archetypal hieratic and clouded figure of Nora which Ibsen had dreamed
so piously, allowing, he said, memories of Egyptian sculpture to mingle
with his dreams.

My ancestor could not have understood the _Doll's House_ while he was
writing _A Drama in Muslin_, not even in Mr. Archer's translation; he
was too absorbed in his craft at that time, in observing and remembering
life, to be interested in moral ideas. And his portrait of Alice Barton
gives me much the same kind of pleasure as a good drawing. She keeps her
place in the story, moving through it with quiet dignity, commanding our
sympathy and respect always, and for her failure to excite our wonder
like Nora we may say that the author's design was a comedy, and that in
comedy the people are not and perhaps should not be above life size. But
why apologize for what needs no apology? Alice Barton is a creature of
conventions and prejudices, not her mother's but her own; so far she had
freed herself, and it may well be that none obtains a wider liberty. She
leaves her home with the dispensary doctor, who has bought a small
practice in Notting Hill, and the end seems a fulfilment of the
beginning. The author conducts her to the door of womanhood, and there
he leaves her with the joys and troubles, no doubt, of her new estate;
but with these he apparently does not consider himself to be concerned,
though he seems to have meditated at this time a sort of small _comédie
humaine_--small, for he must have known that he could not withstand the
strain of Balzac's shifts of fourteen hours. We are glad he was able to
conquer the temptation to imitate, yet we cannot forego a regret that he
did not turn to Violet Scully that was and look into the married life of
the Marchioness of Kilcamey--her grey intense eyes shining through a
grey veil, and her delightful thinness--her epicene bosom and long
thighs are the outward signs of a temper, constant perhaps, but not
narrow. He would have been able to discover an intrigue of an engaging