The Adventures of Harry Richmond by George Meredith (1871)

Well, the pleasure continues. I've spoken before about the joy of reading Meredith, which is of course not unalloyed. But it can easily still be a celebration, mainly of complex filtered expression. Where others would hammer the nails in, Meredith will often sit them in position for a few seconds and then direct the reader's attention elsewhere, expecting them to remember that quicksilver placement and count it fully as far as plot development goes. Or hint at the affixing by referring to it poetically, lending precedence instead to how someone felt about it, or looked to a bystander with other preoccupations. Here we have a return, after two errant pieces (at least in some senses), to the central mode. A wide-ranging story of the life of a young fellow of the mid-nineteenth century which, like Evan Harrington before it, owes some of its motive power to Meredith's own biography. Harry is a trusty fellow, a good lad, whose father has delusions of grandeur. We follow him through halcyon schooldays, growing into a species of the young blood, but with more than usual brains and sensitivity. This young man idolises his father, who is persona non grata at Riversley, a large house in the countryside where Harry has grown up. His father has, in the eyes of the squire, Harry's grandfather, been the destruction of his dead mother, the squire's daughter. And, for this reason, and for his profligacy with money, the squire despises Harry's father. Harry's father is a sleek charmer, always capable of bending opinion to his will and sympathies in his direction, mostly about his claim to a great fortune through his own wronged mother, whose circumstances are kept behind a discreet veil. The squire is a blustering eighteenth century character, frustrated by the seeming snake-oil he's being fed by Harry's father, but caring a great deal for Harry himself and wanting to keep him from the lowering he is sure his father will bring. Meredith's own father was apparently of a similar make; he is clearly working out through comedy the sense of discomfort this brings him, trying to lay it to rest, perhaps, but also registering the benefits it brings in terms of high tension undercurrents. This develops into what seems to be a great love story via the reconnection Harry effects with his father, and an extended visit by them to a small principality in Germany. Harry falls for the princess, Ottilia, a fact which his father jumps on in order to try to advance his egotistical scheme of social exaltation to his just deserts. We travel through sea voyages, mysterious machinations among London solicitors, adventures on the political hustings, interludes with gypsies, reverses and aggrandizations of fortune and friendship along the way. At the end, Harry's father takes a step too far in a time of heightened tension on the Isle of Wight, a gentle deception is revealed, and all falls down. This acts as a clarifier to Harry, who recognizes that his heart is elsewhere. His real beloved is by now betrothed to someone else, long having given up on him. The pain this causes sees him escape on another sea journey, only to discover on his return that the marriage never happened, her lover was false, and the two are finally free for each other. Though this does have some irritations, which would not be unfamiliar to seasoned Meredithians, like very hidebound ideas of the value of Britishness and its almost supernatural inherent superiority, particularly as associated with the Britannia-like British female at her best, it is still joyfully comic and richly erudite. It also allows the mind to sink into subtleties of expression which, for all the patience they require, reward readers with rare flavours which exalt their palates.