Willem G. Weststeijn

JAN VAN DER ENG'S NARRATIVE MODEL AS A CONTRIBUTION
TO THE
THEORY OF CHARACTER.

Since the rise of narratology at the end of the fifties of the twentieth century, comparatively little attention has been paid to the study of literary character. Although character, together with action and setting is one of the three “blocks”¹ or “levels”² of the narrative structure, up to now narrative theory has mainly concentrated on action³ and issues as the narrator, point of view, focalization and represented speech, especially free indirect style.⁴ Apart from its function for the action character has hardly been discussed by the literary theorists. In the most recent narratological studies, character and characterization have almost entirely disappeared and do not seem to play a role at all.⁵

There are, at least, two reasons for the narratological neglect of literary character, at least for character in the sense of a “lifelike” (be it non-actual) person with particular and unique physical and psychological qualities. The structuralists, who founded modern narratology, were not interested in the personal and the individual, but tried to uncover general structures and patterns. In keeping with Propp, they considered character only as a perform­er of actions and in its function for the action.⁶ Literary character was subordinated to action (which is much easier to describe structurally) and was not studied as a separate “block” or “level” of the narrative structure. A second reason why the structuralists did not have any interest in lifelike characters was because such characters did not feature in contemporary literature. Particularly in the French nouveau roman,by such authors as Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarraute and Claude Simon, characters were clearly de-individualized and sometimes remained completely anonymous. This gave rise to the well-known statement by Roland Barthes in 1970: “Ce qui est caduc aujourd’hui dans le roman, ce n’est pas le romanesque, c’est le per­sonnage; ce qui ne peut plus être écrit, c’est le Nom Propre.”⁷ The dis­appearance of character as an individual entity with personal physical and psychological traits (“the death of character”) has since remained a charac­teristic feature of postmodern literature.

The fact that modern literary theory in general has not paid much attention to character does not mean that studies on literary character are entirely absent. A complete absence of character studies would be surprising indeed as character, as one of the three “levels” of the narrative structure, can­not just be overlooked. Moreover, there is a great deal of literature (for instance, the nineteenth-century realistic novel) in which precisely the cha­racter with its qualities and psychological development is the dominant ele­ment of the narrative structure, action and setting playing a secondary role. Generally, readers do not consider a literary character to be only an element of the narrative text or an aspect or function of the action. Readers are inclined to take characters out of their linguistic context and “see” them as individual beings (human or with human traits), who, although fictional, could be imagined in the real world. This phenomenon is particularly likely when the reader projects his or her personal circumstances and personal emotions onto the literary character, especially the hero or heroine of a story. This is an intrinsic part of the reading experience, as is the experience of catharsis. Nevertheless, even when there seems to be little reason for iden­tification or catharsis, the reader will start to create an imaginary presence for a character as soon as it is mentioned in the text and begin to endow the person (or being) with a separate identity. Many literary critics, including contemporary ones, have acknowledged this phenomenon.⁸ Some critics work from the assumption that literary characters have to be considered, analysed and interpreted in the same way as “real” people, as if they were living in the world around us. ⁹ This would mean that it is possible and fully justified to use the psychological or psychoanalytical theories that are applied to real people in order to “understand” a literary character.¹⁰ Other critics em­phasize that there are ontological differences between real people and fic­tional characters and consider literary characters as non-actual individuals.¹¹ Margolin (1989) offers a structuralist/semiotic proposal for a theory of character, but the challenge he sets the narratologists at the end of his article: “the construction of a full-fledged theory of character in narrative possessing the same level of generality, systematicity, and precision enjoyed by other branches of literary semiotics” (1989: 23), has so far not really been taken up.¹²

Jan van der Eng’s narrative theory, as expounded for the first time in an article in 1973, does not specifically deal with literary character, but takes this important “level” of the text very seriously. One of the reasons for this is that he does not consider the literary text only as an object that has to be analysed, but also as a medium that can give people a better understanding of the world and the human situation. “Though the novel is an alternative source of learning the world’s reality for those, who consider philosophic writings deficient, it is also a source of learning for the philosophically ignorant” (1977: 112). With approval he quotes the statement by Maupassant in the introduction to Pierre et Jean: “Le réaliste, s’il est un artiste, cherchera, non pas a nous montrer la photographie banale de la vie, mais à nous en donner la vision plus complète, plus saississante, plus probante que la réalité même” (Van der Eng 1988: 478). The way in which characters are depicted, through their actions, behaviour, experiences, thoughts and feelings contributes great­ly to this more complete, more gripping and more probing representation of reality found in literary texts.

The view that a literary work should give a better understanding of real life is apparent in Van der Eng’s narrative theory as well as in the analyses he did using his theory. Van der Eng’s narrative model is “based on a set of fundamental narrative attitudes, in its relation to a set of fundamental narra­tive systems and a set of fundamental anthropological data” (1978: 21). The fundamental narrative attitudes concern the transmission of information (om­niscience, pretended ignorance, etc.), the fundamental narrative systems rest upon specific relationships between the thematic levels and their hierarchy, the fundamental anthropological constituents concern the universal aspects of the thematic levels, which determine the comprehensibility of the narrative world (Van der Eng 1978: 21).

Van der Eng emphasizes the difference between the imaginary universe in literature and reality. This difference is not the result of the necessarily fragmentary information we acquire from the imaginary universe, but of the way in which this universe is presented.

Surely, “the world” in literature cannot be equated with “the world” in reality: the use of metaphors and the resultant equivalences between heterogeneous thematic phenomena, the artistic forms of deletion in the metonymic textual fabric and the connotations associated with it, the gradation in equivalences and connotations, the suggestive links between sound and meaning – all these create distance from reality. (1983: 114)

That the literary work still can offer a “penetrating vision of reality” is be­cause:

The reality of human existence, of the fate of individual and collective alike, has no fixedness, no absoluteness. It is to a certain extent de­termined by the attitude taken by the individual and the community towards life, and to some extent also by conventions and traditions. The reality of existence is, furthermore, determined by a number of constants which manifest themselves in a variety of ways, depending on our attitudes and the conventions we allow ourselves to be guided by, these constants which have an elusive, irrational quality and force one into complicated situations that are usually beyond one’s control both on the personal and on the collective level. I am thinking not only of negative processes, but also of positive aspects in the sphere of the intangible, to which we have given such names as courage, sacrifice, trust, etc. It is these elusive aspects of existence that are given stature in literature, in a model which may be tragic, optimistic, humorous, grotesque, absurd, etc. By means of this modelling, literature serves an exemplifying function – negative or positive – of liberation or temptation. And literature can perform that function because it gives form to a human existence that is complicated beyond comprehension. (1983: 119)

Literature presents a model of life. However, there is in literature no direct reference to reality, but only to the author’s vision of it, i.e. “to the complex of selected and combined aspects of reality”, that form a “web of inter­relationships which is [...] the essence of that reality” (Van der Eng 1983: 124).

With the web of interrelationships comprising all the motifs and con­tingent on different systems, certain recognizable lines are also drawn throughout the literary work; these lines concern the characterization of the different figures, the intrigues in which they are involved and which enhance their characterization, not least because they are, for instance, played off against each other as contrasts; the spatio-social data are rendered meaningful for the different forms of characterization, for the battles that the figures fight out against each other, etc. Last but not least, a maximum number of motifs contributes to the encompassing conception of existence in its totality, whereby the characters and their vicissitudes are placed in a generalized perspective.
(Van der Eng 1983: 125)

Van der Eng’s narrative model offers some useful elements for the “full-fledged theory of character” that Margolin proposed. As mentioned above, Van der Eng’s integrational model is made up of a combination of narrative attitudes, narrative systems and anthropological constituents. He does not look at aspects of a literary work separately, but analyses them always in relation to other aspects. As the basic element of the narrative text, “the ultimate thematic particle of a narrative structure”, Van der Eng considers the motif. The motif functions as a link in a semantic chain of interrelated nar­rative elements in a text-part or throughout the entire text (a “dispersive chain”, which gives a relatively complete insight into an action, a personage or a setting). At the same time, a motif may function in more than one se­mantic chain (“integrational chains”): motifs of the setting, for instance, can be directly, or even primarily relevant to the characterization or the action.¹³ Within the semantic chains there is often “gradation”: greater emphasis achieved by means of repetition. Motifs or narrative elements have various kinds of oppositional relations with other motifs that belong to the same thematic level. These types of oppositions (Van der Eng distinguishes analo­gies, parallelisms, antitheses and variations) depend on the prevalence of either semantic similarities or dissimilarities.

The arrangement of the narrative elements and the organization of the semantic chains in their hierarchical relation to the dominant thematic level is brought about by the narrator, whose viewpoint and control of information that the reader is allowed to know determines the narrative structure.¹⁴ Subsequently, this narrative structure, which often, particularly in the case of “great” literature, is an extremely complex semantic structure, has to be re­constructed and interpreted by the reader. For Van der Eng, the reader/inter­preter is of paramount importance in his deciphering and reconstructing role.

If the author may be said to construct the work, the reader may be said to reconstruct it; the reader follows the network of interrelated phe­nomena, and can discover unsuspected links in the process. Each generation of readers projects the work onto the circumstances of his own time: onto comparable old and new literary texts, genres, schools, onto non-literary systems of signification (philosophy, psychology, sociology, etc.) onto existential patterns of human society which are not expressed in texts. And he emphasizes what is new and original, what is essential for a particular period. The potential of a literary work to offer new values to a new generation of readers but also to give old values the veneer of novelty, the topicality that characterizes the best literary writings, all this is bound up with the specific nature of the communication which is inherent in great literature.
(Van der Eng 1983: 120-121)

Possible aspects for a theory of literary character are Van der Eng’s ideas about the motif as the ultimate thematic particle, about the semantic relations between the motifs (the various types of oppositions) and the way these motifs are arranged in dispersive and integrational chains. Not only the arrangement, but also the way in which the motifs are presented by the narrator (phraseology, focalization) are of crucial importance for their mean­ing. Much remains unsaid or is said indirectly and has to be filled in and inferred by the reader, who in interpreting literary texts acquires an insight in the human predicament and the constants of existence. In combining textual analysis (the semantic structure of the motifs) with the belief that literature is a model of reality and gives the reader a better understanding of reality, Van der Eng succeeds in reconciling two seemingly disparate approaches to character, the “semiotic” theories, that see character as an element of a verbal design, and the “mimetic” theories, that view literary characters as “real” people.¹⁵

I would now like to illustrate the relevance of Van der Eng’s narrative theory for the study of literary character by analysing character in a short story by Cechov (‘Slucaj iz praktiki’ – ‘A Case History’, 1898), one of Van der Eng’s favourite authors. As a realistic author, Cechov creates “mimetic” characters, images of human individuals that, though made up from the words of the text, are detachable from it and become like living people, each with their own individual and unique history, appearance, psychology, etc.¹⁶Generally short stories do not provide much textual information about the characters, the genre not being suitable for long explanations and exposition. However, Cechov, particularly in his later stories, succeeds in creating characters that seem to have a rich interior life or find themselves in psychologically and emotionally complex situations. He leaves it up to the reader to “fill in” details of the character from the scanty textual information provided. This means that the narrative structure of his short story and the textual information (i.e. a limited number of words and motifs) has to carry a maxi­mum of semantic relevance. This is achieved because motifs of the action and the setting can contribute as much to the creation of a character as direct description. The world that Cechov creates in his stories is so evocative that it offers a “complete” representation of the “real world” while at the same time encouraging deeper understanding and intellectual and emotional involve­ment. A crucial part of producing this insight and involvement is achieved through the characters: what happens to them and the way in which they and their relationships are described, both directly and indirectly.

In my analysis of the characters in ‘Slucaj iz praktiki’ (1898)¹⁷ I will confine myself to a few remarks about the two main protagonists, a doctor and one of his patients, a girl of about twenty years old. As is usual in Ce­chov’s late stories there is not much action. A Moscow-based professor re­ceives a telegram requesting assistance for a mill-owner’s daughter who has taken ill. The professor sends his assistant, a doctor by the name of Korolev to the textile-mill out in the countryside. Korolev examines the young woman and finds nothing seriously wrong with her. When he gets ready to return to Moscow, the girl’s mother implores him to stay overnight, as she is afraid of a new crisis – the girl had terrible palpitations of the heart. Korolev, rather unwillingly, agrees to stay. At night he takes a stroll through the factory grounds because he cannot sleep. He goes to check on the girl in the night and they have a long talk, during which the girl admits to him that she is not really ill, but only very lonesome. The doctor reassures her and sug­gests that she should choose a different life and leave the mill. The next morning he returns to Moscow.

This story, which contains only a few events – doctor visits patient, examines and reassures her, then goes home – is interesting in the way that it portrays the two protagonists and the relationship between them. In the first paragraph, the narrator provides some information about them. The doctor is the assistant (“ordinator”) of a Moscow professor. His name is Korolev; his first name and patronymic are not mentioned. The young woman’s name is Ljalikova, daughter of a mill-owner and only later in the story do we learn her first name, Liza. As is often the custom in literature, and Čechov is no exception, proper names are semantically relevant. Korolev contains the word “korol’”, “king” (Korolevic in Russian fairy tales is a or “the” prince); “ljalja” means “child”, “little girl”. The fact that Korolev is an assistant means that we infer that he is probably quite young. The Moscow professor sent his assistant in response to the telegram. He did not go himself  as he considered the telegram “ineptly framed”. This significant detail foreshadows the situation of Liza’s state of mind and the situation at her home.

During Korolev’s journey first in the train and then in the carriage sent to the station to fetch him, the apparently omniscient narrator reveals more about him. Korolev travels through the fields, past trees and villages and he sees the workers returning home from the mill on Saturday evening. He is struck by the peaceful atmosphere in the countryside on the eve of the day of rest on Sunday. He was born and bred in Moscow, knows nothing about the countryside and has never been to a factory. All he knows about factories is from reading; probably from socialist propaganda because his idea of a factory is a seemingly peaceful facade and harsh reality within. He senses squalor and drunkenness among the hoards of workers who greet him on their way home from the mill.

From the narrator’s description of Korolev, especially his thought pro­cesses, we can infer that he is sensitive to his surroundings and able to appreciate the peaceful atmosphere of the countryside. However, he is pre­judiced. Even though he has never actually been in a factory, he is convinced (as was, perhaps, to be expected from a young intellectual at the end of the nineteenth century) that a factory is a horrible place where the workers are exploited in terrible circumstances.

The factory site, described by the narrator, but focalized by Korolev, seems to confirm the latter’s prejudices. Everything is covered in a layer of grey dust and even the mill-owner’s house with its new coat of grey paint and the dusty lilac in the tiny front garden does not stand out from the rest (a subtle contrast with Korolev’s ideas about the “brute selfishness” of the factory owners). The doctor is met by Mrs. Ljalikova, the girl’s mother who is a shy uneducated woman, and by an elderly lady, whom Korolev assumes is the governess. From the latter’s rather incoherent words the doctor learns that Mrs. Ljalikova’s only daughter, Liza, had such violent heart palpitations that they feared for her life.

As they enter the patient’s room the daughter is described from Koro­lev’s perspective. She is “vzroslaja, bol’š aja, chorošego rosta, no nekrasivaja, pochožaja na mat’, s takimi že malen’kimi glazami i s širokoj, neumerenno razvitoj nižnej čast’ju lica, ne pričesannaja” (“fully grown, large, well-built, but plain and like her mother – the same small eyes, the same wide, outsize lower jaw – hair uncombed”). When Korolev takes hold of her hand he notices that it is large, cold and ugly. Apparently she is accustomed to being examined by doctors, because she is not ashamed to expose her bare shoulders and chest. The negative way in which Liza is described (from Korolev’s perspective) again suggests prejudice. Does Korolev view reality objectively? However, as a doctor he seems to be competent. He attributes the palpitations of the heart to a nervous condition and nothing in Čechov’s story refutes or undermines this diagnosis. He comforts the girl with some reassuring words.

Korolev’s words have an unexpected effect: the girl bursts into tears. By the light of the lamp just brought into the bedroom Korolev can now take a better look at her and his first impression of the girl changes completely. Instead of small eyes and a jutting lower jaw, probably suggested by his view of the mother, he now sees “mjagkoe stradal’českoe vyraženie, kotoroe bylo tak razumno i trogatel’no, i vsja ona kazalas’ emu strojnoj, ženstvennoj, prostoj” (“a gentle, suffering look so wise, so moving that she seemed all fem­inine grace and charm”). Liza suddenly becomes a real human being for him, not just a patient that has to be treated. She transforms into someone he wants to comfort and advise. The thought that strikes him: “time she got married” is, perhaps, not his official diagnosis of Liza’s ailment, but it seems to hit the nail on the head.

The scene in which Korolev and Liza are confronted with each other is important for the characterization of both protagonists and for their mutual relationship. Korolev’s altering impression of Liza illustrates that despite his prejudices he has an open mind. Moreover, he can be really kind and sympathetic towards others. What about the portrayal of Liza? The narrator’s statement that Korolev no longer notices her small eyes and jutting lower jaw does not mean that Korolev’s first impressions of her were entirely in­accurate. She is, in all probability, no beauty, but Korolev’s new view of her wise eyes and feminine charm change her image considerably.

The sudden change in Liza – she bursts into tears after the doctor’s kind words, which means that she does not consider him as one of the “usual” doctors – and the sudden change in Korolev’s idea of her sets a pattern of analogy between the doctor and his patient, which hints at the beginning of a possible relationship between them. However, the relationship will not mate­rialize. This is signalled by the fact that the doctor wants to go home as soon as he has finished talking to his patient – his work and family are waiting for him in Moscow. He only stays the night because Liza’s mother implores him to do so.

The description of what happens during the night adds new details to Korolev’s and Liza’s characterization. The house in which Liza lives again seems to confirm all Korolev’s prejudices about factory owners. The portraits in the drawing room, including a picture of Liza’s deceased father, are all of ugly, unattractive people. Korolev is irritated by the mindless luxury, that is also apparent when he has supper with the governess. Dreadful noises from the factory outside upset him and arouse unpleasant feelings in him.

After supper Korolev takes a walk around the factory grounds and for the second time the narrator elaborates on what Korolev always thinks when he sees a factory. Despite recent modernizations and better amenities, he cannot believe that the factory workers are any better off now than when he was a boy, because in his view factories will always be a kind of pestilence, a “nedorazumenie, pričina kotorogo byla tože nejasna i neustranima” (“a mystery of comparable vague and intractable antecedents”). In a mental ac­tion, Korolev compares a factory to a chronic disease and this calls to mind Liza’s illness suggesting (Liza is, after all, a representative of factory life) that she is incurable as well. She is incurable in the sense that although Korolev as a doctor can accurately diagnose her illness, he cannot restore her to health. This implies again that there will not be a lasting relation between Korolev and Liza (a lasting relationship being Liza’s only cure).

During his walk Korolev again hears the harsh, unpleasant sounds of the factory buildings, clanging bells that ring out to signal the passing hours. The impression is very strong: “kak budto sredi nočnoj tišiny izdavalo eti zvuki samo čudovišče s bagrovymi glazami, sam d’javol, kotoryj vladel tut i chozjaevami i rabočimi i obmanyval i tech i drugich” (“These sounds in the quiet of the night… they seemed to proceed from that monster with the blood-red eyes, that devil who ruled everyone around here – bosses and workers alike – deceiving one and all”). Korolev does not really believe in the devil, but imagines he sees him in two windows of a factory building behind which a fire is burning. He sees the devil as a mysterious controlling evil force that affects the weak and the strong alike and determines the relationships between people. Again, Korolev identifies something as “incur­able”. However, in this case it is not a disease or a social problem, but the universal problem of human relationships. And, again, this suggests that there will not be a lasting relationship between the doctor and Liza.

After returning to the mill-owner’s house around midnight, the doctor cannot sleep. In the night he hears a noise in the adjoining rooms and he decides to go and see his patient. He finds Liza sitting in a chair next to her bed and they talk candidly. Liza says that she does not think that she is ill, but that she is worried and afraid. She admits that she does not really need a doctor, but a friend who understands her. She feels Korolev could be such a friend: “[…] mne s pervogo vzgljada na vas počemu-to pokazalos’, čto s vami možno govorit’ obo vsem” (“[…] from the moment I saw you I’ve somehow felt I could talk to you about things”). Liza’s words and the twice repeated description of her sad and wise eyes emphasize that Liza is an intelligent woman. Again we can establish an analogy between Korolev and Liza. As for Korolev, life is a mystery for Liza and she feels the devil’s presence. The analogy is, as it were, “realized” by Korolev: he thinks that she has the same ideas as he does and is only waiting for him to confirm them. However, at this point the analogy changes into another type of opposition.¹⁸ In two passages, quite close to each other, the narrator emphasizes that Korolev feels that Liza shares his outlook. The narrator’s repetition of Koro­lev’s views and his silence about Liza’s view causes the reader to wonder: does Liza really share the doctor’s ideas? Korolev now says to Liza that he thinks that her illness is caused by the idea that she does not have any right to her position as a rich heiress. She suffers and cannot sleep because she is always struggling to decide whether this is right or wrong. Korolev is clearly projecting his own ideas about social inequality on Liza, whereas his first diagnosis, “time she got married”, is probably more accurate. However, Korolev fails to offer a solution for either of these problems that could be the cause of Liza’s illness. The social problem will, according to his idealistic conviction, be solved in the future (“Chorošaja budet žizn’ let cerez pjat’­desjat”; “Life will be good in fifty years’ time”), for the personal problem he cannot or will not take responsibility. Although he says at the end of their conversation that he is glad that he has met her and that he considers her a fine and interesting woman, he refuses to respond to her advances. Liza’s “knight in shining armour” has arrived but apparently does not want her. The following morning Liza bids Korolev farewell on the porch. “Оna smotrela na nego, kak včera, grustno i umno, ulybalas’, govorila i vse s takim vyrazeniem, kak budto chotela skazat’ emu čto-to osobennoe, važnoe, – tol’ko emu odnomu” (“She gazed at him sadly and wisely, as on the previous night, smiling and speaking with the same air of wanting to say something special, something vital, something for his ears only”). Kovalev goes home in an excellent mood, thinking about a future where life will continue to be as bright as the present sunny Sunday morning.

This short story, barely ten pages in all, gives hardly any background information about the characters, but is still able to communicate a fairly complete image of both characters. The young Moscow doctor is an idealist, which is probably why he has chosen his profession. He has an eye for social problems: the miserable situation of the workers in the factories and the inequalities between the weak and the strong in society. However, he cannot solve these problems; the factories are for him an “incurable disease” and relationships between the weak and the strong are determined by the invisible forces of evil. Nevertheless he believes in a better future. His idealism does not blind him to the problems of other people. He is compassionate and kind to the daughter of the mill-owner, he diagnoses her problem accurately and reassures her, but is unable to give her the right “medicine”.

Unlike the doctor, Liza does not have a social aim in her life. Her “incurable disease” is that she is lonely and does not know anyone whom she can trust and who understands her. She feels that Korolev would be able to help or “cure” her. However, he does not realize that she thinks he is the solution of her problem. Thus he throws away the chance (as the future husband of a mill-owner) to do something about the social problems of the factory workers. The solution of both problems, both “incurable diseases” is postponed to the future, whereas it is close at hand. Liza’s “wise eyes” are mentioned several times in the story, suggesting that after having met Korolev she has found a realistic solution to her problem. In contrast Koro­lev, although competent as a doctor, is not wise, but an idealist who is more concerned with ideas about the future than with real life.

In my discussion and interpretation of two “mimetic” characters from Cechov’s story ‘Slucaj iz praktiki’, I hope to have shown that Van der Eng’s narrative model is a good tool for the study and analysis of literary character. Motifs can be a part of a dispersive chain, but also of an integrational chain. In ‘Slucaj iz praktiki’ particularly, motifs of the setting are relevant for the characterization. Motifs of the characterization of the two protagonists form various types of opposition. At first analogies dominate: Liza and the doctor understand each other, for both of them life is a mystery, controlled by the devil. Later on the opposition changes into variation: they both hope to find a solution, he for the social problem, she for her personal problem. Korolev cannot solve the social problem, and does not solve Liza’s problem, although he could do so and probably thinks he has, not realizing that she wants something more down-to-earth than his rosy, idealistic picture of the future. People think they understand each other, but in fact they are thinking differ­ent things. This fundamental incomprehension certainly fits in with what Van der Eng has called “fundamental anthropological constituents”. Very impor­tant is the way the narrator controls and doses the information and the subtle changes of focalization between the narrator and the main protagonist, the doctor. Although the text is very easy and accessible¹⁹ (another feature of much “great” literature), the reader is expected to do a lot of work by filling in, inferring and interpreting in order to reconstruct the complex semantic structure.

NOTES

¹ The term is Doležel’s. Doležel distinguishes, in fact, four “blocks”, “the block of the story, the block of the characters, the block of the setting and the block of interpretations” (1972: 56). However, I agree with Van der Eng that the block of interpretations should not be considered a separate block, but “an integral part of the set of narrative attitudes”, which in his view “concernthe transmission of information: the intellectual and emotional attitude towards it and the extent of knowledge about it” (1978: 21-22). ² Van der Eng distinguishes “three correlated levels: the action, the characteri­zation and the social and geographical setting (the social milieu)” (1978: 33).
³Pioneering work was done by the French structuralists, Barthes (1966), Bremond (1964; 1966), Todorov (1966; 1969), Greimas (1966; 1974), who were inspired by Propp (1969 [1928]).
⁴Some well-known pioneering studies in these fields are Booth (1961) (narrator), Friedman (1955) (point of view), Genette (1972) (focalization) and Schmid (1973) (free indirect style).
⁵Narrative (2001) cannot avoid the word “character”, of course, but does not grant character a separate chapter or even sub-chapter, the headings in the first chapter being ‘Story, plot and narrative’, ‘Sequence’, ‘Space’, ‘Time’ and ‘Phylogeny and Ontogeny’.
⁶  The dominance of action over character goes, in fact, back to Aristotle’s Poetics.
⁷ Barthes (1970: 102).
⁸     E.g. Seymour Chatman: “Too often do we recall fictional characters vividly, yet not a single word of the text in which they came alive; indeed, I venture to say that readers generally remember characters that way. It is precisely the medium that ‘falls away into dimness and uncertainty,’ as Lubbock puts it (1964 [1921]: 4), though our memory of Clarissa Harlowe or Anna Karenina remains undimmed” (1978: 118).
⁹ See, for instance, Harvey (1965); Hochman (1985).
¹⁰ A fairly recent example is Paris (1997). Paris uses the theories of the psycho­analyst Karen Horney to analyse literary characters.
¹¹See especially Margolin (1987; 1989).
¹² An interesting semiotic model of character can be found in Fokkema (1991).
¹³ How motifs of the setting can have a great significance for the charac­terization Van der Eng shows in his analysis of Tynjanov’s story ‘Podporucik Kize’ (1983). For the “integration” of action and character see Margolin (1986).
¹⁴ The clearest exposition of Van der Eng’s theory can be found in Van der Eng (1978: 39-58).
¹⁵ The problem of the two approaches is clearly stated in Rimmon-Kenan (1983: 33).
¹⁶      “[…] one could regard this nonactual individual as a member of some nonactual, fictional state of affairs or world, within which it can be referred to, located in a space-time region, and possess human or humanlike properties and relations of the most diverse kinds: physical, behavioral, social, com­municative, and mental (psychological). Such a hypothetical being can also be endowed with inner states, knowledge and belief sets, memories, attitudes and intentions – that is, a consciousness, interiority or personhood” (Margolin 1990: 455).
¹⁷ I use the English translation by Ronald Hingley in The Oxford Chekhov IX(1975: 69-78).
¹⁸ In Van der Eng’s terminology this would probably be called a variation (Van der Eng 1978: 45).
¹⁹ For the accessibility of literary texts see Van der Eng (1977).

LITERATURE

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Chatman, Seymour
1978           Story and Discourse. Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca and London.
Cobley, Paul
2001           Narrative. London.
Dolezel, Lubomir
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