Pattern and Rhythm
Our interludes, gay and grave, are over, and we return to the general scheme of the course. We began with the story, and having considered human beings, we proceeded to the plot which springs out of the story. Now we must consider something which springs mainly out of the plot, and to which the characters and any other element present also contribute. For this new aspect there appears to be no literary word—indeed the more the arts develop the more they depend on each other for definition. We will borrow from painting first and call it the pattern. Later we will borrow from music and call it rhythm. Unfortunately both these words are vague—when people apply rhythm or pattern to literature they are apt not to say what they mean and not to finish their sentences: it is, “Oh, but surely the rhythm …” or “Oh, but if you call that pattern …”
Before I discuss what pattern entails, and what qualities a reader must bring to its appreciation, I will give two examples of books with patterns so definite that a pictorial image sums them up: a book the shape of an hourglass and a book the shape of a grand chain in that old-time dance, the Lancers.
Thaïs , by Anatole France, is the shape of an hourglass.
There are two chief characters, Paphnuce the ascetic, Thaïs the courtesan. Paphnuce lives in the desert, he is saved and happy when the book starts. Thaïs leads a life of sin in Alexandria, and it is his duty to save her. In the central scene of the book they approach, he succeeds; she goes into a monastery and gains salvation, because she has met him, but he, because he has met her, is damned. The two characters converge,