John Bayley, in his introductory essay to Wings of the Dove, which I mentioned above, –and can be found on Google Books, — argues that Henry’s subject is consciousness (or “conscience”) itself, the incalculable and “deepest processes” of thought, and as such he was writing “a kind of poetry”. I would say that this is the figure, the ‘key’ that dots every “i” and places every comma — especially in the late fiction.

And an aside — does the banter of the socialites in Mora Montravers remind anyone else of Noel Coward? I need to read the story again, but that is a first impression. Another of Bayley’s points is to emphasize Henry’s use of dramatic/stage techniques in the late fiction.

I’d be happy to discuss these ideas with anyone — I’m at busirane at gmail.

Also – as for the humor and tone that are a large part of this story’s appeal – do I get it right that Lockesley is a fool for loving his painting studio that faces south? That art is easy to get wrong? That one can pose as an artist and miss the mark? That James, in his ambition, is aware of the possible folly in the whole adventure?

Ambiguity, the hallmark of James, makes its play in this story as well. Who is the victim in the Lockesley-Leary battle? “Among their friends and enemies there were a hundred explanations.” In fact, whether Miss Leary took up with another gentleman of very high expectations and thus betrayed Lockesley, or whether she merely demonstrated (in some other way) what appeared to be “overwhelming proof of the most mercenary spirit” is not clear. Lockesley says that Miss Blunt is “a puzzle.” One of the pleasures in James is the puzzles he presents the reader, puzzles that become ever more intricate, psychological, and philosophical, as time goes by.

Miss Blunt claims, “It has always seemed to me that [men] are arrant cowards, — that [women] alone are brave.” She had introduced that remark with a long treatise on how women seek out the rich, but men do not, finishing up with “That is, after all, the text of my sermon.” Appropriate language, in that they have both skipped church to have this tete-a-tete. The text of James’s sermon, though, is far more ambitious – it is that through fiction he can paint the landscape of human nature – its variety, its colors, its storms, and its appeal. But James wants to leave the didactic dogma out of it – with fiction, he has the freedom to paint a picture that is primarily a question. The reader is asked, “Where’s the truth here?” Or, is there more than one truth?

One of the pleasures of this early story is seeing James tell us, at 23, what he is doing, and what he has set out to do.

Looking forward to reading some more of your posts about our beloved Maître. It might interest you to know that a series of James’ stories have just been translated into German by Ingrid Rein (who also translated Wuthering Heights), grouped together under the title of Benvolio.

I went along to a reading of them and I have to say, I was most unimpressed: despite the beautiful quality of the translation and reading, James’ nuances were largely lost in German. The story in question (‘A Landscape Painter’) sounded, in a word, camp, particularly as a lot of this what a friend calls ‘tea-party’ English was left untranslated (‘Milord’, ‘Milady’ – I think that’s the case in French too).

All of which might go some way toward explaining why James is so little read and praised in Germany and in German – his success is bound up with that carefully modulated, ironic but not facetious, nigh on impossible to translate, style.

A good weekend!

James

I’ve been neglecting my James reading lately, having also decided to re-read Ulysses (and the books that talk about Ulysses). I should get back to the James and post a few more story summaries. I’ll try and do one or two this weekend.

I wish I could find a good copy if the Sargent portrait. I had a friend get me a copy from the National Portrait Gallery in London, but it’s very dark, and not very big. (For those interested, you can find it here.) Looking now, though, they have larger sizes that aren’t too expensive; maybe I should get one…

BTW, 15 shelves? Can you tell us some of the more interesting books about Henry that you have?

Yes, sensibility is, indeed, at the heart of Henry’s work. And looking as closely as I have at the first three stories has shown me that this is indeed present from the earliest works. I find it surprising that these early stories are sometimes derided; especially the third story, A Landscape Painter, which is, in my opinion, a minor masterpiece.

Thanks for sharing this journey with me.

Tedious, eh? I didn’t really think that myself, and having read both A Tragedy of Error and The Story of a Year today, with the awareness of all the James that I’ve read up until the end, I’m actually quite surprised by the consistency (within limits) of his technique, of the familiarity of images and methods. I’ll have more to say about that when I post about The Story of a Year, but even at the beginning, in this period derided by many, Henry was laying the signposts of what was to come. Not intentionally, of course, but the “germ” of the later Henry is visible in these early works.

“The young man’s movements, however, betrayed no consistency of attention — not even, for that matter, when one of his arrests had proceeded from possibilities in faces shaded, as they passed him on the pavement, by huge beribboned hats, or more delicately tinted still under the tense silk of parasols held at perverse angles in waiting victorias.”

Same image and diction, as if the Prince had been one one the bystanders in A Tragedy of Error whose attention had been arrested by the lady with the parasol in the carriage! I’m sure this parallel has been noted before, maybe by Kaplan or Leon Edel, but I don’t know it. There seems to be a lot of recurrence of images and “situations” in Henry James, which makes reading him so fun. You know, I thought at first that your starting at the very beginning of Henry would be tedious; now I’m not so sure! So thank you for that.

I find myself in the camp of those who point out the natural animosity between writers and critics as a starting point in my quest to pursue this question and I am reminded of my first inclinations as I finished the story – the book still warm in my hands. I think Vereker’s first words were right on the mark: he considered the writings of critics, and in all probability the critics themselves … “twaddle”. A writer’s creation is his child, and who among us has the patience to suffer their children to be manhandled by unfeeling strangers? Now, one would suppose Vereker was being truly sincere when he apologized to the narrator … but was he?

My first interpretation is the one which I hold to, that Vereker was playing a mildly malicious trick on the critic-narrator having first intuited that the narrator would spend enormous amounts of time and impatience to unravel the ‘secret’. One may assume that any critic who would be able to publicly get an affirmation from Vereker that he had found some underlying motif to his entire canon of work would be a made man in his profession, and therein lies the bait. It is suggestive, if this train of inquiry is valid, that Vereker would not want to inconvenience other innocent stander’s-by, thus, his request that their conversation be kept in strict secrecy. It is my contention that Corvick actually figured out what Vereker was up to and confronted him with his theory. Vereker, holding to to the dictates of honor, admits to Corvick that he is correct and now Corvick decides to have a bit of a go with the narrator as well by leaving him in suspense. Corvick dies but passes on ‘the secret’ to Gwendolyne, who was not particularly fond of the narrator as I recall, and she keeps the secret of the ploy to herself.

He is also the guy who is incapable of subtlety. His folks are menaced by overblown lumbering grotesqueries. Their feelings are whatever chunks of Standard American Reaction he thinks can be made to fit into the plot twist at hand. He is so very far from James, who was capable of imagining and describing the most complex reactions of the human heart*, that I’m tempted to think now that you were deluded when you initially said you were interested in his work. I’ve never seen a bigger example of biting off more than you can chew!

The bottom line is this. Sometimes high art makes us work… and it generally highly rewards us for doing so. Schlock, on the other hand, encourages us to veg out and let the cartoons unroll before our googely eyes. Afterwards, we tend to feel about like we’d just watched a whole season of “The Love Boat” on TV.

Looks like you’ve gone vegetative without a fight.

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*and James was also capable of producing works so precious that they do occasionally make us long to hire Stephen King to storm in and sweep away the teacups. Turning to GOOD James books is the better alternative, in my opinion.