The Fortune Hunter — Context and Discussion

Theatrical Self-Fashioning and Narrative Distance

The narrator presents Feuerstein as a man who performs his own life. His entrance is staged: he "paraded down Second Avenue" in carefully chosen clothes, his hat set "with suspicious carelessness." The narrative voice adopts a tone of cool appraisal, noting that "not an article of his visible clothing had been paid for" and that his total cash is a dime. Yet Feuerstein feels like "a king in the midst of cringing subjects." This gap between his self-image and his circumstances is the novel's central irony. The narrator never condemns him directly; instead, the description of his borrowing two dollars from an admirer—and immediately forgetting the man—reveals a casual exploitation. The voice remains detached, letting the reader judge.

Shifts in Pacing: From Swagger to Stasis

The excerpts show two distinct rhythms. The opening chapter moves briskly, following Feuerstein through the streets, his encounter with Hartmann, and his internal monologue. Sentences are short, actions sequential. But when Feuerstein confronts Hilda in the park, the pace slows dramatically. The band plays "passionate love-music with sobs and sad ecstasies," and Feuerstein delivers a speech that rises and falls "as his words and the distant music prompted him." Hilda's responses are delayed, fragmented: "I—I don't know," she says. The narrator records her physical stillness and his irritation. This contrast—between his rehearsed performance and her genuine confusion—creates a tension that the faster-paced opening does not prepare for.

Voice as a Marker of Power and Vulnerability

Feuerstein's voice is consistently theatrical, even when he tries to sound sincere. He speaks in exclamations and rhetorical questions: "Would that I did not!" and "Ah, God, whenever was there man so wretched as I?" Hilda, by contrast, speaks plainly: "Your voice don't feel like it," she says. Her language is unadorned, her sentences short. The narrator notes that Feuerstein mutters "Little stupid!" under his breath, revealing his contempt. Yet when Hilda finally blazes out—"I hate you—hate you—you never cared"—her anger breaks through his script. The narrative voice records her transformation with precision: "she blazed out before his astonished eyes, a woman electric with disdain." For a moment, the power shifts.

Structural Repetition and the Unraveling Performance

The excerpts reveal a pattern: Feuerstein repeats phrases and gestures, as if following a script. He tells Hilda "my mysterious destiny" and she interrupts: "You said that before." His performance relies on stock lines—"a specter has risen from my past," "my heart is breaking"—but Hilda's responses grow more direct. The narrator tracks this unraveling. Feuerstein's satisfaction when she sobs is undercut by her sudden fury. The scene ends with him rising to leave, a gesture that has worked before, but Hilda now calls his bluff: "Oh, you put it on well." The narrative voice, which began by describing his swagger, ends by recording his retreat.

Readers attentive to narrative voice will notice how the novel's tone shifts between ironic distance and intimate scrutiny. Feuerstein is never fully condemned, but his performances are consistently exposed. The pacing—brisk in public scenes, languid in private ones—mirrors his own control and loss of it. Pay attention to the moments when the narrator steps back and lets a character's plain speech cut through the theatricality; those are the hinges of the story.

I remember sitting with Phillips’s Fortune Hunter and feeling how the stage-managed charm of Feuerstein left the women around him somehow raw, unguarded. It reminded me of a quiet afternoon years ago with The New Magdalen — Story, Setting & Ideas, where the mask slips and someone’s real self surfaces, unexpectedly tender. Both linger like a half-heard sigh.