That which especially reveals the author's standpoint is what Professor Saintsbury, in referring to this novel, has termed its "style saturated with epigrammatic quality; and of strange ironic persiflage permeating thought, picture, and expression." The persiflage appears, above all, in the speeches of the saturnine Adrian. As for the epigrams, their number is justified in part by supposing them to come from Sir Austin's collection entitled "The Pilgrim's Scrip." They abound, however, in the speech of others and in the narrative proper. Typical spicings of style are the following: "To anchor the heart by any object ere we have half traversed the world is youth's foolishness"; "It is difficult for those who think very earnestly for their children to know when their children are thinking on their own account"; "If immeasurable love were perfect wisdom, one human being might almost impersonate Providence to another"; "The ways of women, which are involution, and their practices, which are opposition, are generally best hit upon by guesswork and a bold word"; "The God of this world is in the machine, not out of it"; "Sentimentalism is a happy pastime and an important science to the timid, the idle, and the heartless; but a damning one to them who have anything to forfeit"; "The task of reclaiming a bad man is extremely seductive to good women. Dear to their tender hearts as old china is a bad man they are mending." Even illiterate Mrs. Berry talks in epigram, now on checked matrimony, which she holds to be as injurious as checked perspiration, and now on the wickedness of old people, which, she affirms, is the excuse for the wildness of young ones. "I think it's always the plan in a 'dielemmer,'" she says, "to pray God and walk forward." To Lucy, the bride, she gives this advice: "When the parlour fire gets low, put coals on the kitchen fire.... Don't neglect your cookery. Kissing don't last; cookery do."
Aside from its aphorisms, the style of Feverel is essentially clever, but by no means so artificial as that of Meredith's later novels. If a stage direction seem occasionally over-elaborate, as: "Adrian gesticulated an acquiesced withdrawal," others are felicitous, as: "At last Hippias perspired in conviction," or: "He set his sight hard at the blue ridges of the hills," or, of Ripton draining a bumper at a gulp: "The farthing rushlight of his reason leapt and expired. He tumbled to the sofa and there stretched." There are fine passages, too, of description, like those concerned with the boyish adventures of Richard and Ripton, the Ferdinand and Miranda meeting of hero and heroine, the temptation episode, and the storm in the German forest by night. "Up started the whole forest in violet fire. He saw the country at the foot of the hills to the bounding Rhine gleam, quiver, extinguished.... Lower down the abysses of air rolled the wrathful crash; then white thrusts of light were darted from the sky, and great curving ferns, seen steadfast in pallor a second, were supernaturally agitated and vanished. Then a shrilling song roused in the leaves and the herbage. Prolonged and louder it sounded, as deeper and heavier the deluge pressed. A mighty force of water satisfied the desire of the earth." Admirable, also, are the mere hints of background given in a flashing phrase that conjures up the scene: "Look at those old elm branches! How they seem to mix among the stars!—glittering prints of winter."
Taken all in all, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel may be reckoned as Meredith's masterpiece. "My old conviction grows stronger," writes Le Galliene, "that it will be Richard Feverel and perhaps no other of his novels ... that will keep his name alive in English literature." Certainly, Meredith has here allowed to his characters a charm of personality that later he tends to sacrifice in stressing their purely typical traits. He shows here a fire of sincerity rarely afterwards burning so brightly. He is less the mere essayist and more the lyric and dramatic tale-teller. He has set forth with skill the elements of a large problem, confirming the truth of Chesterton's remark that he combines subtlety with primal energy, and criticizes life without losing his appetite for it.
Frank Wadleigh Chandler.
University of Cincinnati.