trand of his plot to a certain point
in time, he is obliged to turn backward several days or weeks, or
possibly a longer period, to pick up another strand and carry
it forward to the same point in time at which he left the first.
Retrogression in time, therefore, is frequently not only permissible
but necessary. But it is only common-sensible to state that
chronological sequence should be sacrificed merely for the sake of
making clear the logical relation of events; and whenever juggling
with chronology tends to obscure instead of clarify that logical
relation, it is evidence of an error of judgment on the part of the
narrator. Turgenieff is often guilty of this error of judgment. He has
a disconcerting habit of bringing a new character into the scene which
stands for the moment before the eye of the reader, and then turning
the narrative backward several years in order to recount the past
life of the newcomer. Frequently, before this parenthetic recital is
completed, the reader has forgotten the scene from which the author
turned to the digression.

In most plots, as has been stated, the _nouement_ is more significant
than the _denouement_, and the causes leading to the tying of the
major knot are more interesting than the effects traced during the
process of untying it. This is the reason why the culmination is
usually set well along toward the conclusion of the story. Sometimes
even, when the major knot has been tied with a Gordian intricacy, the
author sets it at the very end of his narrative, and suddenly cuts it
instead of carefully untying it. But there is no absolutely necessary
reason why it should stand at the end, or, as is more frequently the
case, at a point about three quarters through the story. It may even
be set at the very beginning; and the narrative may concern itself
entirely with an elaborate _denouement_. This is the case, for
example, in the detective story, where a very intricate knot is
assumed at the outset, and the narrative proceeds to exhibit the
prowess of the detective-hero in untying it.

A well-constructed plot, like any other sort of well-articulated
pattern, is interesting in itself; and certain novels and
short-stories, like Wilkie Collins' "Moonstone" and Poe's "Murders in
the Rue Morgue," maintain their interest almost through the element of
plot alone. But since the purpose of fiction is to represent reality,
a story will fail of the highest effect unless the people acting in
i