Story: The Story of a Year
Published: 1865
Length: 16,300 words, 44 pages
Genre: life and love during wartime
Library of America volume: Complete Stories, 1864-1874
Etexts: The Henry James Scholar’s Guide to Web Sites, Project Gutenberg edition of the March, 1865, Atlantic Monthly
Henry begins The Story of a Year with this simple introduction:
My story begins as a great many stories have begun within the last three years, and indeed as a great many have ended; for, when the hero is despatched, does not the romance come to a stop?
This is then followed by a space, clearly setting the introduction off from the remainder of the story. Again, as in A Tragedy of Error, Henry puts himself forward, using first-person narration in this story, but, again, as in his first story, the narrator is not a character.
The “last three years” refers to the Civil War, which was to end a month after this story was published. Henry and his brother William did not fight in this war, but his other brothers Bob (Robertson) and Wilky (Wilkinson), did go off to fight. The smart brothers stayed home while the other two went to spill blood. Wilky was, in fact, seriously wounded during the war, while serving with the famous Massachusetts 54th, one of the first black infantry regiments in the war. This story may be Henry’s way of coming to terms with Wilky’s wounds and suffering. But it was also a way of writing a story that would resonate with the American world around him, after his first story which was set in France. And, perhaps, ever the market-savvy writer, it could be that Henry was writing about the zeitgeist in order to create a story that had a good chance of selling.
This story seems to be influenced by Hawthorne’s fables, at least in the beginning, with a tone that is much more florid than that of Henry’s first story, A Tragedy of Error. Here’s a long excerpt from the beginning of the story, that gives a good idea as to how Henry’s language is different:
They made their way up a long swelling mound, whose top commanded the sunset. The dim landscape which had been brightening all day to the green of spring was now darkening to the gray of evening. The lesser hills, the farms, the brooks, the fields, orchards, and woods, made a dusky gulf before the great splendor of the west. As Ford looked at the clouds, it seemed to him that their imagery was all of war, their great uneven masses were marshalled into the semblance of a battle. There were columns charging and columns flying and standards floating,—tatters of the reflected purple; and great captains on colossal horses, and a rolling canopy of cannon-smoke and fire and blood. The background of the clouds, indeed, was like a land on fire, or a battle-ground illumined by another sunset, a country of blackened villages and crimsoned pastures. The tumult of the clouds increased; it was hard to believe them inanimate. You might have fancied them an army of gigantic souls playing at football with the sun. They seemed to sway in confused splendor; the opposing squadrons bore each other down; and then suddenly they scattered, bowling with equal velocity towards north and south, and gradually fading into the pale evening sky. The purple pennons sailed away and sank out of sight, caught, doubtless, upon the brambles of the intervening plain. Day contracted itself into a fiery ball and vanished.
While there are hints of Henry’s future style, the prose here is overly Romantic; it’s overdone, full of adjectives, and, frankly, a bit mushy.

