discourse and free indirect
discourse are forms of text interference.
To facilitate the analysis and the distinction between these forms of discourse, three
characteristics are specifically underlined:
 “Indirect discourse is narrated at a higher level than the level at which the words in the fabula are
supposed to have been spoken.
 The narrator’s text explicitly indicates that the words of an actor are narrated by means of a
declarative verb, or a substitute for it.
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 The words of the actor appear to have been rendered with maximum precision and elaboration.” (49)
The first characteristic indicates the difference between indirect discourse and direct discourse, the
second, that between the indirect discourse and free indirect discourse, while the last, and the most
arbitrary, points to the difference between (free) indirect discourse and the narrator’s text.
“When characteristic 2 of indirect discourse is left out, and characteristic 3 is present, we have
free indirect discourse. Then we have a form of interference between narrator’s text and
actor’s text. Signals of the personal language situation of the actor and of the (im)personal
language situation of the narrator cross without explicit reference to this.” (50)
The most difficult is not to distinguish indirect discourse from free indirect discourse, but free
indirect discourse from the narrator’s text. To be positive that a piece of text really displays the
representation of the words of an actor, three categories of indications must be taken into account:
 “The above-mentioned signals of a personal language situation, referring to an actor.
 A strikingly personal style, attributable to an actor.
 More details about what has been said than is necessary for the course of the fabula.” (50)
In brief, “the distinct formal characteristics of free indirect discourse (FID) may be briefly
enumerated as follows:
 no reporting clause, and thus no that subordinator either (in this, akin to free direct
discourse);
 third-person pronouns used to refer to the implied speaker or thinker of whatever is reported
as said or thought, together with the text’s established narrative tense (typically past) (in
these respects, akin to both pure narrative and indirect discourse);
 proximal deictics (here, now, this, today, etc.) – just as in direct discourse;
 syntactic inversion, in questions, of the clause subject and the finite element in the verb –
‘Was she quite mad? How did he have the time to keep coming over to see her?’ (in this,
akin to direct discourse question format);
 more prominent use of modality markers, which we judge to emanate from a character
rather than from the narrator. In particular, FID reveals frequent use of modal verbs (must,
had to, could, might, would) expressing judgements (from the character-‘speaker’) about the
probability or obligatoriness of the denoted action or state actually happening […]. Modal
‘sentence adverbials’, all of degrees of probability (certainly, perhaps, possibly, etc.),
operate in the same way. […]
 use of vocatives, evaluative words (poor, dear), fillers (well, of course), expletives,
interjections, and dialectal and idiolectal distinctiveness, and emotive language in general,
that we associate with the character rather than the narrator.” (Toolan, 1992: 123-124)

E.g.: Elizabeth said: ‘I refuse to go on living like this.’

the narrator’s text the actor’s text

Direct Discourse

E.g. Elizabeth said she refused/ would not go on living like this.

The narrator represents the words of the actor as it is supposed to have uttered them.

Indirect Discourse

E.g. Elizabeth would be damned if she’d go on living like this.

Elizabeth would not go on living like this.

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Impersonal language situation: the personal language situation
third person, past tense of the actor: deixis, modality,
conative words

Free Indirect Discourse

E.g. Elizabeth did not want to go on living in the manner disclosed.

Elizabeth had had it.

the narrator’s text (the words of the actor are not presented as text, but as an act – no text interference)

“When there is text interference, narrator’s text and actor’s text are so closely related that a
distinction into narrative levels can no longer be made. (…) When the texts do not interfere, but are
clearly separate, there may still be a difference in the degree to which the embedded actor’s text and
the primary narrator’s text are related.” (52) Then, several relationships, different in kind and
intensity, can establish between the primary and the embedded texts. The most typical example of
narrative structure based upon such relations is that of the so-called frame narratives in which
complete stories can be told at the second, or even at the third level. (e.g. The Arabian Nights)
(Generally speaking, the further presentation of types of relationships between primary and embedded
texts and fabulas roughly corresponds to Genette’s, but with Bal, the distinctions are better stressed
out and that makes her classification better systematized.)
On the one hand, a relation can establish between the primary fabula and the embedded text.
The narrating act of the actor-narrator which produces the embedded text becomes in itself an
important ‘event’ in the fabula of the primary text. “The relationship between the primary text and the
narrative subject lies in the relationship between the primary fabula and embedded narrative act.” (53)
On the other hand, another possible relationship appears when the two fabulas are related
somehow to each other. In this case, two more possibilities arise:
 “The embedded fabula explains the primary fabula.” (54) Often signalled by the very actor
narrating the embedded story, this relationship does not necessarily impose the primary fabula as
more important than the embedded one. On the contrary, the primary fabula often appears more as
an occasion for a perceptible, character-bound narrator to narrate a story.
In particular, the embedded fabula could not only explain but also determine the primary
fabula. In such cases, the explanation of the starting situation may lead to a change, in other words,
the exposition of the embedded story comes to influence the primary fabula. “Consequently, the
structure of narrative levels becomes more than a mere story-telling device; it is part of the
narrative’s poetics, and needs to be understood for the narrative to be fully appreciated.” (54)
2. “The fabulas ‘resemble one another.’” (55) Of course, resemblance should not be understood as
absolute identity, although, theoretically, that is also possible. Actually, there can be stronger or
weaker resemblance: “we speak of resemblance when two fabulas can be paraphrased in such a way
that the summaries have one or more striking elements in common. The degree of resemblance is
determined by the number of terms the summaries share. An embedded text that presents a story
which, according to this criterion, resembles the primary fabula may be taken as a sign of the
primary fabula.” (56)
Confining the discussion of the relations between primary and embedded narrative texts
only to these two possibilities, the Dutch narratologist could not, however, fail to point out the
peculiar form, comparable to infinite regress, that the ‘resemblance’ relationship takes in the so-
called mise en abyme structure, that she prefers to describe by means of the term ‘mirror-text.’
(58) According to the place it takes in the primary text, the mirror-text can function as a sign to the
reader, either creating suspense, or enhancing significance. Furthermore, it could be a sign for the
actor her-/himself, giving her/him the possibility of better understanding the course of the fabula in
which (s)he is involved, discovering its double meaning and influencing its outcome.
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 But not all embedded texts are narrative. In fact, most of them are non-narrative containing:
assertions about things in general, discussions between actors, descriptions, confidences, etc. The
most predominant form seems to be that of the dialogue in which the actors themselves, not the
primary narrator, utter language. As a particular case, the embedded text can be uttered or ‘thought’ by
only one actor and then, it is a soliloquy or monologue, which, in its turn, may contain confidences,
descriptions, reflections, self-reflection, whatever the actor wishes.

2. Story: Aspects
On this second layer of Mieke Bal’s narrative model, the same material that the text or the
fabula consists in is dealt with but from a different angle and several new aspects have to be taken
thus into account. First of all, “if one regards the text primarily as the product of the use of a medium,
and the fabula primarily as the product of imagination, the story could be regarded as the result of an
ordering.” (1997: 78) The presentation of the events in an order different from the chronological one
is by far the most easy to grasp on this level. Secondly, if, in the fabula, the relations between various
actors as abstract units and the events are analyzed, in the story, it is equally important to investigate
the features that contribute to individualizing the actors, such as looks, character, psychological
qualities, and past. “When those relations are clear, it is easier to distinguish between those relations
and the relations between the reader and the characters in the story, and the flows of sympathy and
antipathy between the characters and from the reader to the individual characters.” (79) Thirdly, if
actors are ‘manipulated’ so as to become specific characters, similarly, locations can be ‘manipulated’
as to be turned into specific places with mutual symbolic and circumstantial relations. Last but not
least, reference should be made to the most important means of ‘manipulation’ that has been known,
for decades, as ‘point of view’ or perspective. As Mieke Bal puts it, “the point of view from which the
elements of the fabula are being presented is often of decisive importance for the meaning the reader
will assign to the fabula.” (79) That is why, all analysis of the story layer should include remarks
regarding focalization – for this is the term that Mieke Bal thinks characterizes best this narrative
aspect – which has far more influence on meaning than ordering. (The latter is mainly considered a
technical feature, contributing only indirectly to the shaping of meaning.) (80)
Following in Genette’s footsteps, Mieke Bal discusses what she calls sequential ordering
starting from the observation that, more often than not, to force the reader to read more intensively, to
draw the attention to certain things, to emphasize, to bring about aesthetic and/or psychological
effects, to indicate the subtle difference between expectation and realization, the chronological
linearity of the series of events is broken in different ways. The resulting differences between the
arrangement in the story and the chronology of the fabula are referred to as anachronies or
chronological deviations. Although, here, she preserves the Genettian term, she proposes,
nevertheless, her own approach to the issue and identifies three aspects of chronological deviation,
namely direction, distance, and range.
As far as direction is concerned, there are two possibilities, which, although not termed, as
Genette puts it, as analepsis and prolepsis, refer actually to the same kinds of deviations: “Seen from
that moment in the fabula which is being presented when the anachrony intervenes, the event
presented in the anachrony lies either in the past or in the future. For the first category the term
retroversion can be used; for the second, anticipation is a suitable term.” (84) (Like Genette, Mieke
Bal avoids such terms as ‘flash-back’ and ‘flash-forward’ because of their vagueness and
psychological connotations.)
By distance, Mieke Bal means that “an event presented in anachrony is separated by an
interval, large or small, from the ‘present;’ that is, from the moment in the development of the fabula
with which the narrative is concerned at the time the anachrony interrupts it.” (89) On the basis of
‘distance,’ she then distinguishes between the following kinds of anachrony:
 “Whenever a retroversion takes place completely outside the time span of the primary fabula, we
refer to an external analepsis, an external retroversion.

9
 If the retroversion occurs within the time span of the primary fabula, then we refer to an internal
analepsis, an internal retroversion.
 If the retroversion begins outside the primary span and ends within it, we refer to a mixed
retroversion.” (90)
(As it can be seen, she continues to draw on the Genettian theory, confirming thus the validity of
Genette’s original distinctions.)
The external retroversions can provide indications about the antecedents, the past of the actors
concerned and that can be, to a certain extent, relevant for the interpretation of events. As for the
internal retroversions, they can overlap with the primary narrative, ‘undertake’ it, usually
compensating for a gap in the story (either a gap in the chronological succession, or a gap in the flow
of information, such as an ellipsis). But there are also cases in which they do not overlap when the
information communicated is new, when it is a sidetrack of the fabula. (e.g. the information regards “a
newly introduced actor, who ‘during’ the events of the primary fabula has been concerned with other
things which afterwards turn out to have been of importance”.) (91) Besides this complementary
function, internal retroversions can also have a different function: “When they do not fill up an ellipsis
or paralipsis – i.e. lack of information concerning a sidetrack – but instead elaborate on information
already given, they seem to be a repetition. The repetition of a previously described event usually
serves to change, or add to, the emphasis on the meaning of that event. The same event is presented as
more, or less pleasant, innocent, or important than we had previously believed it to be. It is thus both
identical and different: the fabula elements are the same, but their meaning has changed. The past
receives a different significance.” (92)
The next distinction made is in terms of span, “i.e. the stretch of time covered by an
anachrony”. (92) In this respect, anachronies can appear as either incomplete or complete. “A
retroversion is incomplete if after a (short) span a forward jump is made once again. Disconnected
information is thus given about a section of the past, or, in the case of anticipation, of the future.” (92)
(e.g. detective novels). When, on the contrary, “the distance and the span cover each other exactly, the
retroversion ends where it began” and it could be described as complete. (e.g. novels beginning ‘in
media res’) (93)
An even more effective classification according to the span, in the sense that it is easier to
determine, would include two other types of anachronies, described by terms borrowed from the
linguistic distinction of time-aspects of verb tenses, namely punctual and durative. ‘Durative’
indicates that the action takes a somewhat longer period of time, whereas ‘punctual’ indicates that
only one brief, but significant event from the past or the future is evoked. “Durative anachronies
usually sketch a situation which may or may not be the result of an event that is recalled in a punctual
anachrony. Sometimes this distinction covers that between incomplete and complete anachronies.”
(94) The combination of punctual and durative anachronies sometimes seems to be very relevant
regarding the narrative ‘style’: “Frequent use of punctual anachrony sometimes makes for a
businesslike style; systematic combinations of punctual and durative retroversions can create – or at
least add to – the impression that the story is developing according to clear, causative laws: a certain
event causes a situation to emerge which makes another event possible, and so on. If durative
retroversions are dominant, then the reader quickly receives the impression that nothing spectacular is
happening. The narrative appears to be a succession of inevitable situations.” (94)
As for the anticipations, besides the fact that they occur much less frequently, they seem to be
rather restricted to single allusions to the outcome of the fabula and serve to generate tension or to
express a fatalistic vision of life (robbing the narrative of a certain kind of suspense). “One more or
less traditional form of anticipation is the summary at the beginning. The rest of the story gives the
explanation of the outcome presented at the beginning.” (95). In addition to this special case,
anticipations usually take the form of explicit announcements that indeed work against suspense.
Nevertheless, in certain narratives, they can also take the form of implicit hints – as the clues in
detective novels, for instance – with the exactly opposite effect, saving and even increasing the
suspense.

10
 More suitable in ‘first-person’ texts, anticipations are also grouped as internal and external.
The former, especially, could either complement a future ellipsis or have a connecting/accentuating
function. But by far the most effective is the third type of anticipation, the so-called iterative
anticipation. “In an iterative anticipation an event is presented as the first in a series. (…) One obvious
technical advantage of this form is that it offers a good opportunity for showing the scene through the
eyes of an inquisitive newcomer, which makes its detailed character immediately more plausible.
Precisely this combination of iterativity and the uniqueness of the first time gives this form its special
possibilities.” (96)
Discussing under the label of rhythm what Genette has called duration, Mieke Bal draws on
the same background of early narratological studies to emphasize, on the one hand, the importance of
the distinction between a summarizing, accelerating presentation and a broad, scenic one (see Percy
Lubbock, 1921), and, on the other hand, the ensuing solution put forth by Müller and his followers to
describe the variation in the narrative speed, namely: “the amount of time covered by the fabula can
be juxtaposed with the amount of space in the text each event requires (the number of pages, lines or
words.)” (100) Like Genette, she accepts the convention that “a dialogue without commentary takes
as long in TF as it does in TS”, therefore, that the dialogue, and in principle every scene, is “a segment
of text in which TF = TS”. (102) Furthermore, she does not limit the range of rhythm alteration to the
scene and the summary, but extends it: “on the one hand, we can distinguish the ellipsis, an omission
in the story of a section of the fabula. When a certain part of the time covered by the fabula is given
absolutely no attention at all, the amount of TF (time of the fabula) is infinitely larger than the TS
(story-time). On the other hand, we can distinguish the pause, when an element that takes no fabula-
time (…) is presented in detail. TF is then infinitely smaller than TS. Usually, this is the case in
descriptive or argumentative fragments.” (102)
The difference between her model of rhythm alterations and Genette’s lies in her adding a fifth
one that she calls slow-down, which should be viewed relatively and in relation to the summary. All
in all, her five tempi are:
 ellipsis TF = n TS = 0 thus TF > ∞TS
 summary TF > TS
 scene TF < ~ TS
 slow-down TF < TS
 pause TF = 0 TS = n thus TF < ∞TS (102)
Ellipses cannot be perceived, but they can sometimes be logically deduced on the basis of
certain information that something has been omitted. The reader’s attention could be directed towards
an elided event by means of a retroversion. In case, the ellipsis is indicated, then we can actually
speak of a pseudo-ellipsis or mini-summary, which proves how flexible the borderline between these
two tempi can be.
The summary is a suitable instrument for presenting background information, for connecting
various scenes or ‘dramatic climaxes’ and its place in the story depends on the type of fabula in the
sense that “a crisis-fabula will require much less summarizing than a developing fabula”. (105)
Traditionally combined with summaries to vary the tempo and avoid overtiring/ boring the
readers, although conventionally described as based on the coincidence of TF and TS, scenes can never
really display such perfect overlapping. “Most scenes are full of retroversions, anticipations, non-
narrative fragments such as general observations, or atemporal sections such as descriptions.” (106)
Along the centuries, different novelists, like Laurence Sterne, Marguerite Duras, Camus, etc., have
practically shown that it is actually impossible to describe ‘real’ time by means of the scene. “The
scenes, usually slow paced, are used in [their] novels to indicate the rapidity of time together with the
immeasurable emptiness in spending it: an excess of time is reflected by giving the suggestion of too
little time. The scene is the most appropriate form to do so.” (106)
Although she separately distinguishes the slow-down, Mieke Bal admits that “in practice this
tempo occurs very seldom”, but she tries then to counterbalance this remark by pointing out its
possible effects, i.e. functioning as a magnifying glass at moments of great suspense, or getting
associated with the subjective retroversion when breaking briefly within a scene. (107)
11
 Finally, the more frequently used pauses come into focus. Causing the fabula to remain
stationary for a while, pauses have a strongly retarding effect, but “the reader easily forgets that the
fabula has been stopped, whereas in a slow-down the attention is directed towards the fact that the
passage of time has slowed down.” (108)
The survey of aspects of time at the story level ends, as in Genette’s Narrative Discourse, with
references to frequency or, otherwise narrative repetition, which the Dutch narratologist seems to
accept as such, with the same observation that repetition means, in fact, “different events or
alternative presentations of events, which show similarities” and whose differences are ignored.
Various possibilities, comparable to Genette’s, are envisaged:
 “The most recurrent frequency is the singular presentation of a singular event.” (112) According
to Bal, there is also another possibility namely that “an event occurs more often and is presented as
often as it occurs. Thus, there is a repetition on both levels so that, again we should really term this a
singular representation.” (112)
 repetitive presentation: a second distinct type of repetition is that “when an event occurs only
once and is presented a number of times.” (112) Sometimes disguised, to a certain extent, by
stylistic variations, this type of repetition is also closely associated with variations in ‘perspective’:
“the event may be the same, but each actor views it in his own or her own way.” (112) (see
epistolary novels)
 iterative presentation: “a whole series of identical events is presented at once.” (112)
These distinctions are briefly represented as follows:
1F/1S: singular: one event, one presentation
nF/ nS: plurisingular: various events, various presentations
nF/mS: varisingular: various events, various presentations, unequal in number
1F/nS: repetitive: one event, various presentations
nF/1S: iterative: various events, one presentation. (113)
Another major aspect that Mieke Bal brings into discussion concerns the character seen as
distinct from the actor at the fabula level. Whereas the latter is rather general and abstract, the former
appears as “an actor provided with distinctive characteristics” which make it resemble more a human
being. (114) The presence of individualizing characteristics also determines different reactions of the
readers to the characters. But, as the narratologist makes it clear, the aim of this study is not to
determine/define characters, but to characterize them. In doing that, she first stresses that, although
characters resemble human beings, they are not: they have “no real psyche, personality, ideology, or
competence to act”, only possess “characteristics which make psychological and ideological
descriptions possible”; hence, the problem of “drawing a clear dividing line between human person
and character”. (115) A detailed portrait ‘creates’ indeed the character, maps it out, builds it up, but it
should not be reduced to “a psychological ‘portrait’ that has more bearing on the reader’s own desire
than on the interchange between story and fabula”. (116) To determine which material can be usefully
included in the description of a character is not always easy, since what a figure does is as important
as what (s)he thinks, feels, remembers, or looks like.
“Another problem is the division of characters into the kinds of categories literary criticism is
so fond of.” (116) To take but one example, Mieke Bal refers to E. M. Forster’s distinction between
round and flat characters, that, like other character-typologies, can be applicable to a rather limited
corpus.
A third problem comes from “the so-called extra-textual situation”, namely “the influence of
reality on the story, in so far as reality plays a part in it”. (118)
Finally, there is the problem of ideological colour that critics themselves, perhaps unaware,
lend to the description of a character.
In an attempt at addressing these problems, Mieke Bal advances a model of character analysis
and she starts from the relationship with ‘reality’ or ‘the outside world,’ discussed under the label of
predictability. Characters can be described as predictable on the basis of the information regarding
‘reality’ that makes up the so-called frame of reference. In this respect, the best examples would be
perhaps the historical, but also the legendary characters. “All these characters, which we could label
12
referential characters because of their obvious slots in a frame of reference, act according to the
pattern that we are familiar with from other sources. Or not. In both cases, the image we receive of
them is determined to a large extent by the confrontation between, on the one hand, our previous
knowledge and the expectations it produces, and on the other, the realization of the character in the
narrative.” (121)
More strongly determined, referential characters remain, however, like all other characters,
more or less predictable because of certain limitations that can be related to gender, for instance, or
the actantial position which the character holds. The very name of a character can function as such a
limitation: “when a character is allotted its own name, this determined not only its sex/gender (as a
rule), but also its social status, geographical origin, sometimes even more. Names can also be
motivated, can have a bearing upon some of the character’s characteristics.” (123) The portrait/ the
description of the exterior character, the profession, the external factors may further sustain the
predictability of a character, but may just as easily limit the possibilities. When predictability is indeed
achieved, coherence of the character’s image (and sometimes suspense) is easily achieved.
As far as the construction of a character is concerned, several principles seem to help
substantiate it:
 repetition: “The qualities that are implied in that first presentation are not all ‘grasped’ by the
reader. In the course of the narrative the relevant characteristics are repeated so often – in a different
form, however – that they emerge more and more clearly.” (125)
 piling up of data: “The accumulation of characteristics causes odd facts to coalesce, complement
each other, and then form a whole: the image of a character.” (125)
 relations to other characters (or to oneself);
 the changes/ transformations a character undergoes which can alter in part or entirely the
configuration of the character.
To decide which characteristics are relevant and which are of secondary importance, two
methods could be used:
 the selection of relevant semantic axes (semantic axes = pairs of contrary meanings). A powerful
tool for critique, this selection contributes to determining the image of numerous characters
positively or negatively, mapping out the similarities and opposition between them, and also
involves a certain ideological position. Yet, the fact cannot be ignored that such a selection is, at the
same time, problematic because of three successive logical moves it implies and that can aggravate
the damage: reduction, of an infinitely rich but also chaotic field, to two centres; the articulation of
those centres into polar opposites; and the hierarchization of these two into a positive and a negative
term. (127-8)
 the examination of the connections existing between the various characteristics. E.g. the
seventeenth- and eighteenth-century novels, the connections between the male sex and a military
ideology or, though not as systematic, between the female sex and a pacifist attitude. (129)
Several sources of information can contribute to underscoring the features of a certain
character. Firstly, there is the character itself talking about itself, to itself, practicing self-analysis in
a diary, confession or autobiographical novel, or talking to others, which elicits an answer and
correspondingly engenders other sources of qualification. Secondly, a character can talk about
another character in its presence or absence, which may or may not lead to a confrontation. Thirdly,
the source of explicit qualification may lie with a third party outside the fabula: the narrator, as a
more or less reliable judge, makes statements about the character.
Moreover, “when a character is presented by means of her actions, we deduce from these
certain implicit qualifications. Such an implicit, indirect qualification may be labelled a
qualification by function. The reader’s frame of reference becomes a crucial element in picking up
such qualifications. (…) The implicit qualification through action can be split up into potential
actions (plans) and realized ones.” (130-1)
The explicit qualifications obtained from the above-mentioned sources shed more light than
the implicit ones, but that does not make them more reliable. Implicit/ indirect qualifications can be

13
interpreted differently by different readers, but, at the same time, they can provide a means of
uncovering lies and revealing secrets.
From among the characters, the hero deserves, however, special attention. Sometimes,
equated with the actantial subject, the hero distinguishes himself from other characters in the
following ways:
 “Qualification: comprehensive information about appearance, psychology, motivation, past;
 Distribution: the hero occurs often in the story, his or her presence is felt at important moments in
the fabula.
 Independence: the hero can occur alone or hold monologues.
 Function: certain actions are those of the hero alone: s/he makes agreements, vanquishes
opponents, unmasks traitors, etc.
 Relations: s/he maintains relations with the largest number of characters.” (132)
Such features allow for the further description of the hero as being either the active,
successful hero, or the hero-victim, or the passive anti-hero, to which the ideological relevance,
manifest in the majority of the narratives, should be added too.
Like the character, the concept of space is “sandwiched between that of focalization, of
which the representation of space constitutes in a way a specialized case, and that of place, a
category of fabula elements”. (133) As a matter of fact, both the concept of place and that of space
are fictional. The imaginary faculties dictate that places should be included in the fabula and, in the
process of the fabula presentation in the story, places are linked to certain points of perception,
usually characters who live ‘there.’ Using their senses (sight, hearing, touch), the characters
participate in the presentation of space in the story and establish different kinds of relations with it.
“The space in which the character is situated, or is precisely not situated, is regarded as the frame.”
(134) Within this framework, the character may feel safe, while outside, it may feel unsafe. Or, on
the contrary, the inner space may be perceived as confining, while the outer space may represent
liberation and security. In both cases, the space has a symbolic function, a function that can be,
nevertheless, culturally accepted, changed, or rejected.
“The semantic content of spatial aspects can be constructed in the same way as the semantic
content of a character.” Here, too, mention should be made of the preliminary combination of
determination achieved on the basis of the reader’s frame of reference, repetition, accumulation,
transformation, and relations between various spaces. (135-6)
The functions of space can also largely vary. It could appear as a mere frame, presented in a
more or less detail, or it could be ‘thematized,’ becoming an object of presentation itself, for its
own sake, “an ‘acting-place’ rather than the place of action”. (136) In both cases, space could
function either steadily or dynamically: “A steady space is a fixed frame, thematized or not, within
which the events take place. A dynamically functioning space is a factor which allows for the
movement of characters.” (136)
More or less described, according to their function in the narrative, spaces can establish two
types of relationships: with the characters that inhabit them or travel through (to the point that
sometimes, they may even, symbolically, influence their mood) and with time, becoming thus
important for the narrative rhythm. The former seems particularly significant, especially since it
establishes between aspects that are determined by a peculiar way of perception. Having thus come
to the question ‘Who sees?,’ the narratologist goes on to focus on the key concept of her theory of
the narrative, i.e. focalization.
Given the multiple factors that influence perception, it is virtually impossible to speak
objectivity in the presentation of the elements of the fabula on the story level. That is why, it is
important to thoroughly consider “the relations that establish between the elements presented and
the vision through which they are presented. Focalization is, then, the relation between the vision
and that which is ‘seen,’ perceived.” (142)
The choice of the term focalization to describe this story aspect is explained, as in Genette’s
narrative theory, in contrast with the previous developments in this respect, which heavily relied on
the ‘point of view’ or ‘narrative perspective’. The former is rejected on the basis of its unclear
14
distinction between the vision through which the elements are presented and the voice that renders
that vision. That makes it difficult to describe the technique of a text in which there are two
obviously different agents. Neither the latter can be accepted because, though conveying more
precisely the idea of physical and psychological perception as separate from the agent performing
the narration, continues to be associated in the tradition of narrative theory with both the narrator
and the vision. Therefore, focalization, a technical term that can be widely applied to painting,
photography and film study as well, seems more appropriate.
The two components of this relationship known as focalization, i.e. the agent that sees and
that which is seen, or the subject of focalization – the focalizor and the object of focalization –
the focalized, must be studied separately. “The subject of focalization, the focalizor, is the point
from which the elements are viewed. That point can lie with a character (i.e. an element of the
fabula), or outside it.” (146) Sometimes, the focalizor may coincide with one of the characters
(character-bound focalizor, CF), which would give it an advantage over the others. (Memory
itself can appear as a special case of focalization. “Memory is an act of ‘vision’ of the past, but, as
an act, situated in the present of the memory. It is often a narrative act: loose elements come to
cohere into a story, so that they can be remembered and eventually told.” Of course, memory is
unreliable, especially when it comes to traumatizing events, for, reworked for the audience, the
‘story’ the person remembers is not identical with the one s/he experienced. Besides, memory as an
act of focalization acquires a peculiar relevance in its connection with time and space. “Especially
in stories set in former colonies, the memory evokes a past in which people were dislodged from
their space by colonizers who occupied it, but also a past in which they did not yield.” – 147-8) But
character-bound focalization (CF) is not necessarily fixed. It can vary, shift from one character to
another, even if the narrator remains constant. Thus the readers are shown a better picture of the
conflict and of how differently the various characters view the same facts. Since this kind of
focalization lies with one/ several characters, present as actor(s) within the fabula, it could also be
referred to as internal focalization. (148)
On the contrary, in case the focalization lies with an anonymous agent, situated outside the
fabula, it is known as external, non character-bound focalization (EF). “The narrative can then
appear objective, because the events are not presented from the point of view of the characters. The
focalizor’s bias is, then, not absent, since there is no such thing as ‘objectivity,’ but it remains
implicit.” (149)
But an analysis of focalization should not be restricted to references to the focalizor. It is not
only that the focalizor determines the image we receive of an object, but the way in which that
image is presented says something about the focalizor itself. According to Mieke Bal, three
questions are relevant, as far as focalization is concerned:
 “What does the character focalize: what is it aimed at?
 How does it do this: with what attitude does it view things?
 Who focalizes it: whose focalized object is it?” (150)
To answer the first question, the fact should be pointed out that the focalized is not always a
character. “Objects, landscapes, events, in short, all elements are focalized, either by an EF or by a
CF.” (150) That also causes the degree to which a presentation includes an opinion to vary: “the
degree to which the focalizor points out its interpretative activities and makes them explicit also
varies.” (150) The way in which the object is presented further leads to finding the answer to the
third question as it reveals information not only about the object, but also about the focalizor.
At this point, it could be important to know whether the focalized is perceptible, i.e. if the
focalizor ‘really’ sees something outside itself, or, non-perceptible, i.e. if it perceives something
that ‘exists’ only inside its head and then it is the only one to have access to it. Non-perceptible
objects occur in cases in which the contents of dreams, fantasies, thoughts or even the feelings of a
character are presented. This distinction could be, in Bal’s terms, of importance for an insight into
the power-structure between the characters and has a strongly manipulative effect (especially in the
so-called ‘first-person’ novels). (153-4)

15
 Mieke Bal also speaks about several levels of focalization which function, without any
fundamental difference, in both ‘first-person narratives’ and ‘third-person narratives:’ “In a so-
called ‘first-person narrative’ too an external focalizor, usually the ‘I’ grown older, gives its vision
of a fabula in which it participates earlier as an actor, from the outside. At some moments it can
present the vision of its younger alter ego, so that a CF is focalizing on the second level.” (158)
Hence, at least two levels can be distinguished: a first level (F1) at which the focalizor is external
and a second level (F2) at which the external focalizor delegates focalization to an internal
focalizor. Several other levels are possible and the passage from one level to another can be marked
by the so-called attributive signs, chief among which the verb ‘to see.’ (Of course, these signs can
also be implicit or deduced from other less clear information.)
There also seems to be another possibility of focalization that could be referred to as double,
since “EF ‘looks over the shoulder’ of CF”. To put it in different terms, “the external EF can also
watch along with a person, without leaving focalization entirely to a CF. This happens when an
object (which a character can perceive) is focalized, but nothing clearly indicates whether it is
actually perceived. This procedure is comparable to free indirect speech, in which the narrating
party approximates as closely as possible the character’s own words without letting it speak
directly.”(159) (An alternative label for this rather ambiguous kind of focalization could be that of
‘free indirect’ focalization.)
Focalization could be very well used to sustain various kinds of suspense. Defined as “the
result of the procedures by which the reader or the character is made to ask questions which are
only answered later” (160), suspense is directly related to the focalizor’s manipulation of the image
it presents (either by announcements or temporary silence). In principle, the image that the focalizor
presents to the reader should coincide with the one that it has itself. But there are cases in which the
focalizor’s image is incomplete because:
 “The characters ‘know’ more than the focalizor” and this ‘knowing more’ appears later. (160)
 The focalizor purposely falsifies an image, leaving out certain elements and hiding them from the
readers. → “the characters ‘know more’ than the reader”. (160)
 “The focalizor can be in the possession of information which the characters do not know; for
instance, about the origins of events. Then the reader, along with the focalizor, knows more than
the character.” (160)
It becomes thus obvious that the focalizor determines the image the reader receives. By
considering the ‘knowledge’ of reader and character, on the basis of the information provided by the
focalizor (as previously mentioned), four possibilities emerge in the analysis of suspense:
 reader – character – (riddle, detective story, search): neither the reader, nor the character can
answer the rising question (Who did it? What happened? How will it end?)
 reader + character – (threat): the reader does know the answer, but the character does not. The
important matter then becomes when the character will discover it for itself.
 reader – character + (secret): the reader does not know the answer, but the characters do. Then
the answer will be revealed gradually and by means of various focalizors.
 reader + character + (no suspense): as the both the reader and the character know the answer,
there is no suspense.

3. Fabula: Elements
In the presentation of her narrative model, Mieke Bal goes finally beyond the limits of the
conceptual components of the narrative discourse and, unlike Genette, brings into discussion that
‘rough material’ to be shaped into a peculiar story and text, that she calls fabula. Roland Barthes’s
theory of the fabula is taken as a reference point in this respect. “Despite their many different forms,
the fact that narrative texts, recognizable as such, can be found in all cultures, all levels of society,
all countries, and all periods of human history led Barthes to conclude that all of these narrative
texts are based upon one common model, a model that causes the narrative to be recognizable as
16
narrative.” (175) Two assumptions regarding certain homologies, which are enclosed in a nutshell in
Barthes’s theory, have become the basis of further studies of the fabula. On the one hand, “a
homology was assumed to exist between the ‘deep structure’ of the sentence and the ‘deep structure’
of the narrative text, the fabula.” (175) On the other hand, a second homology or structural
correspondence “was assumed to exist between the fabulas of narratives and ‘real’ fabulas,’ that is
between what people do and what actors do in fabulas that have been invented, between what
people experience and what actors experience.” (176) Certain arguments have been introduced
especially against the second homology (that thus the difference between literature/art and reality
has been ignored and that, besides, certain texts – fantastic, absurd, experimental – are actually
based on the denial/distortion of the logic of reality.) But this does not change the fact that,
whatever the type of narrative text, fabulas will always display some form of homology, both with
the sentence structure and with ‘real life.’ “Consequently, most fabulas can be said to be constructed
according to the demands of human ‘logic of events,’ provided that this concept is not too narrowly
understood. ‘Logic of events’ may be defined as a course of events that is experienced by the reader
as natural and in accordance with some form of understanding of the world.” (177)
Before enlarging on the principles that underlie the ‘logic’ of events, the narratologist
develops the definition of the concept of event itself, as given in the introduction of her study (41),
according to three criteria, i.e.:
 Change: “it is only in a series that events become meaningful for the further development of the
fabula.” (184)
 Choice. This second criterion helps distinguish between functional and non-functional events.
“Functional events open a choice between two possibilities, realize this choice, or reveal the
results of such a choice. Once a choice is made, it determines the subsequent course of events in
the development of the fabula.” (184)
 Confrontation. Drawing on William Hendricks’s theory, according to which every phase of the
fabula consists of three components, i.e., in logical terms, two arguments and one predicate,
Mieke Bal comes to the conclusion that only those segments of the text that can be represented by
a basic sentence of the subject – predicate – (direct) object type (two actors and one action) can
constitute a functional event. (185-6)
Once the necessary observations regarding the definition of the event are clearly made,
another fact is insisted upon, that, within the fabula, the events are related logically and
chronologically. To describe the resulting structure accurately, the narratologist revisits Claude
Brémond’s general model of fabula. This French structuralist created a model of narrative cycles in
which fabula, on the whole, appears as a process and every event, as a part of this process. Relying
on theories as old as Aristotle’s, Brémond distinguished between three phases, i.e. the possibility
(or virtuality), the event (or realization), and the result (or conclusion) of the process. “None of
these three phases is indispensable. A possibility can just as well be realized as not. And even if the
event is realized, a successful conclusion is not always ensured.” (189) This grouping is known as
an elementary series.
The series of events can be combined into complex series so as to obtain a variety of forms.
The combinations can be based on succession or embedding and thus, an infinite number of fabulas
can be created.
The model of narrative cycles provided by Brémond seems, furthermore, to reflect another
principle that he thought essential for the definition of narrative texts. According to him,
“a narrative consists of a language act by which a succession of events having human interest are
integrated into the unity of this same act.” (191) It is this criterion of “human interest” that helps
distinguishing between “processes of improvement and processes of deterioration. Both sorts can
become possible, both can be realized or not, and both can conclude successfully or not.” (192)
“The initial situation in a fabula will always be a state of deficiency in which one or more actors
want to introduce changes. The development of the fabula reveals that, according to certain patterns,
the process of change involves an improvement or a deterioration with regard to the initial
situation.” (193)
17
 As the very definition of the event indicates, any discussion of event sequences should be
directly related to actor typologies. It is true that not all the actors cause or undergo functional
events. When they do not, they should not be taken into consideration as part of functional
categories, but that should not diminish in the least their significance in the overall fabula (social
stratification, specific use of space, etc.).
Starting from the assumption that human thinking and action are always directed towards an
aim, structuralists like Greimas have put forth a model of universal validity based on relationships,
or functions, that establish between classes of actors called actants.
In Greimas’s model, the first and the most important relationship establishes between the
actor who follows an aim and the aim itself, or, to put it in different terms, between the subject and
the object. An important remark that should be made at this point is that, as far as the object is
concerned, it may not always be an actor, it could also be a state, whereas the subject is usually a
person or a personified animal (in fables), but not an object. (197)
The intention of the actor-subject is not, however, sufficient to reach the object. “There are
always powers who either allow it to reach its aim or prevent it from doing so. This relation might
be seen as a form of communication and we can, consequently, distinguish a class of actors –
consisting of those who support the subject in the realization of its intention, supply the object, or
allow to be supplied or given – whom we shall call the power. The person to whom the object is
‘given’ is the receiver.” (198) The power is, in many cases, not a person, but rather an abstraction
(society, fate, time, human self-centredness, cleverness, etc.). The receiver, on the contrary, is often
embodied in a person, even the same person as the subject him-/herself. There is, hence, the
possibility of coalescence of two actants in one actor, or the reverse, which shows that the basis of
Greimas’s model is the principle of numerical inequality (principle which functions, anyway, on all
the levels of the model, not only regarding these two types of relationships.)
There is also a third relationship that has to be taken into account, which determines the
circumstances under which the subject’s enterprise is brought to an end. There are actants that might
be regarded as adverbial adjuncts and that Greimas calls helpers and opponents. Such actants
might appear unnecessary, but, in practice, they are numerous and determine, sometimes, to a great
extent, the various adventures of the subject and their outcome.
A clear-cut distinction should be made here between power and helper and Mieke Bal
summarizes the differences as follows:

Power
has power over the whole
enterprise
is often abstract
often remains in the background
usually only one
Helper
can give only incidental aid
is mostly concrete
often comes to the fore
usually multiple

The same differences could be identified between a negative power and an opponent. (201)
The presence of helpers and opponents does not only enrich the actantial pattern of the
fabula, but also makes it suspenseful and readable.
This is the typical pattern, but the relationships between its main actants may always get
more complicated as, for instance, in the case when the subject is doubled by an anti-subject,
which should not be mistaken for an opponent. While the opponent opposes the subject only at
certain moments in his/her pursuit of the object, “an anti-subject pursues his or her own object, and
this pursuit is, at a certain moment, at cross purposes with that of the first subject.” (203) As a
matter of fact, a more complex fabula may include different lines which may touch or cross.
References to other possible categorizations of actor classes, besides Greimas’s, round off
the section dedicated to this particular element of the fabula. Thus, Mieke Bal also mentions the
possibility of approaching the relations between actors from a psychological and/or ideological
perspective. “Each of these relations may give a specific content to the relation between subject and
18
power, between subject and anti-subject, but they may also be studied separately from the actantial
model.” (207) Psychological relations determine the specification of actors into ‘psychic instances’,
ideological relations contribute to emphasizing the opposition between the individual and the
collective, or, otherwise, the actors and the world in which they move. Although, sometimes, the
oppositions between certain actors are not always obvious from the very beginning, they may
become manifest when linked to psychological and ideological aspects, which reveals new
important information about the actors in the framework of the fabula under analysis. (207-8)
Like any other processes, events also presuppose a succession in time or a chronology.
Consequently, the time span of the fabula is the next element to comment upon. Perhaps at least
one distinction is worth mentioning in this context, namely that between crisis and development:
“the first term indicates a short span of time into which events have been compressed, the second a
longer period of time which shows a development.” (209) The two types of duration are specifically
appropriate for certain fabulas, as they imply a certain vision of reality. As for the chronological
order or the events, it is hardly preserved as such. As previously shown, more often than not, it is
modified by condensation, elimination (ellipsis), changes in the sequencing of events. The
reconstruction of the original chronological sequence of events of the fabula becomes more difficult
especially when parallel strings of one fabula are elaborated and several events seem to happen at
the same time. “Achronicity, the impossibility of establishing a precise chronology, is often the
result of the criss-crossing of several lines.” (213)
Last but not least, events happen somewhere, which makes location the last element to be
discussed on the fabula layer. Sometimes locations are indicated, other times they are simply
deduced. Anyway, they may play an important role in the fabula, making possible the investigation
of the connection between the kind of events, the identity of the actors, and the location. “The
subdivision of locations into groups is a manner of gaining insight into the relations between
elements.” (215)
To conclude, Mieke Bal draws on several previous theories of the narrative to put forward
her new three-layer model for analysis. Reconsidering the conceptual distinctions made by her
predecessors, she defends her choice of certain perspectives, develops her own theory regarding
certain narratological aspects (in particular, focalization) and renews the terminology. Constantly
sustaining her theory with textual illustrations, she provides a viable and richer instrument for the
analysis of narrative texts.

References
Bal, Mieke (1997) Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, Toronto: University of Toronto
Press.

19
 APPENDIX: Mieke Bal’s and Gérard Genette’s Narratological Models –
A Contrastive Approach

MIEKE BAL GÉRARD GENETTE

TEXT (Words) Narrating -Narrative – VOICE
Narrator – implied author – (real) author (Booth) Narrator – implied author – (real) author (Booth)
narrator ≠ focalizor narrator ≠ focalizor
narrator ≠ person narrator ≠ person
Categorization: Categorization:
 external narrator;  heterodiegetic narrator;
 character-bound narrator.  homodiegetic narrator.
Non-narrative comments - functions: Narrator’s functions:
 argumentative;  directing function;
 descriptive;  the function of communication;
 ideological.  the testimonial function/function of
attestation;
via looking  ideological function.
motivation via speaking
via acting
TEXT (Words)
Levels of narration Levels of narration
 personal language situations; Narrating-Narrative – VOICE
 impersonal language situations.  extradiegetic;
 (intra)diegetic;
direct speech/discourse;  metadiegetic.
indirect discourse text Story-Narrative – MOOD
free indirect discourse interference Narrative distance:
narrator’s text  reported speech;
primary texts + embedded texts  transposed speech in indirect style;
 primary fabula – embedded text  narrated/narratised speech.
 primary fabula – embedded fabula
 non-narrative embedded texts
TEXT (Words) Narrating - Story – VOICE
--- Time of the narrating
 subsequent narrative;
 prior narrative;
 simultaneous narrative;
 interpolated narrative.
STORY (Aspects) Story-Narrative – TENSE
Sequential Ordering Order
Anachronies (chronological deviations) Anachronies
 direction:
 retroversion;  analepsis;
 anticipation.  prolepsis.
 distance:
 external
retroversion/anticipation;  external analepsis/ prolepsis;
 internal  internal analepsis/prolepsis;
retroversion/anticipation;  mixed analepsis.
 mixed retroversion;
 iterative anticipation.
 span:
 incomplete anachronies;
20
  complete anachronies.  homodiegetic analepsis/prolepsis;
 punctual anachronies;  heterodiegetic analepsis/prolepsis.
 durative anachronies.
STORY (Aspects) Story-Narrative – TENSE
Rhythm/Narrative speed Duration/Narrative speed
 ellipsis;  ellipsis;
 summary;  summary;
 scene;  scene;
 slow-down;  pause.
 pause.
STORY (Aspects) Story-Narrative – TENSE
Frequency Frequency
 singular presentation;  singulative narrative;
 repetitive presentation;  repeating narrative;
 iterative presentation.  iterative narrative.
STORY (Aspects) ---
Characters
 predictability and frames of reference;
 names as limitations;
 construction of a character:
 repetition;
 piling up of data;
 relations to other characters/oneself;
 changes/transformations undergone.
 methods of analysis:
 selection of relevant semantic axes
(pairs of contrary meanings);
 examination of the connections
between various characteristics.
 sources of information:
 explicit qualification;
 implicit qualification.
STORY (Aspects) ---
Space
 the space-character relation(s) (symbolic
function);
 semantic aspects of space construction;
 classifications:
 space as frame;
 ‘thematized’ space.
 steady space;
 dynamically functioning space.
STORY (Aspects) Story-Narrative – MOOD
Focalization Perspective/Focalization
 the subject of focalization – the focalizor
 the object of focalization – the focalized
 types of focalization:
 internal focalization (character-  internal focalization;
bound focalizor);  external focalization;
 external (non character-bound)  zero focalization (?).
focalization.
 the focalized:
 perceptible;
 non-perceptible.
21
 levels of focalization;
 double focalization.
 focalization and suspense.

FABULA (Elements) ---

 events (defined by change, choice and
confrontation – subject – predicate –
direct object) grouped in elementary
series (Brémond):
 the possibility (or virtuality), the
event (or realization), and the result
(or conclusion) of the process;
 processes of improvement and
processes of deterioration.
 actants (Greimas):
 subject/anti-subject – object;
 power (instead of sender) – receiver;
 helpers – opponents.
 time span of the fibula
 location

22
  Practice to increase understanding

Analyse the fragments below using Mieke Bal’s narratological model:

a) Wandering thus about, I knew not whither, I passed by an apothecary's shop in Leadenhall Street,
when I saw lie on a stool just before the counter a little bundle wrapped in a white cloth; beyond it
stood a maid-servant with her back to it, looking towards the top of the shop, where the apothecary's
apprentice, as I suppose, was standing upon the counter, with his back also to the door, and a candle in
his hand, looking and reaching up to the upper shelf for something he wanted, so that both were
engaged mighty earnestly, and nobody else in the shop.
This was the bait; and the devil, who I said laid the snare, as readily prompted me as if he had
spoke, for I remember, and shall never forget it, 'twas like a voice spoken to me over my shoulder,
'Take the bundle; be quick; do it this moment.' It was no sooner said but I stepped into the shop, and
with my back to the wench, as if I had stood up for a cart that was going by, I put my hand behind me
and took the bundle, and went off with it, the maid or the fellow not perceiving me, or anyone else.
It is impossible to express the horror of my soul all the while I did it. When I went away I had
no heart to run, or scarce to mend my pace. I crossed the street indeed, and went down the first
turning I came to, and I think it was a street that went through into Fenchurch Street. From thence I
crossed and turned through so many ways an turnings, that I could never tell which way it was, not
where I went; for I felt not the ground I stepped on, and the farther I was out of danger, the faster I
went, till, tired and out of breath, I was forced to sit down on a little bench at a door, and then I began
to recover, and found I was got into Thames Street, near Billingsgate. I rested me a little and went on;
my blood was all in a fire; my heart beat as if I was in a sudden fright. In short, I was under such a
surprise that I still knew not wither I was going, or what to do.
After I had tired myself thus with walking a long way about, and so eagerly, I began to
consider and make home to my lodging, where I came about nine o'clock at night.
When the bundle was made up for, or on what occasion laid where I found it, I knew not, but
when I came to open it I found there was a suit of childbed-linen in it, very good and almost new, the
lace very fine; there was a silver porringer of a pint, a small silver mug and six spoons, with some
other linen, a good smock, and three silk handkerchiefs, and in the mug, wrapped up in a paper, 18s.
6d. in money. (Daniel Defoe, Moll Flanders, 1994: 209-211)

b) This Academy is not an entire single Building, but a Continuation of several Houses on both Sides
of a Street; which growing waste, was purchased and applyed to that Use.
I was received very kindly by the Warden, and went for many Days to the Academy. Every
Room hath in it one or more Projectors; and I believe I could not be in fewer than five Hundred
Rooms.
The first Man I saw was of a meager Aspect, with sooty Hands and Face, his Hair and Beard
long, ragged and singed in several Places. His Cloathes, Shirt, and Skin were all of the same Colour.
He had been Eight Years upon a Project for extracting Sun-Beams out of Cucumbers, which were to
be put into Vials hermetically sealed, and let out to warm the Air in raw inclement Summers. He told
me he did not doubt in Eight Years more he should be able to supply the Governors Gardens with
Sun-shine at a reasonable Rate; but he complained that his stock was low, and intreated me to give
him something as an Encouragement to Ingenuity, especially since this had been a very dear Season
for Cucumbers. I made him a small Present, for my Lord had furnished me with Money on Purpose,
because he knew their Practice of begging from all who go to see them.
I went into another Chamber, but was ready to hasten back, being almost overcome with a
horrible Stink. My Conductor pressed me forward, conjuring me in a Whisper to give no Offence,
which would be highly resented; and therefore I durst not so much as stop my Nose. The Projector of
this Cell was the most ancient Student of the Academy. His Face and Beard were of a pale Yellow; his
23
Hands and Clothes daubed over with Filth. When I was presented to him, he gave me a close Embrace
(a Compliment I could well have excused.) His Employment from his first coming into the Academy,
was an Operation to reduce human Excrement to its original Food, by separating the several Parts,
removing the Tincture which it receives from the Gall, making the Odour exhale, and scumming off
the Saliva. He had a weekly Allowance from the Society, of a Vessel filled with human Ordure about
the Bigness of a Bristol Barrel.
I saw another at work to calcine Ice into Gunpowder; who likewise shewed me a Treatise he
had written concerning the Malleability of Fire, which he intended to publish.
There was a most ingenious Architect who had contrived a new Method for building Houses,
by beginning at the Roof, and working downwards to the Foundation; which he justified to me by the
like Practice of those two prudent Insects, the Bee and the Spider.
There was a Man born blind, who had several Apprentices in his own Condition: Their
Employment was to mix Colours for Painters, which their Master taught them to distinguish by
feeling and smelling. It was indeed my Misfortune to find them at that Time not very perfect in their
Lessons; and the Professor himself happened to be generally mistaken: This Artist is much
encouraged and esteemed by the whole Fraternity.
In another Apartment I was highly pleased with a Projector, who had found a Device of
plowing the Ground with Hogs, to save the Charges of Plows, Cattle, and Labour. The Method in this:
In an Acre of Ground you bury at six Inches Distance, and eight deep, a Quantity of Acorns, Dates,
Chestnuts, and other Maste or Vegetables whereof these Animals are fondest; then you drive six
Hundred or more of them into the Field, where in a few Days they will root up the whole Ground in
search of their Food, and make it fit for sowing, at the same time manuring it with their Dung. It is
true, upon Experiment they found the Charge and Trouble very great, and they had little or no Crop.
However, it is not doubted that this Invention may be capable of great Improvement.
I went into another Room, where the Walls and Ceiling were all hung round with Cobwebs,
except a narrow passage for the Artist to go in and out. At my Entrance he called aloud to me not to
disturb his Webs. He lamented the fatal Mistake the World had been so long in of using Silk-Worms,
while we had such plenty of domestick Insects, who infinitely excelled the Former, because they
understood how to weave as well as spin. And he proposed farther, that by employing Spiders, the
Charge of dying Silks should be wholly saved; whereof I was fully convinced when he shewed me a
vast Number of Flies most beautifully coloured, wherewith he fed his Spiders; assuring us, that the
Webs would take a Tincture from them; and as he had them of all Hues, he hoped to fit every Body's
Fancy, as soon as he could find proper Food for the Flies, of certain Gums, Oyls, and other glutinous
Matter to give a Strength and Consistence to the Threads.
There was an Astronomer who had undertaken to place a Sun-Dial upon the great Weather-
Cock on the Town-House, by adjusting the annual and diurnal Motions of the Earth and Sun, so as to
answer and coincide with all accidental Turnings of the Wind.
I was complaining of a small fit of the Cholick; upon which my Conductor led me into a
Room, where a great Physician resided, who was famous for curing that Disease by contrary
Operations from the same Instrument. He had a large Pair of Bellows with a long slender Muzzle of
Ivory. This he conveyed eight Inches up the Anus, and drawing in the Wind, he affirmed he could
make the Guts as lank as a dried Bladder. But when the Disease was more stubborn and violent, he let
in the Muzzle while the Bellows were full of Wind, which he discharged into the Body of the Patient,
then withdrew the Instrument to replenish it, clapping his Thumb strongly against the Orifice of the
Fundament; and this being repeated three or four Times, the adventitious Wind would rush out,
bringing the noxious along with it (like Water put into a Pump), and the Patient recover. I saw him try
both Experiments upon a Dog, but could not discern any Effect from the former. After the latter, the
Animal was ready to burst, and made so violent a Discharge, as was very offensive to me and my
Companions. The Dog died on the Spot, and we left the Doctor endeavouring to recover him by the
same Operation.
I visited many other Apartments, but shall not trouble my Reader with all the Curiosities I
observed, being studious of Brevity. (Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels, 1998: 171-175)
24
c) Mr. Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood at little greater distance from this
church than from his own, he very often came to Divine Service here; and both he and the charming
Sophia happened to be present at this time.
Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied for her simplicity in
having dressed herself in that manner, as she saw the envy which it had occasioned among her equals.
She no sooner came home than she sent for the gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring his daughter to
her; saying she would provide for her in the family, and might possibly place the girl about her own
person, when her own maid, who was now going away, had left her.
Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to the fault in the shape of his
daughter. He answered, in a stammering voice, "That he was afraid Molly would be too awkward to
wait on her ladyship, as she had never been at service." "No matter for that," says Sophia; "she will
soon improve. I am pleased with the girl, and am resolved to try her."
Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he depended to extricate
him out of this dilemma; but when he came thither he found his house in some confusion. So great
envy had this sack occasioned, that when Mr. Allworthy and the other gentry were gone from church,
the rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar; and, having vented itself at first in
opprobrious words, laughs, hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last to certain missile weapons;
which, though from their plastic nature they threatened neither the loss of life or of limb, were
however sufficiently dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to bear this treatment
tamely. Having therefore- but hold, as we are diffident of our own abilities, let us here invite a
superior power to our assistance.
Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and principally thou who whilom
didst recount the slaughter in those fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved
with thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. All things are not in the power of all.
As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are milked, they hear their calves
at a distance, lamenting the robbery which is then committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the
Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls, screams, and other different
sounds as there were persons, or indeed passions among them: some were inspired by rage, others
alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but chiefly Envy, the sister
of Satan, and his constant companion, rushed among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the women;
who no sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish.
Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced about; and laying hold of
ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The
whole army of the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their general, gave back
many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for the churchyard was the field of battle, where there
was to be a funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching up a skull which lay on
the side of the grave, discharged it with such fury, that having hit a taylor on the head, the two skulls
sent equally forth a hollow sound at their meeting, and the taylor took presently measure of his length on
the ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful which was the more valuable of the
two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows
with great liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty hero and heroine.
Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First, Jemmy Tweedle felt on
his hinder head the direful bone. Him the pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour had nourished,
where he first learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes and fairs, he cheered
the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he
himself stood fiddling and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He thumps the
verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the sowgelder, received a blow in his forehead
from our Amazonian heroine, and immediately fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and
fell with almost as much noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his pocket,
which Molly took up as lawful spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a tombstone,
which catching hold of her ungartered stocking inverted the order of nature, and gave her heels the
25
superiority to her head. Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground; where, oh
perverse fate! she salutes the earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the smith's son, was the next victim
to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and made excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with
which he was knocked down was his own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms in
the church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the daughter of a farmer; John Giddish,
himself a farmer; Nan Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter,
whose father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and many others of
inferior note, lay rolling among the graves. (Henry Fielding, Tom Jones, 1985: 140-142)

d) Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe

February 25.
I have had the expected conference with my aunt.
I have been obliged to hear the man's [Mr. Solmes’s] proposals from her; and all their motives
for espousing him as they do. I am even loth to mention, how equally unjust it is for him to make such
offers, or for those I am bound to reverence to accept of them. I hate him more than before. One great
estate is already obtained at the expense of the relations to it, tho' distant relations; my brother's, I
mean, by his godmother: And this has given the hope, however chimerical that hope, of procuring
others; and that my own, at least, may revert to the family: And yet, in my opinion, the world is but
one great family: originally it was so: What then is this narrow selfishness that reigns in us, but
relationship remembered against relationship forgot?
But here, upon my absolute refusal of him upon any terms, have I had a signification made
me, that wounds me to the heart. How can I tell it you? Yet I must. It is, my dear, that I must not, for a
month to come, or till license obtained, correspond with any -body out of the house.
My brother, upon my aunt's report (made, however, as I am informed, in the gentlest manner,
and even giving remote hopes, which she had no commission from me to give), brought me, in
authoritative terms, the prohibition.
Not to Miss Howe? said I.
No, not to Miss Howe, Madam, tauntingly: For have you not acknowledged, that Lovelace is a
favourite there?
See, my dear Miss Howe!
And do you think, brother, this is the way?
Do you look to that: But your letters will be stopped, I can tell you. And away he flung.
My sister came to me soon after. Sister Clary, you are going on in a fine way, I understand.
But as there are people who are supposed to harden you against your duty, I am to tell you, that it will
be taken well, if you avoid visits or visitings for a week or two, till further order.
Can this be from those who have authority—
Ask them; ask them, child, with a twirl of her finger. I have delivered my message. Your papa
will be obeyed. He is willing to hope you to be all obedience; and would prevent all incitements to
refractoriness.
I know my duty, said I, and hope I shall not find impossible conditions annexed to it.
A pert young creature, vain and conceited, she called me. I was the only judge, in my own
wise-opinion, of what was right and fit. She, for her part, had long seen through my specious ways:
And now I should show everybody what I was at bottom.
Dear Bella, said I! hands and eyes lifted up, why all this? Dear, dear Bella, why—
None of your dear, dear Bella's to me. I tell you, I see thro' your witchcrafts. That was her
strange word: And away she flung; adding, as she went,— And so will everybody else very quickly, I
dare say.
Bless me, said I to myself, what a sister have I! How have I deserved this? Then I again
regretted my grandfather's too distinguishing goodness to me.

Feb. 25. In the evening.

26
 What my brother and sister have said against me, I cannot tell; but I am in heavy disgrace with
my papa.
I was sent for down to tea. I went with a very cheerful aspect; but had occasion soon to change it.
Such a solemnity in every-body's countenance! My mamma's eyes were fixed upon the tea-
cups; and when she looked up, it was heavily, as if her eyelids had weights upon them; and then not to
me. My papa sat half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his head might be turned from me; his hands
folded, and waving, as it were, up and down; his fingers, poor dear gentleman! in motion, as if angry
to the very ends of them. My sister sat swelling. My brother looked at me with scorn, having
measured me, as I may say, with his eyes, as I entered, from head to foot. My aunt was there, and
looked upon me, as if with kindness restrained, bending coldly to my compliment to her, as she sat;
and then cast an eye first on my brother, then on my sister, as if to give the reason (so I am willing to
construe it) of her unusual stiffness. —Bless me, my dear! that they should choose to intimidate rather
than invite a mind, till now, not thought either unpersuadable or ungenerous!—
I took my seat. Shall I make tea, Madam, to my mamma? I always used, you know, my dear,
to make tea.
No! a very short sentence, in one very short word was the expressive answer: And she was
pleased to take the canister in her own hand.
My sister's Betty attending, my brother bid her go; he would fill the water.
My heart was up at my mouth. I did not know what to do with myself. What is to follow?
thought I.
Just after the second dish, out stepped my mamma. — A word with you, sister Hervey! taking
her in her hand. Presently my sister dropped away. Then my brother. So I was left alone with my papa.
He looked so very sternly, that my heart failed me, as twice or thrice I would have addressed
myself to him: Nothing but solemn silence on all hands having passed before.
At last, I asked, If it were his pleasure, that I should pour him out another dish?
He answered me with the same angry monosyllable which I had received from my mamma
before; and then arose, and walked about the room. I arose too, with intent to throw myself at his feet;
but was too much over-awed by his sternness, even to make such an expression of my duty to him, as
my heart overflowed with.
At last, as he supported himself, because of his gout, on the back of a chair, I took a little more
courage; and approaching him, besought him to acquaint me, in what I had offended him?
He turned from me, and, in a strong voice, Clarissa Harlowe, said he, know, that I will be
obeyed.
God forbid, Sir, that you should not! I have never yet opposed your will—
Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, interrupted he. Don't let me run the fate of all who
show indulgence to your sex; to be the more contradicted for mine to you.
My papa, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my brother) a kind opinion of our sex;
altho' there is not a more condescending wife in the world than my mamma.
I was going to make protestations of duty. —No protestations, girl! No words. I will not be
prated to! I will be obeyed! I have no child. I will have no child, but an obedient one.
Sir, you never had reason, I hope—
Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I shall have.
Good Sir, be pleased to hear me. My brother and my sister, I fear—
Your brother and sister shall not be spoken against, girl! They have a just concern for the
honour of my family.
And I hope, Sir,—
Hope nothing. Tell me not of hopes, but of facts. I ask nothing of you but what is in your
power to comply with, and what it is your duty to comply with.
Then, Sir, I will comply with it. But yet I hope from your goodness,—
No expostulations! No buts, girl! No qualifyings! I will be obeyed, I tell you; and cheerfully
too!—or you are no child of mine!
I wept.
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 Let me beseech you, my dear and ever honoured papa (and I dropt down on my knees) that I
may have only yours and my mamma's will, and not my brother's, to obey. —I was going on; but he
was pleased to withdraw, leaving me on the floor; saying, that he would not hear me thus by subtlety
and cunning aiming to distinguish away my duty, repeating, that he would be obeyed.
My heart is too full; so full, that it may endanger my duty, were I to unburden it to you on this
occasion: So I will lay down my pen. But can— Yet, positively, I will lay down my pen! — (Samuel
Richardson, Clarissa, 2004: 63-65)

e) The violent explosion which made Mrs. Dalloway jump and Miss Pym go to the window and
apologise came from a motor car which had drawn to the side of the pavement precisely opposite
Mulberry’s shop window. Passers-by who, of course, stopped and stared, had just time to see a face
of the very greatest importance against the dove-grey upholstery, before a male hand drew the blind
and there was nothing to be seen except a square of dove grey.
Yet rumours were at once in circulation from the middle of Bond Street to Oxford Street on
one side, to Atkinson’s scent shop on the other, passing invisibly, inaudibly, like a cloud, swift, veil-
like upon hills, falling indeed with something of a cloud’s sudden sobriety and stillness upon faces
which a second before had been utterly disorderly. But now mystery had brushed them with her
wing; they had heard the voice of authority; the spirit of religion was abroad with her eyes
bandaged tight and her lips gaping wide. But nobody knew whose face had been seen. Was it the
Prince of Wales’s, the Queen’s, the Prime Minister’s? Whose face was it? Nobody knew.
Edgar J. Watkiss, with his roll of lead piping round his arm, said audibly, humorously of
course: “The Proime Minister’s kyar.”
Septimus Warren Smith, who found himself unable to pass, heard him.
Septimus Warren Smith, aged about thirty, pale-faced, beak-nosed, wearing brown shoes and
a shabby overcoat, with hazel eyes which had that look of apprehension in them which makes
complete strangers apprehensive too. The world has raised its whip; where will it descend?
Everything had come to a standstill. The throb of the motor engines sounded like a pulse
irregularly drumming through an entire body. The sun became extraordinarily hot because the motor
car had stopped outside Mulberry’s shop window; old ladies on the tops of omnibuses spread their
black parasols; here a green, here a red parasol opened with a little pop. Mrs. Dalloway, coming to
the window with her arms full of sweet peas, looked out with her little pink face pursed in enquiry.
Every one looked at the motor car. Septimus looked. Boys on bicycles sprang off. Traffic
accumulated. And there the motor car stood, with drawn blinds, and upon them a curious pattern
like a tree, Septimus thought, and this gradual drawing together of everything to one centre before
his eyes, as if some horror had come almost to the surface and was about to burst into flames,
terrified him. The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames. It is I who am
blocking the way, he thought. Was he not being looked at and pointed at; was he not weighted there,
rooted to the pavement, for a purpose? But for what purpose?
“Let us go on, Septimus,” said his wife, a little woman, with large eyes in a sallow pointed
face; an Italian girl.
But Lucrezia herself could not help looking at the motor car and the tree pattern on the
blinds. Was it the Queen in there — the Queen going shopping?
The chauffeur, who had been opening something, turning something, shutting something,
got on to the box.
“Come on,” said Lucrezia.
But her husband, for they had been married four, five years now, jumped, started, and said,
“All right!” angrily, as if she had interrupted him.
People must notice; people must see. People, she thought, looking at the crowd staring at the
motor car; the English people, with their children and their horses and their clothes, which she
admired in a way; but they were “people” now, because Septimus had said, “I will kill myself”; an
awful thing to say. Suppose they had heard him? She looked at the crowd. Help, help! she wanted to
cry out to butchers’ boys and women. Help! Only last autumn she and Septimus had stood on the
28
Embankment wrapped in the same cloak and, Septimus reading a paper instead of talking, she had
snatched it from him and laughed in the old man’s face who saw them! But failure one conceals.
She must take him away into some park.
“Now we will cross,” she said.
She had a right to his arm, though it was without feeling. He would give her, who was so
simple, so impulsive, only twenty-four, without friends in England, who had left Italy for his sake, a
piece of bone.
The motor car with its blinds drawn and an air of inscrutable reserve proceeded towards
Piccadilly, still gazed at, still ruffling the faces on both sides of the street with the same dark breath
of veneration whether for Queen, Prince, or Prime Minister nobody knew. The face itself had been
seen only once by three people for a few seconds. Even the sex was now in dispute. But there could
be no doubt that greatness was seated within; greatness was passing, hidden, down Bond Street,
removed only by a hand’s-breadth from ordinary people who might now, for the first and last time,
be within speaking distance of the majesty of England, of the enduring symbol of the state which
will be known to curious antiquaries, sifting the ruins of time, when London is a grass-grown path
and all those hurrying along the pavement this Wednesday morning are but bones with a few
wedding rings mixed up in their dust and the gold stoppings of innumerable decayed teeth. The face
in the motor car will then be known.
It is probably the Queen, thought Mrs. Dalloway, coming out of Mulberry’s with her
flowers; the Queen. And for a second she wore a look of extreme dignity standing by the flower
shop in the sunlight while the car passed at a foot’s pace, with its blinds drawn. The Queen going to
some hospital; the Queen opening some bazaar, thought Clarissa.
The crush was terrific for the time of day. Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham, what was it? she
wondered, for the street was blocked. The British middle classes sitting sideways on the tops of
omnibuses with parcels and umbrellas, yes, even furs on a day like this, were, she thought, more
ridiculous, more unlike anything there has ever been than one could conceive; and the Queen
herself held up; the Queen herself unable to pass. Clarissa was suspended on one side of Brook
Street; Sir John Buckhurst, the old Judge on the other, with the car between them (Sir John had laid
down the law for years and liked a well-dressed woman) when the chauffeur, leaning ever so
slightly, said or showed something to the policeman, who saluted and raised his arm and jerked his
head and moved the omnibus to the side and the car passed through. Slowly and very silently it took
its way.
Clarissa guessed; Clarissa knew of course; she had seen something white, magical, circular, in
the footman’s hand, a disc inscribed with a name — the Queen’s, the Prince of Wales’s, the Prime
Minister’s? — which, by force of its own lustre, burnt its way through (Clarissa saw the car
diminishing, disappearing), to blaze among candelabras, glittering stars, breasts stiff with oak leaves,
Hugh Whitbread and all his colleagues, the gentlemen of England, that night in Buckingham Palace.
And Clarissa, too, gave a party. She stiffened a little; so she would stand at the top of her stairs.
(Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway, 2012: 13-16)

f) ‘[…] Virgil, meet my father – and Mr Harville.’

‘So you are the mysterious Romanian?’
‘I am Romanian, yes, Mr Crozier.’
‘He doesn’t look remotely mysterious. He looks perfectly normal and ordinary from where I’m
standing. […]’
‘[…] Can your Romanian understand what I’m saying?’
‘I can, Mr Crozier. I understand, too, that you are confiding in Kitty. I am Virgil,’ he added
pronouncing his name the English way.
‘Ah, right, Virgil. I didn’t quite catch it when Kitty said it. Virgil, eh? Unusual.’
‘It’s pretty common in Romania.’

29
‘Is it? How fascinating. There aren’t many Felixes in Britain and America, not in my experience. In
all my seventy-plus years I’ve never bumped into another Felix. Makes me feel a wee bit unique.
Yes, well, that’s Felix for you. Call me Felix.’ […]
‘May I assist you, Mr Harville?’
‘That’s extremely courteous of you. It’s Derek, please. Remind me of your name.’
‘Virgil will suffice.’
‘Thank you sufficient Virgil. I hereby appoint you passer-round of the nuts and olives.’ He opened
the champagne – ‘Not a drop spilt. Aren’t I the dexterous one?’ – and filled the glasses.
‘To Daddy, and to Derek.’
‘To my dearest darling Kitty.’
‘To sufficient Virgil.’
‘Noroc.’
‘Which means?’
‘Happiness. Noroc is the word we use when we toast each other. Noroc is good luck, or happiness.’
‘Then loads of noroc, heaps and heaps of it, for all of us.’
They drank.
‘Nectar. Sheer nectar. I should have treated myself to much, much more of this when I was
younger.’
‘Then you would not have been svelte and you wouldn’t have sustained a career as a model, and the
rich ladies wouldn’t have lusted for you if you’d had a paunch and a boozer’s flushed complexion.
Tell me, sufficient Virgil, is Romania one of those plum brandy countries?’
‘We have such a drink: țuică, it is called. I prefer it flavoured with apricot.’
‘If it’s anything like slivovitz it’s not for me. Firewater, absolutely diabolical firewater. Thirty years
on, the ghastly memory of losing my memory persists. Two days went missing from my life, thanks to
a mere half-bottle of slivovitz. It still rankles with me – the idea of having lost control.’ […]
‘[…] Before we sat ourselves at table, does anyone want to wash those euphemistic hands?’
Virgil did, and was told that the bathroom was to the right at the top of the non-genuine and non-
original stairs.
‘He’s quite gloomy, your friend.’
‘‘He’s serious.’
‘His clothes, Kitty darling. His awful clothes. Forgive me for saying so, but he is drabness
personified.’
‘I’m not bothered by what he wears.’
‘What’s his job?’
‘At the moment he’s working in one of the London parks. Virgil’s a poet.’
‘Airy-fairy type, eh? Can’t you do better for yourself, Kitty?’
‘What’s better?’
‘Someone with an income. Someone with a bit of dress sense. Someone, Kitty darling, with some
flesh on him.’
‘You must excuse an intervention from the factotum. He is skinny, Kitty. What do they eat in
Romania?’
‘Not very much, Derek. Unless they’re politicians, or privileged.’
‘I’ll feed him up for you. There’s plenty of everything. We’ve scallops, and roast lamb and – ‘
‘Lamb? I forgot to say. I’m sorry, but Virgil can’t eat lamb. He has an aversion to it.’
‘He’s vegetarian?’
‘Not completely. It seems to be red meat that he’s averse to. I’m sorry, Derek. He’ll have the
scallops, I’m sure.’
‘I assume it goes with being a poet, Kitty – not touching red meat.’
‘Quiet, Crozier. Ration your inanities, if you would be so kind. […]’
‘[…] Are you aware, Virgil, that John Keats enjoyed a glass or two of Margaux? Hence the “purple-
stained mouth”, I presume.’
‘No, I was not aware.’
30
‘You are now. Is there, perchance, a Romanian Keats? Someone similar?’
‘Yes, there is. Eminescu. Mihai Eminescu.’
‘And is he as melancholic?’
(The moon appearing above the tree tops melancholic? A sad heart stirring at the faint sound of a
distant horn melancholic? The poet’s sweet wish for an earthly death melancholic?)
‘Yes, Derek, he is as melancholic as Keats. More so, in my opinion.’
‘Dear, dear. Poor man. He must have had a rotten time of it. Died young?’
‘Yes.’
‘No doubt a happy release, as they say. […]’
Derek Harville advised his guest with the aversion to concentrate on the vegetables while the
carnivores disposed of the lamb. ‘Your agony will be short-lived, I guarantee, since Crozier here is
already showing the remnants of his fangs. This decanter is yours to empty.’
‘Thank you.’
(‘Why didn’t the shepherd listen to what the faithful lamb of Birsa told him? Why didn’t he kill the
traitors with his fierce dogs and German knifes?’ Matilda Florescu patted the head of her son
Aurelius and smiled. ‘You don’t wonder how it is that the lamb, Mioriţa, can speak human speech?’
Aureliu answered that if Harap Alb could have a clever talking horse, why couldn’t the shepherd
have the clever talking Mioriţa? ‘Yes, Aureliu, why not? And you, Virgil, what are you thinking?’
He was thinking, he said, of the star falling to earth, of the mountain suddenly becoming a priest, of
the singing birds with bright feathers and of the old woman with tired feet wandering everywhere in
search of her son, the shepherd with hair like the wings of a raven.
‘You have a lot to think about,’ his mother whispered, ‘but sleep first.’
Aureliu, his voice thick with drowsiness, murmured, ‘That shepherd was a fool, Mama. That
shepherd was stupid.’)
‘Each Monday morning, at nine o’clock, I was summoned into his Grace’s presence to be given a
cheque made out to cash for the coming week’s household expenses. “Same as usual, Harville?”
was his rhetorical question prior to the autumn of nineteen forty-seven. “Not exactly the same, Your
Grace,” I replied on the second Monday in October and elaborated: prices were rising; certain items
of linen had to be replaced, et cetera, et cetera. The amount on the cheque grew marginally bigger.
“You are worse than those damned Socialists in Westminster where my money’s concerned,
Harville,” he complained once as his writing hand set off on its reluctant journey towards his
fountain pen. It was that half-humorous remark of his that inspired my pièce de résistance, my
wiliest ruse. I asked myself what was really worse, in his blinkered eyes, than the Labour Party
(which, unbeknown to him, I supported) – and the answer I came up with was of a radiant
simplicity. Why, the Communists were worse. Their guiding star shone over Moscow. Oh, the
excitement, the giddying excitement I felt when I wrote that inaugural letter – as it were from the
Duke, on the Duke’s embossed notepaper – to Mr Pollitt, the leader of the British Communists,
expressing his, the Duke’s, enthusiasm for Mr P’s ideas and ideals. I forged the Duke’s signature
and enclosed five pounds and advised the worthy Mr P not to write in response to this no doubt
surprising missive as the Duchess was a tartar who always opened his mail on the look-out for
evidence of an adulterous kind. She was also – it saddened him to report – a dyed-in-the-wool Tory,
who would emasculate him for his treachery. This one-sided correspondence continued on a regular
monthly basis, a regular fiver attached to the Duke’s wilder and wilder endorsements of the
Communist faith, for a satisfying lengthy period. I think it was those zestfully composed letters that
led the Communists to put up a candidate for election in the Duke’s constituency. I voted for the
pitiful wretch, as did fifty-six others.’
‘That was your luxury, Derek.’
‘Luxury? Yes, I suppose it was.’
‘The luxury of choice, any choice, is one we do not have.’
‘Ah, yes. Your countrymen are under Communist rule.’

31
‘No, Derek. We have a ruler and the ruler has a wife, and the people who let them rule over us call
themselves Communists or Socialists, but any name would do. If Communism is a doctrine of
equality then we are not under Communist rule.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘We are not. It is my belief, if I may be serious, that Communism is an impossible concept – an
impossibly good concept. Mere human beings cannot be trusted with it. It is too good for them.’
(Paul Bailey, Kitty and Virgil, 1998: 38-52)

g) Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand,
lifting here, opening there, making sure – a ghostly couple.
‘Here we left it’, she said. And he added, ‘Oh, but here too!’ ‘It’s upstairs,’ she murmured.
‘And in the garden,’ he whispered. ‘Quietly,’ they said, ‘or we shall wake them’.
But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. ‘They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,’
one might say, and so read on a page or two. ‘Now they’ve found it,’ one would be certain, stopping
the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all
empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the
threshing machine sounding from the farm. ‘What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?’
My hands were empty. ‘Perhaps it’s upstairs then?’ The apples were in the loft. And so down again,
the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window
panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the
drawing-room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened,
spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling – what? My hands were
empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood
pigeon drew its bubble of sound. ‘Safe, safe, safe’, the pulse of the house beat softly. ‘The treasure
buried; the room…’ the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a
wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface, the beam I sought always
burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first,
hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left
it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found
it dropped beneath the Downs. ‘Safe, safe, safe’, the pulse of the house beat gladly. ‘The Treasure
yours’.
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash
and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of light falls straight from the window. The candle burns
stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the
ghostly couple seek their joy.
‘Here we slept,’ she says. And he adds, ‘Kisses without number.’ ‘Waking in the morning –’
‘Silver between the trees –’ ‘Upstairs –’ ‘In the garden –’ ‘When summer came –’ ‘In winter snow
time –’ The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass.
Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands
shield the lantern. ‘Look,’ he breathes.
‘Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.’
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause.
The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and
wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and
seek their hidden joy.
‘Safe, safe, safe’, the heart of the house beats proudly.
‘Long years’- he sighs. ‘Again you found me’. ‘Here,’ she murmurs, ‘sleeping, in the garden
laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure’ Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon

32
my eyes. ‘Safe! Safe! Safe!’ the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry ‘Oh, is this your
buried treasure? The light in the heart.’ (Virginia Woolf, A Haunted House, 2001: 30-31)

33
 References

 Bailey, Paul (1998) Kitty and Virgil. London: Fourth Estate

 Bal, Mieke (1997) Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, Toronto: University of
Toronto Press
 Defoe, Daniel (1994) The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, London:
Penguin Books
 Fielding, Henry (1985) The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, London: Penguin Books
 Genette, Gérard (1980) Narrative Discourse, New York: Cornell University Press
 Richardson, Samuel (2004) Clarissa or the History of a Young Lady, London: Penguin
Books
 Swift, Jonathan (1998) Gulliver’s Travels, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press
 Woolf, Virginia (2001) The Mark on the Wall and Other Short Fiction, Oxford, New York:
Oxford University Press
 Woolf, Virginia (2013) Mrs Dalloway, Ontario, New York, London: Broadview Editions

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