Innocent : her fancy and his fact — Edition Insights
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The source record for Innocent : her fancy and his fact — Edition Insights measures this digital text at 130,972 words, 9 hr 30 min estimated reading time, and 12 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 17.0 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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- Description quality20 pts
- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
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Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.
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These were daintily shaped and characteristic of inbred refinement, and as they hung listlessly at her sides looked scarcely less white than the white cotton frock she wore. She turned presently with a movement of impatience away from the sight of the fussy and quarrelsome fowls, and looking up at the quaint gables of the farmhouse uttered a low, caressing call. A white dove flew down to her instantly, followed by another and yet another. She smiled and extended her arms, and a whole flock of the birds came fluttering about her in a whirl of wings, perching on her shoulders and alighting at her feet. One that seemed to enjoy a position of special favouritism, flew straight against her breast,--she caught it and held it there. It remained with her quite contentedly, while she stroked its velvety neck.
"Poor Cupid!" she murmured. "You love me, don't you? Oh yes, ever so much! Only you can't tell me so! I'm glad! You wouldn't be half so sweet if you could!"
She kissed the bird's soft head, and still stroking it scattered all the others around her by a slight gesture, and went, followed by a snowy cloud of them, through the archway into the garden beyond. Here there were flower-beds formally cut and arranged in the old-fashioned Dutch manner, full of sweet-smelling old-fashioned things, such as stocks and lupins, verbena and mignonette,--there were box-borders and clumps of saxifrage, fuchsias, and geraniums,--and roses that grew in every possible way that roses have ever grown, or can ever grow. The farmhouse fronted fully on this garden, and a magnificent "Glory" rose covered it from its deep black oaken porch to its highest gable, wreathing it with hundreds of pale golden balls of perfume. A real "old" rose it was, without any doubt of its own intrinsic worth and sweetness,--a rose before which the most highly trained hybrids might hang their heads for shame or wither away with envy, for the air around it was wholly perfumed with its honey-scented nectar, distilled from peaceful years upon years of sunbeams and stainless dew. The girl, still carrying her pet dove, walked slowly along the narrow gravelled paths that encircled the flower-beds and box-borders, till, reaching a low green door at the further end of the garden, she opened it and passed through into a newly mown field, where several lads and men were about busily employed in raking together the last swaths of a full crop of hay and adding them to the last waggon which stood in the centre of the ground, horseless, and piled to an almost toppling height. One young fellow, with a crimson silk tie knotted about his open shirt-collar, stood on top of the lofty fragrant load, fork in hand, tossing the additional heaps together as they were thrown up to him. The afternoon sun blazed burningly down on his uncovered head and bare brown arms, and as he shook and turned the hay with untiring energy, his movements were full of the easy grace and picturesqueness which are often the unconscious endowment of those whose labour keeps them daily in the fresh air. Occasional bursts of laughter and scraps of rough song came from the others at work, and there was only one absolutely quiet figure among them, that of an old man sitting on an upturned barrel which had been but recently emptied of its home-brewed beer, meditatively smoking a long clay pipe. He wore a smock frock and straw hat, and under the brim of the straw hat, which was well pulled down over his forehead, his filmy eyes gleamed with an alert watchfulness. He seemed to be counting every morsel of hay that was being added to the load and pricing it in his mind, but there was no actual expression of either pleasure or interest on his features. As the girl entered the field, and her gown made a gleam of white on the grass, he turned his head and looked at her, puffing hard at his pipe and watching her approach only a little less narrowly than he watched the piling up of the hay. When she drew sufficiently near him he spoke.
"Coming to ride home on last load?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure," she answered.
"It'll please Robin if you do," he said.
A little smile trembled on her lips. She bent her head over the dove she held against her bosom.
"Why should I please Robin?" she asked.
His dull eyes sparkled with a gleam of anger.
"Please Robin, please ME," he said, sharply--"Please yourself, please nobody."
"I do my best to please YOU, Dad!" she said, gently, yet with emphasis.
The novel opens with a long, winding description of an old by-road that 'went rambling down into a dell of deep green shadow,' personified as a 'reprobate' and 'vagrant' road that has 'wandered out of straight and even courses.' This elaborate scene-setting immediately establishes a world where nature is dense, fragrant, and almost sentient—primroses, violets, wild roses, and briony wreaths crowd the path. The road ends abruptly at a farmyard, a 'wide, clean brick-paved place' dominated by a cart-horse and fowls, contrasting the wild maze with ordered domesticity. This movement from tangled greenery to cleared farmyard foreshadows the novel's structural pattern of shifting between secluded rural spaces and more constrained urban settings.
The Old By-Road as a Structural Device
The opening paragraph does more than set a mood; it establishes a structural principle. The by-road is described as having 'nothing in common' with the surrounding pastures and ploughed fields—it is a separate, self-contained world. Its meandering path, 'sunken into itself,' creates a sense of enclosure and isolation. The road's abrupt termination at the farmyard, 'with a rough shock of surprise,' mirrors the way the narrative will later jolt characters from one environment to another. Corelli uses this road as a threshold: entering Briar Farm requires leaving the wild maze behind, just as later leaving the farm for London will require crossing another kind of boundary. The road's personification as a 'vagrant' and 'reprobate' also hints at the novel's interest in characters who are out of step with conventional paths.
Interiors as Mirrors of Character
When Innocent arrives at Miss Leigh's London house, the description of the drawing-room is carefully calibrated to reveal both the occupant and the visitor's perception. The room is 'very small but prettily arranged,' with French windows opening onto a 'tiny garden' and a lawn 'smooth as velvet.' The details—old miniatures, well-chosen engravings, a 'quaint china bowl' full of roses, and an ancient harpsichord serving as a stand for a portrait—suggest 'resigned poverty making the best of itself.' Innocent's observation that the room 'appealed to her taste in its extreme simplicity' indicates her own aesthetic sensibility. The portrait of a man's 'strikingly handsome face' with a 'stem of Madonna lilies' beside it introduces a note of mystery and foreshadows romantic entanglement. Corelli uses such interiors to externalize inner states: the careful arrangement of objects mirrors the careful arrangement of social roles.
The Problem of Naming and Identity
Upon arriving in London, Innocent faces a practical dilemma: she has 'no real name.' She rejects 'Jocelyn' as not her right, and considers 'Ena' as an abbreviation for Innocent. The surname she finally selects—Armitage, taken from the man who brought her to Briar Farm—is a deliberate choice, linking her to a past she barely knows. This moment of self-naming is a recurring motif in the novel, as characters are often defined by what they are called or what they call themselves. The old by-road, too, is nameless, described only by its function and character. Corelli uses naming as a way to explore the gap between 'fancy' and 'fact': Innocent's chosen name is a fiction she adopts, yet it carries the weight of her history. The scene in Miss Leigh's drawing-room, where Innocent mentally rehearses names while looking at the portrait, underscores the theme of identity as something both chosen and inherited.
Movement Between Worlds: Farm and City
The excerpts show two distinct settings: Briar Farm, with its Elizabethan timbered building and 'goodly company of promising fowls,' and Miss Leigh's London house, with its 'tiny garden' and 'well-kept blossoms.' The transition from one to the other is abrupt—the old road ends at the farm, and later Innocent arrives in London by cab, dismissed after payment. Corelli does not describe the journey; she leaves a gap. This structural ellipsis emphasizes the discontinuity between rural and urban life. At the farm, nature is abundant and unruly; in London, it is miniaturized and controlled. The farm's 'wild maze of beauty and fragrance' contrasts with the drawing-room's 'roses carefully arranged.' The novel's movement between these worlds is not just geographical but symbolic: each setting imposes different rules, and Innocent must navigate the shift from the open-ended possibilities of the by-road to the constrained choices of the city.
Readers attentive to Corelli's use of setting will notice how each location—the winding by-road, the farmyard, the London drawing-room—functions as a stage for the drama of identity. The novel's title, Innocent: Her Fancy and His Fact, suggests a central tension between imagination and reality, and the excerpts show this tension embedded in the very structure of the narrative. Pay attention to how characters move between spaces and how those spaces are described: the language of nature versus the language of artifice often signals whose perspective is dominant at any given moment.
It reminds me of leaving my grandmother’s orchard for the city—how the smell of cut grass faded into pavement heat. Reading about her quiet farm and that London noise, I remembered a winter evening with Stories of Red Hanrahan — Reading Companion, where old tales carried the same ache: the world’s hardness brushing against a soft, stubborn dream. Both books held that distance gently, without trying to close it.
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