But it is there, and it shows plainly enough in some novels,
where a personal narrator is given the same kind of task; and in
Meredith's book too, I think, it is not to be missed when one
considers what might have been, supposing Meredith had chosen another
way. The other way was open; he cannot have noticed it.
The young man Harry--this is the trouble--is only a recorder, a
picture-maker, so long as he speaks for himself. He is very well
placed for describing his world, which _needs_ somebody to describe
it; his world is much too big and complex to be shown scenically, in
those immediate terms I spoke of just now in connection with
Maupassant's story. Scenes of drama there may be from time to time,
there are plenty in Meredith's novel; but still on the whole the story
must be given as the view of an onlooker, and Harry is clearly the
onlooker indicated, the only possible one. That is certain; but then
there is laid upon him the task which is not laid, or barely at all,
upon Copperfield or Esmond. Before the book is out he must have grown
to ten times the weight that we dream of looking for in either of
them. He must be distinct to see; _he_ cannot remain a dim silhouette
against the window, the light must fall full upon his face. How can he
manage it? How can he give that sharp impression of himself that he
easily gives of his world? It is a query that he is in no position to
meet, for the impossible is asked of him.
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