It is
so indeed; but the interest of the matter lies in recognizing exactly
what it is that is gained, what it is that makes that look. Esmond
tells the story quite as Thackeray would; it all comes streaming out
as a pictorial evocation of old times; there is just as little that is
strictly dramatic in it as there is in Vanity Fair. Rarely, very
rarely indeed, is there anything that could be called a scene; there
is a long impression that creeps forward and forward, as Esmond
retraces his life, with those piercing moments of vision which we
remember so well. But to the other people in the book it makes all the
difference that the narrator is among them. Now, when Beatrix appears,
we know who it is that so sees her, and we know where the seer is
placed; his line of sight, striking across the book, from him the seer
to her the seen, is measurable, its angle is shown; it gives to
Beatrix a new dimension and a sharper relief. Can you remember any
moment in Vanity Fair when you beheld Becky as again and again you
behold Beatrix, catching the very slant of the light on her face?
Becky never suddenly flowered out against her background in that way;
some want of solidity and of objectivity there still is in Becky, and
there must be, because she is regarded from anywhere, from nowhere,
from somewhere in the surrounding void. Thackeray's language about her
does not carry the same weight as Esmond's about Beatrix, because
nobody knows where Thackeray is, or what his relation may be to Becky.
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