Scissors — Story, Setting & Ideas

Diction of Discomfort and Distance

Roberts’s word choices in the opening pages create a persistent sense of chill and alienation. The spray is “cold,” the wind “cut through,” the gale blows from “the Russian Steppes.” The coast is glimpsed “through mists and clouds closing and parting.” These are not neutral descriptions; they build an atmosphere of exposure and uncertainty. The captain’s exclamation—“The Black Sea—ough!”—with its shudder, reinforces the idea that this is a place where language itself fails. Roberts avoids romanticizing the exotic; instead, he emphasizes the physical discomfort of travel and the strangeness of the landscape. The narrator’s tone is observational, almost clinical, yet the accumulation of sensory details—the surf-beaten shore, the mountainous barricade—gives the scene a palpable weight. This diction persists throughout the excerpts, grounding the reader in a world where even the promise of summer feels remote.

Dialogue as Character Revelation

The captain’s speech is a study in contrast: broken English, expressive gestures, and a superstitious dread that the Englishman, Charles Dean, meets with calm practicality. “I have business in Amasia,” Dean says, and the captain replies, “That is the illness of the English,—business.” The dialogue reveals not only the captain’s character—his fear, his longing for Vienna—but also the cultural gap between the pragmatic traveler and the local who knows the land’s dangers. Later, in the Vicarage scenes, dialogue shifts to a lighter, more ironic register. Miss Piggin tells John he has “sensitive nostrils and a perfect, but sensuous mouth.” John’s reply—“Not sensual?”—and her answer—“It might become that—yet”—show a flirtatious game played through words. Roberts uses dialogue to expose social maneuvering, self-awareness, and the gap between what characters say and what they feel.

Description of Domestic Spaces and Social Rituals

Roberts devotes careful attention to the routines and objects of domestic life, particularly in the Vicarage. Miss Piggin’s studio contains a gas ring for tea, an easel, and a chair where John sits until his neck aches. The description of the drawing sessions—how she “everlastingly” erased and redrew, how she studied his eyes and mouth—turns a simple artistic exercise into a prolonged, almost ritualistic encounter. The washing-up scene, with sleeves rolled up, is charged with unspoken desire: “she had hoped that he would fall fast asleep. She would just kiss his head.” Roberts does not state her feelings outright; instead, he shows them through small, precise actions—the thrill, the gratitude at being saved from foolishness. These domestic details anchor the novel’s emotional life, making the characters’ inner worlds tangible through their physical surroundings.

Narrative Voice and Ironic Distance

The narrator of Scissors maintains a cool, slightly amused tone that undercuts the characters’ earnestness. When Squilson becomes an artist and Slade drops him, the narrator notes dryly that Slade “gave away his works as wedding presents.” The description of Miss Piggin’s musical tastes—Bach, Scriabine—is followed by John’s limit at Debussy, with Stravinsky offering “a prospect of a new land where the animals were articulate.” The irony is gentle but persistent. The narrator also steps back to comment on Miss Piggin’s self-awareness: “she knew that fashion has given woman a good frame for an indifferent picture.” This narrative distance prevents the novel from becoming sentimental; it allows Roberts to present his characters with sympathy and detachment simultaneously. The voice is consistent, shaping the reader’s perception of events without moralizing.

Readers attentive to Roberts’s craft will notice how he builds character through small gestures and offhand remarks. The novel’s power lies not in dramatic plot turns but in the accumulation of telling details—a shudder, a rolled sleeve, a broken sentence. Approach Scissors as a study in the textures of youth and the spaces between what people say and what they mean.

Reading about Cecil Roberts’s layered narrative voice in Scissors, that wry observation of Miss Piggin’s self-regard, reminded me of something gentler and dafter. There’s a certain fondness for flawed characters that lingers there, much like the warmth I felt when I first met young Johnnie and his quiet mischief. I found myself smiling at that connection: Wee Johnnie Paterson, & other humorous sketches — Story, Setting & Ideas simply crossed my mind, and stayed there.