The Inner Flame: A Novel — A Closer Reading

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In Category - Classic Romance

Authors: Burnham, Clara Louise, 1854-1927, Lowell, Orson, 1871-1956 [Illustrator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2016 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Love stories; Young men -- Fiction; Painters -- Fiction; Mining engineers -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 97,142

Reading time 423 min

Text sections 30

For The Inner Flame: A Novel — A Closer Reading, the stored edition analysis reports 97,142 words, 7 hr 3 min estimated reading time, and 30 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 12.4 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 “Love stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #52240

In Clara Louise Burnham's 1912 novel, a painter and a mining engineer cross paths in a story that contrasts mountain isolation with coastal island life. The excerpts reveal sharp domestic dialogue and a focus on character friction rather than romantic plot development.

Editorial Edition Score 4.9/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

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.

Edition quality

File: pg52240

Read the Text

Phil had slipped off the damp coat, and his arm in its striped linen sleeve was thrown around his mother's shoulders.

The visitor's eyes filled with something like envy. Kathleen and Edgar were her step-children, the boy had been five years of age when she began to be, to use her own declaration, the best stepmother in the world. Edgar would never think of reading his letters with her in this frankly affectionate attitude. Must one live on a mountain-top, she wondered, to win the sort of look she had seen in this son's eyes?

"I've been showing your Aunt Isabel your sketches, Phil," said Mrs. Sidney, holding open a letter they had just read. "I told her about the Denver paper. This is another offer from them, Isabel, an increased offer."

"I'm sure that's very flattering," returned Mrs. Fabian.

Phil did not speak. His straight brows were knit in perplexity, and his lips were set in the look of longing that his mother knew.

"I don't know this writing from New York," said Mrs. Sidney, opening the next letter.

Glancing over it she gave a startled exclamation.

"Whew!" breathed the boy, reading over her shoulder. "Poor Aunt Mary!"

"Isabel, Aunt Mary has gone!" exclaimed Mrs. Sidney.

"What! I didn't know she was ill. She wasn't ill. Who is there to attend to things? Who wrote you?"

"Eliza Brewster. This is from her. It was very sudden. She had been at work at her easel an hour before. How sad it seems! How lonely! I wish we had both been there, Isabel. There is the letter." Phil took it across to Mrs. Fabian. "You see. She was buried day before yesterday. Oh, I'm glad we had that little interchange in the summer. Eliza loves her, but, after all, she is not her own."

Phil mechanically opened another letter. His thoughts were with that unknown relative with cravings like to his, working through the gathering years toward a goal which had ever retreated before her. He unfolded a business letter. It enclosed a small sealed envelope addressed to himself in another handwriting.

"Aunt Mary's!" said his mother. The son's arm was again around her as with heads close together they perused the following:--

MY DEAR GRAND-NEPHEW, PHILIP SIDNEY:--

When you open this letter, I shall have gone to a world where surely I shall be permitted to come nearer to the source of beauty.

My family all consider me a failure. I know it. They have laughed at my poor efforts. I know it; but since your mother wrote to me a month ago, sending me your sketches and telling me your longings, I have felt that out in the free Western country, there lives one with my blood in his veins, who will understand the thirst that has led me on, and nerved me to untiring effort--that has made it my only hope of happiness to live as I have lived, and work as I have worked. He will also understand, perhaps, that few as my rewards have been, I have occasionally felt that some beauty has crept through my brain and been fixed to the canvas, and that such moments have given me the highest bliss this world could bestow.

For a month, then, I have taken comfort in my artist-boy, no matter if you are known to others as an engineer. I have kept on my easel the photograph your mother sent me, and every day while I work, I look from time to time into your eyes, your mother's lovely eyes. I rejoice in your thick hair, and your splendid chin and firm, full-curved mouth. It isn't often that a head wanders from the Louvre and becomes set on a pair of modern shoulders. I, the old woman, peering through her spectacles, and painting with a hand that is often far from steady, have found a joy in studying the harmony of your promise. You have my blood in your veins, but you will succeed where I have failed. A happy failure, Philip. Don't feel sad for me. I've had moments of joy that no one knew. No one took the trouble to know; but nobody is to blame. Lives are very full in these rushing days.

I believe in you, and I long for you to get started toward that land where you fain would be. Your mother says that the door hasn't opened yet. Looking into your young eyes, a great thought came to me. Supposing I, the ineffectual, could set that door ajar! With the thought came the first great regret for my poverty. Never mind, thought I stoutly; if I can set that door a wee bit open, his young strength can do the rest!

Continue Reading →

The opening chapter, 'A November Night,' immediately establishes a remote mountain cabin as the setting, with two women—Mary Sidney and her corseted cousin Isabel Fabian—waiting out a storm. The wind is described as 'roaring' and 'shrieking,' and the dialogue quickly reveals a tension between Isabel's urban discomfort and Mary's calm rootedness: 'Like a lichen on a rock,' Mary says of her anchorage. This early contrast between the domesticated and the wild, the visitor and the resident, sets a pattern for the novel's social dynamics.

The catalog subjects list 'Young men -- Fiction; Painters -- Fiction; Mining engineers -- Fiction,' yet the excerpts focus far more on female characters and their domestic negotiations. The painter and engineer appear only obliquely—the painter is mentioned as a 'big Western artist' who has 'fallen into their family circle,' and the engineer is implied by the mine visit that stranded Isabel. The novel's actual emphasis, based on these passages, seems to be on the women who manage households and relationships, not on the men's professions.

Domestic Friction and Island Life

The excerpts from Chapter XV, 'June,' shift the setting to an island and introduce Eliza Brewster, a sharp-tongued housekeeper who resents the lazy Mr. Wright. Her dialogue with Captain James is full of vinegar: 'It's been my lot in life, James, to live with angels,' she says, adding 'Can you tell me why I should be just as cantankerous as ever?' This is not a romance of grand passions but a comedy of domestic irritation. Eliza's fierce independence and her observation that Mrs. Wright is 'chipper as a canary bird' despite her husband's idleness suggest that the novel's interest lies in how women adapt to—and subtly control—their domestic spheres.

The island setting itself becomes a character: Eliza speaks of 'native air' and the healing effect of returning to her birthplace. Captain James's banter about 'original sin' and 'native air' shows that the novel uses local color not just as backdrop but as a lens for character. The excerpts do not reveal any romantic plot between the painter and the engineer; instead, they present a world of small, daily conflicts and alliances.

The Painter and the Engineer: Peripheral Figures

Despite the catalog subjects, the painter and mining engineer remain shadowy in the provided text. The painter is referenced only once, as 'the big Western artist' whom Edgar Fabian spoke of 'patronizingly.' The engineer is never named in the excerpts; his presence is inferred from the mine visit that opens the novel. This discrepancy between catalog and text suggests that the novel may use these professions as social markers rather than as drivers of plot.

The excerpts instead foreground the women: Mary Sidney, Isabel Fabian, Eliza Brewster, and a character named Violet who wonders 'whether her mental disturbance was more resentment toward the artist, or hurt that Edgar Fabian should declare that he had been bored at the island.' The men—the artist, the engineer, the lazy Mr. Wright—are discussed, judged, and managed by the women. The novel's 'inner flame' may refer to the quiet, persistent agency of its female characters rather than to any romantic fire.

Voice and Structure: Dialogue as Revelation

Burnham's prose relies heavily on dialogue to convey character and conflict. In the opening, Isabel's exclamation 'Mercy, Mary!' and her fear of the wind contrast with Mary's amused calm. The dialogue is naturalistic, with interruptions and asides: 'Do you think we must stay all night?' demurred the visitor. The narrative voice is spare, letting speech carry the weight.

In the island section, Eliza's dialogue is particularly vivid: 'Supposin' I'd come back to this island alone.' Her speech is colloquial and rhythmic, with a sharp edge. Captain James's replies are laconic and teasing. The structure of these scenes—two characters talking while performing domestic tasks—suggests that the novel builds its drama through conversation rather than action. The excerpts contain no dramatic events, only the slow revelation of personalities through their words. This technique rewards readers who attend to tone and subtext.

Readers approaching The Inner Flame should set aside expectations of a conventional romance between a painter and an engineer. The excerpts suggest a novel more interested in the social dynamics of women in domestic settings—mountain cabins and island cottages—than in the professional lives of its male characters. Pay attention to the dialogue, especially the tart exchanges of secondary characters like Eliza Brewster, who may provide the novel's real energy. The 'inner flame' may burn brightest in the quiet resistance of its female voices.

That rainy afternoon, The Inner Flame lingered in my hands long after the last page, its quiet domestic friction settling like a warm weight. The painter and engineer never quite softened toward each other, and I found that honesty more comforting than any romance. Later, browsing, I stumbled upon Katharine Frensham: A Novel — Edition Insights, sensing the same unhurried attention to human stubbornness. Some books simply hold their characters at arm’s length, and that distance felt like company.