In these scenic dialogues, on the whole, we seem to have edged away
from Strether's consciousness. He sees, and we with him; but when he
_talks_ it is almost as though we were outside him and away from him
altogether. Not always, indeed; for in many of the scenes he is busily
brooding and thinking throughout, and we share his mind while he joins
in the talk. But still, on the whole, the author is inclined to leave
Strether alone when the scene is set. He talks the matter out with
Maria, he sits and talks with Madame de Vionnet, he strolls along the
boulevards with Chad, he lounges on a chair in the Champs Elysees with
some one else--we know the kind of scene that is set for Strether,
know how very few accessories he requires, and know that the scene
marks a certain definite climax, wherever it occurs, for all its
everyday look. The occasion is important, there is no doubt about
that; its importance is in the air. And Strether takes his part in it
as though he had almost become what he cannot be, an objective figure
for the reader. Evidently he cannot be that, since the centre of
vision is still within him; but by an easy sleight of hand the author
gives him almost the value of an independent person, a man to whose
words we may listen expectantly, a man whose mind is screened from us.
Again and again the stroke is accomplished, and indeed there is
nothing mysterious about it.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175