EIGHT
Now this non-employment of time-approved devices seems even the more remarkable when you consider how intensely Joseph Hergesheimer realizes the sensuous world of his characters and, in particular, the optic world. He is the most insistently superficial of all writers known to me, in his emphasis upon shapes and textures and pigments.
His people are rendered from complexion to coat-tail buttons, and the reader is given precisely the creasing of each forehead and the pleating of their under-linen. Mr. Hergesheimer’s books contain whole warehousefuls of the most carefully finished furniture in literature; and at quaint bric-à-brac he has no English equal. It is all visioned, moreover, very minutely. Joseph Hergesheimer makes you observe his chairs and panelings and wall-papers and window-curtains with an abnormal scrutiny. The scenery and the weather, too, are “done” quite as painstakingly, but these are indigenous to ordinary novels.
Now of course, like virtually every other practise of “realism,” this is untrue to life: nobody does in living regard adjacent objects as attentively as the reader of a Hergesheimer story is compelled to note them. For one, I cannot quite ignore this fact, even when I read with most delight: and I sometimes wonder if Mr. Hergesheimer premeditatedly sits down to study an andiron or a fan for literary use, or whether his personal existence is actually given over to this concentration upon externals and inanimate things. But he was once a painter; and large residuals of the put-by art survive.
All this results, of course, in a “style” to which the reader is never quite oblivious. The Hergesheimer dramas—dramas wherein each of the players has a slight touch of fever—are enacted, with a refining hint of remoteness, behind the pellucid crystal of this “style,” which sharpens outlines, and makes colors more telling than they appear to everyday observation, and brings out unsuspected details (seen now for the first time by the reader, with a pleasurable shock of delight), and just noticeably glazes all.
The Hergesheimerian panorama is, if I may plagiarize, a little truer than truth: and to turn from actual life to Joseph Hergesheimer’s pages arouses a sensation somewhat akin to that sustained by a myopic person when he puts on spectacles...
And thus is a quite inoffensive tropic town foredoomed to be a perennial source of disappointment to all tourists who have previously read San Cristóbal de la Habana,—that multi-colored sorcerous volume, with which we have here no immediate concern,—and who, being magic-haunted, will over-rashly bring to bear upon a duly incorporated city, thriftily engaged in the tobacco and liquor-business, their eyes unre-enforced.