ediate 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. He is expected to lend us
his eyes (which he does), and yet at the same time to present himself
for us to behold with our own; the subject of his story requires no
less.

It is not merely a matter of seeing his personal aspect and address;
these are readily given by implication. When we have watched for a
while the behaviour of the people round him, and have heard something
of his experience and of the way in which he fared in the world, we
shall very well know what he was like to meet, what others saw in him.
There is no difficulty here. But Harry needs a great deal more
substance than this, if his story is to be rightly understood. What it
was like to _be_ Harry, with all that action and reaction of character
and fortune proceeding within him--that is the question, the chief
question; and since it is the most important affair in the book, it
should obviously be rendered as solidly as possible, by the most
emphatic method that the author can command. But Harry, speaking of
himself, can only report; he can only recall the past and _tell_ us
what he was, only _describe_ his emotion; and he may describe very
vividly, and he does, but it would necessarily be more convincing if
we could get behind his description and judge for ourselves. Drama we
want, always drama, for the central, essential, paramount affair,
whatever it is; Harry's consciousness ought to be dramatized.
Something is lost if it is represented solely by his account of it.
Meredith may enable Harry to give an account so brilliant that the
defect is forgotten; that is not the point. But could he have done
more? I think so