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THE HOUSE 0F iRONY:
A STUDY OF ERONY EN HENRY JAMES

Thesis for the Degree of Ph. D.
MECHEGA‘R‘ STAR UNEVERSETY
ARM SALNE BRYLCWSM
1987

THESIS

 

This is to certify that the .
thesis entitled

THE HOUSE OF IRONY:
A STUDY OF IRONY IN HENRY JAMES

presented by

Anna Salne Brylowski :

has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

Doctoral degree English

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ABSTRACT
THE HOUSE OF IRONY:
A STUDY OF IRONY IN HENRY JAMES
by

Anna Salne Brylowski

Irony is an integral part of the art of Henry James; it lies
behind his craft, marks his selection of material and his own attitude
toward life.

Irony involves several simultaneous perceptions of discordant
views of the same subject. Since James, according to his critical
writings, views a world in which reality has "myriad forms, " not just
one objectively reliable appearance, his whole attitude can be called
ironic. His world is filled with ambiguities and incongruity of things,
and he sees and projects in his work these subjective, discordant
"realities, " while behind them he or his heroes catch, now and then,

a glimpse of some better world than the existing one. His is the

ironic temper which sees that beyond man's aspirations there is always
a still higher unattainable level of knowledge, in light of which these
aspirations must remain in some way frustrated. To attain this ironic
knowledge, the author transcends the incongruities of life and views
them all impartially, himself perhaps included in the ironic vision.

Once he has achieved such a mental attitude, he strives to give shape to

his vision through his narrative techniques which can also be called ironic.

 

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ANNA SALNE BR YLOWSKI

A finished literary work of James becomes, according to
his own metaphor, a multi-windowed structure which holds as many
viewers as there are windows, each observer having a somewhat
different idea of the field outside. The field represents the human
scene or the novelist's subject, and the sum of the different possible
views of it makes up the consciousness of the artist. In composing his
novels, James divides his manifold consciousness among the charac-
ters of his story. These are his ”reflectors" of the human scene rest-
ing in the consciousness of the novelist. They are arranged according
to a scale of awareness from his most limited perceivers of a given
situation to the ”most polished of possible mirrors" who are placed
"right in the middle of the light" and thus correSpond closely to the
all-inclusive intelligence of the novelist himself. Behind this central
intelligence one perceives the hidden or implied author who listens to
and "appreciates" the whole and whose knowledge the ideal reader
eventually shares. This narrative structure constitutes the main
feature of James' ironic method. Next to the ”reflectors, ” he employs
recurrent images and symbols for ironic purposes, and, especially in
his earlier works, secures irony of tone through the author's omniscient
presence in the story. At times, the total shape of his novel may stress
the ironic through Special selection and grouping of scenes, of recurrent

themes or of any larger structural entities.

ANNA SALNE BR YLOWSKI

This study follows James the ironist from his earlier works
toward the mature achievements of his craft, watching the directions
his ironic vision takes and weighing the technical means at his
command in different stages of his career as to their adequacy in
projecting this vision. In the first chapter two early works,
Washington Square and “Madame de Mauves" are tested as foreshadow-

ing the ironic vision and techniques of the mature James. The Portrait

 

of a Lady is discussed for its tragic irony in Chapter 2. Chapter 3
touches upon the ironic ambiguities of the artistic consciousness with
”The Aspern Papers” as an example. In Chapter 4 "What Maisie Knew"

and The Awkward Age are examined for the satiric side of James' irony.

 

The last chapter is devoted to The Ambassadors, the high point of James'

 

ironic vision and techniques. While the author's earlier works end with
a sense of ironic discord, and the reader views a human scene ofbondage

and frustrations, Lambert Strether in The Ambassadors transcends the

 

frustrations brought about by his ironic illumination of the world and
reaches a harmonizing attitude which can be called "a high irony of

compassion. "

THE HOUSE OF IRONY:
A STUDY OF IRONY IN HENRY JAMES
by

Anna Salne B rylowski

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
Department of English

1967

Cq§437
3«fi-é§

CjCopyright by
ANNA SALNE BR YLOWSKI

1968

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank the Chairman of my Graduate Committee,
Professor Clyde E. Henson, for his generous assistance and
encouragement offered me during the preparation of this
dissertation. I also wish to thank the members of my Committee,
Professor C. David Mead and Professor James D. Rust, for
reading the manuscript and for helpful suggestions. I greatly
appreciated the untiring assistance of Mrs. Ursula Christian,
who undertook the typing of the manuscript. Last, but not least,
I thank my husband for giving time he could ill afford to proof-

reading of the manuscript.

ii

CONTENTS

ChapterI ............ . ....... .................

Two Early Works: Washington Square and
”Madame de Mauves"

 

Chapter H . . . ......................................
The Portrait of a Lady: Tragic Irony

Chapter III ........................................
"The Aspern Papers”: Irony and the Artist

Chapter IV ................ . ................... . . . .
Maisie and Nanda: The Troublesome Face of Truth

(James ' Satiric Irony)

ChapterV ......... . ........ ..............
Epilogue: Lambert Strether, Master of the Ironic Vision

Conclusion ............... . ...............

Bibliography ........................................

iii

Page

iv

31

89

194

248

353

393

401

Ill Ill} | I! I

 

The House of Irony:

A Study of Irony in Henry James

Preface

The term "irony" is highly respected as well as suspected
in modern criticism. Any recent critical work is likely to have a
generous sprinkling of ”ironic modes, " "ironic observers, "
"ironic disparities between art and reality" and similar expressions.
The fascination with irony has led some critics to far-reaching
conclusions. Thus R. W. B. Lewis contends that
the quality of anything like a genuine and enduring fiction
[can] not help being 'ironic': in the sense that all genuine
fiction is, by nature, ironic. For fiction, whether comic
or tragic, dramatizes the interplay of compelling opposites:
the real peeping around the corner of the illusory, or the
real exploding in the midst of the apparent, in whatever
terms of manners, psychology, or sheer picaresque adventure

the novelist has seized upon.

Similarly, Robert Boies Sharpe in Irony in the Drama sees the

 

drama as an ironic art and goes on to make the generalization that in

all artistic appreciation there is irony ”because of the nature-art

1The American Adam: Innocence, Tragedj and Tradition in
the Nineteenth Century (Chicago, 1959), p. 91.

 

iv

contradiction-synthesis. "3 There is also the well known position
of Cleanth Brooks who regards the poet's language as a language
of paradox, hence involving irony. And he feels that to evaluate a
poem means to "raise the question as to whether the statement
grows properly out of a context; whether it acknowledges the pres-
sures of the context; whether it is 'ironical'--or merely callow,
glib, and sentimental. "3

From such statements as these it would appear that talking
about the literary or other arts today means pointing out that they
are in one way or another "ironic. " If so, many a critic may find
himself in a frustrating situation, and we may sympathise with R. S.
Crane when (with Cleanth Brooks in mind, in particular) he exclaims
in despair: "Why then, all the to-do about 'irony' in poetry? Why
not look for 'irony' everywhere? For, if we look, it will assuredly
be found. ”4

At this point some dispassionate investigation as to what has

happened to the term “irony” since its rather spectacular entrance

 

2Irony in the Drama: An Essay on Impersonation, Shock, and
Catharsis (Chapel Hill, 1959), p. xii.

 

3"Irony and 'Ironic' Poetry, " College English, Vol. 9, No. 5
(Feb. 1948), p. 234.

4”Cleanth Brooks; or the Bankruptcy of Critical Monism, "
MP, XLV (May, 1948), p. 241.

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into modern criticism seems to be in order. It suffices to refer
again to the three scholars at hand to see that an expansion of mean-
ing has taken place. In Mr. Brooks' application, irony means some-
thing like "the pressure of the context" within a poem, while Lewis
and Sharpe view the arts versus reality as being "ironic" thus trying
to solve some philOSOphical questions as to the nature of art with the
aid of ”irony. " The modern apologists for irony admit readily that
"critical concepts of irony have vastly broadened. "5 Brooks justifies
such broadening by maintaining that ”it has. been almost the only term

available by which to point to a general important aSpect of poetry. "6

Many scholars come up with the same complaint-~shortage

of available critical terms. Much of NorthrOp Frye's Anatomy of

 

Criticism is concerned with creating new critical terms or adapting
available terms to new critical uses. "Irony” has not escaped

Frye's attention in this respect, and a check into the Anatomy

 

reveals that "irony" here has come to designate one of Frye's "four

narrative pre-generic elements of literature” which he decides to

 

5Sharpe, p. 27.

6

”Irony as a Principle of Structure, " in Literary Opinion in
America, ed. Morton D. Zabel, Vol. II (New York, 1962), p. 732.

 

vi

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call "mythoi or generic plots. "7 His mythos of irony and satire
eventually comes to mean the literature of the actual as Opposed

to the literature of the ideal or romance and as such ”attempts to
give form to the shifting ambiguities and complexities of unidealized
existence. "8 Even if this mythos borders on the mythos of tragedy,
”in irony, as distinct from tragedy, the wheel of time completely
encloses the action, and there is no sense of an original contact with

9

a relatively timeless world. ” In other words, tragedy measures
its heroes against some preconceived universal law; irony does not
go beyond the world of human experience in time.

We might conclude that "irony" is here to stay since it has
proved to be extremely useful in the modern critical vocabulary and
apparently lends itself easily to broadening in meaning. The reason
for such flexibility may be found in the nature of the term. The
shortest way to define "irony" perhaps is to say that it involves
several simultaneous perceptions of discordant views of the same

object. For example, experiencing a work of literature is not the

same as experiencing life directly; yet a literary work reflects

7Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, 1957),
p. 162.

 

81bid., p. 223.

91bid., p. 214.

‘vii

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life, hence we a

life but an iniag.

 

life, hence we are dealing with life which at the same time is not

life but an imaginary perception of it. The whole artistic experience
may be called, therefore, ironic. In a similar sense Sharpe talks
about the art of the actor as being ironic: the actor obviously is

not the person whose life he acts out on the stage, yet his acting skill
creates the illusion that he is. The greater his art, the more readily
his interpretation of a given character is accepted as valid by the

audience who at the same time ironically perceive the distance between

 

the actor as a man and his creation. Here "irony" has helped to
define the limits of reality versus artistic creation. When dealing
with modes of literary creation, Frye found the same term more
applicable to a mode of literary expression that had been lumped
under "realism" in earlier critical texts. The "shifting ambiguities
and complexities of unidealized existence" which Frye's ironic mode
includes point to a possibility of a simultaneous perception of dis-
cordant truths, hence his term ”ironic" is justified.

It appears then that many of the things with which literary
criticism deals may be called ”ironic'l because of some implied
discord in their very nature. Since it is an old, well worn term, most
people have some idea of its meaning and therefore have little trouble
following through the newer, broadened application of it in modern

criticism. It can be said in defense of the ”ironists" in modern

viii

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criticism that they have been economical: they have used a term
already in existence instead of straining themselves to coin new
ones.

So far we have been dealing with ”irony'I as a pOpular term
in modern literary criticism. Even though the term has been
successfully applied in dealing with works of modern as well as of
older times, it is our own age that has often been called the Ironic
Age, because of our prevalent attitudes toward life. These atti-
tudes have inescapably. colored our literary works. With the rise
of the sciences and psychology, we have become sceptical of uni-
versal truth; our habits of thinking have changed. Our literature
reflects these changes. Robert Langbaum in his study of the
dramatic monologue notes that our scientific habits of thinking are
accountable for the creation of the dramatic monologue in its present

form. We are dealing here, he thinks, ”with empiricism in litera-

ture. H10 The poet's aim here is not to come up with a moral
judgment but rather to understand everything for its own sake:
"We might . . . say that the dramatic monolOgue takes toward its

material the literary equivalent of the scientific attitude--the

 

10The Poetry of Experience: The Dramatic Monologue in
Modern Literary Tradition (New York, 1957), p. 96.

 

 

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equivalent being, where men and women are the subject of investi-
gation, the historicizing and psychologizing of judgment. ”11
Langbaum's statements are conclusive for much of modern literature
outside of his specific interest in the dramatic monologue. At the end
of his study he implies as much:
. . our ability to read dramatic monologues depends on

the modern habit of allowing the literary work to establish

its own mor‘al judgments. The habit is, indeed, necessary

for reading modern literature where we can never know

what the moral judgments are going to be, but it would have

surprised our ancestors who expected to find, at least in
their dramatic literature, Truth rather than points of view.

12
With Langbaum's statement we touch upon three closely related
concerns of this study: the temper of our times, the temper of the
literature of these times and the reading habits that intelligent appre-
ciation of this literature has brought about. All three can be said to
be ”ironic” in nature, hence our interest in them. If we are sceptical
about Universals in our daily lives, if we tend to admit that more than
one view of the same thing is probable, then we become ironic viewers.
Writers who deal in these various points of view become ironists as
literary creators, and the readers learn to allow "the literary work

to establish its own moral judgments" without insisting upon the author's

giving them a final conclusive one, hence they have a stake in irony too.

 

11Langbaum, p. 96.

121bid., p. 159.

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In fact, the modern reader seems to insist that there be irony in
a literary work; we are trained now to expect it as a sign of artistic
sophistication. Ortega Y Gas set thought it doubtful "that any young
person of our time can be impressed by a poem, a painting, or a

piece of music that is not flavored with a dash of irony. ”13

Wayne
C. Booth in The Rhetoric of Fiction supports this conclusion as far
as the readers of the novel are concerned. He even thinks that some
disservice has been done to the reader--he ”has been thrown off

balance by a barrage of ironic works, ”14

and now can't accept a
straight and simple statement when he reads one.

kThe ironic artist, namely, the modern novelist, as has
been already noted, presents points of view rather than universally
accepted truths. This statement says something about the writer's
attitudes toward life and his technique of writing at the same time.
One brings about the other. In times when people share firmly
established beliefs about their visible and invisible world, they think
of their art as an imitation of an objective reality. When they inhabit

an uncertain world with constantly shifting perspectives, their art

cannot be said to imitate such a reality but is rather a meditation on

 

l3’The Dehumanization of Art and Other Writings on Art and
Culture (Garden City, 1956), p. 45.

14Chicago, 1961, p. 366.

life as seen from different, often contradictory points of view. Each
attitude toward life and art demands different techniques of presen-

tation. The stories Spenser tells in The Fairie Queene can employ

 

traditional Christian symbolism which his audience understands and
accepts. An age of religious scepticism brings about a breakdown
of such commonly accepted symbolism. If a novelist attempts now
to deal with symbols at all, they are likely to become private in
nature and as such not easily transmittable to the reader. This
novelist ”no longer has an established form to discipline his inchoate

”15 He is reluctant to be omniscient, to

definitions of experience.
enter freely the minds of his creatures, but remains impersonal
behind the scene, letting the characters enact their points of view as
if on the stage in a drama.

The points of view created by this dramatic method will by
necessity be limited, each view being "distorted by the viewer's
ignorance, psychological partiality, lack of sensitivity and the in-
evitable muddlement of human affairs. "16 Since the author does not

enter his work directly, the ”meaning" of it is largely left for the

reader himself to gather from the indirect implications the author

15Earl H. Rovit, "The Ambiguous Modern Novel, " Yale

Review (Spring, 1960), p. 417.

16R ovit, p. 418.

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manages to suggest beyond what his limited narrators say. He may
do this by giving us a set of symbols and alerting us through their
relationships and interaction as to which way the author's own
evaluation of the tale and his narrators lies, or he may create a
sense that there is an implied author in the story after all (his view
should not necessarily be taken for the author's own) so that we can
feel an ironic distance between what the limited viewer sees and
reports and what the implied author understands. It is easy to
see that the point of view method tends to become selfconsciously
ironic and that it leads the novelist away from the simplicity and
directness which an omniscient author could afford toward a more
complex and more dramatic way of writing.

These conclusions bring us to Henry James, "the most con-
scious and influential experimenter in the shifting of narrative view-
point" whose "use of a 'reflecting consciousness,‘ from his early

treatment in Portrait of a Lady to his finished exercises in The

 

Golden Bowl, marked out the main lines of development toward a

 

'multipersonal representation of consciousness' which have since

been elaborated upon, but not essentially extended, by his successors."17

 

7R ovit, p. 418.

xiii

Introduction

Born in 1843, Henry James could be included among the late
Victorians but for his manner of writing which sets him off from George
Eliot, for example, as being unmistakeably modern in his thinking and
techniques. A great admirer of George Eliot, he had his reserva-

tions about her way of writing. In his essay on Middlemarch,

 

written when James was just 30, we can already sense his dissatis-
faction with the Victorian novel and his own departure from the older

technique. What he says of Middlemarch is indicative of his attitude

 

toward the English novels of the nineteenth century--they are
treasure houses of detail but indifferent wholes. They treat vast
panoramas in which the fates of central characters emerge as
episodic, not as the major interests of the work. A decade later
James is ready with his own ideas about the craft of fiction. The
exactness of art is the thing for the novelist to strive for: "If
there are exact sciences, there are also exact arts. . . ."1 There
are things the novelist can learn from the scientist and one of them
is exactness of his craft: "A novel is a living thing, all one and

continuous, like any other organism, and in proportion as it lives

will it be found . . . that in each of the parts there is something of

 

1Henry James, "The Art of Fiction" in The House of Fiction,
ed. Leon Edel (London, 1957), p. 30.

 

each Of the other parts. "2 In a novel thus conceived, there obviously
would be nothing of the episodic. The tightly knit structure of James,
with each part carefully balanced against the other, would defy the
great panoramas of the Victorians or the "fluid puddings" of the
Russians, Tolstoy or Dostoievsky.

The novel of James has different aims: "A novel is in its
broadest definition a personal, a direct impression of life: that to
begin with, constitutes its value, which is greater or less according
to the intensity of the impression. "3 Here, then, the modern definition
of the arts appears: art is not an imitation of reality but a subjective
impression of it. Reality, as James later explains, has "myriad
forms, " each form being an impression of life and the total of such
impressions giving us what could be called a life experience in which
we encounter "innumerable points of view"; and "any point of view is
interesting for the novelist's treatment that is a direct impression
of life. "4 In this respect, as James remarks in his essay on "The

Future of the Novel" (The House of Fiction, p. 51), the whole human

 

consciousness becomes the novelist's subject and through his created

 

2"The Art of Fiction, " p. 34.
3Ibid., p. 29.

4"The Great Form" in The House of Fictign, p. 46.

 

 

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form he lives the lives of many, himself not necessarily involved
with any of them directly. The novelist remains as the discerning
intelligence behind his creatures, and "in proportion as that intel-
ligence is fine will the novel . . . partake of the substance of beauty
and truth. "5

These are, in short, James' ideas of the novel as an art
form, and he held them practically throughout his career as a novelist,
restating them in the Prefaces written well toward the end of his life.
In addition, in the Prefaces, he outlines the artistic means which he
believes to be the most suitable to capture life in its multiple forms
or from "innumerable points of view. " His ideas of execution too
remain basically the same all through the Prefaces, and at times he
apologizes to the reader for being a bore, thus repeating himself.
James' justification for this stress on the same techniques, on
telling his stories through the use of one or more centers of intel-
ligence, is his interest in the success of their application to a given
work. For as much as the craft blends with his subject matter in
creating the organic whole of his novel, he considers himself success-

ful. The necessity of James' centers of intelligence, his "reflectors, "

 

5"The Art of Fiction, H p. 44.

 

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or "the most polished of possible mirrors, " as he likes to call them,
is perhaps best explained through his famous metaphor of the House

of Fiction as given in his Preface to The Portrait of a Lady. In order

 

to explain the novelist's attitude toward his subject, James likens his
finished literary form to a pierced or multi-windowed structure which
holds as many different viewers as there are windows, each observer
having a somewhat different idea of the field outside. The field
represents the human scene or the novelist's subject, and the sum of
the different possible views of it makes up the consciousness of the
artist. The novel of James reflects this subject-form relationship.
James seems to scatter his manifold consciousness among the charac-
ters of his story, each endowed with the dramatic ability to speak for
himself without the author explaining them to us or "going behind" them
as James would put it. These are his "reflectors" of the human scene
resting in the consciousness of the novelist. They seem to be arranged
according to a scale of awareness. In the Preface to The Princess

Casamassima James calls them the agents of his drama and as such

 

 

6Caroline Gordon in How to Read a Novel (New York, 1964,
p. 126) explains James' metaphor somewhat differently by stating that
"in James' figure each window represents the work of 9.1.3 [italics mine]
fiction writer. " Her interpretation would imply that a single fiction
writer gives a single outlook of life. James' statements about the
novelist's ability to capture life in its "myriad forms" and from "in-
numbe rable points of view" favor my interpretation.

 

they are inte—

respective S.

 

they are interesting to him "only in prOportion as they feel their
respective situations." In order to give an illusion of peOple meeting
situations in life, their reSpective degree of awareness varies accord-
ing to their natural endowments. For the sake of naturalness, James
admits even fools into the hie rarchy--they have "illustrative human
value" even if they can not possibly be called reflectors for lack of
awareness. The highly polished mirrors among all these characters
are only those reflectors who are capable of feeling more than the
others and of recording it dramatically and objectively. These are
the only ones on whom we can count "to give the story. " Perhaps we
can say that these "most polished of possible mirrors" who are placed
"right in the middle of the light" correspond most closely to the all-
inclusive intelligence of the novelist himself. Even then, however, we
should not identify the one with the other. If the central intelligence in
the given work sees beyond what the other characters see, there is still
the hidden author who listens to and "reads" or "appreciates" the whole.
This final hidden intelligence "reads" or understands the whole, and we
have a carefully built point-of-view structure which may be called
ironic.

I said earlier that irony deals with several simultaneous per-
ceptions of discordant views. This is exactly what is happening in a

Jamesian novel. We have the reflectors with their more or less limited

awareness to begin with. The sense of irony here comes from the
fact that some of these reflectors see and understand more of the
given situation than the others, hence the feeling of discord. More-
over, if a central intelligence is present, he is capable of encompass-
ing the peripheral views of lesser awareness as well as giving his own
more inclusive one. From the first to the last of his Prefaces, James
insists on the importance of his central ironic viewer. In the Preface
to The Golden Bowl, the last of his finished novels, he is very explicit
about it:

I have already betrayed, as an accepted habit, and even to

extravagance commented on, my preference for dealing

with my subject matter, for 'seeing my story, ' through

the opportunity and the sensibility of some more or less

detached, some not strictly involved, though thoroughly

interested and intelligent, witness or reporter, some

person who contributes to the case mainly a certain amount
of criticism and interpretation of it.

It appears then that the narrative technique of James can be
called an ironic method in which several limited viewers of a given
situation are involved. This technique gave him the means to capture
reality in its "myriad forms. " If given to a graphic demonstration, we

could draw several concentric circles, each representing one of the

 

7Henry James, "Preface" to The Golden Bowl in The Novels
and Tales of Henry James, New York Edition, Vol. XXIII (New York,
1907-1917), p. v. (If not otherwise indicated, the reissued New York
Edition has been used for all references to the fiction of Henry James. )

 

 

 

“viewers concerned and the area of any given circle showing the
degree of knowledge held by that viewer. Closest to the common
center would naturally be the smallest of the circles, representing
the least perceptive of the viewers; perhaps we could place here one
of James' "fools, " say a Henrietta Stackpole, whose vision seems

to be fixed for good--she knows ahead of time what she will see in

a given situation. The farther from the common center (this center
being the object of observation or the given situation in the narrative),
the bigger will be the consecutive circles and the more inclusive the
range of vision these circles would surround. Here we may find
Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle, Isabel Archer and Ralph Touchett,
in that order. Isabel's perceptive intelligence may not be smaller
than Ralph's (she is chosen as the reflector in the story), but she has
not all of the facts or the amount of life experience Ralph has, hence
I have put her in a lesser position. As a matter of fact, at the

beginning of The Portrait of a Lady her experience and perceptive-

 

ness would be narrower than that of Madame Merle or Gilbert
Osmlond, and the circumference of her circle would enclose less
territory. When she has achieved the full ironic truth of her situa-
tion, the circumference of the circle, representing her quality or
quantity of knowledge, as well as the field of vision it surrounds,

will have grown to enclose the fixed circles of Merle and Osmond

mm

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and even that of Ralph. Finally, the re would be an all-inclusive circle
occupied by the implied author. He has the final ironic view of his
story and deals it out to the reader as he sees fit at any given point

of his tale. If we are ideal readers, at the end of the novel we ought
to share the author's circle with his all-inclusive vision of all the
inner circles and the center, the object of perception of the more or
less limited viewers occupying these circles. In very Similar terms,
James himself describes his ironic method in the Preface to E

Awkward Age:

 

I remember that sketching my project . . . I drew on a sheet
of paper . . . the neat figure of a circle consisting of a number
of small rounds disposed at equal distance about a central ob-
ject. The central object was my situation, my subject in itself,
to which the thing would owe its title, and the small rounds
represented so many distinct lamps, as I liked to call them, the
function of each of which would be to light with all due intensity
one of its aspects.
The difference between my sketch and James' lies in placing his "distinct
lamps" or reflectors at equal distance about the central object whereas
I have insisted that the circles be concentric and that the distances vary
according to the perceptive ability of the viewers, the consequent area
of circles representing quality of vision. I should point out immediately

that James here really talks about a variation of his technique. Up to

now I have discussed the function of his reflectors, each representing

 

8"Preface" to The Awkward Age, p. XVi.

 

a particula r

a particular character in the story. In the above quotation James

has whole scenes in mind, as he explains later on in the same preface:
"Each of my 'lamps' would be the light of a single 'social occasion' in
the history and intercourse of the characters concerned, and would
bring out to the full the latent colour of the scene in question and cause
it to illustrate to the last drOp, its bearing on my theme. "

As we shall see later, the "social occasions" of The Awkward

 

_A_g_§ have a similar function to the reflectors or centers of conscious-
ness of James' other stories. Each social occasion illuminates one
aspect of the theme; the totality of such aspects will enable the reader
to construct a full view of the subject. The point-of—view technique of
James, whether through the use of central intelligences or of scenic
occasions, was a conscientious search for a method of expression
that would yield the most objective approach possible to his subject

at hand. In The Awkward Age James felt he had come close to the

 

objectivity of dramatic representation where the scenes reveal the
action and the author is freed from " 'going behind, ' to compass
explanations and amplifications, to drag out odds and ends from the
'mere' storyteller's great property-sh0p of aids to illusion . . . . "
Such striving for objective representation is an integral part of the

ironists's art. As NorthrOp Frye sees it:

10

Complete objectivity and suppression of all explicit moral

judgements are essential to his[ the ironist's] method.

Thus pity and fear are not raised in ironic art: they are

reflected to the reader from that art. When we try to

isolate the ironic as such, we find that it seems to be simply

the attitude of the poet as such, a dispassionate construction

of a literary form, with all assertive elements, implied or
expressed, eliminated.

From an investigation of James' techniques and from his own
ex plications in the Prefaces, one must conclude that the term "irony"
applied in one way or another was never far from his consciousness
whenever his art or his view of life was in question. Did he ever give
what might be called a definition of irony? The Prefaces abound in
general statements involving the term, but these are not always help-
ful in telling exactly what kind of irony James had in mind. When in
the Preface to The Tragic Muse, he‘promises an ironic and satiric
treatment of the work, a search through the Preface reveals that
James' ironic and satiric treatment involves the conflict between art

and the world: he is talking about irony of theme. Fleda Vetch in the

Preface to The Spoils of Poynton is called the "free" or "ironic" spirit

 

because she "almost demonically both sees and feels while the others
[his "fools" or "fixed" characters lbut feel without seeing. " Here the
term "ironic" points to the well-known point-of—view technique of James.

At last, in the Preface to Volume XV of the New York Edition, there is

 

9Frye, pp. 40-41.

11

something like a definition of what James this time calls an "operative
irony." This operative irony "implies and projects the possible other
case, the case rich and edifying where the actuality is pretentious and
vain." Here follows an imaginary argument which is aimed at an
assumed critic who questions the plausibility of the artists who figure
as characters in this volume of short stories. James defends himself
by saying that the reality of the characters is justifiable on the grounds
that their embarrassments, predicaments, comedies and tragedies
are drawn from his own intimate experience as an artist even if he
cannot present his critics with a life-size analogue outside of himself.
The argument interests me only insofar as it can throw some light on
James' "operative irony. " The artist, like all of us, is planted in the
midst of a world of actualities, most of the time not beautiful to
perceive. He is the one, however, who catches, now and then, a
glimpse of the "possible other case"--of an ideal world of beauty.
This, I think, James has in mind in the following excerpt from the
argument:
How can one consent to make a picture of the preponde rant
futilities and vulgarities and miseries of life without the
impulse to exhibit as well from time to time, in its place,
some fine example of the reaction, the opposition or the
escape? One does, thank heaven, encounter here and there
symptoms of immunity from the general infection; one rec-
ognizes with rapture, on occasion, signs of a protest
against the rule of the cheap and easy; and one sees thus

that the tradition of a high aesthetic temper needn't, after
all, helplessly and ignobly perish. These reassurances are

12

one's warrant, accordingly, for so many recognitions of

the apparent doom and the exasperated temper --whether with
the spirit and the career fatally bruised and finally broken in
the fray, or privileged but to gain from it a finer and more
militant edge.

I consider this passage a key to James' irony. Nowhere else
has he expressed himself more fully or more self-consciously as the
ironist. The irony James is talking about here is an attitude toward

life which in H. M. Chevalier's study, The Ironic Temper is called

 

the Ironic Temper and in A. R. Thompson's study, The Dry Mock

 

is called Philosophic Irony. The writers endowed with this attitude
are ourirlg ironists. It is possible, as Thompson maintains, for
an author to employ irony as a technique, to present us with skilfully
wrought verbal ironies, or even to give us a play in which dramatic
irony governs as a method of presentation, and yet not to be an
Ironist in temper. The postulates of the ironic temper are given by
James in the above citation. Restated in the words of Chevalier,

the ironist's case could be summarized in this way:

The Ironist is impressed by the incongruity of things. He
perceives the principles and rules and laws that apparently
govern affairs natural and human, but he is all the more
aware of their insufficiency. He sees beyond them, and is
always curious of exceptions and anomalies. The world is
not, for him, a smoothly running machine. It is a mad

 

10

pp. x - xi.

 

.fl-
-—.——.

 

 

 

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jumble to which men have by degrees given a semblance
of order so as to be able to live rationally. 11

In other words, the ironist "has visions of a better world than the

. - le - - l u ' ' H ' °
ex1st1ng one, and this 15 James operative 1rony, implying
and projecting the possible other case, "the case rich and edifying
where the actuality is pretentious and vain. "13 James' other state-
ments concerning irony in the Prefaces have a close connection with

this crystallized definition. The Tragic Muse is to give a glimpse

 

of an ideal world of art behind the actualities of worldly ambition

and hypocrisy. Fleda Vetch in The Spoils of Poynton goes empty

 

I

handed when she achieves the full ironic view of her situation and
realizes that accepting her share of worldly happiness would also mean
accepting much less than her ideal code of behavior demands, and that
it would mean accepting it at the expense of other peoples' desires.

Even Maisie, a little girl living in unfortunate circumstances,

 

11H. M. Chevalier, The Ironic Temper (New York, 1932),
p. 183.

 

12Alan Reynold Thompson, The DrLMock: A Study of Irony in
Drama (Berkeley, 1948), p. 257.

 

13John A. Clair in The Ironic Dimension in the Fiction of Henry
James (Pittsburgh, Pa. , 1965) explores James' "operative irony" in
connection with his study of dramatic irony in James. I disagree with
Clair's interpretation of the term. To Clair it means "the total ironic
fabric of his James' individual works, " hence a structural device. To
me it means mainly James' philosophic attitude.

 

14

gives us an ironic revelation concerning the differences between
appearances of things and their true nature. At times James
becomes a double ironist--while perceiving and exploring the ironic
relationships of his characters, he seems to direct an ironic glance

at the artist-creator himself. The Tragic Muse illustrates this.

 

James throws an ironic light here on those who are ready to "chuck"
things for art. The assumption that their sharing of a common ideal
will lead them to an equally strong eagerness to share a personal
relationship proves futile. Miriam the actress is interesting to Nick
the painter only as an exciting model to paint; the artist in him over-
looks the human qualities she might offer. It is as if one sees James
himself concentrated on his art, "in search of a more and more exte-
rior point of view, so as to embrace all contradictions and behold the
world from a point of vantage to which nothing else is superior" until
he sees himself "ironically perceiving the situation, "14 detached,
interested, but uninvolved in the very human situation he is creating.
From James' point-of—view technique as an ironic mode of
expression (in a somewhat extended use of the term) we have come full
circle to his ironic view of the world as a philosophic attitude and

around again to the artist-ironist who strives for a way of expression

14Chevalier, p. 41.

James, sub;
about the 0:3-

 

15

so as to embrace all the contradictions of a confusing world. In
James, subject and structure merge and the one of necessity brings
about the other, both being ironic in nature. James often stressed
the inseparable subject-structure relationship of his art:

[He could-not ] conceive,in.any novel worth discussing

at all, of a passage of description that is not in its

intention narrative, a passage of dialogue that does not

partake of the nature of incident, or an incident that

derives its interest from any other source than the

general and only source of the success of a work of

art--that of being illustrative. 15

To James there is not "a part of a novel which is the story

. . . . H16 .

and part of 1t Wthh for mystical reasons IS not. The idea and the
form of a novel are to the novelist as the needle and the thread to a
tailor--one is not used without the other. 17 The ironic quality of
James' art demands this fusion. He starts as the philOSOphic observer
of life and discovers that beyond man's aspirations "there is always
a still higher unattainable level of knowledge, in the light of which those

n18

aspirations and calculations must become stultified and abortive.

 

15"The Art of Fiction, " p. 34.
161bid., p. 39.
17Ibid.

l8David Worcester, The Art of Satire (Cambridge:
Massachusetts, 1940), p. 129.

 

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James' craft 5

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everybody to ~

 

 

 

16

To attain this ironic knowledge, "he abstracts himself from the con-
tradictions of life and views them all impartially, himself perhaps
included in the ironic vision. "19 Once he has achieved such a mental
attitude, he strives to give shape to his vision, and his point-of—view
method with multiple views focused on the same subject becomes a
natural complement to his ironic vision.

Recent years have witnessed a number of excellent studies on
James' craft as well as on the ideas behind the craft. There is not,
however, a full length study of irony in his art. Many scholars appear
to be conscious of irony in James, but either treat it as a by-product
of the main stream of his concerns or assume that it is there plain for
everybody to see and does not need much comment. Wayne C. Booth

in The Rhetoric of Fiction gives some attention to the ironic method of

 

James, and I am much indebted to his study. Scattered comments of

value on irony in James are available in Richard Poirer's The Comic

 

Sense of Henry James,20 which is confined to the early works of James,

 

and the use of irony is pointed up whenever James employs it for comic

purposes. Among shorter studies, L. C. Knights' article, "Henry

 

19G. G. Sedgewick, Of Irony, E8pecially in Drama (Toronto,
1935), p. 16.

20
New York, 1960.

 

James and t
reading of "

very rec e nt

)7
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Mauve s .
\

in (1‘:th a f,..‘

C0212]? Ctlon \V

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special In on

 

 

17

James and the Trapped Spectator"21 deserves attention for its ironic
reading of "In the Cage" and "The Beast in the Jungle" as well as the

very recent article by J. A. Ward, "Structural Irony in Madame De

 

Mauves. "22 Occasional comme nts on Jamesian irony are to be found
in quite a few recent critical works and they shall be acknowledged in
connection with individual tales of James.

Together with the critical comments on James' irony, a
special interest in the so-called Jamesian ambiguity is to be mentioned.
The great number of articles on such ambiguous stories as "The Turn

of the Screw" and The Sacred Fount is a good indication of this pre-

 

occupation with James' ambiguities apart from his ironies. 23 Booth,
too, seems mainly to be interested in what he feels is the Jamesian

method gone astray--in the ambiguities which, as Booth, believes,

 

21Explorations: Essays in Criticism Mainly on the Literature
0f the Seventeenth Centigy (New York, 1947), pp. 155-169.

 

22Studies in Short Fiction, Vol. II, No. 2 (Winter 1965), pp.
170-182.

 

23Gerald Willen, ed. , A Casebook on Henry James' "The Turn
of the Screw" (New York, 1960), offers a selection of articles with many
possible readings of this story. A work of interest is also Thomas
Marby Cranfill and Robe rt Lanier Clark, Jr. , An Anatomy of the Turn
of the Screw (Austin, Texas, 1965). This is a book length study of the
story, analyzing the much debated character of the governess, and in-
vestigating various psychic disturbances supposedly implied in this char-
acter. A selected bibliography accompanies this study. Jean Frantz

Blackall in Jamesian Ambiguity and The Sacred Fount (Ithaca, New York,
1965) surveys the scholarghip on The Sacred FounTin addition to her own
reading of the work.

 

 

 

 

 

lessened thu

employed a

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18

lessened the satiric force of James' writing whenever the author
employed a narrator (a center of intelligence) whose objectivity
could be doubted. The latter-day followers of the point-of—view
method since James, Booth complains, indulge in projecting their
stories through such unreliable narrators, leaving the reader at a
loss as to which way the author's own evaluation of the tale lies.
John A. Clair's The Ironic Dimension in the Fiction of Hengr James
offers an extravagant reading of dramatic irony in a selection of
James' works, going on a hunt for unreliable reflectors almost
everywhere.

It must be acknowledged at this point that the ambiguous is
usually an integral part of the ironic attitude of James whether he
tells his story through a first or third person narrator. Ambiguity
surrounds as early a creation as Euphemia de Mauves in "Madame de

Mauves" (1874) and The Ambassadors (1903) has its own share of it:

 

the question whether Lambert Strether actually "lived" or arrived in
Paris too late in life for some missed, vital experience is not an easy
one to settle. Both stories, as we shall see, are also ironic in
techniques and intent. As for the irony-ambiguity relationship, I
agree with Frye's implication that the ambiguous is ineed a part of
the. ironic:

The chief distinction between irony and satire is that satire

is militant irony: its moral norms are relatively clear, and
it assumes standards against which the grotesque and absurd

 

 

 

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19

are measured. Sheer invective or name-calling ("flyting")
is satire in which there is relatively little irony: on the
other hand, whenever a reader is not sure what the author's
attitude is or what his own is supposed to be, we have irony
with relatively little satire.

The last part of Frye's statement indicates that ambiguity is neces-
sarily brought about through an ironic relationship with things. In
any case, this is true of the ironic writing of James-~one comes
away from most of his tales with no clear assurance of the author's
own attitudes and has to resort to one's own private judgment as to
the moral evaluation of the subject. In agreement with Frye's state-
ment, one also finds that the implied author's own moral stand in a
Jamesian tale seems to be much more clearly stated whenever his
irony approaches the satiric, as in "What Maisie Knew" where the
reader feels sure of the direction of the ironic attacks of the author.
Yet even in this story, the final knowledge of Maisie is not an
obvious quantity--what, exactly, does Maisie know at the end of her
story?

James himself states several times over his preference for
the ambiguous against what could be called a simpler view of things.

In Notes of a Son and Brother he remarks:

 

 

24Frye, p. 223.

20

Poetic justice, when it comes, I gather, comes ever with
a great shining; so that if there is any doubt about it the
source of the doubt is in the very depths of the case and
has been from the first at work there. . . . I like
ambiguities and detest great glares; preferring thus for
my critical no less than for my pedestrian progress the
cool and the shade to the sun and dust of the way. 25

For James the fuller view of things includes the ambiguous. When
in his Prefaces he talks about his ironic reflectors, he does not prom-
ise his readers a complete reliability from these dispensers of intel-
ligence. For the sake of appearing true to life, they are not to be
above "our own precious liability to fall into traps and be bewildered.
It seems probable that if we were never bewildered there would never
be a story to tell about us. "26 The intense feeling of life reveals to
the viewer a perplexing and mixed world:
No themes are so human as those that reflect for us, out of
the confusion of life, the close connexion of bliss and bale,
of the things that help with the things that hurt, so dangling
before us for ever that bright hard metal, of so strange an

alloy, one face of which is somebody's right and ease and the
other somebody's pain and wrong. 2

 

25
London, 1914, p. 91.

26"Preface" to The Princess Casamassima, p. ix.

 

27"Preface" to "What Maisie Knew," The Novels and Tales
of Henry James, Vol. XI, p. viii.

 

 

 

 

 

In such pf 1'33]
involved in O
truth" (a phr.

The
his earlier xx.
the directions

at his comma

 

21

In such perplexed world we do not rest assured; there are ambiguities
involved in our moral position--that seems to be "the full ironic
truth" (a phrase used in the Preface to "What Maisie Knew").

The purpose of this study is to follow James the ironist from
his earlier works toward the mature achievements of his craft, watching
the directions his ironic vision takes and weighing the technical means
at his command in different stages of his career for their adequacy in
projecting this vision. It is my conviction that the artistic quality in
works from each period of the artist's development depends upon James'
acquired skill to work within the limits of his ironic perception. I have
so far named two things as ironic in the works of James: his narrative
technique and his attitude toward life, and these are the two main
problems with which this study will be concerned.

In connection with James' narrative technique, some generally
recognized ironic terms (besides mere verbal irony) shall be employed
when they aptly describe matters at hand. The first such term to come to
mind is "dramatic irony. " James' customary favoring of "the possible
other case" is likely to produce this particular effect. The threads of
all possible cases will only be in the hands of the author and eventually
of his ideal reader while most of the characters with their limited
views will be struggling in the dark. Their expectations at a given
moment of the situation will prove incongruous to the outcome. This

dramatic irony may be sharpened by speeches in which the characters

egress their expecta‘
them-e outcome, crc
similarironic effect :
my. ”Irony of char

5.}

csztrasts between a :"
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national groups ( such

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Maisie‘s situa‘:
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.22

express their expectations and which, for the reader who suSpects
the true otld’come, create an additional sense of the ironic. A
similar ironic effect in the drama is called by Thompson Sophoclean
irony. "Irony of character" or "irony of manners" will indicate
contrasts between‘a person's true character and his appearance or
manner. Under "irony of character" I shall also treat larger con-
trasts that may involve not just single characters but whole social or
national groups (such as James' Europeans versus Americans) in
cases where the established norms of these groups provide for ironic
discrepancies when measured against genuine reality.

In some works ("What Maisie Knew" could serve as an
example), James' irony becomes satire, the militant irony of Northrop
Frye. Maisie's situation approaches Frye's "satire of the low norm. "
We are introduced to a world which is "full of anomalies, injustices,
follies, and crimes, and yet is permanent and undiSplaceable. "28
Frye explains that the satirist may employ a plain, common-sense
person as a foil for the various alazons (imposters) of this society.
James' Maisie, the innocent little girl fits the case. In Worcester's
study of satire, the same device is classified under "Socratic irony"
which belongs to the irony of manner. This device "involves an

understanding of the whole personality. " It becomes "a cloak of self-

depreciation and sympathetic approval" through which the ironist, while

 

28Frye, p. 223.

seemingly aoproving t!
ieieaicts. When this.

tenant, as is Maisie

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23

seemingly approving them, can point out the absurdities of the world
he depicts. When this understated personality is the dewy-eyed
innocent, as is Maisie, Worcester calls this device "Ingeinu satire. "
The technique of the satirist involves exaggeration, distortion, and
caricature, as Chevalier notes, and, as Frye states, the author's
own moral stand is much more clearly implied than that of the "pure"
ironist.

There remain yet such literary devices as recurrent images
and symbols through which an author can reveal his attitude toward his
creation, and James' stories, especially his later ones, abound in
these. The total shape of the work may stress the ironic, not only
through the Jamesian point -of-view method but by special selection
and grouping of scenes, of recurrent themes or of any larger structural
entities. And whenever James allows himself to slip into his story as
the omniscient author, he can also secure irony of tone through this
older method of story telling.

Finally, there is something to be said about the psychological
reaction of, the reader to an ironic work. This is closely connected with
the author's attitude toward his creation. It can be said to be the trans-
ference of this attitude to the reader, and is partly an intellectual, partly
an emotional response. As the ironic writer takes delight in the complexity
of his vision, and in the skill of his technique, the reader is delighted

and amused when he feels he perceives the ironies, i. e. , he is in on the

. o y‘
are: With the au...or.
rancid of expression a

5:0: a: the author stir:

sense of irony is 1"
resiznse similar to p;
is: ‘. directly identify
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24

secret with the author. Even if the ironic method is an indirect
method of expression and the ironic perception is a detached one (as
soon as the author steps in himself with his personal protestations,
the sense of irony is lost), the ironic view brings about an emotional
response similar to pity. In the experience of an ironic work, we
don't directly identify ourselves with the ironic sufferer, but, accord-
ing to Frye, "we have the sense of looking 223111. [italics mine 1 on a
scene of bondage, frustration, or absurdity . . . . " Our laughter at
those attacked by comic irony, however, is not altogether light-
hearted as in pure comedy. The sense of ironic discord brings a
touch of pain to such laughter. With the dramatic irony that inclines
toward the tragic, there comes a feeling of pity for the sufferer, but,
as Thompson insists, the passages in an ironic tragedy "become
sharply and poignantly ironical because with the horror and pity there
is also a comic effect, subordinate but nonetheless distinctly felt. "29
He maintains that a test of irony in terms of our emotional response
is a sense of painful discord: as in the case of ironic comedy our
laughter is somewhat painful, in the case of ironic tragedy we should

subconsciously feel that a kind of practical joke has been played by

fate upon the ironic sufferer while we pity him at the same time.

 

2
9Thompson, p. 39.

Thusthe prr
regarded as a sense i
n; Hefeels that irr-
rnch-zery, the pain" a
tarmny which is bro
recsnciled by "a hip};
"39?: of irony to at

anemone is left at .3.

:a- .
Merge argues, "in w?

:A
‘d

W balanced, h;

‘51-.
“9.." g ‘ . .
:3» its highest 15

 

30

 

r1arpe .
l #4

 

25

Thus the prevailing feeling stimulated by irony is often
regarded as a sense of discord. Sharpe argues that it is not always
so. He feels that irony in drama can reach "beyond discord, the
mockery, the pain" and that the contradictions are dissolved into a
harmony which is brought about by a vision of discordant truths
reconciled by "a high irony of compassion. " Thus he extends the
concept of irony to account for the catharsis, the purged state in
which one is left at the end of great tragedy. "It is an ironic mood, "
Sharpe argues, "in which good and evil, triumph and disaster, are

somehow balanced, harmonized, and transcended. "30 To him,

irony at its highest is a "harmonizing of the apparent discords of
life. " I am inclined to side with Sharpe's position where Henry
James is concerned. It seems to be the only way to do full justice
to his later work. While definitely ironic works, his later novels
leave us with a vision of discordant truths reconciled by "a higher
irony of compassion. "

James was a prolific writer and to investigate his whole
output of novels and stories in terms of irony would present a task
beyond the perceivable limits of this study. A selection must be

made. As I have already stated, my study will be concerned with

 

30
Sharpe, p. xiii.

the development and (ii
ticmcal means at his
:15 career. In View c:
althree stages of Jan;
series as well as full li
issited by What 1 cal:
thematic consideratim:
an

(is li~n ‘
..r discusswn. In t

3
An-
5’». “' 7'9

(15550) and ".\1a

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mainly that alrea

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15C.“
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L _ l
~81
’35 The rest f
E-I'a L-AV
\. and Tragi
the r
« ‘I'O

 

 

 

26

the development and direction of James' ironic vision and with the
technical means at his command to realize this vision throughout

his career. In view of this purpose, I have sampled works from

all three stages of James' writing, and I have included shorter

works as well as full length novels in my choice. Since my selection
is guided by what I call "the direction of James' ironic vision, "
thematic considerations, on the whole, determine the choice of works

under discussion. In the first chapter two early works, Washington

 

Square (1880) and "Madame de Mauves" (1874) are tested in order to
Show mainly that already in these early tales the ironic vision is
present in the author's attitude toward his subject, and that his
techniques anticipate the ironic method characteristic of the later

James. The rest of my study falls into four chapters: "The Portrait

 

of a Lady and Tragic Irony, " "Irony and the Artist, " "Satiric Irony:

 

the Troublesome Face of Truth, " and "Master of the Ironic Vision. "

In The Portrait of a Lady, a sense of tragic irony is prevalent.

 

Isabel starts out with great confidence in her abilities, in her good
fortune and in her good intentions: "The world lay before her--she
could do whatever she chose. " She has lofty theories as to how and
where she should choose her field of action and certainly the stature
of one marked to execute her plans. She also has the presumptions of
a proud Spirit who thinks she knows what is best for herself and will

not take advice. As in a classic tragedy, her course turns from her

:riginal lofty expe ctat
brought about chic I". y

‘ ‘I‘ q-. l '1 l I
:thC'MIll the tull 1r

.1
4’13)“.
oh: v 3.

on issuinuent an 11.1.

tranazic irony is :1".

(5'

"' ‘l‘i: ...1
“‘ “A“: 310‘. Cl.

23:: I, ..
.uclljhsnfits s 'lth‘f (:
‘ .41"

51ft“ '
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E deu‘}' a:\‘(

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“‘43:. o ‘
trad. Selfish

‘
:‘A t‘
5‘.‘ '5

..1elike, ICqu' .
A ~l(l

16. n
this,
r1101'? 01- 1653
(

 

 

.dlp’e ll .
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in ~
I all 6): -
Ce 1
eat 6“"
udrr
a-‘iis‘
Ilsci
“J‘s
eaii
\1 a
or

 

27

original lofty expectations to a reversal of her situation which is
brought about chiefly by her own flaw of character. Her story comes to
an end with the full ironic illumination that her original calculations
about the nature of the world and about her own self have been grounded
upon insufficient knowledge and high presumptions. Cumulative
dramatic irony is the most powerful structural means James employs
in this novel.

My third chapter touches upon the ironic ambiguities of the
artistic consciousness. When it comes to the stories dealing with the
consciousness of the artist, James stresses the ambiguous. In this
consciousness "the devil and the angel" often dwell together. The
striving for beauty and truth does not always purge the artist from
human greed, selfish manipulations of other people, mean jealousies
and the like. I consider James' stories of the artists a further develop-

ment in his ironic insight when compared to The Portrait of a Lady

 

in the sense that the main characters seem to work out their destinies
with a more or less clear perception of their discordant natures while
Isabel is given a full view of her situation only at the end of her story.
I have limited myself to "The Aspern Papers" (1888) in this chapter
as an excellent example of his interest in the ironic ambiguities of the
artistic consciousness. Even if the narrator of "The Aspern Papers"

is not a creative artist himself, his obsession with the papers of

Aspern at the expens
tie aesthetic charac‘.
The irony 61

126(1599) moves 1:111

inese stories which 1':
.ames takes up the tr
:ar:cature--in order

a: crzmes of soc it't‘.

“Theo than in his
1‘14; ,
we and sane. 1‘»
o 1.
a??? .
If 6
II “He fUll troublee

N» .ylfo reject Coyn')r‘

frees ‘1 '
elxes, 11' not for

l

iitte. .
ness 1n their Ch

‘L.
"ilt “‘h. ‘-

J‘ld they 19

are ’:
EUDrra ' n
.. «.1 Chin H .
lave C

L.
.1OSen IO deal _

 

fig“

.lc‘:ln Y

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and T1

‘-

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~‘il o
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.Edge t

'19 Ess.

of f
t

he ,Orkso

 

 

28

Aspern at the expense of purely human concerns places him among

the aesthetic characters of James' other stories of artists.

The irony of "What Maisie Knew" (1897) and of The Awkward

 

Age (1899) moves into the realm of satire. Chapter four explores

these stories which embody the darker side of James' ironic vision.
James takes up the tools of the satirist--exaggeration, distortion, and
caricature--in order to show up the anomalies, injustices, follies,

and crimes of society; and his own moral stand is much more clearly
implied than in his "purely" ironic works. As for the central characters,
Maisie and Nanda, they are incapable of compromises the Jamesian
artist could make with the world and himself for the sake of his art.
With the full troublesome view of the ways of the world confronting them,
the two reject compromises and take instead a humble nook for their
free selves, if not for their personal happiness. There is no sense of
bitterness in their choices, however, because the illuminated view of
the world they leave behind is an understanding and forgiving one, thus
approaching the "higher irony of compassion" of James' later work. I
have chosen to deal with two works in this chapter, because "What
Maisie Knew" and The Awkward Age have suffered greatly from criti-
cism predicated on the strictures of Realism, criticism which fails to
acknowledge the essential satire and thereby destroys the very mean-

ing of the works.

My last chap:
have called it "hiaste r

Lambert Strether to tr

w;
.l 4

21c illumination of 1

l‘f“"‘lA“". r. ' “ I
mh'quLEXlSI€nC(lKV:

*EPaC'SY only after t" .-

Tf‘iitness that "hi 1

u
A Au.‘il
\

1:03: I. 9 - .
E, James ironic 1

...:erent stages of

1 .
1115

«oral standa rds a rt-

.0'-

“ch1 he rather
ll 1 -

. Veil which Sin»

dgdts O;
absolute Sta.
“‘1' ~
‘A‘Ibt19fl3‘ F .
“- 01 v- .
Irony 1r;

 

 

29

My last chapter is devoted to The Ambassadors (1903). I

 

have called it "Master of the Ironic Vision" because it is given to
Lambert Strether to transcend the frustrations brought about by his
ironic illumination of the world around him and to maintain a full
individual existence without either compromising his personal
integrity or withdrawing from the world of affairs to protect this
integrity. In fact, it can be said that Strether begins to live to full
capacity only after the ironic discovery has taken place. In Strether
we witness that "higher irony of compassion" toward which, it seems
to me, James' ironic vision of the world gradually turns through
different stages of his writing. Freed from any notions that set
moral standards are safe guides for personal conduct and evaluation
of others, he rather understands than judges. That sense of life
fully lived which Strether regrets having missed comes to him when
he learns to accept a complex view of human affairs and to abandon
the simplistic one. It leads from judgment to compassion. This,
James seems to say, is the fullness of life still available for a man
in a puzzling modern world in which he has lost the sure guiding
lights of absolute standards, be they religious or otherwise. I end

my study of irony in James with The Ambassadors because I share

 

the author's view of it as being the best work of his total output, and
because for my purposes, next to its technical brilliance, The

Ambassadors also shows the final stage in the development of James'

;:1:::1c vision. 1 ice;
T1225 of the Dove, a

$83116: 158 me .

 

30

ironic vision. I feel that in this sense his last two novels, The

Wings of the Dove, and The Golden Bowl are variations on the

 

 

same theme .

no Ea r11" '1" “”

As I have 5
depends upon his
perception availa
Toillustrate a 5‘.
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(17550).

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and did not honor
plained in a letter

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Strictly Ame r1 c ar

ms Characters m
international sta:

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eiored 1n colleg'

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1;1 |
‘1’“? Janes. "1

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

Two Early Works: 'Washington Square and "Madame de Mauves"

1.

As I have stressed before, the artistic quality in James' works
depends upon his acquired skill to work within the limits of his ironic
perception available to him at the time of eachindividual composition.
To illustrate a successful blend of his ironic technique and material,

I have selected here one of his early works, Washington Square

 

(1880).

As we know, James was never very fond of Washington Square

 

and did not honor it with a place in his collected works. He com-
plained in a letter to Howells that it was a 'poorish story' and that it

' In other words, it was a

suffered from a want of 'paraphernalia.
strictly American story, and he felt somewhat cramped whenever
his characters were thus confined and could not move on the wider
international stage. On the other hand, it is a story perennially
favored in college courses, and, as F. O. Matthiessen notes, ”has

frequently been James' favorite novel with readers who don't really

like James. "1 ”Not really liking James" usually means objecting

 

1”Introduction" to The American Novels and Stories of Henry
James, F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (New York, 1964).

31

ekherto his mirth-i
mistakenly) his pm
Mdoes not c».
read-er is comforts.
author who freeiy c
does not appear to
Sympathy for Cath.
her lover and hu-
definite qualities

(

Critic“
<11 agreemrrz

D; i .
-S.Oper India‘s;

amount 0f com“
rm

 

32
either to his method at its maturity or to what is felt to be (often

mistakenly) his peculiar ethical sense. On the surface, Washington

 

Square does not commit either of these Jamesian crimes. The
reader is comfortably guided through the story by an omniscient
author who freely explains his characters, or so it seems, and he
does not appear to ask any more strenuous reaction from him than
sympathy for Catherine, who has quite obviously been mistreated by
her lover and her father. Yet it is a Jamesian story, containing
definite qualities of his technique, and it is not as simply conceived
as it may appear at first reading. The fact that there is no ready
critical agreement as to how we should take either Catherine or

Dr. Sloper indicates that each character presents us with a certain

amount of complexity. The lasting charm of Washington Square is

 

not non-Jamesian simplicity but Catherine Sloper, a creature turned
out by a master stroke of James; and her mental or spiritual quality
as it appears at the end of her story escapes an easy and final as-
sessment. James has not violated her inmost self by turning it in-
side out for the reader's judgment. He makes us see her mainly
through the eyes of others (and crude, unperceiving eyes they are
for the most part), and the signs he gives us as an author are few
and far apart. The last word on Catherine remains very much a

private affair of the individual reader.

James begii
main character 2' -

‘A

>-4
7-4

that order.
James says of Dr
reputation as a m
wasvery witty. a
man of the world-
m ' italics xi
sufficiently in the.

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33
James begins his tale with short, direct sketches of the three
main characters-~Dr. Sloper, Aunt Penniman, and Catherine-4n
that order. "It will be seen that I am describing a clever man, "
James says of Dr. Sloper, pointing out his skill as physician and his
reputation as a man of wit. Then comes a subtle qualification: "He
was very witty, and he passed in the best society of New York for

man of the world-~which, indeed, he was, in a very sufficient

 

degree [italics mine]. "2 He passes for "man of the world" very
sufficiently in the social world of the ”best people" around
Washington Square where he is regarded as the " 'brightest' doctor
in the country" and where he evidently sees himself as ”an observer“
or ”even a philosopher. “ Not until we come to Dr. Sloper's attitude
toward his daughter, do we doubt his objectivity as the ironic ob-
server or think that being a man of the world ”in a very sufficient
degree" is not, after all, a statement without reservations.

Soon enough it becomes clear that he measures his daughter
against the more obvious charms of his dead wife, and that Catherine
cannot claim either the beauty, cleverness, or charm of her mother
as seen by her father. Moreover, we learn that Dr. Sloper does not
think much of the feminine sex as a whole and that he had considered

his wife as the one bright exception from the common lot. At this

 

2Henry James, Washington Square and Daisy Miller, Oscar
Cargill, ed. (New York, 1956), p. 4.

Pcint we begin I'
his daughter is .
peg-Pie with the :
manw'rio has ra‘
patients accord;
Dr. Sloper's in
the rest of the t2
soft, and simpie
ternal relations?
rather ”sees all
His wit in dealir.
himself to a pen
to place her, "3
Capacity for groi-
accounting for it!
irony “illicit inder
AbOUI Ann:

Catherine’s Sit"
L4.

 

he '_ v

 

34

point we begin to suspect the doctor's sufficiency of judgment where
his daughter is concerned, and when later we are told that he judges
people with the assurance of his thirty-years practice as a medical
man who has rather deliberately and scientifically classified his
patients according to representative social types, we are sure that
Dr. Sloper's ironic view of Catherine is not altogether reliable. For
the rest of the tale he deals with her as with "the type of ordinary,
soft, and simple-minded girl" and while "he perceives her in her ex-
ternal relationships with considerable intelligence and wit," he
rather "sees all round her” instead of being capable of an inside look.
His wit in dealing with her is ”that of a man who is not addressing
himself to a person he knows but to a situation in which he contrives
to place her. "3 If, under the circumstances, Catherine should show
capacity for growth, her father's fixed view of her has no way of
accounting for it, and he is likely to fall victim to his own sense of
irony which indeed is the case at the end of the story.

About Aunt Lavinia Penniman as a limited perceiver of
Catherine‘s situation, we learn directly from the author as soon as
he introduces her:

Mrs. Penniman was a tall, thin, fair, rather faded woman,
with a perfectly amiable disposition, a high standard of

 

3Richard Poirer, The Comic Sense of Henry James: A Study
of the Early Novels (New York, 1960), p. 179.

directnt“Ss
terieS"a ‘
always b“
lutely W”
for she ha‘
liked to ha'
assumed n;
The author's 051‘?
ii: the story, 8513
muting young TU
Catherine, her a‘
r' ' '
.1C herorne who s
t - ‘ .
o. tearful plt‘aCiJ‘
riage that would i
mage, there one?
".ie‘&_ 9 _ .
01 Catherine
made '
about his d;
Dossi '
. .ble reality i

m. ‘ .
“09 Over in the

rhai ‘-' e
n mlthiul to L

 

il'rn '
e U"
thh She

The
Cathe rine

 

tri" -
ledthis gr&r

35

gentility, a taste for light literature, and a certain foolish in-
directness and obliquity of character. She was romantic; she
was sentimental; she had a passion for little secrets and mys-
teries--a very innocent passion, for her secrets had hitherto
always been as unpractical as addled eggs. She was not abso-
lutely veracious; but this defect was of no great consequence,
for she had never had anything to conceal. She would have
liked to have a lover, and to correspond with him under an
assumed name, in letters left at a shop.4
The author's estimate of Lavinia is amply illustrated with her actions
in the story, especially where Catherine's love affair with the fortune
hunting young Townsend is concerned. If the doctor underestimates
Catherine, her aunt strains herself to fit her into a role of a roman-
tic heroine who should enjoy secret meetings with her lover, plenty
of tearful pleadings with her cruel father, and finally a secret mar-
riage that would make her happy forever after. If there is no mar-
riage, there ought to be a final parting at least. While Dr. SlOper's
view of Catherine is based on some realistic observations he has
made about his daughter, Mrs. Penniman's view goes against all
possible reality in favor of her own romantic fantasies. A Catherine
made over in the image of Aunt Lavinia should be expected to re-
main faithful to her first lover, and to wait for his remorseful re-
turn which she would reward with her forgiveness and her hand.

The Catherine who does not choose to do so after her aunt has con-

trived this grand scene for her is a puzzle indeed. Mrs. Penniman

 

4Washington Square, p. 9.

 

fits one of Dr. 51
detecting it. WU
he entrusts her us
the wish that she
indeed, he feels t
spoiled anyway.
Catherine's lou-
Spoil things.

Between 131,

toolish aunt of the.

a
O I

5hr _
1’ modest, a“(

atraid of him, T

 

 

36

fits one of Dr. Sloper's types exactly and he is very shrewd in
detecting it. We can only wonder that seeing her for what she is,
he entrusts her with the supervision of Catherine's education with
the wish that she ought to make a clever woman out of her; unless,
indeed, he feels that what little there is of Catherine could not be
spoiled anyway. When later on Lavinia begins to meddle in
Catherine's love affair, he is rather glad because he hopes she will
spoil things.

Between the disappointed, "objective" father and the amiable,
foolish aunt of the Sloper household we finally spot Catherine, the
shy, modest, affectionate child who dotes on her father while she is
afraid of him. There is always an edge of irony in his treatment of
her which puzzles and scares her but also makes her regard him as
the cleverest of men. She senses that she does not quite please him
and lives for the day when she should succeed in doing so. Only the
reader can see the hopelessness of her secret ambition when he is
told that by the time Catherine is eighteen her father has accepted
the matter of her limitations as settled. The reader can also go
beyond the limited views of Dr. Sloper or Aunt Lavinia for a more
perceptive sight of Catherine provided for him from time to time
by an omniscient narrator. The narrator tells him that her aunt and
her father have exaggerated Catherine's limitations. To begin with,

she is not dazzled by the qualities of her aunt while she remains

37
fond of her as the only available mother figure in the house. Some—
day, we may speculate from this, she will shake herself loose from
Lavinia's impositions. Meanwhile, she appears "so quiet and irre-
sponsive"; but again we know from the narrator that this is the way
she guards her painful shyness and sensitivity.

We would not be charmed by Catherine much, however, if
direct general statements about her difficulties were the only means
by which the author chooses to go behind what Mrs. Penniman and
her father see. He finds other ways. There are delightful illustra-
tions of Catherine's actions, for example. It suffices to remember
Catherine's lively taste for dress:

Her great indulgence of it was really the desire of a rather in-

articulate nature to manifest itself; she sought to be eloquent

in her garments, and to make up for her diffidence of speech
by a fine frankness of costume.

We see from glimpses like this a Catherine young and lost in the
immensity of the world around her, painfully aware of her limita-
tions, trying but not knowing how to overcome them. She is, as
Poirer puts it, as "a child stillborn. " By having lost her mother at
birth, she has lost the magic touch of being loved that would give
her the necessary confidence of defining herself as a person in her

own right.

 

5Washington Sgare, p. 13.

At times J.
see Catherine ' s
ovasions what a
person sees. Si
manner while at‘

Townsend is art-

and seeming sir.
sideration bef or
that has such pe-
ituocence and yt
Finally, there i:

haps the first of

Si

OPEI'S wise s;

time to time he

Catherine since

EOOC-natu re d d;

‘he reader, ho

than '
heriaihEr

inc

atherine ar

 

ale 50mg dav

ThTOUEh
“an - '
7) Point of

\
.doreOV

 

er, W,

 

 

38

At times James drops the omniscient author altogether and we
see Catherine's situation through her own eyes. We see on such
occasions what an uncertain, unsuspecting, warm and generous young
person sees. She is lost in admiration of her cousin's ease of
manner while attending the latter‘s engagement party. When Morris
Townsend is presented, she is overwhelmed by his grace, good looks
and seeming sincerity. She has never been treated with such con-
sideration before. As Catherine is lost in her ”brave new world
that has such people in 't, " ‘we are charmed by the atmosphere of
innocence and youth she casts about herself on such occasions.
Finally, there is Mrs. Almond, the other sister of Dr. Sloper, per-
haps the first of the ficelles in James‘ fiction. Mrs. Almond is
Sloper's wise sister as opposed to the foolish Lavinia, and from
time to time he consults her, or rather just till—s her about
Catherine since he takes nobody's judgment on that subject. Her
good-natured disagreements with her brother Austin are enough for
the reader, however, to see that there may be more to Catherine
than her father is willing to admit. She senses "a style of her own”
in Catherine and qualities that a man of mature tastes may appreci-
ate some day.

Through these narrative devices we are enabled to see more
at any point of the story than any single character is allowed to see.

Moreover, we are prepared for Catherine's would-be leap into

existence as v
father, who 5.
self without 6

The ma
COUISE, YCXln!
accepts for t}-
lIS Sllll great
behind the Cu:
oiillusions n1

beloved fathe

in a man's lo-

erable;

From in,
that Mo
her fat}
tilese fa
her Pla;
the pair
ever m.

39
existence as well as for the obstacles she will encounter with her
father, who sees only her clumsy, ”absolutely unattractive” public
self without ever admitting the possibility of an individual self in her.
The magic touch that brings the real Catherine to life is, of
course, young Townsend's love, which she in her inexperience
accepts for the real thing. This one great event of her life, with
its still greater disappointment, gives her an ironic view of realities
behind the cultivated public masks of those around her. It strips her
of illusions not only about her lover and Aunt Lavinia but about her
beloved father as well. While it leaves her with a dead weight at the
center of her being, (she never again can either respond to or believe
in a man's love, ) the gains toward her personal identity are consid-
erable:
From her own point of view the great facts of her career were
that Morris Townsend had trifled with her affection, and that
her father had broken its spring. Nothing could ever alter
these facts; they were always there, like her name, her age,
her plain face. Nothing could ever undo the wrong or cure
the pain that Morris had inflicted on her, and nothing could
ever make her feel toward her father as she felt in her
younger years. There was something dead in her life, and
her duty was to try and fill the void. Catherine recognized
this duty to the utmost; she had a great disapproval of brood-
ing and moping. 6
The Catherine who emerges from her trial is a woman of strong

will and pride which prevent her from wearing her heart on her

sleeve. She becomes a well-liked, kindly figure around Washington

 

6Washington Square, p. 176.

Scuare: "Young
(which they ne‘iti
of .181' without k:

The ironic
series of what c
could be COHSiCit
Townsend. Size
pearance ant. at:
keep this experiu
father's questiur
know the Young 1‘
believed her. " I
Catherine wither;
Iransparent Sim;
”the Surface.
We 0f Spirit w

father‘s ironic :

l
2‘5-‘5 her wheth-

decides to take

‘Q
n . 1

(my I
‘

 

o‘ ,‘ .
‘rlsm this tin.

Tl ' .
er Sling)!“

1
all

neSs.

 

40

Square: "Young girls were apt to confide to her their love affairs
(which they never did to Mrs. Penniman), and young men to be fond
of her without knowing why. "

The ironic revelations of Catherine are brought about by a
series of what could be called "ironic shocks. " The first of these
could be considered Catherine's introductory encounter with
Townsend. She has been deeply impressed by the young man's ap-
pearance and attentions to her and she has an unconscious urge to
keep this experience all to herself. She fakes disinterest to her
father's questions about Morris, pretending that she does not even
know the young man's name, "and with all his irony, her father
believed her. " Dr. Sloper has received his first 'surprise' from
Catherine without ever suspecting it. Convinced of his daughter's
transparent simplicity, he has no acuteness for what does not appear
on the surface. Soon enough she shows definite growth of independ-
ence of spirit when she finds herself capable of rebutting one of her
father's ironic remarks. When in the early stages of her affair, he
asks her whether her young man has proposed to her today, she
decides to take the unkind remark as a joke and replies lightheart-
edly that perhaps he would do that next time. Dr. Sloper i_s sur-
prised this time, but after a short reflection decides that Catherine
in her simplicity may have made such an assumption in all serious-

ness.

For a long
trusts in her fat
experience ' s a
been vainly str:
her suitor as a
thatby being es
gain her father'
Oi'liorris is ur-
has seen hersf.
before: "55,. w

pEl'SOn . ,‘I‘ ;_‘

'3. Sprung into 1:

Performame of

lo 569 her fat'rm

He

certain that s'

at b

 

41

For a long while yet Catherine remains a loving daughter who
trusts in her father's goodness and who, ironically, sees her new
experience as a chance to gain his full affection for which she has
been vainly striving so far. As we know, Dr. Sloper has dismissed
her suitor as a presumptuous fortune hunter, and Catherine fancies
that by being especially good, uncomplaining and obedient, she may
gain her father's heart and be able to convince him that his judgment
of Morris is wrong. She has a new confidence in herself since she
has seen herself doing things which she could not have possibly done
before: "She watched herself as she would have watched another
person . . . who was both herself and not herself, who had sudden-
ly sprung into being, inspiring her with a natural curiosity as to the
performance of untested functions. "7 Thus inspired she determines
to see her father and to plead for Morris. Her father is adamant.
He feels sorry for her, but he is certain that he is right. He is also
certain that she will obey at the end--he is so sure of her love for
him. All he has to do is to frighten her, but he goes a bit far. He
tells her that by engaging herself to Morris she is really waiting for
her father's death. This at the moment when Catherine has tried to
convince him of her devotion as a daughter! It is an ironic shock
indeed, and Catherine leaves her father's study with "a terrible

sense of his turning her off. "

7Washington Square, p. 80.

 

 

Having fa
determines to
intends to conti
strikes her as

under the ct rcu

dignity and incii
gives him "a 5'
But he is too (ii
to it and tells it
to herself. By
blows from h”
EOOdness much
Contempt. 11y.

Unau'are
ObftdienCe “ill .

O 9' -., .
bS'maCy he r

Site SEEmS Ln.

0 n
c

 

Preoccumed

 
 
 

th

5‘ .

42.

Having failed in her great project with her father, Catherine
determines to leave his house since remaining in it while she
intends to continue receiving her lover against her father's wishes
strikes her as a gross breach of honesty. She tells Dr. Sloper that
under the circumstances she ought not to live with him, enjoying his
"kindness and protection. " Even Dr. Sloper cannot miss the sign of
dignity and individual spirit in his daughter's argument this time: it
gives him "a sudden sense of having underestimated his daughter. "
But he is too displeased with the whole business to pay much attention
to it and tells her with a certain degree of contempt to keep her idea
to herself. By now Catherine has received too many consecutive
blows from her father to keep up the idealized image of his love and
goodness much longer. The last encounter has made her feel his
contempt. It hurts, but it has absolved her from feeling penitent,
and now she feels that she can do as she pleases.

Unaware of his lost footing with his daughter, Dr. Sloper takes
her to Europe with the assurance that the last manifestation of her
obedience will take place on the grand tour. Her "unaggressive
obstinacy" he has interpreted as simply a lack of spirit, and when
she seems unimpressed by the sights of Europe he reasons it must
be because of the same dullness of spirit, not because she is greatly
preoccupied with her matters of the heart. The doctor undertakes

the European travel with a kind of excitement. At the beginning of

Catherine's ir
amusement or
when Catherir
rary thing, 0:

tween her lC‘A‘

excitement:

emotion that I
am really ye r
customary in

"The {hf
Sl

'Opcr/ F10 (it)

at.
iqnen 100 10ft L’

her that @110qu

turns out to

be

 

43
Catherine's involvement with Morris, he had decided to get some
amusement out of the whole thing. There has been some already
when Catherine has shown that "she's going to stick" (it is a tempo-
rary thing, of course), and there has been fun to see her waver be-
tween her love for her father and her lover, unwilling to lose or to
give up either one. From this mixture of the two feelings, Dr.
Sloper waits for "some third element" to show up; hence his state of
excitement: "I wait with positive excitement: and that is a sort of
emotion that I didn't suppose Catherine would ever provide for me. I
am really very much obliged to her, "8 he tells Mrs. Almond with his
customary irony.

"The third element" does show up, but the joke is on Dr.
Sloper) who does not suspect its coming into being. Catherine has
taken too long. In a rather melodramatic scene in the Alps, he tells
her that enough is enough. She ought to know that he can be very
hard and not to try his patience any longer. "The third element"
turns out to be a quantity he cannot assign to the Catherine he knows,
the Catherine in whom he believes he can foresee everything with his
ironic sense. A. Catherine he cannot explain fills him with rage. As
Poirer aptly suggests, "A Catherine whose feelings he can no longer

take ironically would indeed not be the same Catherine who is his

 

8Washington Square, p. 112.

 

daughter as he
comes about by i

does not love he

y .
p-
l

a Is O‘\;"n inlaflt‘ - -

These qualities

Cay, It COUld by

L

l

lDEration of Ca:
gracing inabilih

EXISlenCe his 1"

l
I. 4

T38 new C

L

Glrlnla 1n her ,.
1"

 

 

 

44

”9

daughter [as he knows her. 1 "The third element" at this point
comes about by Catherine's full ironic realization that her father
does not love her; it is the making of Dr. Sloper's own daughter in
his own image--very hard, with the same strong will and pride.
These qualities the doctor does not apprehend in her until his dying
day. It could be said that from the time of the scene in the Alps
until the end of the story, two ironic movements take p1ace--the full
liberation of Catherine in terms of her newly gained insight, and a
growing inability of her father to cope with a new Catherine whose
existence his limited view of her cannot accept.

The new Catherine is firm and articulate. She puts Aunt
Lavinia in her place when the latter continues to meddle in her af-
fairs, and she is ready to start her own life without expecting a
thing from her father any more. Whereas before she had thought of
the young man's well-faked love as an unexpected blessing, she
claims her own rights of love now when she tells Morris that he
ought not to think about cotton and business but about her. When the
final shock of the true intentions of Morris confronts her, her pride
and will keep her going about her daily chores with a seeming cheer-
fulness that deceives her parent into making his usual conclusions:

she is not capable of either great emotions or great suffering. As I

 

9Poirer, p. 174.

have said before.
he is the one win:

daughte r and i

U)

for his death to :
touch. In View it
excused his not i
there is a touch
When he Changes
renew his suit a:
Other reasons "

.U

5‘. *
range'l' Obstin;

 

 

45

have said before, at the end of the book, the joke is on Dr. SIOper:
he is the one who has lost sight of the obvious realities about his
daughter and is willing to go so far as to assume that she is waiting
for his death to marry Morris with whom she must secretly be in
touch. In View of her consistent kindness toward him (she has even
excused his not loving her for not being as charming as her mother),
there is a touch of deliberate cruelty in his last act toward Catherine
when he changes his will so that Morris would not be tempted to
renew his suit after the doctor's death. That Catherine may have
other reasons for rejecting excellent marriage proposals than being
strangely obstinate about Morris never enters his mind.

Catherine's own final quality leaves us with a sense of irony
too. She has gained in stature while she has lost trust in human af-
fections. She carries death at the center of her being while she is
more alive than she ever has been before. Her best gain seems to
be that, like little Maisie, she has not grown inhuman under circum-
stances that could have made her so, or as Dupee puts it: "Between
victim and victimizer there is a human middle ground which
Catherine makes her own. "10 I feel, however, that Dupee oversim-
plifies Catherine's gain when he remarks that her newly achieved

independence is "the independence of a person intent on simple

 

10F. W. Dupee, Henry James (New York, 1951), p. 65.

survival. ” If it W
the first decent 5‘
be more assured
Similarly, I feel
when he states ti:
tion" and that he:
ll’ ”for suffering

ing sure of the e:

She is not articu

against he r woul

who can ve rba'. i .-

thfi respect:

~-.‘
‘4.

James p
her mind
pOSSGSSC>
1y with h.-
and dexwf

As I mentiOned

803*
“‘~E:’the 18>

ma] r A ‘
A e A
dQCr,

 

511

 

 

46

survival. " If it were just this, we would see Catherine trot off with
the first decent suitor after Morris, since surely her survival would
be more assured there than under the hard, ironic gaze of her father.
Similarly, I feel that Beach has not done full justice to Catherine
when he states that she has no "active mental reaction to her situa-
tion" and that her strength is “of the passive order, ” being a capaci-
ty "for suffering in silence. "11 The truth is, we have no way of be-
ing sure of the exact spiritual weight of the full-grown Catherine.
She is not articulate as the later heroines of James, but to hold that
against her would be to assume that wisdom dwells only with those
who can verbalize it. I think Cargill's observation a valid one in
this respect:
James purposely, I think, leaves the question of the quality of
her mind ambiguous; we should observe, however, that she
possesses either instinct or wit enough to deal quite adequate-
ly with her father and her lover. We are witness to the birth

and development in her of a more important thing, the will. 12

As I mentioned at the beginning of the discussion of Washington

 

Square, the last word on Catherine is a private affair of the individ-
ual reader, and this too is part of the ironist's way of seeing things.

We have seen that Washington Square employs the ironic tech-

 

nique of a number of limited centers of consciousness focused on

the central situation. Thus we find the story indicative of James'

 

11Joseph Warren Beach, The Method of Henry James
(Philadelphia, 1954), p. 228.

 

12”Introduction" to Washington Square, p. xxi.

 

later techniqu“
steps or scene:
because each 0
Catherine and i
end of Catherin
Washington Sow:

some delightful

 

 

 

 

47
later techniques. The sense of irony is heightened with specific
steps or scenes in the narrative which I have called ”ironic shocks"
because each of these brings about a new ironic awareness for
Catherine and prepares us toward the climactic ironic View at the
end of Catherine's trial. There are some other uses of irony in

Washington Square to be mentioned. In the first place, there are

 

some delightful touches of verbal irony here and there. When Morris
tells Catherine that he loves her for being so natural and then adds
that he is ”natural” himself, our sense of his actual duplicity is
heightened: it is indeed natural for him to play parts. A touch of
verbal irony of a subtler kind comes to mind from the last meeting
between the middle aged Morris and Catherine. When Morris ex-
presses surprise at her not having married, yet refusing his second
suit and then catches himself with a gallant, "Yes, you are rich, you
are free; you had nothing to gain, " Catherine repeats: "I had noth-
ing to gain. " In her simple agreement we can read the volumes of
her disappointment in love: what could she have gained from taking
on a deceitful husband?

The disparity between Dr. SIOper's assurances and expecta-
tions and the actual realities about Catherine are deftly pointed up
by use of what Thompson has termed Sophoclean irony. SloPer's

favorite remark is that Catherine will give up her lover because

"she has such an admiration for her father. " We know what

actually happens
The waiting for 1
taken- as an ironi
Catherine's heal
himself that suci
knowing that he I
lost her when 511
pair 0f Spectacle
flatters himself,

tering View lhI‘UI
LeStthis (if

has created Dr.

t--.
“amen to add the

employing an ir:

bill-Org, has an i

never been Wrm

vi n

 

Ced that he

Ini‘
gut be 800d,

 

6‘.”
l

 

48

actually happens to this admiration while Dr. SlOper never does.
The waiting for the "third element" in Catherine‘s affair can be
taken as an ironic stress in this sense, too. Estimating
Catherine's healthy figure and dull mind, her father consoles
himself that such as she is, he will never have to lose her, not
knowing that he could not have lost her more by death than he has
lost her when she begins to judge him. ”I will present her with a
pair of spectacles [ to see the true self of Morris ] , " Dr. Sloper
flatters himself. When he does present her with a pair, the unflat-

tering view through them includes the giver himself.

Lestthis discussion should give the impression that James

has created Dr. SlOper as a monster void of human qualities, I must

hasten to add that he has softened the harsh outline of the doctor by

employing an ironic device. The doctor, as I have pointed out

before, has an idea of himself as of a man of the world who has
never been wrong in his judgment of peOple. Moreover, he is con-
vinced that he is ”largely just" and objective. Thus his intentions
might be good, but his judgments are neither just nor objective on
all occasions, because they are limited by his prejudices and scien-
tific oversimplifications which result in categories rather than

awareness of individual human traits. James has portrayed

Dr. Sloper throu.

his human liniita‘

monstrosity.
Finally, th.

the mild and indi;

I

he sarcastic whc

9
k

romantic love, a r

can

aim-rd as the

5:13 ‘

 

49
Dr. Sloper through the use of irony of character thus pointing to
his human limitations rather than convincing us of his inhuman
monstrosity.

Finally, there is an all-pervasive irony of tone, ranging from
the mild and indulgent when James treats the young Catherine, to
the sarcastic when Mrs. Penniman's extravagant notions about
romantic love are exposed. This irony of tone is a device James

can afford as the omniscient author. In the case of Washington

 

Square it serves him well in stressing what I would call the chief
ironic intent of the work--to make us aware of a disparity between
the qualities of people as they appear in the light of socially acceged
standards and their true identities which their public selves don't
always reveal. As the ironic tone thickens around the figures of
Aunt Lavinia and Dr. Sloper toward the end of the book, we question
more and more the true sufficiency of the doctor's reputation as the
wise man of the world, and are likely to decide that behind the comic
stage appearances of Aunt Penniman there is no Lal self to account
for at all. As for Dr. SlOper, Poirer feels that up to the scene in
the Alps “his ironic observation of experiences, is, with some
slight modification, James's own. "13 According to Poirer, it is

only after Sloper's unjust attack on Catherine in the Alps, that

 

13Poirer, p. 169.

James' ironic it
with Poirer her
in the manner u
he, as the narr;
beginning of th-
of this wisdom ]
the end, is as I‘.
Which James tr.

only to rememb

acters from his

 

 

 

 

50
James' ironic tone departs from and attacks Sloper's. I disagree
with Poirer here and feel that James manipulates his ironic tone
in the manner of Socratic irony where Dr. SlOper is concerned; i. e. ,
he, as the narrator, pretends to approve of Sloper's wisdom at the
beginning of the story only to reveal the more the very insufficiency
of this wisdom later on. The figure of Catherine, as we see her at
the end, is as much liberated from the patronizing ironic tone with
which James treats her at the Opening of her story as she is freed
from the superficial charge of being dull and commonplace. We have
only to remember James' remarks about the 'fixed' and 'free' char-

acters from his Preface to The Spoils of Pogton to realize his last-

 

ing interest in the ironic disparities of character. We shall see that
he explores the various possibilities of such disparities again and
again. There are characters who, like Madame Merle or Kate Croy,
deliberately practice a public self to deceive those around them

14

about their true selves, and even Catherine learns to dissemble

 

14John A. Clair's study, (9p. gi_1_:_.) limits itself quite exclusive-

ly to this concept of ironic disparities of character, namely to the
dissembling characters who practice a public mask for some person-
al gain. His findings are extravagant in this respect. We learn that
the housekeeper in The Turn of the Screw puts on a show of "ghosts"
(there are neither real nor hallucinatory ghosts in the tale) to scare
the ineXperienced governess (for what reasons is never explicitly
stated), and that Miss Staverton also produces a "ghost" to keep
Brydon in America and to herself in ”The Jolly Corner. " Prince
Amerigo and Charlotte Stant, on the other hand, engage themselves
in a make-believe affair (there is no real one) to save Maggie and

 

so that her fat
As Poirer poi
in order to pr
as the charac
pdrer explor.
parities, PC)"
othe mu;- 5 e .

I haVC‘
qualities 01- g

51

so that her father will not detect the changes taking place in her.
As Poirer points out, the dissembling character who masks himself
in order to protect his true identity appears as early in James' work

as the characterization of Eugenia in The Europeans (1878). While

 

Pdrer explores mainly the purely comic possibilities of such dis-
parities, my concern is with their ironic value, be it comic or
otherwise.

I have attempted to show that Washington Square contains

 

qualities of James' ironic art which we shall encounter in his later
work as well. The quantity of the omniscient author which still
marks this early story is not necessarily to be held against it. The
omniscient narrator, here so well equipped with a flexible ironic
tone, takes turns with the ironic centers of intelligence (the tech-

nique he favors in his later work) to the utmost advantage of the work

 

Adam Verver from a self-indulgent daughter-father love which is
ruining their respective marriages to the Prince and Charlotte. The
most plausible of these investigations seem to me to be the ones of
The Spoils of Poynton and "The Chaperon. " Fleda of The Spoils is
shown as testing her chances for the love of Owen Gereth and with-
drawing from the field when she is convinced that Owen only pre-
tends to make love to her on Mona's prompting in order to secure
his prOperty. Rose Tramore in "The Chaperon" deliberately uses
Captain Jay to get her mother back into society even if she marries
the helpful man later on. The trouble with Clair's conclusions in all
of these analyses is that he overlooks the subtle matter of tone. The
author's tone is a quantity that cannot be rationally explained away as
the matter of James' ghosts seems to be for Mr. Clair, but it is
nevertheless there. It seems to me that James' tone in the works
Clair undertakes to analyze argues very much against his findings.

 

as a whole. I :
Scuare "the nai
tone he calls on
ticated irony, "
merely states ;

his later techni

SLOry “'thh, a:

411')’~Iale “it?“

fag? '

‘ “l god-moth.
l

cel.entta1e in i

Our 5+
ull d)’ h 0 .‘K. ‘.

n’ .-
lqlaE‘S to his if

 

 

 

52

as a whole. I suppose Frye would call the James of Washington

 

Square "the naive ironist" because through modulations of his ironic
tone he calls our attention to the fact that he is being ironic. "Sophis-
ticated irony," Frye argues, is in the form of the work; thus it
merely states and lets the reader supply the ironic tone. James with
his later technique of the ironic reflectors becomes the "sophisticated

ironist. " The "naive irony, " however, works well for Washington

 

Square because of the relative simplicity of the basic situation of the
story which, as Poirer has demonstrated, is that of a melodramatic
fairy-tale with a Cinderella (though unrewarded with a prince), a

fairy god-mother and a cruel parent. Washington Square is an ex-

 

cellent tale in its own right. We have only to ask through the rest of
our study how well James succeeds again in matching his ironic tech-

niques to his ironic material at hand.

ironic intentions a
relatively simple r

received the just c

u“
(’1‘
, A. .
.3

(IV)
:9
C")
’1

(D

H

:3”

a!

:3
1...:

h undue ambiu‘cl

accepted as intend

l“: . c
J‘ great and ca ref:

ea

no

~~~.n01‘lly now,

30115 t- '.
“they of thi

S‘ll‘ :
lb81,e\yed tha’

u»
‘AJn

all
d respect I!

32:1
«Q‘ls tr
4 reckon

I

53‘1" ~‘ -
tl‘qunS, in
\V.‘

7--
5L,

n , - .
pa5810:) "1

V." -
30 tended to .'

E1 :15“

 

 

 

53

"Madame de Mauves" (1874) is the earlier of the two works
discussed here, but because it is the more complex of the two in
ironic intentions and techniques, I have chosen to treat it after the

relatively simpler Washington Square. Only recently has this tale

 

received the just critical appraisal it deserves. It is seen now as
being more than just a rather faulty transitional work of the author
with undue ambiguities and shifting techniques; the ambiguities are
accepted as intended and inherent, and the structure is found to be
of great and carefully worked complexity. The "straight" readers
too who tended to accept Euphemia's virtue in good faith are in a
minority now, and a belief that James intended to stress the ambig-
uous quality of this virtue is prevalent. Cornelia Kelley in 1930
still believed that the story is an illustration of Longmore's admira-
tion and respect for Madame de Mauves in face of M. de Mauves who
"fails to reckon with the fact that both Euphemia and Longmore are
Americans, in whom conscience and reason and dignity are stronger

than passion. "1 She finds the story "morally if not emotionally"

 

1The Early Develggment of Henry James (Urbana, 1965),

 

p. 161.

satisfying, and l
Americans gran
as true to nati‘.r«
sixties, LODgIY‘;t
credit for their
l957 believes ti:
and that with 13;.

, .
relatives that hi

conduct, he tint.

inconsistent ".k‘

I. 7
congrnore. "“

on Madame (lt‘

t .
~h€ entire stor

ir- ‘
on) )IS eS‘

.E;

guttern in the
Terri '
vgse ‘
hls flr:

err:
l«S tip With i

abflut

§

 

the Sar

0th" .

N
‘ue‘h'
(111‘ -
“”134 .
D‘L‘l l‘

/

 

120.}. -I’T_;
s‘ J‘
N) \,Ol

I‘—

54

satisfying, and her only complaint is that James gave his noble
Americans grand, self-analyzing speeches which she cannot accept
as true to nature, even if she accepts their deeds. In the fifties and
sixties, Longmore and especially Euphemia do not receive that much
credit for their staunch virtues. Even if Charles G. Hoffman in
1957 believes that "dignity" and "delicacy" guide Madame de Mauves,
and that with these qualities she convinces Longmore and her French
relatives that her rejection of a lover is motivated by an ideal of
conduct, he finds her refusal to forgive the repentant M. de Mauves
"inconsistent with the high level of behavior she reaches with
Longmore. "2 The latest critics, such as J. A. Ward in his article
on "Madame de Mauves, " see ambiguity "subtly present throughout
the entire story. "3 A complex pattern (Ward calls it "structural
irony") is established which in its turn reveals "a rather intricate
pattern in the character relationships." The reader is forced to
revise his first opinions about the characters as he reads along and
ends up with the uneasy feeling that the fine Euphemia comes out at
about the same place her rather sinister sister—in-law occupies;
both insist on the value of strict codes at the expense of warm,

meaningful human relations hips .

 

2The Short Novels of Henry James (New York, 1957), p. 15.

 

3"Structural Irony in Madame de Mauves, " Studies in Short
Fiction, Vol. II, No. 2, (Winter,l965,) pp. 170-182.

 

 

nth-ole , ac know".
shall. begin by ;

indicates, is a:

CE‘IZIE’I'S around

1.
S‘t‘ps are \K'Qr}

81035 be I‘Ke

CI".

-'—qn.-—~ »___ _ ‘

55

Since the recent criticism of "Madame de Mauves, " on the
whole, acknowledges the ironic-ambiguous quality of the story, I
shall begin by assessing this criticism. Ward's article, as the title
indicates, is an important one in this respect. He calls "Madame de
Mauves" "a remarkably complex and carefully organized work of
fiction. " As I have already indicated, this organization, to Ward,
centers around patterns of character relationships. The relation-
ships are worked to point up the similarities rather than the differ—
ences between certain of the Americans and certain of the French
characters. If the reader at the beginning of the story is inclined to
take the attitudes of Longmore and Mrs. Draper and thereby to
sympathise with the puritan code of Euphemia and to condemn the
moral laxity of the French aristocracy, the rest of the tale may con-
vince him, Ward argues, that the conflict James expounds is not so
much between America and Europe but rather between a "full and
growing responsiveness to experience and deeply ingrained habit. "
From this "deeply ingrained habit" two such seemingly different
characters as Euphemia and Madame Clairin suffer equally. Though
the beliefs of the two women are in complete opposition--Madame de
Mauves requiring that "happiness be suppressed for the sake of
morality," and Madame Clairin insisting that "sorrow be concealed
for the sake of propriety"--the two women act in much the same way

by submitting to their ruling codes and even insisting that others

adopt Them'
Mauves and I
manner when
life vvitho‘vlt e
caPable 0f 5‘”
SIOI')‘: \t’ard I
close t0 adopt
revises his St
doubt that M“"1
comes when IQ"
driving her 8"
years of bachv
There a1
who appear as
of?

LA

e ironic.

standing, "e "
illuminative

 

56

adopt them. Similarly, the seemingly moral opposites, M. de
Mauves and Bernard Longmore, both behave in much the same
manner when, convinced by personal experience, they can approach
life without either an American or a EurOpean interpretation and are
capable of seeing a situation in itself. It is the major irony of the
story, Ward believes, that the American and the Frenchman come
close to adopting each other's attitudes toward love: the count
revises his superficial idea of marriage and Longmore begins to
doubt that renunciation is a sublime virtue. The final touch of irony
comes when the pure Euphemia thwarts the happiness of either,
driving her husband to suicide and Longmore to presumably long
years of bachelorhood.

There are, then, underlying similarities between characters
who appear as opposites in their social encounter, hence the sense
of the ironic. Above their interaction Ward sees the author himself
standing, "exposing it in its full irony and complexity. " He assigns
illuminative roles to his minor characters to point up some of the
incongruities. The finely sketched old countess de Mauves alerts
the reader that there may be more to the French attitude than the
initial stand of M. de Mauves and his sister. On the other hand,
Euphemia's mother, declining the count's first prOposal, not be-
cause she doubts his morals but because he has not proposed in the

accepted manner of the French aristocracy, shows that the American

can be as mi
ovvs the even
that the threw
Germain, an

of the autho r

tionalism as

Of course, Sv

a

ments of Loni
his intellectua

reader Can (3 r

baSed on El

hit

to conduCt. -.4

Marius

 

i...
(1‘
cu

 

57

can be as much a stickler for propriety as the French and foreshad-
ows the eventual inflexibility of her own daughter. Ward believes
that the three general locations--Paris, the formal park at Saint
Germain, and the forest beyond--achieve symbolic value in the hands
of the author. Paris stands for the sensual, pleasure-loving side of
French culture; Saint Germain for the decayed and corrupting tradi-
tionalism as well as for Euphemia's morbid conscience; the forest,
of course, symbolizes freedom of experience. The physical move-
ments of Longmore, the narrator, between the three places parallel
his intellectual movement toward a growing awareness about the true
character of Euphemia and his own moral position. Finally, the
reader can draw from the structural patterns of the tale something
like a moral conclusion--"that rigid and abstract principles, be they
based on ethical scruples or social prOpriety, are inadequate guides
to conduct. "4

Marius Bewley in "Henry James and 'Life' "5 (Bewley's article
is the older of the two) offers similar conclusions concerning the
thematic intentions of "Madame de Mauves. " He too sees wider

implications in the international theme of the story:

 

4Ward, p. 175.

5The Hudson Review, Vol. XI, No. 2, (Summer '58), pp. 167-

 

185.

mannf‘ 1' 5'
selected
toescaP
local, a:
hensive

The social SUI
look to discovi
which are ofte
other words, 1
with an ironic

torrnal structi.‘

same time thi:

story. Bewle‘

horizontal line

majOr charact

LOIlgrnore rep

Ten‘cnciation‘

Cl~' '
airin stand:

lite. The ac,

t‘v‘v‘Een the m..-

of 1

‘ tne t“0 v*.-
C

I
y.
Madame de ‘

 

YORi

Hg tOget'

 

58

. . [the story :Iis not merely a spectacle of divergent national
manners and attitudes played off against each other in carefully
selected areas, but a serious attempt to resolve these conflicts,
to escape from the restrictive categories of the provincial,
local, and native, into a more spacious, humane, and compre-
hensive reality.

The social surfaces are screens only, behind which the reader has to
look to discover the values toward which the author is pointing and
which are often different from what they appear to be at first. In
other words, the reading experience of "Madame de Mauves" ends
with an ironic illumination. Much like Ward, Bewley stresses the
formal structure of the story to which ambiguity is central; at the
same time this ambiguity is central to the moral meaning of the
story. Bewley's diagram of the structure consists of two parallel
horizontal lines upon which he groups his characters, two of the
major characters on each line. The top line with Euphemia and
Longmore represents American conscience, signifying sacrifice and
renunciation; the bottom line with Richard de Mauves and Madame
Clairin stands for acceptance of the senses and, in a qualified way,
life. The action proceeds toward "some kind of communication be-
tween the two lines, to discover a field in which the mutual hostility
of the two ways can be artistically resolved, for the marriage of

Madame de Mauves and her husband represents only an arbitrary

yoking together of what is essentially irreconcilable. "7 Steps toward

 

6The Hudson Review, p. 167.

 

7Bew1ey, p. 170.

an eventual C
characters a:
tions of both
Longmore to
fort on the P51
line” 01‘, fina
"of the morai
as they are 91
story. 8
A scenil
sense is stres
of tableaux in
a key to the 1";
steps toward a
not call it iror
Cape Which na

45 m his drea

Eup’lemia bV

 

59
an eventual communication are provided through scenes with such
characters as the French grandmother who understands the implica-
tions of both traditions or with Madame Clairin whose hints to
Longmore to become Euphemia's lover constitute "a strenuous ef-
fort on the part of the French line to communicate with the American
line" or, finally, with the two French lovers who appear to be free
"of the moral limitation of both the American and Eur0pean traditions
as they are embodied in the two principal female characters in the

story."

A scenic arrangement of "Madame de Mauves" in a different
sense is stressed by Robert F. Glecknerg, who believes that a series

of tableaux in the forest (as in Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter) offer

 

a key to the formal, symmetrical structure of the story and provide
steps toward an ironic illumination of truth (even if Gleckner does
not call it ironic) for Longmore. The freedom, innocence and es-
cape which nature seems to offer, Gleckner maintains, is an illusion:
as in his dream in the forest, "Longmore could never reach the true
Euphemia by means of M. de Mauves boat, " and "the renunciation,

the sacrifice, is a necessary condition to the preservation of good,

 

8Bewley, p. 173.

9"James's Madame de Mauves and Hawthorne's The Scarlet
Letter," Modern Language Notes, Vol. LXX, No. 8, (December
'58), pp. 580-586.

 

 

i

ofreality, ()1
hmnan soul.’
moralist thar
lioffnia
'fliadanae de
divisions, 9;,
Cnh'fillater

V!

39W.‘rnor¢

O

traced, In ~5
method. liof;
Longmgre 9 35

l"Grit:

the an

 

 

60
of reality, of truthfulness, of the dignity and inviolability of the
10 . .
human soul." As one can see, in Gleckner we have a stricter
moralist than in the above two critics.
Hoffman (op. cit.) feels that the scenic arrangement of

"Madame de Mauves" conforms to the conventional pattern of chapter
divisions, each of the short nine chapters being a dramatic unit.

Only in later works, such as The Awkward Age and "What Maisie

 

Knew, " more complex patterns of scenic progression are to be
traced. In "Madame de Mauves" we can see the germ of this later
method. Hoffman selects chapter eight, in which Euphemia rejects
Longmore, as a good example of the Jamesian scenic method at
work: the author carefully sets the stage, creates a mood, supplies
dramatic dialogue with mounting tensions leading up to the climactic
point of the story. Hoffman, as I mentioned before, saw this scene
as a demonstration of Euphemia's noble nature and found her later
treatment of M. de Mauves inconsistent with it. The sense of the
ambiguous then, in Hoffman's reading, is implied only in the ending
of the story. He does not see it as a pervading quality. A similar
reading is offered by Christof Wegelin who feels that at the end "we

HI].

flounder in Jamesian ambiguity. James ends with asking questions

 

10Modern Langage Notes, p. 586.

 

11The Image of Europe in Henry James (Dallas, 1958), p. 45.

without suppl

consistency (
sion of huniil
recent work «
the story bec
meant him IL)
he can do is 1
Ofavve‘ at 15,.

men his «at»

I am mi

 

 

 

61

without supplying clear-cut answers: 15 Euphemia's incorruptible
consistency divine or inhuman? Is Longmore's aloofness an expres-
sion of humility or of fright? And finally, Krishna B. Vaid in a
recent work on James' techniques12 sees this ambiguity as a flaw in
the story because the reader is left unsure about how the author
meant him to judge the heroine's unbending, unforgiving rigidity. All
he can do is to share Longmore's 'feeling of wonder, of uncertainty,
of awe' at the news that Richard de Mauves has commited suicide
when his wife's forgiveness was not forthcoming.

I am much in sympathy with Ward's and Bewley's readings of
"Madame de Mauves, " and I find statements of value in other criti-
cism of recent date. I certainly share the opinion of Bewley and
Ward that ambiguity is what could be called a "built—in" element of
the whole story. As I have stated several times over, I take the am-
biguous as an inseparable component of the ironic mode of writing,
and it shall be treated as such in my reading of "Madame de Mauves."

To begin with the ironic techniques evident in this story, one
cannot help noticing that already in this early work of James a cen-
tral intelligence emerges in the figure of Bernard Longmore. Others,
especially Vaid, have noticed that great parts of the story are told

from Longmore's point of view. Perhaps nobody has stressed yet

 

12Technique in the Tales of Henry James (Cambridge, Mass. ,
1964), pp. 134-145.

 

how clearly
Longmore:
Thong
may c
hand 1
ing th.
Here is the
other case"
‘. ' u
3131 (Which
more Or les
{Or the Part
Strucmre O!

T I

rnoral attitu

62

how clearly James himself assigns the role of the ironic reflector to
Longmore:
Though not in the least a cynic he [Longmore] was what one
may call a disappointed observer, and he never chose the right-
hand road without beginning to suspect after an hour's wayfar-
ing that the left would have been the better. 13
Here is the Jamesian detached observer, ready for the "possible
other case" in viewing things, yet with a touch of bewilderment about
him (which of any two ways is the better one? ) which will make him
more or less an active participant in the story he records. Except
for the parts where the omniscient narrator excludes Longmore, the
structure of the story corresponds closely to the shifting position of
Longmore's View of Euphemia, of those around her, and of his own
moral attitude. The reader may eventually group, parallel, or con-
trast the given characters as Ward and Bewley have done but not un-
til he has worked his way through most of them together with
Longmore. The first we see of Euphemia is through Longmore's
eyes to whom she appears as a subtle contrast to the bustling Mrs.
Draper whose very "volubility shook a sort of sweetness out of the
friend's [Euphemia's lsilence. " With her simple dress and hair

style, her "dovelike eyes, " she seems to him "at once alert and in-

different, contemplative and restless. " Her quiet beauty and

 

13The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Vol. XIII, "Madame

de Mauves, " p. 215.

somewhat are
eaaer to expl
bi'MrS- Draz
cepts uncriti"
It's the
subrilit
those it

iniagin‘
reqUI rt.

a chapter 01. C

L .
.iood in the F‘

m AI
ems. In he?

easily trappvfi
her money to
omniscient at.
pathy with E‘.
diSplay at th-

"th .
e prime '
I

cepts "

that

 

63

somewhat dreamy air creates a sense of mystery Longmore feels
eager to explore. The first clue to Euphemia's mystery is provided
by Mrs. Draper, a germinal confidante, whose view Longmore ac-
cepts uncritically:
It's the miserable story of an American girl born neither to
submit basely nor to rebel crookedly marrying a shining sinful
Frenchman who believes a woman must do one or the other of
those things. The lightest oqu have ballast that they can't
imagine, and the poorest a moral imagination that they don't
require.
Mrs. Draper at the same time implies that Euphemia's unfortunate
marriage is the result of the girl's romantic illusions about the "deli-
cacy of feeling" of the French nobility. The author switches here to
a chapter of omniscient narrative and in recounting Euphemia's girl-
hood in the French convent justifies most of Mrs. Draper's state-
ments. In her seclusion Euphemia dreams extravagantly and is
easily trapped into marriage by the clever Mauves, who are after
her money to save their fortunes. It is only the ironic tone of the
omniscient author that prevents the reader from the unqualified sym-
pathy with Euphemia's predicament that Longmore and Mrs. Draper
display at the beginning of the story. When the author comments on

"the prime purity of Euphemia's moral vision" which trustingly ac-

cepts "that a gentleman with a long pedigree must be of necessity a

 

14"Madame de Mauves, " p. 222.

very fine fel;
reader to me
for deluding l

She wa:
'stubbo
conceit
revealc
give-n h
in fable:
in \X’ell.

011 the othe r

 

64
very fine fellow, " he includes subtle statements which enable the
reader to measure Euphemia's capacity (an almost deliberate one)
for deluding herself:
She was essentially incorruptible[ perhaps just meaning
'stubborn in her convictions' ], and she took this pernicious
conceit to her bosom very much as if it had been a dogma
revealed by a white-winged angel. Even after experience had
given her a hundred rude hints she found it easier to believe
in fables, when they had a certain nobleness of meaning, than
in well-attested but sordid facts. 15
On the other hand, the author's tone softens somewhat the reader's
view of Count de Mauves. While the mercenary character of the
Count‘s marriage plans is exposed with a touch of sarcasm (women
for him have the value of his lavender gloves, soiled in an evening
and thrown away), the author playfully suggests that he is not alto-
gether blind to Euphemia's charms, such as her "radiant frankness
of demeanour. " As for the figure of the old Countess de Mauves, she
is relatively free from the author's ironic attacks, and the reader is
free to accept her advices to Euphemia as sincere and well meant:
Not to lose at the game of life you must--I don't say cheat,
but not be too sure your neighbour won'té and not be shocked
out of your self-possession if he does. 1

While the old Madame de Mauves does not actively prevent the mar-

riage of Euphemia and her grandson, she tries to prepare her for

 

15"Madame de Mauves, " p. 224-5.

161bid., p. 230.

um possible .
idealized ir‘na
Butymn;
never u
as good
Boflithe Old (
kmocence, be
it as a quality
that a quick 12

designs. 1

 

 

65

the possible disparities between the actual Richard and the girl's
idealized image of him:
But you're very young and innocent and easy to dazzle. There

never was a man in the world--among the saints themselves--
as good as you believe my grandson. 7

Both the old Countess and her grandson are charmed by Euphemia's
innocence, but each in a different way. While the Count recognizes
it as a quality generally attractive in young girls, he selfishly hopes
that a quick marriage will preserve it as a convenience for his own
designs. Old Madame de Mauves values the serious sincerity of it,
a quality that should be respected for itself:
Whatever befalls you, promise me this: to be, to remain,
your own sincere little self only, charming in your own
serious little way. The Comtesse de Mauves will be none the
worse for it. Your brave little self, understand, in spite of
everything--bad precepts and bad examples, bad fortune and
even bad usage. Be persistently and patiently just what the
good God has made you, and even one of us--and one of those
who is most what we are--will do you justice. 18
At this point of the story, neither Richard de Mauves nor the Old
Countess nor Euphemia herself suspect the ironic reversals of these
speculations: the Count will be embarrassed by an adamant hardness
of a virtue outraged in place of the hoped for pliability, and when

Euphemia indeed remains "persistently and patiently just what the

good God has made her," it is not in the sense old Countess de

 

17"Madame de Mauves, " p. 239.

181bid., p. 239-240.

.\iauve s

is most

it becau

COI'I’ICS I

these i:-

66

Mauves would have wished it. Richard de Mauves ("one of those who
is most whatyv_e are") does her justice in the end, but has she earned
it because of her unflinching virtue or her severity? At any rate it
comes too late to save their wrecked marriage. The reader sees
these ironic implications in retrospect from later points of the story.
Through the omniscience of the second chapter, as I have shown,
the author provides for some modifications of what may appear
straight character types at first. Room is left for some questions,
such as: is Euphemia destined to be the completely innocent, pas-
sive sufferer? is the Count stamped exclusively for the cruel adven-
turer? Moreover, through the short but effective appearance of old
Madame de Mauves, the reader is alerted to suspect that Count de
Mauves and his sister are not the only true representatives of French
upper class morals. It is the old Countess who first transcends the
provincial mores and instead of sounding either French or aristo-
cratic, becomes the voice of experience versus innocence. She ad-
vocates an age—old wisdom--to get through life in all its reality one
must somehow manage to live on possible terms. Her message
sounds ironic when it is given, because to Euphemia her words have
only the value of quaint speeches customarily given by an old lady
of distinction to a young girl about to be married. It is important to
notice too the dramatic presentation of old Madame de Mauves.

While the Count and Euphemia are directly explained by the author,

the old lady 5
She CarrieS t
in a subtle. i
the reader in
ponders simi
come as iron

It can b
the omniscie-r
it through effc
CODYICtiOh, h<

ci .‘ r
ently narrat

On the other }‘

 

 

67

the old lady always speaks for herself in dialogues with Euphemia.
She carries the weight of the theme at an early point of the story but
in a subtle, indirect way, and the full importance of it dawns upon
the reader in retrospect, perhaps at the point where Longmore later
ponders similar views about life and the quality of experience which
come as ironic reversals to his earlier notions.

It can be said that the author achieves much and quickly through
the omniscient second chapter, and that he manages to get away from
it through effectively handled dialogues. There is truth in Vaid's
conviction, however, that structurally, as the only chapter omnis-
ciently narrated, it is not adequately merged into the rest of the tale.
On the other hand, he is not right in saying that this chapter dulls the
reader's curiosity because he is given so early in the story an ad-
vantage over Longmore who only gradually understands the heroine's
domestic complications through the rest of the story. The gist of these
complications is given to Longmore by Mrs. Draper, and he really
knows quite as much as the reader even if he has been absent through
the second chapter. What Longmore gradually understands are not
the domestic complications in themselves but how Euphemia faces

them. In this the reader is not in the least ahead of Longmore
when the second chapter ends.

At the end of chapter one, the reader leaves Longmore in an
undecisive mood about entering the household of Count de Mauves

since Mrs. Draper's information has revealed more complications

in Euphemia
eager to em
"slow smile
we see Long
visits to .\fa
returns to o
Longmore's
inhabitants c

noti
ODS C010]

mistruSt 01-1

knew that M.
were Stampe
geSture’ his
.l‘ddges a per.

fictive judé
1e

allo

$58 for 8r

 

 

68

in Euphemia's situation "than had been in his reckonings. " He is not
eager to embark upon a difficult household tangle, but Euphemia's
"slow smile" beckons and he decides to enter. With the third chapter,
we see Longmore traveling between Paris and Saint-Germain on his
visits to Madame de Mauves. Seldom and unobtrusively the author
returns to omniscience; most of the time the reader is confined to
Longmore's point of view. The young man's first impressions of the
inhabitants of the house at Saint Germain, the Count, Madame Clairin,
and Madame de Mauves, respectively, are more or less preconceived
notions colored by his sympathies toward Madame de Mauves and his
mistrust of the French. About the Count he needs no telling: ”he
knew that M. de Mauves was both cynical and shallow; these things
were stamped on his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his voice, his
gesture, his step. " This extravagant list of features by which one
judges a person's ”cynicism and shallowness" implies a very sub-
jective judge. A second, more disinterested View of M. de Mauves,
allows for some modifications: against his better judgment Longmore
credits him with a perfect manner, especially toward his wife. After
some further consideration, Longmore decides that he is facing a

grand seigneur who "could be highly polite and could doubtless be

 

damnably impertinent" and who takes his pleasures where he sees
fit. A Countess at home who judges and has no betrayals of her own
is an inconvenience. At this point the reader does not have a real

quarrel with Longmore's view because a similar one has been

endorsed l
Longmore
the Counte:

Mada
as a grandl
Longmore !‘
the formal g
Madame de
{Orest to f“.
escape the h
into the role
Calling Vain}
any length,'
imaginings \K
Euphemia ha
else Can 0fo

Aseafl
ater COnCh;

Choose Frat

 

Fran(
and tin

rema.

‘\\\\\\\\

 

69
endorsed by the implied author himself before. On the whole here,
Longmore's subjectivity rather shows his growing sympathy toward
the Countess than his unjust judgment about the Count.

Madame Clairin is quickly assessed as "metallic. " She moves
as a grandly arranged artifact, and after an interview with her,
Longmore has an urge to escape into the freedom of the forest behind
the formal garden of Saint Germain. When he perceives that
Madame de Clairin has designs on him, he actually does run to the
forest to feel that he has escaped in time. Euphemia, too, needs to
escape the house of Saint Germain, he decides, and dreams himself
into the role of the knight-rescuer with ”this exquisite creature
calling vainly for help. ” He would prove then to be ”her friend to
any length. " Later on the reader feels the full ironic impact of such
imaginings when Longmore is forced to accept the fact that
Euphemia has her own consolations——"she needs none that anyone
else can offer her. "

Asearly as the third chapter, we have foreshadowing of this
later conclusion. When Longmore inquires how Euphemia came to
choose France for her country, she replies:

France is out there beyond the garden, France is in the town

and the forest; but here, close about me, in my room and

. . . in my mind, it's a nameless, and doubtless not at all
remarkable, little country of my own. 1

 

19”Madame de Mauves, " p. 248.

In other wor
Euphemia.

sees Euphen
to exclude e:
mire the Sir
ulate Upon It:
feels her ORV
a Certain, UT
thephraSe 83
notes here ir

p
France is

(f)

 

 

70

In other words, for Euphemia her own world is supplied by
Euphemia. There is no indication that the young man at this point
sees Euphemia's attitude as not altogether admirable since it tends
to exclude extant realities or even living people. He is ready to ad-
mire the strength of her self-support, and only the reader may Spec-
ulate upon the further implications of what Euphemia says. That she
feels her own "little country” is ”not at all remarkable” may indicate
a certain, unflattering amount of self-knowledge even; to Longmore
the phrase shows only her modesty. There are other important
notes here in Euphemia's words the reader may wish to remember.
"France is out there beyond the garden, France is in the town and
the forest, " she says to remind the reader that she herself lives
surrounded by a very artificial garden. Furthermore, these lines
give an extra stress to Longmore's wishing to escape with Euphemia
to the freedom of the forest even if it is said that he liked this arti-
ficial garden. From here it is helpful to return to the Opening lines
of the story:

The view from the terrace at Saint-Germain-en-Laye is im—

mense and famous. Paris lies spread before you in dusky

vastness, domed and fortified, glittering here and there

through her light vapours and girdled with her silver Seine.

Behind you is a park of stately symmetry, and behind that a

forest where you may lounge through turfy avenues and light-

chequered glades and quite forget that you are within half an
hour of the boulevards.

 

20”Madame de Mauves, " p. 215.

As we see
stress aga
dimensions
Americans
divisions a
or its sens
dons, be ti
Which pron
may get a g
a civilized
Long:-
ll'lat l5 l0 5?:
certain thin

Longmore,
bears up 1m:
Still admire
SECOnd 100k

slmpathy f0

 

I m al
alWa:
eXtr(

 

71
As we see, the same features of the setting are used with special
stress again and again in the story until they achieve symbolic
dimensions. There is no need to divide the characters into
Americans and the French; the image of France speaks for whatever
divisions are necessary. France is the world itself with its Paris
or its sensual delights, artificial gardens or self-imposed restric-
tions, be they dictated by aristocratic or puritan codes, and a forest
which promises simplicity and freedom of existence of which one
may get a glimpse but perhaps never quite reach within the limits of
a civilized society.

Longmore, as it stands, likes Euphemia's artificial garden,
that is to say, respects her self-imposed attitudes. There are
certain things in these attitudes the reader can respect together with
Longmore, such as her quiet uncomplaining dignity with which she
bears up under the strain of a wretched marriage. These are things
still admired in the great lady. But the reader is forced to have a
second look at them while Longmore is carried along by growing
sympathy for Madame de Mauves. With unflattering honesty
Euphemia admits:

I'm a dreadful coward about having to suffer or to bleed. I've

always tried to believe that--without base concessions--such
extremities may always somehow be dodged or indefinitely

on8 Ten
to 501'Ciit
onl ' beC

d

self-decé

Wis he s to
Mauves dis

a gene I’O‘JS

the Flen

iis
in truth.
Curio
further clue
Longmore f:
li‘ reject the:

to? .
Urge: he!

\

\

21...
flit;

 

72

postponed. I should be willing to buy myself off, from having

ever to be overwhelmed, by giving up--well, any amusement

you like. 21
One remembers Euphemia the young girl who preferred pretty fables
to sordid facts, and feels that the grown woman has not really changed,
only become more self-conscious and systematic in her practice of
self-deception. Her posture of dignity is partly a self-protective
device against being "overwhelmed"--against deep suffering or con-
sequently any disturbing emotion of any kind. While Longmore is
moved to offer ”her something of which she could be as sure as of
the sun in heaven, " the reader suspects that any such offer may be
too disturbing for Euphemia to accept. She is only half-alive and
wishes to remain so. When shortly after this admission, Madame de
Mauves dismisses Longmore to go on a trip with what may sound like
a generous phrase, "I can dispense with your admiration better than
the Flemish painters can, ” the reader is inclined to agree--she can
in truth.

Curiously enough, it is the wicked count who supplies some
further clues about Euphemia. These, again, are mistrusted by
Longmore for whom they are meant, but the reader cannot complete-
ly reject them. What Euphemia needs, in the count's estimation, is

to forget herself. She is too much of one piece, she is not flexible,

 

21"Madame de Mauves, " p. 257.

73
would rather break than bend. It is true that the Count hints here
that self-forgetting and flexibility be supplied to Euphemia by
Longmore as a lover. Nevertheless his estimation is not unjustified,
even if it sees Euphemia rather as a type (as Dr. SlOper saw
Catherine) than an individual. Refusal to bend may indicate the
possession of high-minded principles, but it may also suggest the
inability to accept the human condition per se. M. de Mauve's
statements have a touch of Sophoclean irony about them when we
remember that he is the one to break, not Euphemia to bend.

Having established the characters and their respective back-
grounds, the author concentrates on scenic arrangements through
which he illuminates different aspects of the relationships in which
the characters are involved. Longmore and his observations carry
the weight of these scenes. Each scene can be said to have an intro-
duction, a carefully worked preparation to help the reader focus his
attention on the particular point the author is aiming for with the
following scene. A whole scene often serves as a preparation for a
following one.

In way of preparation for a cafe scene in chapter five, we
find Longmore musing on his growing attachment to Madame de
Mauves. He finds himself lingering in a turbulent mood around
Saint-Germain in spite of his intention to leave for a trip to see the

Flemish painters in Netherlands:

love shou
ence call
mood he ¢
lovers of
her air of
31.111310:te
eqUal reli
On her fai:
restrained
and @3sz3
landermg <

Pity anfl an

at their ple

 

74

He had hOped that when he should fall "really" in love he

should do it with an excellent conscience, with plenty of

confidence and joy, doubtless, but no strange soreness, no

pangs nor regrets. Here was a sentiment concocted of pity

and anger as well as of admiration, and bristling with scruples

and doubts and fears.
Like Euphemia, he has had idealized sentiments about what falling in
love should be. Contrary to Euphemia, he admits that real experi-
ence calls for readjusting of one's pre-conceived notions. In this
mood he enters a cafe where he becomes interested in a couple of
lovers of whom only the lady is open to his view at first. He notes
her air of "basking contentment, " of happiness that gives her an aura
of innocence; she is savoring her food and her friend's company with

equal relish. Her companion shows his appreciation of her by a kiss

on her fair neck. This tableau vivant reveals to Longmore the un-

 

restrained acceptance of Life's plenty in contrast to his own ”scruples
and doubts and fears. " Then he identifies the gentleman as the phi-
landering Count de Mauves, and his mind has ”a sudden clearing up;
pity and anger were still throbbing there, but they had space to range
at their pleasure, for doubts and scruples had abruptly departed."Z3

What he intends, as he conceives of it, is to let Madame de Mauves

know that in face of the deception around her, he is the "one vividly

 

22"Madame de Mauves, ” pp. 270-271.

23mm” p. 273.

 

OVE‘I'

givin

9D hei

tOO ha
is the
Like I
is Rev.

75

honest man” she can count on. Because of the foregoing scene, the
reader sees beyond him: with all his high-minded sentiments, iron-
ically, Longmore is ready to partake in experience not unlike the one
he has just observed even if it had filled him with indignation. More-
over, the sense of self—abandonment and innocence which comes with
giving and sharing had been present in the not so innocent cafe scene
and as such had touched Longmore's consciousness before anger and
pity for his friend Euphemia had blocked his vision. And when one
recalls the Count's speech on Euphemia's inability to forget the self,
the ambiguity of virtue in virtuelessness and vice versa is sharpened.

The next scene shows Longmore overtaking Madame de Mauves
on her walk in the forest with her defences down more than on other
occasions. He reads agitation and grief in her face as signs that she
too has been faced with the evidence of the Count's deception. This
is the end of her pain-shunning, artificially practiced tranquility.
Like Longmore, she has been forced to know that "deep experience
is never peaceful. " Will she act upon this knowledge? At first it
seems that she will. Significantly, James chooses the freedom of
the forest as a backdrop for her unconcealed display of human weak-
ness. She is moved to tears when Longmore offers his devotion at
her moment of great stress: ". . . her half-dozen smothered sobs
showed him the bottom of her heart and convinced him she was weak
enough to be grateful. “ Next to this unguarded show of human emo-

tions, the forest is to witness a self-revelation about the other side

 

(”i

‘(J

to

24

76

of her nature, her "unfortunate taste for poetic fitness, ” as she calls
it. PeOple don't measure up to an ideal; they are poor creatures to
put one's faith in. Thus the purity, duty and dignity which Longmore
rightly suggests as being the mainsprings of her actions, cannot be
practiced in a corrupt world without frustrations. To keep up the
”poetic fitness" of one's dream means to ignore the strictly human or
if it is no longer possible, to reject the merely human completely.
Her dogged, obstinate, clinging conscience demands this turn of
action, and she adds, again with an unsparing self-knowledge:

I don't speak in vanity, for I believe that if my conscience may

prevent me from doing anything very base it will effectually
prevent me also from doing anything very fine. 24

It is obvious from Euphemia's concerns with "poetic fitness" or"con-
science” that they are dedications to abstractions. As for human ac-
tions, be they fine or base, their worth can only be measured in
terms of human values; outside of human concerns, both may appear
equally monstrous. Even if Longmore cannot see these implications
in Euphemia's ”conscience, " he playfully suggests that he could
square his own conscience ”in a really good cause;" couldn't she
even then? Her answer is not to laugh at conscience; it is the only

blasphemy she knows.

 

24"Madame de Mauves, " p. 281.

briefl
pathy,
have t
perier

ffines

Comin

With ‘\

77

Within the free framework of the forest, two human beings
briefly respond to each other through a common bond of human sym-
pathy, then assert their true natures in Opposite directions. Both
have been challenged to take a stand in face of deeply disturbing ex-
perience. Euphemia's way points toward a sterile service to "poetic
fitness" and ”conscience"; Longmore, because of the very misery
Euphemia suffers, finds himself concerned with pressing human
needs and ready to chuck conscience when it interferes. "What price
virtue? ” the author seems to ask.

Longmore as yet does not show any conscious criticism of
Euphemia's stand. He sees her endowed with a "magic of magna-
nimity" and perceives ”something divine" in her "composition. "
Such qualities have converted vicious men before; may it not happen
to the Count? he speculates, preparing the reader for the forth-
coming regeneration of M. de Mauves. His own eagerness to save
or at least to stand by Euphemia is heightened through the interview
with Madame Clairin in which she openly suggests that Longmore
become Madame de Mauves' lover so that her aristocratic brother
might pursue his own pleasures without the uncomfortable sense that
"a little American bourgeoise" is sitting in judgment over him.
Longmore leaves the house of Saint-Germain much disturbed, and
takes refuge in the forest. His sense of attachment to Euphemia is

quickened; the very grossness of the accident forces ”the beauty of

her char

”as if he

into his I

aaaaa

78

her character into more perfect relief for him. ” He strides along
”as if he were celebrating a spiritual feast. " In this mood he walks
into his next scene through the French landscape as Strether does in

The Ambassadors. Strether scans the French countryside in search

 

of self-contained beauty of a Lambinet and discovers an unlikely com-
plement to it in Chad's and Mine. de Vionnet's boat; Longmore en-
joys the cool greenness of the summer's day, the grass which looks
"as if it might stain his trousers and the foliage his hands, " with a
sense that he has touched the very ripeness of natural life, convey-
ing no message of renunciation or spiritual zeal when he too comes
upon a complement to his picture to be accepted after some readjust-
ment of his ideas.

He emerges from the summer ripeness around him with the
wisdom that one is to grasp frankly at experience lest one miss it
altogether. "To live on possible terms” is the fullest experience

life can offer. As an echo to his thought another tableau vivant is

 

enacted before his eyes at a French country inn where he observes

a young artist and the girl he takes to be his wife, both happy to
share a plain way of living for the luxury of being together. When he
learns from the gossipy hostess about the uncertain relationship of
this Adam and Eve-like couple, he finds it possible to accept the

relationship as Strether does with Chad and Madame de Vi onnet.

 

see:

79

One can see how the three preceding scenes, together with the
in-between links filled with Longmore's reflections, have worked
toward the cumulative awareness the young man achieves about the
nature of experience. The Paris cafe scene makes him question the
value of renunciation; the interview with Mme. Clairin, while appall-
ing him with its sordid utilitarianism, strengthens his attachment to
Mme. de Mauves; the lovers at the country inn take away the taste of
the sordid with which the other two scenes have left him. The three
scenes have provided illuminative flashes of insight to lead Longmore
to an acceptance of life on possible terms as opposed to renunciation
which inevitably has to lead to a rejection of life. The irony of his
discovery is a complicated one. On the surface one would have to
admit that Longmore, while rejecting the Count's and Mme. Clairin's
insinuations, has come out at exactly the place they wished for him
to reach. His own views too, in spite of his continuing admiration
for Euphemia's magnitude and incorruptibility, have changed radi-
cally; from passive admiration he turns to action which may shatter
her codes but would also save her for life. Finally, as in T_h_e

Ambassadors, Longmore's intentions cannot be lumped under the

 

behavior practiced by the Count and urged upon him by the latter and
his sister; his motives are different. He is not seeking amusement
with Euphemia in the manner of the Count with his mistresses, but

offers himself to Mme. de Mauves for better or for worse on the

only poss
tac‘runent
the world

Longznor

rewritin
is follow
the auth
lWeen IT
Same.
A
1)’ gain...
The Sm

his mo.

80

only possible terms. In the language of The Ambassadors, his at-

 

tachment is virtuous even if it does not appear as such in the eyes of
the world; his is an ambiguous situation. Hoffman's explanation of
Longmore's action as being in agreement with the plan of the Count
because the baron favors his wife's having a lover and because
Longmore believes he would not therefore be compromising
Euphemia, "at least from the French point of view, ” sounds like a
rewriting of James' story. Longmore does not at all believe that he
is following what the Count has prescribed, and it is made clear that
the author means his readers to see the subtle discriminations be-
tween motives even if the following actions roughly appear to be the
same.

After Longmore's decision to return to Euphemia with his new-
ly gained convictions, we see him hurrying back to Saint-Germain.
The summer heat now oppresses him as if to stress the urgency of
his mood as well as to create a sense of futility as far as the actual
realization of his hopes goes. The coolness of the forest soothes
him into a sleep, and this is the last time in the story for a scene in
the forest with symbolic overtones. After Longmore's dream in the
forest, no other scene is set there as if to indicate that his hOped for
freedom will remain frustrated forever. The dream itself, of course,

indicates the same more clearly, or as Gleckner states it, ".

Longmore could never reach the true Euphemia by means of M. de

Mauve s' boat. "

terra

rounc

tions

SIOI)

C‘-

‘l-

81

The great renunciation scene which follows takes place on the
terrace of the house of Saint Germain with its formal garden sur-
rounding the participants: the forms win out over natural inclina-
tions. This scene has been justly praised as the best one in the
story. In my estimation, only the forest scene of chapter five with
Euphemia's self-revealing speeches rivals it, and the earlier forest
scene serves as a contrast to this one at Saint-Germain. No more
unguarded tears on Euphemia's part, only high-flown speeches in
service of an ideal. Euphemia appears in a simple white dress, yet
seems to Longmore more beautiful than ever. To the experienced
reader of James, these alone would be signs that some sacrificial
act will shortly take place. One remembers Claire de Cintre inE

American dressed in white and very beautiful at her engagement

 

party when it also becomes clear that her marriage shall never take
place; or Milly Theale descending the staircase in her Italian palace
all in white and beautiful, with a single string of pearls as her only
ornament, at the moment when her beloved guests plot her undoing.
As for Euphemia, instead of being sacrificed, she becomes the sac-
rificer herself. In the evening light her white beauty has the likeness
of a marble statue. To Longmore, the simplest expression of all he
has to say to her would be to fold her in his arms, but he decides he
could not do that any more than ”some antique worshipper could have

clasped the marble statue in his temple. " It was said earlier that

emc

and

N
U!

82.

Longmore was afraid Of Euphemia until she showed signs Of human
emotion with her tears in the forest. It seems now she has closed up
and his fright has returned.

Instead of tears, Madame de Mauves deals out fine, formal
phrases, such as, ”I want you to know to a certainty that I've a very
high Opinion Of you, " or, ”I take a great interest in you, ” and, "I
feel a great friendship for you. ” For the first time Longmore's atti-
tude becomes consciously critical; he laughs awkwardly because in
spite of their flattering content, these phrases reveal to him "the
very irony of detachment." But she talks on and as with an irresist-
ible incantation, fires herself and her listener:

As she went on her tone became, to his sense, extraordinary,

and she offered the odd spectacle of a beautiful woman preach—

ing reason with the most communicative and irresistible pas-
sion.
For a moment, the incongruity between her "almost ghostly beauty"
and the ”high impossible rigour” of her words perplexes him. Then
he perceives tears in her eyes; this time they are not tears of human
weakness, but “strange tears" which throw her beauty in a new
relief ”as a symbol of something vague which was yet more beautiful

than itself. " The lustre in her eyes strikes him as divine, and the

eagerness with which she bids him to comply with her high code of

 

25”Madame de Mauves, " p. 312.

 

behavi<

imagir
she we
in her
such.

for he

83

behavior becomes for him "a present reward and would somehow
last. ” In the solitude of his room later in the evening he also under-
stands that "she could love him in no degree or contingency, in no
imaginable future. ” If she loved again after her first disappointment,
she would be common. There is then a great deal of spiritual pride
in her rejection, even if Longmore does not consciously name it as
such. She does not need him for himself, it seems, but as a memory
for her later years of someone who conducted himself impeccably
against all odds. His feelings are ambiguous as he leaves Saint-
Germain forever: he feels the sincerity Of the zeal with which
Euphemia has outlined his course and an unquestionable obligation
to please her, but he also feels it to be a "dusty lonely world to
which Madame de Mauves had consigned him. ” Later on he formu-
lates his feelings with the same sense of ambiguity to Mrs. Draper
when she asks whether Longmore had managed to 'console'
Euphemia in her unhappy lot:

She has her consolation in herself, . . . she needs none that

any one else can Offer her. That's for troubles for which--be

it more, be it less--our own folly has to answer. Madame de
Mauves hasn't a grain of folly left.

Having a grain of folly meats also being human, one might add, and
wonder how close Euphemia might come to severing her bond with

humanity with ”no grain of folly left. " Both things are there: the

 

26"Madame de Mauves, ” p. 329.

zealto det
human 10'.
spiritual

rejection
ofEuphe

Hoffman

BQCau S
finds E
C9131 hi

ConSis

84

zeal to dedicate herself to something more beautiful than common
human lot affords gives her a certain magnitude; it also brings about
spiritual pride and exaltation of the self. At no point during the
rejection scene does James let the reader quite forget the ambiguity
of Euphemia's moral position. Because of that I cannot agree with
Hoffman's evaluation of the scene:

Madame de Mauves with dignity and integrity lives up to her

ideal of moral conduct by rejecting Longmore as a lover. She

triumphs over her husband and Mme. Clairin by not taking the

easy way out as was expected of her. Her triumphiS complete

in that she is able to retain Longmore's friendship, a deeper
friendship based on an understanding of her ideal.

Because of such a reading of the scene, Hoffman, as we remember,
finds Euphemia's refusal to forgive her repentant husband and to ac-
cept his love, "though consistent with her disillusionment, . . . in-
consistent with the high level Of behavior she reaches with Longmore."
A close study Of the text proves that neither Longmore as the record-
ing intelligence nor the implied author (who allows the reader to see

a bit beyond what Longmore sees) endorses a completely "straight"
reading of the motives behind Euphemia's rejection. Longmore,

even if he does not clearly rationalize what he sees, feels the beauty
as well as the possible monstrosity of the ”dreadful consistency" of

Euphemia's moral zeal, and the reader is made to feel the same. I

 

27Hoffman, p. 14-15.

 

beheve, H
de Mauve:
sonie of l
lhne. de
nine, and
miElOdraf
SlOry as

Euphenn

SIEad C

trim“

85

believe, therefore, that the later James would have ended “Madame
de Mauves" with chapter eight in which he would have incorporated
some of Longmore's reflections of this dramatic encounter with
Mme. de Mauves instead of giving them anti-climactically in chapter
nine, and that he would have sharpened them enough to exclude the
melodramatic announcement of the Count's suicide at the end of the
story as a rather crude and unnecessary hint for the reader of what
Euphemia's unbending moral stand could leadto. Even as it is, chap-
ter eight, if one reads it carefully, implies that Euphemia's "con—
sistency" or refusal to be "common" or her ”sense of poetic fitness"
will make no exceptions, should the pleader be the Count himself in-
stead of Longmore. Perhaps the concern for possible misreading
(it seems to have been a well-grounded one in view of some of the
criticism) led James into adding an omniscient account of the Count's
repentance and suicide lest the reader should be carried away by
unreserved admiration for Euphemia, as is Longmore most of the
time. There is, of course, the parallel suicide of Mme. Clairin's
husband, who blows out his brains when he has ruined his fortune
trying too hard to be the high-spending aristocrat; the Count follows
the same course after a futile attempt to regain Euphemia's affec-
tion. Both are driven to despair by the inflexibility Of the wives,
even if their respective moral codes seem to be miles apart. The

irony Of this strange companionship becomes evident to the reader

the au

ironic
Creatr
John I
situati
her
to Hie.

knOWs

aWaI-E.
Chara
Sibilit
afi

Er‘

SQmE

86

after he learns of the Count's suicide at the end of the story. But it
also strikes him as an artificially labored ironic point, and he wishes
the author had found a subtler way to go about it.

As my reading of ”Madame de Mauves" indicates, for me the
ironic stress of the tale falls on the ambiguous question of human
greatness. A statement of Rober Scholes concerning the hero of

John Barth's Giles Goat Boy could be well applied to Euphemia's

 

situation: her “dragon” is "a demon of the absolute, which drives

her toward either/or situations in a world which is not amenable
to them. "28 Her dreams are noble, her actions, as she partly
knows it herself, are life-rejecting and have disastrous consequences.
By trying to be more than human, she runs the risk Of becoming in-
human. At the end it seems futile to ask, as some critics insist on
doing, whether it is more the story of Euphemia or of Longmore's
awareness of the ambiguous nature of human experience. Each
character plays a part in illuminating some aspects of human pos-
sibilities, while the main light is turned on Madame de Mauves, who,
after all, carries the weight of the theme.

Except for the heavy-handed ironies of the two suicides and

some abrupt switches from omniscience to Longmore's view and

 

28"George is my Name, " The New York Times Book Review
(August 7, 1966): P- 22°

 

87

back again, the ironic intent of the story is carried out by subtle
structural means. As I have shown, most of the structural weight
falls upon Longmore as the reflector. It is again futile to complain
of Longmore's passivity as a character (Bewley tends to do this),
because it is the author's intention to filter most of the story through
his consciousness without making him the center of attention. He
remains the ironic reflector only partially involved in the basic
situation. In his role he is assisted by the implied author's ironic
tone, especially in the omnisciently narrated parts of the story, and
by the all-pervasive irony of character. The characters are con-
trasted and paralleled, their basic beliefs questioned and proved in-
congruent with the underlying realities of life. As early as "Madame
de Mauves, " James found the international scene with its groupings
of Americans and EurOpeans a convenient ironic device for the il-
lumination of human concerns of universal importance. He never
quite gave enough reason to his countrymen to see him as the staunch
defender of American morals as so many patriotic rather than
critical readers make him out to be. He often warns his readers
against this misconception in his prefaces, and "Madame de Mauves"
is the firstexample to prove this point. It can be said that he works
with racial or social distinctions in a symbolic rather than a strictly
realistic way. As for "Madame de Mauves, " symbolic use was also

made of some repeated imagery to point up the underlying ironies of

the at)

to set

ofthe

88

the work. And finally, James already in this story had found a way
to set scenes against scenes in order to gain multiplicity of views

of the basic situation of the tale. One must conclude that "Madame
de Mauves, " its faults notwithstanding, strongly anticipates the later
James in sophistication of ironic techniques and of thematic concerns.
It also still remains a fascinating tale in itself, at least for several

re — readings .

trlblile IO

abcut Edpl

CHAPTER II

The Portrait of a Lady
Tragic Irony

 

Introduction

In "Madame de Mauves" Henry James casts a sceptical look on
human aspirations. In the light of the ideal, human possibilities are
sharply limited; while stretching out his arms after the ideal, man
runs the risk of losing living ties with the rest of humanity. It is a
tribute to James' greatness as an artist that in this short early tale
about Euphemia de Mauves he managed to raise important questions
about the whole human predicament while concentrating upon the
sketch of a single character. In this sense "Madame de Mauves"
anticipates the great full-size novels of his maturity Of which The

Portrait of a Lady is the first.

 

One might even be led into the easy assumption that there is
indeed a similarity between Euphemia de Cleves and Isabel Archer. 1
Both are dreamers and idealists; both see their idols tumble to dust;
and both reject ardent, honest lovers as a way out of their predica-

ment. I believe, however, that while both heroines start out about

 

1See Rebecca Patterson, ”Two Portraits of a Lady, " The
Midwest Quarterll (April, 1960), pp. 343-361. Patterson sees [lg
Portrait as an actual reworking of the themes of ”Madame de Mauves"
with some deepening of the background and of the characters.

89

 

an i:'
at a

and \

COnti:
IRE 1'!

Her 5

pOrtr
\

Mauve

9O

equally equipped, they arrive at places exactly opposite to each
other. Euphemia essentially remains the convent girl, faithful to
an image of a story-book knight at the expense of human needs and
at a loss of human compassion. Her story is that of virtue petrified,
and while she suspects the truth about herself, she cannot change
to act within the light of her self-knowledge. Isabel's journey from
her "office" in Albany to Gardencourt and to Rome forces upon her a
continual readjustment of her notions about the world and the self;
the result is her growth of understanding and of human compassion.
Her story achieves the dimensions of man's journey into life toward
experience and maturity.

If in both tales the tragic vision of life is prevalent, Tia

Portrait of a Lady comes closer to being a tragedy than "Madame de

 

Mauves, " the main reason being the stature of its heroine. Euphemia
knows that she would sacrifice a fine human act if her sense Of
"poetic fitness" so demanded; Isabel, while capable of great errors,
always chooses according to what she thinks is a fine human act.
Hers is a mixture of greatness and of a character flaw that brings
about her downfall as in a tragedy. If measured against the norms

of an Aristotelian tragedy, it could not be asserted, however, that
the actions of Isabel Archer have disturbed some universal law which
demands readjustment through her fall. There is no sense of an

original contact with a relatively timeless world as Frye believes

there i
into F1
hum n
James
a frag

WOrk¢

her fa

S‘Jfle]

and e

II is

91
there is in a pure tragedy. Isabel's story in this sense rather falls
into Frye's mythos Of irony which does not go beyond the world Of
human experience in time. Yet the tragic sense is there, and Henry
James has given his heroine enough stature for us to consider her as
a tragic figure. 2 Moreover, he has built her story within the frame-

work of the tragic rhythm3

of a tragedy--from "purpose" through
"passion" to "perception." As the tragic hero, Isabel seeks to shape
her fate with confidence in her reasoned purpose, is compelled through
suffering to reverse her ideas about the sufficiency of her reasons,
and ends up with a tragic knowledge of the self.

Isabel's painfully gained knowledge is tragic as well as ironic:
it is given to her in flashes or ironic illumination through which she
is forced to acknowledge the disparity between the reasoned purpose

of her actions and their tragic consequences. Leon Edel comments

on the tragic irony of Isabel's predicament this way:

 

2Here my position differs sharply from the one taken by Manfred
Mackenzie in "Ironic Melodrama in The Portrait of a Lady, " Modern
Fiction Studies (Spring, 1966), pp. 7-23. He strips Isabel of her
tragic greatness by making her a heroine of a melodrama. He sees
her "related generically to Lavinia Penniman as one of James's many
theatrical women characters, " (p. 10) and he believes that while
James shows Isabel enacting imaginary roles as a Crusading Heroine
and Innocence Betrayed, he is employing melodrama for the purpose
of directing irony at her role-playing.

 

 

Fergusson's term. See Francis Fergusson, The Idea of a
Theater (New York, 1953), p. 45.

 

1% Q}
auth
hini

niqu

\»

a‘ (‘2
\ Jy

92

Isabel acts from the highest dictates of her intelligence and
from a close consultation of her feelings; and yet her very
honesty with herself leads her into inevitable error. . . . She
selects the path that she can see, and it is the very one she
should have avoided. 4

A. check in the Notebook entries on The Portrait reveals how much the

 

author himself was conscious of the ironic theme of the work. To
him it is "the idea of the whole thing," and he must adjust his tech-
niques for the fullestbenefit of his material:
The idea Of the whole thing is that the poor girl, who has
dreamed of freedom and nobleness, who has done, as she
believes, a generous, natural, clear-sighted thing, finds her-
self in reality ground in the very mill of the conventional.
After a year or two of marriage the antagonism between her
nature and Osmond's comes out--the open opposition of anoble
character and a narrow one. There is a great deal to do here
in a small compass; every word, therefore, must tell--every
touch must count.
In the Preface to The Portrait James outlines these "touches" or
techniques through which he has sought to realize the ironic fate of
Isabel's aspirations. In the first place, James places "the centre of
the subject in the young woman's own consciousness. " This does not

mean, as it is sometimes hastily assumed, that the whole story is

filtered through her consciousness. Even if James makes sure that

 

4"Introduction" to Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady
(Boston, 1956), p. xi.

 

5F. O. Matthiessen and Kenneth B. Murdock, eds. , The
Notebooks of Henry James (New York, 1961), p. 15.

 

"the yc
could
whole
eSpec

in NT;

m
(I)

93

"the young woman should be herself complex," he sees that she alone
could neither reveal the complexity of her Own character nor of the
whole situation. He finds he must rely on the "heroine's satellites,
especially the male" who will Show Isabel from the outside, show her
in multiplicity of relationships with themselves. These "other lights"
or "satellites" at different points of the story can predict or see
things Isabel overlooks, and they alert the reader accordingly.
Isabel as the star reflector plus her satellites is then the basic ironic
structure within which the ironic theme of the work is realized.

It follows naturally that there should be great structural and

thematic stress on character relationships in The Portrait. The

 

"heroine's satellites, especially the male, " appear in her orbit, fade
away and re-appear again with carefully designed regularity. Their
assigned entrances and exits often signal some ironic revelation
about to take place and mark a point of progression in the tragic
rhythm of the story. Or we may have what could conveniently be
called "scenes of preparation" in which the dialogues of the charac-
ters are pregnant with Sophoclean irony so that the reader learns to
look ahead for some event which would disprove the hopeful anticipa—
tions of the speakers. Besides this, each "satellite" sees a different
"portrait" of the heroine from the one his neighbor is capable Of
perceiving. Here the ironic pattern serves two purposes: first to

direct irony against the "satellites" themselves, because they sooner

orl

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94
or later have to discover that they have conducted their relationships
with Isabel upon an insufficient knowledge of the full complexity of
her character; second, as a device to turn the full ironic light upon
Isabel, revealing her true self to the reader as well as to herself at
the end. And finally, while working out the different character
relationships, the author thrusts the characters themselves against
each other, pointing up unsuspected similarities and contrasts be-
tween them. Within this qualitative scale of the "satellites, " the
reader evaluates the heroine and finds her in a changed position as
her story progresses. She may share qualities with her friend
Henrietta when her story Opens; she may wish to approach those of
Madame Merle as she goes along; and at the end she comes into her
own by way of Ralph Touchett.

Because Of the length of the work, I have chosen to divide my
discussion into two parts, handling the story first in terms of its
tragic rhythm, then in terms of the various centers of consciousness
and other ironic devices involved. Care has been taken to avoid (as
much as possible) repetitions which may occur because of this ap-

proach to the matter under discussion.

st}

95

I have said that the three parts of the tragic rhythm can be
traced in the story of Isabel Archer as in a tragedy. The methods of
a playwright and those of a novelist differ, however. A writer for the
stage has to achieve his tragic illuminations in a much shorter time
than the novelist who can regulate his pace at his own leisure. In-
deed, we find Henry James traveling very much at leisure since he
takes the space of two thick volumes to tell of the destiny of Isabel
Archer. Of the two, volume I is the more leisurely, allowing for
expository flashbacks into the past of the heroine as well as of the
other major characters, spending time with English gentle folk, and
entertaining the reader with not strictly needed scenes of Henrietta
Stackpole and Mr. Bantling. The often praised dramatic method of
James proves to have its own rules when compared directly to a
dramatic method employed on the stage. The several points of
progression within the tragic rhythm are of necessity made more
obvious in a play, thus more easily retraceable in an analysis. The

climactic spots of The Portrait, on the other hand, often penetrate

 

the reader's consciousness with full impact only in retrospect when
they can be judged in the light of some subsequent action. At times
a movement may have started unobtrusively, been left to glide for a
considerable length of time and to come to its head in a relatively

quiet way, thus suggesting more a rounding-out of a situation than a

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96
climactic point of action. As the creator of a novel, James works
sparingly with his dramatic effects so as gradually to build up a
sense of intensity as the work progresses instead of concentrating on
a relatively few highly charged scenes as a dramatist would. For the
same reason, the clearly marked parts of a stage tragedy ("purpose,"
"passion, " "perception") often fuse or overlap each other in Ll‘_h§_

Portrait. It becomes the task of the critic to shuffle back and forth

 

among Jamesian scenes, dialogues, solitary musings of the charac-
ters and the author's own comments to point up the most important
thematic spots, or as I have called them, points of progression with-
in the tragic rhythm of the story. Of necessity, some categorizing,
even simplification, of the techniques involved is liable to occur for
the sake of analysis.

The action of the story could briefly be defined as Isabel's
quest for "how to be." Much of Volume I could be said to correspond
to the "purpose" part of this action. It is carried over and reaches
its high point at the beginning of Volume II with Isabel's decision to
secure her fullest spiritual development through her marriage to
Gilbert Osmond.

Volume I shows the rather vague beginnings of Isabel's quest.
She often resorts to romantic imaginings when attempting to plan her
future. Outside the "bolted door" of her Albany "office" there is a

world of great possibilities:

 

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97

She spent half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and
magnanimity; she had a fixed determination to regard the world
as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of irresistible
action: she held it must be detestable to be afraid or ashamed.
She had an infinite hope that she should never do anything
wrong.
Not unlike Conrad's romantic hero Lord Jim, she wishes that "she
might find herself some day in a difficult position, so that she should
have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. "7 At
the same time the reader is told that Isabel is not fond of looking "in-
to dark corners" and that her knowledge of evil is very limited, con-
sisting mainly of a few concepts as to what things would be wrong to
dO--"to be mean, to be jealous, to be false, to be cruel. " She would
not wish to be any of these and sets high standards for her own devel-
Opment:
Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing
impression she should produce; she would be what she appeared,
and she would appear what she was. 8
The question remains, "What is she? " or, in other words, "What is
she to do with her life? " Isabel has some theories about it. She

sees herself as an independent spirit, eager to learn, to see life for

herself and with an open mind. She can't help seeing these as rather

 

6Portrait of a Lady, Vol. I, p. 68.

 

7Ibid., p. 67.

81bid., p. 6.

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98

remarkable qualities of her own, and is confident that thus equipped
she should find "some happy work" Open up for her if she only waits

l

"with the right patience. ' Here is a young person, then, who believes
she is carefully and rationally planning her course in life. As such
she impresses those around her as "having intentions of her own."
Even her critical cousin Ralph is charmed by this impression and
hopes to be there to see whenever Isabel should be ready to execute
her supposedly brilliant intentions.

The reader, however, does not participate in the admiration of
Isabel without reservations. He respects her moral seriousness, but
he does not have complete faith in the rationality of Isabel's theories
about life and about the possibilities Of the self. There is a disparity
between her image of the world and the actuality behind it. In her
"place of brightness, " the dangers of evil are understated. What she
knows of them, she is sure she can avoid. Her noble wish to appear
what she is at all times displays a naive trust in the good intentions of
other people. Eager to show her true self, she may become an easy
prey to a self-seeking schemer. And when is one to know that the
image one sees of oneself is the same the world perceives? Ironi-
cally, at the very moment when Isabel flatters herself to be what she
seems to be, she appears to be more to those around her than she is.

While she is assumed to have intentions of her own, the reader knows

that these intentions consist mainly of romantic yearnings for heroic

99

adventures and of good hope for "some happy work. " Moreover,
since Isabel is inclined to see herself as in some way remarkable, it
is not easy for her to discourage flattering views of herself in others.
Thus she is apt to take other peOple's image of herself as the true one
whenever it is a flattering image, and comes to believe that she in-
deed knows, sees, and chooses right. Suggestions to the contrary
may go unattended. The young Isabel, who believes herself to be
ready to enter life in the light of well reasoned purpose, has not in
reality done much reasoning at all. She has rather just dreamed,
hoped and imagined.

TO return to Isabel's quest, her first definite actions are
rejections: before she knows what she wants to be, she clarifies for
herself what she does not want to be. She does not want to be the wife
of an English Lord, and she does not want to be the wife of an
American businessman. It is fine to enjoy Lord Warburton as a
"specimen English Gentleman" or Caspar Goodwood as an industrial
genius and "mover of men, " as long as one can do it in an uninvolved,
aesthetic way. Personal ties with either seem to entail restrictions
for Isabel. She reads her possible role with Warburton in the eyes
of his sisters--they have "round, quiet and contented" eyes, "eyes
like the balanced basins, the circles of 'ornamental water,' set, in
parterres, among the geraniums. " In other words, she sees wom-

an's role in English upper class society as purely formal and orna—

mental. The Misses Molyneux are born to this role and are

I00

him

A

100

contented with it, and Isabel enjoys them as parts of the picture with
the rest of her "specimen" without for a moment imagining that she
herself could become a contented adornment among Lord Warburton's
carefully arranged geraniums. As for Caspar Goodwood, she feels
too much his forceful power as "mover of men. " He seems to know
too well where she should belong and what is good for her. To follow
him would mean diminished liberty, and liberty she needs in order to
see life on her own.

Having made two such important rejections, Isabel, who has
always been fond of self-analysis, delves into the self for full under-
standing of her motives. Most of her previous like excursions have
been happy ones:

Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality,

a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, Of shady

bowers and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that intro-

spection was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a

visit to the recesses of one's spirit was harmless when one

returned from it with a lapful of roses.
So far she has found happy, tangible things in her garden of intro-
spection. This time she suffers a wave of uncertainty and humility:

all theories aside, is she not "a cold, hard, priggish person? " How

else could she reject a magnificent Offer by a thoroughly delightful

English Lord with the greatest of ease? Reason tells her she should

 

9The Portrait of a Lady, Vol. I, p. 72.

 

101

have accepted him. Had she not always prided herself for being
thoughtful? She is truly frightened to find in the "recesses of her
spirit" some mysterious force which cannot be easily explained
away. Instead of a fully satisfying answer to her misgivings, Isabel
can only muster something like a foreboding that her life, in spite of
her assurance of some happy works in the future, is not to be an
exclusively sheltered one such as either Warburton or Goodwood
could provide, but that she is to partake in the sufferings measured
out for the rest of humanity. As the heroine of a tragic action, she
has encountered her first& a conflict which challenges the
validity of her reasoned purpose and leaves her for a while unsure of
her footing. Soon enough, however, her optimistic Spirits return,
and she rationalizes that hers might be the single, independent life.
Anyway, she is ready to proceed with her girlhood plans to secure
"a general impression of life. " This is how a clever young woman
should begin: such an "impression was necessary to prevent mis-
takes. " About the rejected proposals she comes to feel rather good.
She has already done something; she has won a battle and made a
decision that she does not want to begin life by marrying.

Her opportunities to gather impressions of life seem to present
themselves abundantly at this point. Her cousin Ralph persuades his
father to transfer half of his own rich inheritance to Isabel so that

she might meet the requirements of her imagination. A girl who has

 

turn

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102

turned down the very tempting offer of Lord Warburton for the chance
to see life with her own eyes should prove to be as good as the best
Opportunity which his money is to provide. Then there is Madame
Merle, a friend of Isabel's Aunt Mrs. Touchett, who provides her
with an image of the great lady:
To be so cultivated and civilised, so wise and so easy, and
still make so light Of it--that was really to be a great lady,
especially when one so carried one's self. It was as if

somehow she had all society under contribution, and all the
arts and graces it practised. 10

Here seems to be "the most comfortable, profitable, amenable per-
son to live with. " When one recalls Isabel's determination to "be in
harmony with the most pleasing impression she should produce," it
becomes clear that she has met in Madame Merle the very incarna-
tion of her own dream. The only fault Isabel sees in her new friend
is her too great readiness to be at somebody else's disposal--she is
"too flexible, too useful." Upon further consideration, however, she
decides that these are not signs of a nature grown superficial, but
are rather indicative of a particular depth in Serena. This is her
truly aristocratic grace: to be in a better position for appreciating
people than they are for appreciating her. "In this light, if in none

other, one should aim at the aristocratic situation. "11 Equipped

 

10The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 272.

 

“ma, p. 271.

 

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103

with Ralph's money, which Isabel acknowledges gratefully as a virtue
because it enables her "to do, " and with a friend in Serena Merle,
who has kindled her imagination as to the most gracious ways of
Mg, Isabel is eager to find some opportunity for active engagement
with life. Her new wealth seems to cry out to be put to good use. It
is a new, strange power given to her, and for the first time in her
life she is afraid that she might not measure up to the great respon—
sibility this power entails.

From her rather leisurely plans Of seeing life and gathering
general impressions, Isabel feels herself pushed toward activedogig;
Not knowing that her cousin Ralph and not her late uncle is the source
of her wealth, she confesses to him freely:

A large fortune means freedom, and I'm afraid of that. It's

such a fine thing, and one should make such a good use Of it.

If one shouldn't one would be ashamed. And one must keep

thinking; it's a constant effort. I'm not sure it's not a greater
happiness to be powerless. 12

Her unexpected wealth presents Isabel with her second 3.3211: If before
she had always seen any amount of freedom as beneficial, now she
finds herself in conflict with this very idea. But as with her previous
doubts regarding the fallibility of her judgment, this one, too, is
short lived. Travels in the company of her Aunt and Madame Merle

give her new opportunities to observe life. After she has observed

 

12The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 320.

 

 

 

(‘9

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\l

104

and found wanting the ways of her compatriots in Paris for their
devotion to endless, empty social rituals, her good trust in her own
judgment returns. The chance to entertain and richly endow her own
sisters brings her a positive enjoyment in her new freedom and
power. Her full confidence in her good fortune and in her own powers
to choose and to do is not presented in a specially marked scene of
high intensity. During a solitary walk through a foggy London twi-
light (Volume II) she is filled with a happy consciousness that "the
world lay before her--she could do whatever she chose." She seems
ready to enjoy the challenge of life, which mood is implied in her
delight in the atmosphere of lurking dangers created by the surround-
ing fog and a delight in the moving crowds of living humanity around
her. Shortly after, this consciousness crystallizes into an action
which, as she thinks, enters her into the ranks of those actively en-
gaged in living instead of in Observing life.

It seems now to Isabel that, after all, "one can't do anything so
general" as to "survey the whole field. " Instead, "one must choose
a corner and cultivate that. "13 This is her newly gained conviction
about Mg andgo_in_g_, and as such she presents it to Ralph who ap-
pears as her third antagonist at this point. Ralph can only agree,

provided she has chosen "as good a corner as possible." Isabel has

 

13The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 65.

 

\l r: ~

 

 

105
no doubts that she has so chosen. Contrary to her previous rejec-
tions and theories, she now asserts:

I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving now.

There's nothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person
she likes. 14

To her, the rightness of her choice to marry Gilbert Osmond is
deeply felt as well as rightly reasoned. In her estimation, she has
met a man who knows everything, understands everything, and has
"the kindest, gentlest, highest spirit." In marrying such a man, she
is following out a good feeling. From "soaring and sailing" in
theories, she has come down to earth to admit that "one has human
feelings and needs, one has a heart in one's bosom, and one must
marry a particular individual. "15 As Isabel informs Ralph, she is
now truly thankful to her Uncle Touchett for her good fortune which
enables her to marry a poor man of excellent qualities:

It's the total absence of all these things [property, titles,

honors, position, reputationl that pleases me. Mr. Osmond's

simply a very lonely, a very cultivated and a very honest man--
he's not a prodigious proprietor. 1

Madame Merle, who has been privileged to see much of Isabel's true

self with her passion for "inflated ideals," has also proved to be

 

14The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 70.

 

15Ibid. , p. 74.

M’Ibid.

106

a subtle schemer who wants tO promote Osmond's fortunes at the ex-
pense of Isabel's good trust in her. Serena has built up an image of
Osmond as the male counterpart Of her own cultivated self which she
knows the girl very much admires. Isabel has seen him in the light
of this image, and Osmond has rounded it out to his own best advan-
tage. He does not betray an eagerness to possess her, but offers his
love without pressing her to be rewarded with her hand. She is to
know and to see everything, he only to love her because she is too
remarkable for him to do otherwise. With Osmond, Isabel feels
rightly flattered, unrestricted and easy. Besides, he has never run
after money or honors; she cannot suspect him of doing it now when
he becomes her suitor. His is the quiet, unassuming life of the
spirit; to share it means for Isabel to partake of the very fullness of
life. He gives the impression that he knows and understands every-
thing; therefore "she could surrender to him with a kind of humility,
she could marry him with a kind of pride." In short, in Osmond she
has found the best of uses for her money: she can aim at "the
aristocratic situation" by providing Osmond with the opportunities
his excellent spirit deserves. She can enter their union with a sense

that "she was not only taking, she was giving. "

 

17The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 82.

 

107

Within the tragic rhythm, Isabel's decision to marry Osmond marks
the high point as well as the completion of her reasoned purpose. All
her previous strivings promise to reach fulfillment through this
choice; all her previous doubts seem to have dissolved as without
basis. She is not only to see but to live life fully and on the highest
possible plane; she is not a "a cold, hard, priggish person" after all,
but gives herself freely and completely once her heart is touched.
Her freedom and power through money have been a blessing, not a
curse, and there is no suffering in sight, only great promise of
happiness.

At this point Isabel is also exposed to the ironic view of the
reader: he knows she is assuming security where there is none; he
is apprehensive about the outcome of Isabel's hoped for happiness
through marriage and thus prepared for the tragic rhythm to take a
turn from "purpose" toward "passion."

Her imagination inflamed, Isabel dreams of a marriage of true
minds with limitless possibilities for expansion, and lightly dis-
regards Osmond's own warning that she is in him marrying the very
convention itself. The most perceptive insight into the true situation
behind Isabel's exalted view of her forthcoming marriage comes from
Ralph. He sees Osmond as "a sterile dilettante, " one who judges and
measures, approves and condemns everything as a matter of taste.

From Isabel's ardent protestations to the contrary, he sees and makes

 

 

 

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108

the reader see that instead of solid ground, Isabel is treading upon
thin ice: she loves Osmond not for what he really possesses, "but
for his very poverties dressed out as honours. " Remembering his
own hope to meet "the requirements of Isabel's imagination, " he sees
that he has done exactly that but in a way he could not have foreseen.
Deceived by the urbane polish of Osmond as a suitor, she has in-
vented fine theories about him, then proceeded to love and to reward
him for these inventions.

Isabel's confidence while defending Osmond against the attacks
of Ralph does not suffer the foreboding lapses she experienced during
her previous agons. Ralph, because of his very anxiety to prevent
her from making a wrong choice, makes her suspect that his plead-
ings are not entirely selfless. He asks her to take his honest advice
for the love he bears her. She immediately adds him to the "tire-
some list" of her other lovers and decides that he is not disinterested:
"I'm afraid your talk then is the wildness of despair!" Here the
combat between Isabel and Ralph has some similarity to them be-
tween Oedipus and Tiresias as analyzed by Francis Fergusson:

. the beliefs, the visions, and hence the purposes of the
antagonists are directly contrasted. Because both identify
themselves so completely with their visions and purposes, the

fight descends from the level of dialectic to a level below the
rational altogether: it becomes cruelly ad hominem. 1

 

 

18Fergusson, p. 35.

 

(fl

109

Even if later on Isabel modifies her rash judgment of 'Ralph's pur-
poses by deciding that what Ralph really wished was to amuse him-
self "with the spectacle of her adventures as a single woman, " she
cannot admit that there is a grain of objective truth in his estimate
of Osmond. Upon Ralph's insistence that she is in error, therefore
in trouble, she haughtily replies that she shall never complain of her
trouble to him. With this resolution she forsakes her one remaining
clearsighted support in Ralph's friendship and undertakes a lonely
course of suffering. Only suffering now can bring about new insight
and readjustment of her actions in light of this insight.

As demonstrated above, the "purpose" part of the tragic rhythm

of The Portrait establishes Isabel as a tragic heroine and marks her

 

for inescapable suffering. Her aspirations are noble. Her attempt to
fulfill them endows her character with greatness. But, as in all
tragedies, Isabel as the tragic heroine brings about, to some extent,
the suffering which follows. As Dorothea Krook remarks: " . . . she
carries a proper share of the moral responsibility for the disaster
that overtakes her. "19

James does not reveal the fullness of Isabel's suffering at once.
Instead, he changes the portrait of Isabel and lets the reader, togeth-

er with her visitors at the Osmond house in Rome, guess how much

 

19The Ordeal of Consciousness in Henry James (Cambridge,
1962), p. 51.

 

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110

the portrait of the gracious lady, splendid and gentle in black, re-
veals the true Isabel behind the presence. The reader's last remem-
brance of the portrait of Isabel is the one she had largely painted her-
self--one Of eagerness to commit herself to doing and living. The
lady who graciously receives her guests in Rome has an "air of being
able to wait." But if it is a mask she wears, it completely covers
her face even from Ralph Touchett. He is the first one, however, to
suspect the serenity of the splendid presence and to find it "fixed and
mechanical." Ralph sees in the new portrait of Isabel "the hand of the
master." Osmond specializes in creating an effect of a certain mag-
nificence, of exclusiveness, of originality of style in order to excite
the world's curiosity. His Roman house is his great showcase for
the purpose, and Isabel seems to be one among his prize items to
represent Osmond to the world: "The free, keen girl had become
quite another person; what he [Ralph] saw was the fine lady who was

supposed to represent something. "20

Ralph sees Osmond in the
"something" Isabel is assigned to represent but cannot resign him-
self to accept that the outside view of Isabel is all there is to see.

The reader remembers Isabel's early wish to be "what she appeared"

and suSpects that she may have found concealment of the self a wiser

 

20
The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 143.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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policy in dealing with the world. She plays her new role so well that
it takes a keen observer like Ralph to label her graces "fixed and
mechanical," the possible cover-ups for a troubled self.

In the light of Ralph's observations, Isabel's own guarded
remarks receive added meaning. For example, when Lord Warburton
pays her a visit and expresses the hope that she is now very happy,
her answer is stated first in the form of an evasive question: "Do
you suppose if I were not I'd tell you? " After this, her affirmative
statement that she is indeed happy does not have the full weight of a
conviction. Again, when she graciously gives Osmond all the credit
for what Warburton calls their "awfully good house," her additional
remark that "he has a genius for upholstery" receives a slight ironic
tinge in view of Ralph's image of Osmond as the great arranger of the
whole show. At any rate, Osmond as "a genius for upholstery'l is a
far cry from Isabel's inflated vision of him before their marriage.
The remark illustrates not only Isabel's changed views of her mar-
riage and of Osmond, but also illustrates a defensiveness which
occurs when either Of these subjects is touched. When later on the
reader is permitted a. direct glance into Isabel's state of mind, he
sees that her resolve not to complain about her troubles to Ralph
marks her attitude toward the rest of the world: "If she had troubles

she must keep them to herself, and if life was difficult it would not

 

 

In

112
make it easier to confess herself beaten. "21 Once more Madame
Merle becomes a model for Isabel's re-adjusted portrait to be
shown to the world. She has modified some of her first impressions
Of her friend, but she still finds plenty to admire. Madame Merle
can show her how to live when the enthusiasms of one's youth have
faded. She seems to live by will rather than enthusiasms: "There
was something gallant in the way she kept going. " She appears to
need no rest or consolation; she recognizes no embarrassments. She
seems to have made of herself "a firm surface, a sort Of corselet of

silver. "

Isabel seeks to profit by this example and "to be as firm
and bright as she. "

Finally, there are some direct glances given of the husband-
wife relationship of the Osmond household to confirm the reader's
suspicion that all is not well there, and that Isabel's determination to
show a firm and bright face to the world is an attempt to conceal her
trouble in a dignified manner. Her first shock has come when
Osmond objects to the visits of Isabel's old friend Henrietta
Stackpole. He is irritated that she should deferdher peculiarities
after he has pronounced Henrietta avulgar woman. As Isabel finds,

he resents her insisting upon her opinions while he takes his own

views with the utmost gravity. Moreover, he means to eliminate or

 

ZlThe Portrait, Vol. II, p. 156.

 

51

iii

he

113

suppress her opinions should they differ from his. One Of his tech-
niques here is "a way Of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against
her" which she finds humiliating. These are painful discoveries to
Isabel about her husband's "beautiful nature, " and they force her into
a certain amount of "scheming" in order to preserve an illusion of
peace in her own home:

Covert observation had become a habit with her; an instinct,

of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was allied to

that of self-defence, had made it habitual. She wished as much

as possible to know his thoughts, to know what he would say,

beforehand, so that she might prepare her answer. Preparing

answers had not been her strong point of Old; she had rarely

in this respect got further than to thinking afterwards of clever

things she might have said. But she had learned caution--
learned it in a measure from her husband's very countenance.

22
Her cautious way of dealing with Osmond is well demonstrated in a
dialogue between the two regarding the chances of Osmond's daughter
becoming Lady Warburton. Osmond wants to sound out Isabel about
Warburton's intentions, then to force her to promote Pansy's match
by exercising the influence she still may have with Warburton.

Isabel, until she sees the grossness of the part she is supposed to
play in the matter, carefully tries to establish a mood of good will so
as to con vince her husband that she is not merely being defiant

whenever Osmond's plans come in question. She has neither encour-

aged Rosier, Pansy's young, ardent suitor, nor discouraged the older

 

2‘?'The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 178-179.

 

114

Lord Warburton, and is ready to abide by Osmond's decision. When
Osmond imagines, however, that she is working up to a quarrel,
Isabel takes pains to assure him that she is rather trying to live at
peace, and that she has, in fact, determined never to be angry again.
To Osmond's patronizing, somewhat cynical remark, "That's an ex-
cellent resolve. Your temper isn't good," her answer is a very self-

controlled admission: "No--it's not good. "23 It is only from the way

Isabel pushes away her book and picks up a piece of embroidery that
the reader guesses the amount of nervous energy involved in her
maneuvers to create an atmosphere of good will. By careful shifts
in her attitude, Isabel first appeases Osmond, then tries to read his
thoughts before he speaks them so as to gain time to prepare her
answers.

From the girl who dreamed to be and to show herself for what
she was, Isabel has turned into a lady with a bright impenetrable
social facade, and has come to see that even one's home is not a
place to disclose the self withOut reservations. These are her ways
of bearing up under the load of suffering, the full extent of which
overwhelms her shortly after the above scene with Osmond. Her
husband's suggestion that she herself might be the cause of

Warburton's attentions to Pansy and that she ought to take full

 

23The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 179-180.

 

115

advantage of the situation in order to promote the match has left
Isabel speechless. If Osmond is right about Warburton, the task

set to encourage him turns into a repulsive one, and her wish to
convince Osmond that she means to please him whenever she can is
shattered. When he leaves, the immensity of her marital difficulties
confronts her. Their differences suddenly seem to be too much for
her. Her conscientious attempt to give Osmond "a proof of loyalty"
has only convinced her once again "Of his faculty for making every-
thing wither that he touched, spoiling everything for her that he
looked at. " Her agony at this realization is great and it leads her

to a critical re-appraisal of her whole relationship with Osmond.

The reader witnesses a scene of intense introspection, of "passion"
as well as of "recognition. " James himself has called it "the vigil
of searching criticism" so designed as to throw "the action further
forward than twenty 'incidents' might have done. "24 Filtered through
Isabel's own consciousness, her suffering and her unflattered admis-
sion of herself as a partial cause of it are revealed to the reader in
one short, forceful chapter. James rightly called it "the best thing

in the book. "

 

24
"Preface" to The Portrait of a Lady, Vol. I, p. xxi.

 

116

In her midnight review of her married life, Isabel once again
recaptures her first vision of Osmond as "the first gentleman in
Europe. " He had seen himself as one, and she had married him as
such. Now she realizes that her concept of the "gentleman" had dif-
fered from Osmond's. She had seen him as poor, lonely, yet noble.
He Obviously possessed the best taste in the world and the best
personal qualities:

Hadn't he all the appearance of a man living in the Open air

of the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only

for truth and knowledge and believing that two intelligent people

ought to look for them together and, whether they found them or

not, find at least some happiness in the search? 5
Now she sees what Ralph Touchett had seen at the time she had chosen
to marry Osmond: "A. certain combination of Osmond's features had
touched her, and in them she had seen the most striking figures. "
In these imaginary "striking figures" she had seen her opportunity to
give--herself and her rich bounty:

He [had seemed llike a sceptical voyager strolling on the beach

while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yet not putting to

sea. It was in all this she had found her occasion. She would

launch his boat for him; she would be his providence; it would

be a good thing to love him.

The reader might remember here Ralph's own dream to "put a little

wind" in Isabel's sails and watch her go before the breezes when

 

25The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 195-6.

 

261bid., p. 192.

 

117
confronted with Isabel's vision of "launching" Osmond's boat. The
metaphoric similarity by which both actions are expressed forces
upon the reader's consciousness the ironic similarity of the cor-
responding actions. Both have been, in a way, generous mistakes.
Isabel indeed has gone "before the breezes" of Ralph's money but in
an unexpected direction; Osmond's boat too has taken a direction
Isabel had not suspected at the time of launching it for him. And, to
rush ahead of the events, at the end of the story both metaphors
receive another ironic twist: through Ralph's money Isabel achieves
greatness because of the very suffering it brings her, and, para-
doxically, Osmond, as the author of her suffering, has in a strange
way been "a good thing to love."

But to return to current events of the story, Osmond, as Isabel
has been forced to see him, lives by a gentleman's code in the nar-
rowest of senses. The important thing for him is to observe appear-
ances: "There were certain things they must do, a certain posture
they must take, certain people they must know and not know. " On
the whole, he sees the world as a despicable display of vulgarity.
There are only some three or four exalted people to be envied and
valued, and half a dozen of Osmond's own ideas to be appreciated.
Nevertheless, he seems to live exclusively for the world, because
it is important "to extract from it some recognition of one's own

superiority." The "aristOcratic life" for Osmond is a thing of forms

118

and calculated attitudes in which he expects his wife to participate.
For Isabel, as was noted earlier, it involves freedom of appreciation;
or, as she restates it now, it is "the union of great knowledge with
great liberty; the knowledge would give one a sense of duty and the
liberty a sense of enjoyment."

These are indeed basic differences between two ways of seeing
life, and it is the discovery Of the unforeseen differences which
leaves Isabel as well as Osmond with a sense of "deception suffered."
Isabel comes to see that she had deceived Osmond without herself
realizing it. She had been too charmed by his presence to reveal
sufficiently her own attitudes, her "many ideas. " He had sincerely
admired her as "the most imaginative woman he had known. " But
she had not suspected that her intelligence was to work exclusively
in his favor: "Her mind was to be his--attached to his own like a
small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and
water the flowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional
nosegay. "27 Osmond's own telling her that she must get rid of her
many ideas had not sounded ominous to Isabel while under the spell
of his charm. Even his admission that he loved the conventional had
seemed to her as a noble declaration meaning "love of harmony and

order and decency and of all the stately offices of life. "

 

27The Portrait, Vol. 11, p. 200.

 

 

 

 

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119

Instead of such high principles, Isabel has found shallow ones
in the house Of Osmond, the house which has changed for her within
these few years into a "house Of darkness, the house of dumbness,
the house of suffocation." Her final appraisal Of Osmond leads her
to a terrifying conclusion: "Under all his culture, his cleverness,
his amenity, under his good-nature, his facility, his knowledge Of
life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of flowers. "28
He has seen her whole character, "the way she felt, the way she
judged, " as opposed to his own and therefore as a personal insult.
He had expected from Isabel a self-flattering dependence upon his
ideas, but had seen her pass judgment on his conception of things
instead. It means that his mind has no real hold on her; "she could
easily dispense with him. " This revelation has turned his egotistic
love for Isabel into hate. If at first it may have offered Osmond
some refuge and refreshment, now, as Isabel feels, this hatred has
become "the occupation and comfort of his life. "

Isabel herself has no similar comfort to sustain her after she
has fully measured the darkness of Osmond's dwelling, which, as
she suspects, is "to surround her for the rest of her life. " As John
Roland Dove notes, "Hers . . . is the tragic consciousness of one

who must forever be alienated from the conventions amongst which

 

28The Portrait, Vol. 11, p. 196.

 

120

she is doomed to live. "29 It is also an ironic consciousness of the
idealistic spirit who has found ordinary human life incongruous with
the amount of spiritual satisfaction Isabel had dreamed Of obtaining
through her marriage. Moreover, if she has earned hate for her
aspiration, these aspirations, however faulty, have been her best
qualities. She has to live with the ironic discovery that she is hated
for the best, not the worst in her.

There are other ironic implications to be noted in Isabel's
situation at this particular point of her story. If any of her youthful
dreams has come true, it has been her wish to find herself in a dif-
ficult position "so that she should have the pleasure of being as heroic
as the occasion demanded. " She has indeed found herself in a difficult
position, but at the expense of great pain and very little pleasure. As
for the hoped for heroism, it can be questioned whether her carefully
practiced public mask and the self-imposed caution around Osmond
are heroic attempts to meet a difficult situation or are rather devices
of survival similar to those practiced by Euphemia de Mauves in the
house at Saint Germain. Euphemia too carried her disappointment
with an amount of dignity while she avoided extreme confrontations

with her husband to spare herself from being "overwhelmed" by

 

29"Tragic Consciousness in Isabel Archer," Studies in
American Literature, No. 8 (1960), p. 93.

 

121

suffering. It is here, however, that the two heroines part their
ways. When the tragic rhythm of Isabel's story reaches the high
point of "passion" in her midnight vigil, and she sees her previous
forebodings about her inescapable share of human suffering to have
come true as well as her actions Of reasoned purpose proved faulty
and dubious, she does not turn in hatred from Osmond as the embodi-
ment of the corrupt world around her in order to worship an abstrac-
tion of "poetic fitness" as does Euphemia.

Her first tendencies toward action in light of her re-adjusted
vision show that Osmond's "house of suffocation" has not extinguished
Isabel's spirit to the rest of the world. She even has an amount of
generosity left toward Osmond. As can be seen from Isabel's mid-
night reflections, she does not match his hate with her own but fully
accepts her share in her fate. Because of such realizations, she is
moved by a wish to give her husband "a pleasant surprise. " In spite
of everything (as was apparent from the episode of Pansy's chances
with Lord Warburton), Isabel strives, however fruitlessly, to show
Osmond that her original intention had not been to defy but to please
him. One recalls Count de Mauves' remark on Euphemia's inability
to forget herself; the same can not be said of the Isabel who emerges
from the fullness of her suffering. Out of her clarified vision

eventually come her first truly self-forgetting actions.

122

To describe shortly the quality of Isabel's newly gained insight,
it suffices to compare her two views of Osmond (as his fiance and as
his disappointed wife): if before she had not "read him right, " now
she finds she can read him "as she could have read the hour on the
clock-face. " She has to acknowledge now that as far as Osmond is
concerned, she is finally seeing what Ralph had seen a long time ago.
As Tony Tanner puts it:

In taking the measure Of Osmond, Isabel has started to move

towards Ralph's point of view. The great chapter, forty-two,

when she takes stock, is really the beginning of her deeper knowl-
edge and clearer vision. She is starting to read things proper-

ly, as Ralph does. 30
When Tanner goes on to say, however, that "with this new access of
vision, Isabel becomes less active externally and more active inter-
nally, I disagree. Isabel has indeed begun "the adventure of trying to
understand, to sound out depths, to appreciate qualities, to transcend
the importunities of the ego," as Tanner would have it, but her spir-
itual journey brings about actions which are no less dramatic or de-
cisive than the ones she committed before; and this time they aremuch
better reasonedthan the previous ones.

Her first "exercise" in the true "appreciation of qualities" is her

just appraisal of Ralph versus Osmond. Her kindred spirit which

Isabel had mistakenly thought to be Osmond is really Ralph. Ralph is

 

3C"'The Fearful Self: Henry James's The Portrait of a Lady, "
Critical Quarterly (Autumn 1965), p. 217.

 

 

123

generous, not Osmond; he has all of Osmond's intelligence and more;
it is Ralph who has been her "apostle of freedom" whereas Osmond
has never wished her to have any freedom of mind. Her visits to the
gravely ill Ralph during his stay at Rome lighten the darkness of
Isabel's days: "he made her feel the good of the world." To show
gratitude for Ralph's generous friendship, Isabel decides on a
generous action on her part in return: Ralph is not to see her unhap-
piness. If she had once before vowed not to complain about her
troubles to Ralph, she had done so in a moment of hurt pride. Now
her motives are changed: she does not want him to share the pain of
her unhappiness. But Ralph is too sophisticated an Observer of
human nature to be thus deceived:

1: He] smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extra-

ordinary form of consideration; but he forgave her for having

forgiven him. She didn't wish him to have the pain of knowing

she was unhappy; that was the great thing, and it didn't matter
that such knowledge would rather have righted him. 31

As yet Isabel does not see the whole of Ralph--the quality of his in-
sight, his capacity for love and sympathy. In good faith she tries to
deceive him, as she thinks, for his own good. It will take one more
great suffering, the pain of Ralph's death, for her to realize that he
is the one person in her life to whom she could have shown her true

self, with joys as well as sufferings and have been the better for it.

 

31The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 204.

 

124

The truly generous tribute to Ralph on her part would have been to
tell him that he had been right about her marriage, but this is not to
come for some time yet.

Isabel's next generous action concerns the anticipated proposal
from Lord Warburton which she is expected to promote to please
Osmond. It is clear to her soon enough that Osmond can't be pleased
in this case. Isabel gives full and careful attention to Pansy's case
and finds out the true state of affairs. She has been amenable to
Osmond's plans for Pansy because of her honest belief that of the two
available suitors Warburton is the better man. She is inclined to
think of young Rosier, with his passion for old lace and bibelots, as
somewhat "light weight. " She is also inclined to take Pansy's devo-
tion to her father as the girl's mainspring of action, in light of which
the young girl's preference for Rosier appears to be merely a passing
fancy. A second look at the young lovers convinces her otherwise.
Pansy's dependent, pliable surface conceals unforeseen constancy to
her love in face of adversity. A stealthy exchange of a flower which
is accomplished as a sacred ritual by the lovers, and the air of
acute misery about the young man convince Isabel that she has en-
countered something as strong and fresh as the love of Romeo and

Juliet. It indeed promises the perfect match of a Pansy and a Rose.
Poor Warburton's case, in comparison, strikes her now as
"a great incongruity. " What is a middle aged statesman to do with

"a little maid" like Pansy? When Isabel has the Opportunity to

125
Observe that he seems to prefer a talk with her to a dance with
Pansy, and seems to be extremely hesitant about mailing Off to
Osmond his letter of proposal, she feels that Lord Warburton, while
not knowing it himself, indeed may wish to marry Pansy in order to
enjoy a closer relationship with herself. "The sooner he should get
back into right relations with things the better," Isabel concludes and
proceeds to act upon her conclusion. It takes a lot of her newly ac-
quired skill Of playing a part and of being on her guard to set matters
straight, because she is not only dealing with Warburton and Pansy
but indirectly with Osmond, and, as it turns out, Madame Merle as
well. The last two represent the sophisticated but deceitful world
and as such, as she has found out, cannot be dealt with on direct,
open terms. Isabel finds herself, while working for an honest cause,
employing the oblique ways of the world she is doomed to live in. If
she has hoped to be at all times what she seemed, ironically she finds
that she can only practice her Own integrity by having two faces in-
stead of one about her.

Of all the people involved in Pansy's case, Lord Warburton is
the easiest one for Isabel to handle. It suffices for the sensitive,
discreet nobleman to hear Isabel question his true feelings for Pansy
and to feel a look of unexpressed anxiety for her own self. He under-
stands the intended implications, sees himself in error and withdraws

his suit. Assured that she has helped Warburton to get back "into

126
right relations with things, " Isabel can openly urge him to deliver his
letter to Osmond knowing he will not do so now. This empty pleading
will cover her should Osmond ask for an account of her proceedings
as the promoter of the match.

It takes a greater amount of double-faced maneuvering (and pain
to her own violated self while about it) for Isabel to sound out Pansy's
true feelings about Warburton without appearing to work against
Osmond's wishes. When Pansy freely confesses her fidelity to young
Rosier, Isabel can test the strength of this fidelity by seemingly
urging the girl to comply with her father's wishes for another suitor.
Contrary to the self-imposed submissiveness Pansy practices to
please her father, she surprises Isabel with unsuspected depths of
perception and of practical wisdom. Lord Warburton only likes, not
loves, her. There is no real danger of his proposing to her, she in-
forms Isabel. Between the two Of them they have come tO an un-
spoken agreement: Lord Warburton won't press her unless she
would like him to, and Pansy has thanked him for such consideration.
There the matter will rest forever, Pansy is convinced. As for
Obliging her father, in this case she can only see the temporary ad-
vantage of Osmond's hope for Warburton's proposal: "So long as he
believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say
[ the proposal ], papa won't propose any one else. " Seeing that

Pansy has "a sufficient illumination of her own, " Isabel feels relieved

of her embarrasing mission.

127

When the expected letter from Warburton does not arrive,
Isabel has to weather a cross examination from Osmond as well as
from Madame Merle, whose sudden meddling in the affair and sharply
expressed disappointment confirms Isabel's growing suspicion that
Serena has had more to do with her husband than she had suspected at
the time of her marriage. Neither can pin Isabel down to anything,
but both suspect she has had her hand in frustrating their hopes for an
aristocratic match for Pansy. Their threats to question Pansy in the
matter cannot frighten Isabel, who has anticipated this probability and
played her part to match the wits of the Osmond-Merle team. After
Warburton's departure for England, Osmond has to conclude that
Isabel has "played a very deep game" and has "managed it beautifully."
Suddenly Isabel feels that with this one triumph Over Osmond's schemes,
she has become the stronger of the two:

He was going down--down; the vision of such a fall made her

almost giddy: .that was the ongg pain. He was too strange, too

different; he didn't touch her.
Osmond, who had hoped to make Isabel do the "dirty work" in marry-
ing off Pansy while he would strike the pose of the disinterested fa-
ther, has to acknowledge the new independence of action Isabel has

achieved by means so subtle that he has no power of controlling them.

As he confesses to Madame Merle, Isabel has more ideas than ever

 

32The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 275.

 

128
and she also means to carry them out. Even if her generous, pain-
fully wrought service to Pansy and, in a way, to Warburton33 does
not promise an easy fulfillment Of Pansy's wish to marry after her
own choice (Osmond is convinced that Pansy can "aim high, " and
designs to break her resistance by a time of penitence in the convent),
for Isabel it has been a moral victory and, as such, has armed her
for future battles. She has found that with all the bleakness of her
situation she is not doomed to be a helpless victim. She has not yet
Opposed Osmond openly and is apprehensive that one break with him
would mean a break forever. Whatever had been their different
views of a perfect marriage, both had striven for perfection and any
compromise after that would not do. Under the mistaken notion that
her husband's intentions had equalled her own in generosity, Isabel
had made her marriage vows with the greatest solemnity--she had

given her all. After that, a break does not seem possible, and yet

 

33Isabel's role in the incident of Pansy's proposed marriage
to Warburton is often carelessly read or outright misinterpreted by
many critics. It is either felt that Isabel actually promotes a mar-
riage of convenience for Pansy regardless of the girl's wishes or
that she remains passive and lets matters take their course. Even
J. R. Dove (92; _c_i_t. ) in an otherwise perceptive article (perhaps the
most perceptive one on The Portrait to date) feels that although Isabel
"refuses to forward Pansy's match with Lord Warburton, she tries
not to stand in its way. She places herself, indeed, in a curiously
ironic position. She who had married for love finds herself the advo-
cate of a marriage of convenience. " (p. 88.) Close attention to the
text reveals a much more intricate pattern of Isabel's actions meant
for the active prevention of a disastrous alliance.

 

129
she cannot escape a feeling to the contrary: "She seemed to see,
none the less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to
take back something she had solemnly bestown. "34 The battle she
has won against Osmond by oblique means foreshadows the coming of
her inescapable open opposition in the future. The air is thick with
apprehension, and Isabel, like one who has seen her own life with a
clarity usually assigned only to those near death, wishes so to direct
her actions as to "make her peace with the world--to put her spiritual
affairs in order."

It can be said that the rest of the book is largely taken up with
Isabel's efforts "to put her spiritual affairs in order. " Here could be
mentioned Henrietta's visit to Rome which Isabel rightly acknowledges
as an act of devotion: "She [Henrietta] had crossed the stormy ocean
in midwinter because she guessed that Isabel was sad. " Henrietta
gets her reward when Isabel finds that in the face of such tested
friendship she can admit her sufferings, so far carefully veiled from
the rest of the world. It is Henrietta too who is allowed to hear
Isabel's crystallized view of her marriage as a moral commitment
with far-reaching consequences: "One must accept one's deeds. I

married him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impos-

sible to do anything more deliberate. "35 Her friend's objection that

 

34The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 245-6.

 

351bid., p. 284.

130
such feelings show too much consideration for a not too worthy hus-
band only makes Isabel see that it is mainly she herself who, as a
morally responsible being, demands this consideration. While the
reader is witnessing in this incident Isabel's generous tribute of con-
fidence to a friend whose devotion has been tested by experience, he
is also given a glimpse of her strenuous attempt to be as generous
and as just in bearing her unhappy part of a wretched marriage. For
her, this attempt too counts among putting "her spiritual affairs in
order."

Then there is the case of Caspar Goodwood, who has come to
Rome to be convinced of Isabel's happiness with Osmond so that he
might finally convince himself in turn that she does not need his
thinking about her any longer. As Isabel sees it, Caspar is her one
suitor who has not been able to find any consolation to replace the
loss of herself. It is as if he "had invested his all in her happiness,
while the others had invested only a part. " Because of this she feels
somehow responsible for his unhappiness--there is still an account
to be settled with Caspar. Her opportunity comes when he, exhausted
by the fruitless effort to see behind her mask of serenity, approaches
her with a direct question. He admits it is none oftlgusiness to ask,
but as he has come for love of her, he asks for all his years of de-

votion to "pluck a single flower, ” to have the right to know whether

he may pity her: "That at least would be doing something. I'd give my

131
life to it." Again, Isabel is touched by his honest human need and
"settles her account" with him with the following answer which,
should he prove sensitive enough, contains all he desires to know:
"Don't give your life to it; but give a thought to it every now and
then. "

On the whole it can be said that Isabel's efforts at putting her
affairs in order had started before she consciously had thought of
them as such, namely with her self-illuminative midnight vigil.
From that time on she has managed at least to delay an unpleasant
marriage for Pansy and what might have been an embarrasing one
for Warburton; has saved Ralph (as she believes) the pain of seeing
her suffer; and has shared some Of the suffering with two longtime
devoted friends, Henrietta Stackpole and Caspar Goodwood. About
her marriage she has two not easily reconcilable feelings: she must
stick to the tremendous vows she had solemnly made, but she some-
how sees the time approaching when she will have to withdraw some
of her promises.

Whatever suffering is yet in store for her, she feels she has to
face it by herself. She has managed to live with a mask for the world;
she has acknowledged the warmth of the new friendships given her.
Now that she feels there still may be more, as yet clearly unknown,
perhaps just dimly suspected pain to encounter, she finds it would be

harder to deal with it under the sympathetic eyes of visiting friends.

n
I

\1

132
As she has seen, she is not at all helpless by herself. Having ar-
ranged for her two friends, Henrietta and Caspar, to accompany
Ralph on his way back to Gardencourt, where he wants to await his
death now surely in sight, Isabel is left alone. The thought that she
may not see Ralph ever again has been too hard to accept, and she
has spontaneously promised to come should he send for her. She
would have liked to see him home, but, as she puts it, she is afraid.
Her fear, as she assures Ralph, is not of Osmond but of herself.
This rather vague statement seems to imply that Isabel has not yet
taken full measure of herself and is not sure what she might do once
away from Osmond. In her newly regained loneliness she again
ponders.

After her last rather dramatic encounter with Madame Merle,
she is convinced that this lady's interest in Pansy and connections
with Osmond are not disinterested. In a flash of sudden illumination
she sees that her Aunt's warning about Merle has been right: Madame
Merle had married her. If so, "the man in the world whom she had
supposed to be the least sordid had married her, like a vulgar ad-

venturer, for her money. "36

This recognition seems to release her
from at least part of the vows she had made at her marriage. If

Osmond really only wanted her money, would money satisfy him;

 

36
The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 330.

 

133

would he take her money and let her go? The extent of his claims
she is to see very shortly.

Matters come to a head when Ralph sends his last request to
see Isabel before his death. Osmond sees it as indecent that she
should travel across Europe "to sit at the bedside of other men." His
remark that Isabel likes Ralph because he hates Osmond is the fruit of
the imagination of a very small, ungenerous spirit, and can onlyboost
her determination to go. Soon, however, he finds the right tone to
disarm her and to hurt her profoundly. It is as if he is repeating the
very conclusions Isabel had made earlier about her own attitude to-
ward marriage:

I take our marriage seriously; you appear to have found a way

of not doing so. I'm not aware that we're divorced or sepa-

rated; for me we're indissolubly united. You are nearer to

me than any human creature, and I'm nearer to you. It may

be a disagreeable proximity; it's one, at any rate, of our own

deliberate making. You don't like to be reminded of that, I

know; but I'm perfectly willing, because . . . I think we should

accept the consequences of our actions, and what I value most
in life is the honour of a thingl3’7
It is indeed a "blasphemous sophistry" because instead of the deeply
felt convictions of Isabel's similar expressions, Osmond's concern is
limited to the preservation Of appearances, and Isabel sees as much.

Yet he speaks in the name of "something sacred and precious" to her

and thus touches her to the quick; besides, as far as his own shallow

 

37The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 355-6.

 

134
principles are concerned, he is sincere, and Isabel, with her sense
of justice, has to count it as credit. She suffers a wave of indecision.
As yet she cannot Oppose Osmond Openly. Presently, however, she
learns more of her true situation in the house Of Osmond and the dis-
covery brings about that apprehended break with him she had uncon-
sciously been preparing for.

In the eyes of the Countess Gemini, Osmond's sister, it is a
good time for Isabel to "overtop" her arrogant brother. Hoping to
witness this spectacular fall for her own amusement, she reveals to
Isabel the full extent of the relationship between Madame Merle and
Osmond: the two had been lovers at one time and Pansy is the fruit
of this liaison. To the disappointment of the Countess, no Overtop-
ping of Osmond takes place in the way she has hoped. Isabel's first
reaction is pity for Madame Merle. After that she knows only one
thing--she has to see Ralph; in other words, she has to feel "the
good of the world" again as only Ralph can make her feel it in order
to cope with the misery at home somehow. In a way she does over-
top Osmond--she openly opposes his wishes by leaving for
Gardencourt immediately.

Before Isabel gets under way, she is to make yet another
ironic discovery; she is also to see Madame Merle "overtopped. "
Madame Merle, "the cleverest woman in the world, " who "recog-

nizes no embarrassments, " suddenly finds herself "knowing as little

135
what to think as the meanest" when confronted with Isabel's silent
gaze pregnant with the unexpressed knowledge of Serena's deceptions.
The only trick Madame Merle can find now is shuffling the responsi-
bility of her vile doings on the shoulders of poor Ralph. It is Ralph,
not she or Osmond, who has originated Isabel's misery by making her
rich and irresistible to fortune hunters: "He imparted to you that
extra lustre which was required to make you a brilliant match. At
bottom it's him you've to thank. "38 With her reply, "I believed it
was you I had to thank!" Isabel takes her only revenge for her dis-
appointments caused by the duplicity of Madame Merle. Serena
believes, nevertheless, that her Own unhappiness exceeds Isabel's.
While willing even to grant that, Isabel parts with her with the wish
never to see Madame Merle again. For her, the face of friendship
and numerous accomplishments has turned into a face of evil; once it
has taken place, she does not hesitate to repel the evil she has rec-
ognized.

A complete reversal of Isabel's situation finally has taken
place. Instead of the hoped for world as "a place of brightness, " she
has seen one "illuminated by lurid flashes. " In this world of dimming
lights, her hopes have suffered a reversal, her forebodings have

come true. If she had hoped for "happy works" and never to do wrong

 

38
The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 388.

 

136
or be unhappy through her own fault, her works are mostly unhappy
and her choices for herself have been wrong. The two people she had
admired most, Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle, have shown un-
suspected capacity for selfishness and gain where she had hoped only
to find goodness and generosity. She has surely not escaped her
share Of human suffering by choosing Osmond instead of either
Warburton or Goodwood. Her uneasiness about the relative advan-
tages of great wealth has been justified with a vengeance. Yet there
have been gains, even if they are ironic in nature. That one corner
of life she had chosen to cultivate through her marriage to Osmond
has not been a happy one; on the other hand, she had been right in
asserting at the time of her choice that a wrong choice might be a
better thing than no choice at all. Through her wrong choice she has
come to great suffering, and through suffering has gained in clarity
of vision and in stature as a moral human being. She is well on her
way to reach the full identity of the self she has been striving for all
her life.

When Isabel leaves for Gardencourt, she has freed herself
from the two evil influences that had hitherto dominated her life--
Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle. She has sent Madame Merle on
her way and has made a clean break with Osmond by opposing his
wishes. Should she return to Rome, it now will be on her own terms,

not Osmond's. As the train carries her away from Rome, she is

137

only aware of the break with her past but cannot see what the future
is to hold for her: "all purpose, all intention, was suspended. " She
has no regrets, but as yet, no hopes. The only tangible thing in her
immediate future is the image of Gardencourt, the place from which
"she had gone forth in her strength. " She feels she is coming back
to it now in her weakness as to a sanctuary for a temporary refuge
from everything. As to what will come after that, she can only dimly
sense that "life would be her business for a long time to come. "
Then, contrary to her present somber mood, the thought invigorates
her: "It was a proof of strength--it was a proof she should some day
be happy again. " To the reader, who is not given a sure proof of
Isabel's future happiness before her story ends, this change of mood
only attests to her new role as an individual grown strong in the very
battle of life and ready to bear whatever her lot is yet to be.
Presently the London crowd surrounds her at the station and
forces Isabel to recall her sense of excitement and delight in the
challenge of life this very crowd stimulated in her some years be-
fore. A wiser, older Isabel is not moved to feel again that "the
world lay before her--she could do whatever she chose. " Now she
sees the same crowd as "dense," "dark, " and "pushing"; as such it
still represents to her the unknown, hidden dangers of life but she
cannot view them as necessarily happy challenges any more. In-

stead, she is filled with a nervous fear at the immensity of the

138
unknown and is grateful to spot the familiar face of Henrietta among
the strangers. When her self-assurance returns, she finds herself

at ease while called upon to entertain Mr. Bantling, Henrietta's hus-
band to be. This otherwise small incident has a symbolic value for
her: "It seemed to her she should never again feel a superficial em-
barrassment. " The faculty to function with social ease under what-
ever personal strain which she had admired in Madame Merle has
been given to her as a result of intense suffering--the Portrait of
Isabel as a Lady is gaining its finishing touches.

The completion of her quest, the completion of her portrait as
a lady, comes with Ralph's death at Gardencourt. Lyall H. Powers
points out the paradoxical significance of this tragic episode by main-
taining that Ralph's "unfortunate death" turns out to be "singularly
fortunate for Isabel, because it saves her from the servitude to
Osmond, whom Powers labels "evil incarnate. "39 Whatever evil
Osmond might be said to represent, it is the nearness of the dying
Ralph which helps Isabel feel the good of the world while in the
shadow of this evil. Furthermore, the news of Ralph's last wish to
see her gives Isabel the necessary strength to break away from
Osmond and finally, the departing spirit of Ralph brings out the best
of Isabel--she is finally granted her wish to appear for what she is.
In face of death, there is no need of masks; to the dying Ralph she

can confess her mistakes freely and her gratitude for his love as

 

3c)"The Portrait of a Lady: 'The Eternal Mystery of Things, ' "
Nineteenth Century Fiction, (September, 1959), p. 146.

 

 

139

well. Ralph's dying is her hour of truly becoming: " 'I was not wait-
ing for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This is not death,

dear Ralph. ' "40

Presently she finds a name for the thing she has
been waiting for--it is the knowledge that the two of them are looking
at "the truth together. " And looking at the truth together means
being open and generous in face of love when it is rightly recognized
as such. Isabel can see now that confiding her pain to Ralph, not
concealing it, is her most generous tribute to his love, and it makes
her happy to forget her pride and simply to admit: "I never thanked
you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!" Now she would
rather die, if she could, with Ralph or for Ralph if he could live, for
it is the life of Ralph not of Osmond which has revealed itself to her
as having been beautifully lived through love and giving. At the same
time she knows that nothing is over for her yet, and for what there
is to come Ralph gives her his final gift, the comforting thought that
she should remember that her mistake has been a generous one and
that if she has been hated, she also has been loved:

You won't lose me--you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart;

I shall be nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life

is better; for in life there's love. Death is good--but there's
no love. 41

 

40The Portrait, 'Vol. II, p. 413.

 

411bid.. pp. 413-14.

140

It is at the deathbed of Ralph that Isabel receives the full
ironic illumination of her life: she had started out with a grand
design for what her life ought to be, had overestimated her capacity
for arranging it accordingly and had come to see that all anybody can
hope for in this life is a glimpse of love freely given. From the mis-
taken admiration for Osmond, with his "genius for upholstery, " she
has come a long way to the rightful appreciation of Ralph, who has
"the imagination of loving. " The heightened sense of a fully satisfy-
ing personal relationship which she shares with Ralph in the last
moments of his life comes the closest to that fullness of spiritual
experience she had hoped to gain through her marriage. But as she
cannot die with Ralph, she has to realize that such heightened ex-
periences are at best glimpses of what James himself has called "the
possible other case, the case rich and edifying where the actuality is
pretentious and vain." To the actuality she has to return, at the ex-
pense of her lost presumptions about human possibilities and at the
gain of a truer if saddened vision of them. What Kenneth B. Marshall

says of the ironic mode of Forster in Howard's End can be applied to

 

James' rounding out of the fate of Isabel in The Portrait of a Lady--

 

we are left with a feeling that the outcome of life is ironically dif-

ferent from expectation and that the most one can learn is a kind of

humility. 4‘2

 

42Irony in the Novels of E. M. Forster, Unpublished disserta-
tion (University of Michigan, 1955), p. 117.

 

141

The last question, of course, concerns Isabel's choice of action
in terms of the above ironic insight. She returns to Rome and to
Osmond after Ralph's death, and after she has once more rejected
Goodwood's offer to be her protector for life. There is little critical
agreement as to the interpretation of her choice. Most of the com-
ments about it seem to fall into three major categories. Arnold
Kettle's reading could be cited as representative of the first group.
He feels that by rejecting the vitality of Goodwood, Isabel "is turning

her face to the wall. "43

He thinks, she is paying a final sacrificial
tribute to her own ruined conception of freedom. Poirier (9‘3. E_i_t.)
too feels that Isabel at the end of her story has changed from that
category of James' characters who 'express' themselves into one of
those who 'represent' something-~the 'fixed' characters. That is to
say, she has ceased being one of James' "free" spirits who are
capable of individual growth and is approaching his "fixed" characters
who live by the measure Of established forms. If these critics are
right, Isabel in the last estimation is very much like Euphemia de
Mauves--both are driven by the demon of the absolute at the expense
of human relationship on possible terms. Then there are the psycho-

logical critics who tend to read the whole story Of Isabel Archer in

terms of what they call her sexual frigidity. According to them, she

 

43An Introduction to the E_nglish Novel, Vol. II (New York,
1960), p. 31.

 

142

rejects Goodwood repeatedly because the true physical passion he

44
offers would be a fatal experience to her. Still another group Of

critics (Dorothy Van Ghent is a good example here) suggest that
Isabel returns to the "claustral house" of Osmond, because it has
been there, nevertheless, where she has "found a fertilizing, civi-
lizing relationship between consciousness and circumstance. "45
Perhaps a completely satisfactory answer as to the motives of
Isabel's choice cannot be established, because, as the author himself

admits in the Notebook entry on The Portrait, in a way he has not

 

seen his heroine to the end of her situation:

The whole of anything is never told; you can only take what
groups together. What I have done has that unity--it groups
together. It is complete in itself-—and the rest may be taken
up or not, later. 46

In other words, the completeness of The Portrait as a work of art

 

does not insure for the reader the completion of Isabel's story. For
the latter, he is free to speculate. Psychoanalysis and other aids
aside, the best help remains the text itself, and to that one must
return in the attempt to judge Isabel's return to Rome as impartially

as possible.

 

44William Bysshe Stein, "The Portrait of a LadL: Vis

Inertiae, " Perspectives on James's The Portrait of a Lady, William
T. Stafford (ed.), (New York, 1967), p. 181.

 

 

45The EnglishNovel: Form and Function (New York, 1961), p. 228.

 

46The Notebooks of Henry James, p. 18.

 

143

TO follow as much of Isabel's story as is given us after the
death of Ralph, the first time she notices Goodwood is upon his
presence at Ralph's funeral. All the thought she gives him then is
a sense of surprise that he should be still in England and a sense of
uneasiness under his steady gaze. Next time she thinks of him is on
one of her restless walks around the grounds of Gardencourt in a
mood of indecision as to her return to Rome. She comes upon a
bench and remembers that on this very bench she had read an ardent
letter by Goodwood and that it had been here Warburton had proposed
to her. Both things are of the past and her mood is that of weariness.
At this point Goodwood appears once again to renew his suit. He will
save her from Osmond; he has the same confidence as before that he
knows what is good for Isabel:

"I know how you suffer, and that's why I'm here. We can do

absolutely as we please; to whom under the sun do we owe

anything? What is it that holds us, what is it that has the

smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such

a question is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle

it! Were we born to rot in our misery--were we born to be

afraid? I never knew you afraid! If you'll only trust me,

how little you will be disappointed! The world's all before

us--and the world's very big. I know something about that. "47
These too are the words from the past. "The world's all before us, "

are words similar to those Isabel had spoken some years ago at the

peak of her confidence in her good fortune. I don't think it accidental

 

47The Portrait, Vol. 11, pp. 434-435.

 

144

that James has made Goodwood speak them here for the reader to
make this connection. As matters stand now, the consciousness of
Isabel and that of Caspar are wide apart. The extent of the world's
offering Isabel has seen with Ralph while "looking at the truth to-
gether. " For her, knowledge of the world now means the awareness
that such knowledge and the sense of unlimited individual freedom are
mutually exclusive.48 While she feels the force of Goodwood's love,
the thought of being in his arms touches her as "the next best thing to
her dying. " One who has seen life to be her business for a long time
to come can be fascinated with this alternative only for a moment.
When the actual embrace comes, it breaks the spell--Caspar is still
the man whose possessiveness she could not accept. As James ex-
plicitly notes, it is the possessiveness of the whole person ("each
aggressive fact of his face, his figure, his presence"), not just
sexual possessiveness that comes into question. The counterpart of
Osmond has been Ralph not Goodwood (also explicitly indicated
throughout the story). It suffices to recall the death scene of Ralph
to see that the strength to pull Isabel through was given there; sub-
mitting to Goodwood would mean giving up--the next best thing to
dying. Isabel's run through the dark garden back to the lighted house

tells of her choice--from indecision back to life (Rome). She returns

 

48J. A. Ward, The Imagination of Disaster: Evil in the Fiction
of HenrxJames (Lincoln, Nebraska, 1961), p. 46.

 

145
as a lady--the gallant fighter. James certainly did not waste so
much good writing leading up to Isabel's break with Osmond just to
imply at the end that by her return she is turning her face to the
wall. Whatever awaits her, she will never be Osmond's puppet
again. I agree with Dove, who maintains that her return does not
necessarily mean a return to misery:

Isabel's disillusion was the cause of her unhappiness, and her

disillusion is now complete. She is protected now by her own

disenchantment. Osmond has done his worst--he has no more

power to hurt or wound her. 49
Osmond's own admission shortly before Isabel's departure that she has
more ideas than ever and that she means to carry them out supports
this conclusion. That she has learned how to deal with the world
around her without compromising her integrity was also made clear
by her actions in behalf of Pansy.

Still her return does not promise for her "happy work" in the
future, because she will have to live with the tragic consciousness Of
her own ideals being in contradiction with the society available to her:

James does nothing to minimize the suffering with which Isabel

must spend the rest of her life, but he suggests that the acquired

wisdom, the expansion of consciousness, represents a develop-

ment far higher not only than her life in America but hi5%her than
her life with Warburton or Goodwood would have been.

 

49Dove, p. 93.

50Ward, p. 47.

 

 

 

 
 

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146

Ironically, Isabel has grown in stature and individual freedom in the
very place which has seemed to be most restrictive to such growth,
or, as Dorothy Van Ghent puts it (22. i), she has found in Osmond's
claustral house a crevice in which to grow straightly and freshly.
Ironically, too, the dream of her youth to see life on her own has
reached a fulfillment at the moment when she is most conscious of
having been punished for her wish. By cultivating that one unhappy
corner of Osmond's house, she has experienced life to the fullest--
partaken of love and of suffering and gained in wisdom. By the same,
the tragic rhythm of her story has been completed--moving from

"purpose" through "passion" to "perception."

The foregoing discussion of The Portrait in terms of its

 

tragic rhythm indicates that cumulative dramatic irony is the most
obvious ironic device present in the work. For the most part, the
reader sees beyond what the heroine sees in her own situation. When
he learns the full truth of an incident at the same time Isabel does,
he has been warned to suspect more ahead of time than it has been
possible for Isabel to do. The Osmond-Merle relationship serves as
an example here. The reader does not exactly know that Madame
Merle is Pansy's mother before the Countess Gemini tells Isabel

about it, but he su5pects, nevertheless, that Merle's concern with

147

Osmond's fortunes is not impartial. He has seen her effort to
interest Osmond in marrying Isabel as well as Gemini's threat to
expose the two to Isabel in time to spare her some unhappiness. The
work abounds in such preparations for ironic revelations, and
SOphoclean irony plays a great role in foreshadowing coming events
as in some way incongruous with the expectations or hOpes of the
speakers. Perhaps more than any other work of James, The
Portrait makes this particular ironic use of the speeches of the
characters. It is chiefly this device which gives one the impression
of the whole work consisting of stages of dramatic preparations lead-
ing from one ironic discovery to another. Hence comes the particu-
lar intensity of the story and the stress on the presence of the tragic
rhythm as a framework for the action.

I have pointed out speeches of the characters as pregnant with
ironic implications when viewed from some later point of the action,
and an entire essay could be devoted just to the various uses of
SOphoclean irony in the novel. I shall, however, confine myself to
but a few other examples of this device to give some idea of the
variety of ironic effects James could achieve with it. For example,
it is given to Henrietta Stackpole to be apprehensive about the
choices Isabel may make for herself while in EurOpe. When she ex-
presses her fear to Ralph, however, she is taken rather lighthearted-

ly by the latter because he sees her mainly as a comic character.

148
Her views are strictly provincial and as such provide constant
amusement for the cosmopolitan Ralph. Miss Stackpole finds every-
thing European Of necessity inferior to what the New World has to
offer, including potatoes on the dinner table. She is afraid Isabel
may injure herself, but because, according to Henrietta, this injury
will come from her drifting away from the right ideas she has had at
home, Ralph does not see her concern in a more serious light than
her dislike for European potatoes. Henrietta plays the "fool's" role
in this respect. While she Often provides keen insight into the dangers
of Isabel's romantic tendencies, the reasons she gives for these
tendencies usually boil down to some oversimplified statements about
the harmfulness of foreign influences. Her general lack of sophisti-
cation keeps her more SOphisticated audience (Isabel and Ralph, for
the most part) from giving her occasional wisdom the amount of
attention it deserves.

Some of Ralph's expressions have exactly the Opposite effect:
if Henrietta's warnings are ignored on grounds of her simplicity,
Ralph puzzles Isabel by his subtlety. He is no help to her when she
wants to find out for what possible fault Ralph seems to mistrust
Madame Merle. According to Ralph, Serena's fault is the very fact
that she does not have a fault to speak of: "She's too good, too kind,
too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. " In her

inexperience with Ralph's fondness for verbal ironies, Isabel is not

149

any wiser for this reply, which she finds "too paradoxical" to en-
lighten her. Ralph is only stimulated to more verbal merriment and
presently pronounces that there is no spot on Madame Me rle's virtues:
"For my Own, Of course, I'm spotted like a 1e0pard. But on Madame
Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!" At this, Isabel loses sense of a
possible double meaning in Ralph's speech altogether and announces
that she is of the same opinion and likes Madame Merle for all these
virtues. Ralph sees that his implied warning against the surface
polish of Isabel's friend has miscarried, but he chooses to do nothing
about it because of his trust in Isabel's good judgment which is sure
to assess Madame Merle right before any harm can come to Isabel
through close association with this lady. Besides, he wants Isabel
to have the sense of freedom to make her own choices. The same
idea governs his attitude when Isabel seeks his opinion of Osmond.
He can only express his disapproval in a rather indirect way.
Osmond's "special line" is his great dread of vulgarity in Ralph's
estimation. The additional remark that he does not know of any
other line Osmond may have implies criticism, but itis not expressed
strongly enough for Isabel, who has already been charmed by
Osmond, to notice. "He's a poor but honest gentleman, " Ralph fur-
ther remarks, then as an afterthought--"that's what he calls himself. "
And presently he advises Isabel not to mind anything anyone tells her

about anyone else. She should judge everyone and everything for

150
herself. This is precisely what Isabel does, but without the benefit
of the mature judgment Ralph had believed her to have. When later
on, Isabel undertakes to defend Osmond from the attacks of Ralph,
who by then is alarmed enough to express himself strongly and
directly, it becomes clear that she has heard all the good things
about Osmond and ignored the Oblique criticism Ralph had tried to
give: to her Osmond is a poor but honest gentleman with the best
taste in the world.

For the warning against the validity of Ralph's trust in
Isabel's good judgment, the reader needs only to remember some of
the misgivings Old Mr. Touchett expresses concerning his son's
great plan to provide her with a fortune. Against Ralph's enthusi-
astic belief that Isabel is as good as her best opportunities, Mr.
Touchett voices the scepticism of experience: "Isabel is a sweet
young thing; but do you think she's so good as that? " Most of the
scene has the dramatic presentation Of a dialogue, and the absence
of the author's intervening comments accents the insufficiency of
Ralph's reasoning on behalf of Isabel, because his Speeches are
directly thrown against Mr. Touchett's sober investigation of the
facts. The final passage of the dialogue will do to illustrate the point:

Mr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had

given up the attempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly,

he began again. "Tell me this first. Doesn't it occur to you

that a young lady with sixty thousand pounds may fall a victim
to the fortune-hunters? "

151

"She'll hardly fall a victim to more than one. "

"Well, one's too many."

"Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my calcula—
tion. I think it's appreciable, but I think it's small, and I'm
prepared to take it. "

Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity, and

his perplexity passed into admiration. --"Well, you 1%; gone

into it!" he repeated. "But I don't see what good you're to get
out Of it. " Ralph leaned over his father's pillows and gently
smoothed them; he was aware their talk had been unduly
prolonged. "I shall get just the good I said a few moments ago

I wished to put into Isabel's reach--that of having met the

requirements of my imagination. "51

As Isabel disregards Ralph's subtly voiced warnings against the two
people who prove to be her undoing, Ralph in his turn overrules the
sober advice of Mr. Touchett based on long years of experience with
the world. His hope to meet the requirements of Isabel's imagination,
and through the act to gratify his own, brings about the exact con-
sequences Mr. Touchett had ventured to suggest. As for the author
himself, he has worked ironic forecasts of coming events in three
different ways: through Henrietta, who is ignored for her simplicity;
through Ralph, who is misunderstood for his subtlety; and through
Mr. Touchett, whose down-tO-earth wisdom is respected, yet
neglected because Isabel has kindled Ralph's imagination as having
purposes worthy of his support.

Behind the speeches, of course, are the relationships of the

speakers themselves, and the speeches partly reflect the ironies

 

51The Portrait, Vol. I, pp. 264-5.

 

152
involved in these relationships. For fuller appreciation of the tragic

irony of The Portrait, which so far has been treated in terms of the

 

tragic rhythm of the story, these relationships now need to be in-
vestigated. I have said before that Isabel's story is not exclusively
filtered through her own consciousness. In James' terminology, she
has her "satellites" who can show her to us from the outside while
she is engaged in a multiplicity of relationships with them. Never-

theless, Isabel is to be called the central intelligence of The Portrait

 

in the sense that she has the last word in evaluating the characters
surrounding her. The implied author, who comes in with a definite
"I" and his own omniscience in parts of the story, does not lead the
reader a step beyond Isabel's consciousness in this respect. It can
be said that the implied author gives up more and more of his
omniscience and Isabel's own intelligence looms larger and larger
as her story progresses. One is tempted to draw the conclusion
that at the same time that Ralph empowers Isabel to "go before the
breezes, " James withdraws the device of omniscience as the hand
on the helm and lets her travel on her own. As for the quality of the
work, it means that volume II has a greater intensity than volume I
in which the implied author takes his time to introduce Isabel and
her satellites and to prepare for her taking over in volume II.
When trying to evaluate the role of each satellite in the story

of Isabel, one is struck with the symmetrical arrangement James has

153
apparently favored in surrounding Isabel with these additional centers
of intelligence. There are exactly five female and five male charac-
ters involved in some kind Of relationship with Isabel. Henrietta
Stackpole, Mrs. Touchett, Madame Merle, Pansy Osmond and the
Countess Gemini represent the female cast; Caspar Goodwood, Lord
Warburton, Ralph Touchett, Gilbert Osmond and Mr. Touchett fill
out the male cast. Outside of Mr. Touchett, who dies early in
Isabel's career, the male cast seems to be the stronger, with
Goodwood, Warburton, Osmond and Ralph all playing important
roles in the story. Of the women, there is none who equals or ap-
proaches the significance of Madame Merle. James himself, as was
noted from the Preface, felt that it was given chiefly to the male
characters to show Isabel from the outside. I suggest that the male
characters are assigned largely the role to point up Isabel's encoun-
ter with the outside world, while the women serve mainly to clarify
for the reader the stages of her own becoming as an individual, ex-
cept for Madame Merle, who shares both functions equally, and
Ralph, who is the final measure of Isabel's becoming.

In view of this, it seems natural that Isabel should arrive at
Gardencourt from Albany with Mrs. Touchett as a guide and that
Henrietta Stackpole should be her closest associate at this stage.
The girlish Isabel from Albany reminds Mr. Touchett of his own

wife as a young girl--she is fresh, natural, quick to understand and

154

to speak, as he remembers Mrs. Touchett to have been in her youth.
Mr. Touchett knows that the present Mrs. Touchett hardly reminds
one of the young Isabel, and it is soon enough clear to the reader
that Isabel will not turn into a likeness Of her aunt. The two women
appreciate each other for certain qualities they share. Mrs. Touchett
tells Ralph that they both are frank, and therefore find it easy to get
along with each other; Isabel respects Mrs. Touchett's independent
spirit and the fact that her aunt never seems to care whether anybody
likes her or not. Mrs. Touchett, in a way, accents Isabel's early
expectations of herself as an individual--that she should be what she
appears to be and that her own independence should be her most
valued trait. While she toys with the idea that hers might be the in-
dependence of single life, Mrs. Touchett has actually made a single
life out of her married state by maintaining her own household

in Florence with Mr. Touchett spending his days in London. Even
if she sees that Lord Warburton really will never understand

Isabel, she does not see it as an obstacle to his offer--Isabel can
use his excellent position, then arrange a settlement according to
her own wishes. Here Isabel parts ways with Mrs. Touchett and
realizes the ultimate insufficiency of her insistence on independence.
Mrs. Touchett's continual stress on her own ways has led her to a
way of life completely governed by the Observance of her own estab-

lished forms. It has become a standard for her even in judging

155
other people, or as Madame Merle puts it, for Mrs. Touchett having
no faults means that one is never late for he; dinner. Contrary to
her previous assumptions, Isabel has to admit that one's complete
independence from everybody else can't possibly provide for full
experience of life, and she gives up such independence for a marriage
in which she means to be greatly dependent on Osmond. Isabel's
final assessment of Aunt Touchett comes with Ralph's death. She
sees in her for the first time a vague sense of inadequacy when con-
fronted with the approaching death of her son. Her sources of sor-
row, pain, regret have run dry because of lack of deep involvement
with other lives: "Unmistakeably she [Mrs. Touchett] would have
found it a blessing . . . to be able to feel a defeat, a mistake, even
a shame or two." As it is, Isabel suSpects that she for once in her
life dimly perceives that she after all has missed something, "that
she saw herself in the future as an Old woman without memories. "
Through Isabel's consciousness the reader can estimate the value of
Isabel's life measured against the older Mrs. Touchett. It provides
for an ironic contrast. Both women had started out about equally
equipped and with like expectations of life in many ways. While Mrs.
Touchett has remained pedantically faithful to her concept Of inde-
pendence, the years lived in this manner don't contain more exciting
or painful memories for her than the hiring and firing of servants for

the maintenance of an efficiently run but largely empty house. Isabel,

156

who has risked almost complete enslavement of her free spirit by
choosing Osmond, has lived in close quarters with sorrow and a
sense of defeat, but also has enlarged her capacity for human
sympathy--she feels the pain of Ralph's death keenly and has pity left
for the undemonstrative Mrs. Touchett herself. In the final estima-
tion, Isabel's wrong choices have been more fruitful than Mrs.
Touchett's "right" ones.

On the other hand, with her matter-of-fact approach to life,
Mrs. Touchett senses early the extent of Isabel's imagination. As
she explains to Ralph, Isabel does not know what it means to be bored
but had made even an exciting place of her dreary room in Albany
while imagining whatever wonderful things might happen to her.
When Osmond appears on the scene, Mrs. Touchett is the first one
to warn the disbelieving Ralph that Isabel is perfectly capable of
marrying Osmond "if she only looks at him in a certain way, " which
is the very thing that takes place. Isabel, who has seen some things
beyond the grasp of Aunt Touchett quite early in the game, puts no
trust in her advice against choosing Osmond, especially when Mrs.
Touchett's main Objections to Osmond seem to be his lack of money,
name or importance.

In a way the reader has been prepared for Henrietta's arrival
in England before she gets there. When she appears with her wide-

eyed eagerness to meet as many EurOpean "specimen" as possible for

157

her journalistic purposes, the reader remembers a similar eager-
ness and attitude from Isabel's own arrival. She had hoped there
would be a Lord and is happy to find a perfect "specimen" of one in
Lord Warburton. Until she becomes personally involved with
Warburton, his complaint about her attitude of "judging only from the
outside" is largely just. Similarly Henrietta is ready to launch her
European career by an article on Ralph, whom she sees as a perfect
"specimen" of the "alienated American." By this time, however,
Isabel's vision of things has acquired a wider perspective, and she
can tell Henrietta that "cosmopolitan" would be a more suitable
adjective for Ralph as a person. "Cosmopolitan" means still giving
Ralph a label as a specimen, and it is this looking from the outside,
trying to force people into some preconceived categories, that hangs
about Isabel to a certain degree for a long time and blocks her vision
so that she either overestimates or underestimates other peOple's
claims. Madame Merle fits too readily into her category of a lady
and is as such enthusiastically accepted. Isabel is even deeper in
trouble when her imagination cannot place a new acquaintance into a
fitting category. Her reflections about her first meeting with

Osmond illustrate the point:

Her mind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr.
Osmond--he was a specimen [italics mine] apart. It was
not that she recognised all these truths at the hour, but they

158

were falling into order before her. For the moment she only

said to herself that this "new relation" would perhaps prove her

very most distinguished. 52
She can't place Osmond among "types already present to her mind"
and he becomes thus a most fascinating "original." Ralph, on the
other hand, baffles her with his seeming lack of seriousness toward
anything, including himself, and therefore he is relegated to a
position inferior to Osmond until Osmond's own solemnity about
himself forces her to see Ralph's lightness as refreshing. It is
Isabel's ultimate capacity for piercing beyond the literal surfaces
which separates her from Henrietta, and Henrietta, much like Mrs.
Touchett, represents an early stage of Isabel's consciousness and
marks the growing distance between the two visions as the story
proceeds. As Dorothy Van Ghent sees it,

Without Henrietta's relative incapacity to "see" more than

literal surfaces, the significant contrast between surface

and depth, between outward and inward "seeing, " between

undeveloped and develo ed consciousness, would lose a

needed demonstration.

As with Mrs. Touchett, Isabel soon knows of her own more
"inward seeing" compared to Henrietta's "clear—cut views on most

subjects. " Because Henrietta is simple, Isabel cannot take her

warnings against drifting toward some mistake with the consideration

 

52The Portrait, Vol. 1, p. 376.

 

53Van Ghent, p. 219.

159
they deserve, and her obvious maneuverings on behalf of Goodwood
are so crude as to infuriate Isabel's sense of privacy. Yet they are
well meant and serve as ironic contrasts to Madame Merle's subtle
dealings through which, Isabel meets Osmond, as _s_h£ thinks by
chance. Ironically too, Henrietta's literal-mindedness about things
contains a great deal of self—protective shrewdness which she shares
with Mrs. Touchett and which the more sensitive Isabel so obviously
lacks. It takes Isabel some years to read Osmond "as she could have
read the hour on the clock-face"; Henrietta chooses the much simpler
Mr. Bantling only when she is sure she can see right through him
and read him as "the style of a good prospectus. " She has no loftier
expectations from her marriage than the practical aim to see some-
thing "of the inner life" of the British for reporting purposes. She
does not marry with the exalted view Of herself moving on the highest
of planes as Isabel had, but she is sure not to suffer Isabel's dis-
appointments either. Needless to say, she won't achieve Isabel's
tragic vision of life at any point Of her undertaking.

Henrietta's main attraction for Isabel has always been her in-
dependently practised vocation: "Henrietta, for [her] , was chiefly
a proof that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. "
Henrietta sees herself in this respect as a woman of "modern type"
and Isabel admires her as such. Even if for herself she chooses a

marriage as a way to self-fulfillment, Henrietta is the one brave

160

example that other, more independent ways are possible. Henrietta's
marriage, which is announced toward the end of the book, leaves her
with a sense of melancholy:
Henrietta, after all, had confessed herself human and feminine,
Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as Alight keen flame,
a disembodied voice. It was a disappointment to find she had
personal susceptibilities, that she was subject to common
passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had not been
completely original.
To the psychological critics this passage "anticipates Isabel's flight
from the passionate embrace of Goodwood; for, quite obviously, she
has ceased to believe in the drive of female sexuality. "55 To me it
signifies Isabel's disillusioned acceptance of the human lot-~Henrietta
too is "human and feminine. " This realization, coming as it does
shortly before her final ironic illumination about the possibilities of
the self and the nature of the world which Isabel achieves with Ralph's
death, serves as a step in dramatic preparation for these final tragic
and ironic revelations.
With her "foolishly compulsive way" (Poirer's term, 91' cit.)
in which Henrietta goes about protecting Isabel's "old ideals"

(Goodwood is to act as the "strong American tie" in preserving them),

she becomes a "foil for the more important rival confidante"56 to

 

54The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 400.

 

55Stein, p. 166. ;

56Sister M. Corona Sharp, The Confidante in Henry James: Ev-
olution and Moral Value of a Fictive Character (South Bend, 1963), p. 96.

161

Isabel, Madame Merle, As Sister M. Corona Sharp notes, Henrietta
watches Isabel from without and her aims, while altruistic are ag-
gressive; Madame Merle shapes her fate from within for selfish
gains but in a suave way. 57 Henrietta might inspire a certain amount
of admiration in Isabel but she never flatters her; Madame Merle
flatters continually but in the subtlest of ways. She sees into Isabel
much farther than Henrietta possibly can; instead of holding up ideals
to her, she can sense and talk about Isabel's essential needs as an
individual. She makes Isabel feellike an extraordinary young person,
and through this flattering image of herself, the girl reads immense
possibilities in her future and gladly accepts Madame Merle as a
guide toward them. All Serena has to do after that is to make Isabel
see Osmond "in a certain way" and she is trapped. The differences
between Henrietta and Madame Merle are shrewdly marked by Ralph,
who notes that persons in Henrietta's view are "simple and homoge-
neous organisms;" about Madame Merle he observes that she is "the
great round world" itself. The early simplicity in seeing things that
Isabel shares with Henrietta could not possibly include the whole of
Isabel, whose vision of the world is changing too rapidly for
Henrietta to deal with her as a simple and homogeneous organism.

She loses out where Madame Merle, with the glitter and guiles of the

 

571bid., pp. 95-6.

162

whole world at her command, proves so tremendously successful.

The relationship between Isabel and Madame Merle is complex
and ambiguous. By the time Isabel abandons the latter's guidance,
she has herself approached her initial idealized vision of Merle but
has also adapted for pragmatic purposes (although her motives are
different) some of the devious traits she has since discovered in her
former ideal. Like the brilliant pupil of a great master she has
absorbed all the valuable lessons, rejected the worthless ones, and
while the mark of the master can be traced here and there, the
person who has emerged from the schooling is not an imitation of the
master but an original in her own right. Besides Isabel's close
personal involvement with Madame Merle as a guide to the art of
living and, in a sense, of becoming, Serena represents the complex
outside world itself, pointing up Isabel's ironic journey from hope-
ful ignorance of the world's ways toward a tragic and disillusioned
vision of it. In this sense Madame Merle and the ironic theme as
well as the structure of the work are inseparable.

The marvels of the unexplored world touch Isabel's imagina-
tion with the first appearance of Madame Merle at Gardencourt,
Madame Merle at the piano is a handsome, cultivated presence, and
her perfect command Of the piece she is playing marks her for
Isabel as a being who exercises similar mastery over a whole field

of human experience:

163

. her manner expressed the repose and confidence which
come from a large experience. Experience, however, had not
quenched her youth; it had simply made her sympathetic and
supple. She was in a word a woman of strong impulses kgpt in
admirable order. This commended itself to Isabel as an ideal
combination.

Here is, then, the model for what Isabel would very much like to be
herself. At the end of her story, she has surpassed this early image
of "the lady," because in her own case she has managed to discard
the impurities she later finds lurking behind the surface perfection of
Madame Merle's portrait as a lady.

The author gradually reveals some passing doubts crossing
Isabel's mind about the true value of Serena's social polish. As was
noted, she attempts to clear up these doubts by asking Ralph's
opinion but finds no satisfaction from his ambiguous pronouncements.
For the reader, however, her growing doubts and Ralph's remarks
are ample foreshadowing of the actual discovery of Merle's duplicity
which is revealed later through successive scenes between Merle and
Osmond, scenes of which Isabel is not aware. Her own discovery is
brought about by a series of "ironic shocks" through which she is
forced to see that Madame Merle does not exclusively represent the

flattering image Isabel had at first apprehended, but, in Serena's own

words, has been "shockingly chipped and cracked. "
The Isabel—Merle relationship is much more than a victim-
victimizer involvement. Isabel admires her accomplished Older

friend, Madame Merle, and while Merle eventually exploits this

164

admiration for her own gain, she nonetheless genuinely likes, even
admires Isabel for her frankness, generosity, sincerity, and sense
of adventure. In these qualities she sees something of her own lost
youth, or at least something of her lost opportunities. Because of
this genuine appreciation of Isabel, Madame Merle expresses herself
at times to Isabel with an unguarded frankness which enables Isabel
later on to put things together for the full understanding of Serena's
character. A certain disillusionment with herself as a person comes
through in these self-revelations. Thus she adds to the "cracked
cup" image of herself that while she does rather well in a quiet,
dusky cupboard, in a strong light she is a horror. Again, as if
anticipating the forthcoming dramatic change in their relationship,
Madame Merle suggests that should Isabel begin disliking her, she
would never end doing so. Isabel gains more revealing insights,
however, from Serena's actions, which either are not guarded enough
or at times are guarded too much and therefore make Isabel suspi-
cious as to what they conceal. One such action of the too guarded
kind is Madame Merle's reserved manner after Isabel's marriage.
She stays away from the Osmond household upon the pretext that she
does not want to appear as a meddler in Isabel's affairs. Since
Isabel cannot see who possibly could accuse her of it, she begins to
suspect that Merle has had a greater say in her marriage to Osmond

than Isabel has been willing to admit. The two very definite "ironic

165

shocks" come with Pansy's marriage prospects to Lord Warburton.
The agitated activity that goes on between Madame Merle and
Osmond on this question cannot escape Isabel's observation. She un-
expectedly walks into a scene with the two deep in their discussion
and in the position of intimates, with Osmond sitting while his guest
Madame Merle is standing. Shortly after she finds a more definite
name for it when Madame Merle starts attacking her as the possible
hindrance to Pansy's marriage. In her anxiety to provide for her
daughter the ambitious future she herself had missed, Madame Merle
quite loses her self-possession and behaves indeed as the feared
meddler in Isabel's affairs. Isabel cannot any longer assume that
Madame Merle has been her disinterested friend, and forces their
relationship into the Open with a series of pointed questions: "Who
are you--what are you? " . . . "What have you to do with my
husband? " . . . "What have you to do with me? " In Serena's answer,
"Everything!" she reads at least part of the total ironic discovery she
has to make--Madame Merle had married her to Osmond. From
here to the full answers to all of Isabel's questions about Merle's role
. in her life is a very short distance to cover.

Like the world itself, Madame Merle had presented Isabel with
a vista of infinite possibilities, then made her perceive evil lurking
beneath the glitter. As for Madame Merle herself, it can be said

that she had cherished Ralph's ambitions for Isabel in a perverted

166

way--she too had wanted to see what Isabel would do: ". . . it will
be a great satisfaction to me to see you some years hence. I want to
see what life makes of you. One thing's certain--it can't spoil you.

It may pull you about horribly, but I defy it to break you up. "59 At

the same time Serena utters these words, she is sincere enough
about them in the sense that she has not yet decided what possible

use she can make for herself'of Isabel's prospective career. With
Isabel's coming into a fortune, it is obvious that in her mind the
phrase, "I want to see what life makes of you," has changed to, "I
want to see whatl can make of you. " But as she attempts to make of
Isabel an instrument whereby to benefit Pansy, the truth of her
prediction that whatever happens to Isabel won't break her up comes
back upon her. In her calculations, she has underestimated Isabel's
developing powers of insight. In her confidence that she can outsmart
and maneuver her at all times, she pushes Isabel too hard when
Pansy's fortunes come in question, and when Isabel balks, Madame
Merle's outrage is so great that she drOps her mask for a minute, but
long enough for Isabel to perceive the dim outlines of her whole
design. In a way Madame Merle suffers Dr. SlOper's fate--her

ironic vision of Isabel falls short and backfires upon herself. There

 

5
9The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 268.

 

167
is this difference though--if Dr. Sloper never learned Of the limita-
tions of his insight, Madame Merle experiences the full bitterness of
seeing herself unmasked in the eyes of Isabel.

There is yet the part in Isabel's relationship with Madame
Merle which, as I mentioned before, is intimately involved with
Isabel's becoming the full grown individual we find her to be at the
end of the story. From the beginning of their acquaintance, Isabel
has greatly admired Madame Merle, whom she sees as the finished
portrait of a lady. Essential differences, however, exist between
Isabel's view of the individual as a social being and Madame Merle's
view. These differences are brought to the reader's attention
through a famous scene in the book in which the two friends are seen
engaged in a discussion about the individual's position within society.
Here is first Madame Merle's view of the matter:

When you've lived as long as I [she tells Isabel] you'll see that

every human being has his shell and that you must take the shell

into account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circum-
stances. There's no such thing as an isolated man or woman;
we're each of us made up of some cluster Of appurtenances.

What shall we call our 'self'? Where does it begin? Where

does it end? It overflows into everything that belongs to us--

and then it flows back again. I know a large part of myself is
in the clothes I choose to wear. I've a great respect for

things! One's self--for other people--is one's expression of
one's self; and one's house, one's furniture, one's garments,

the books one reads, the company one keeps--these things are
all expressive.

 

6"The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 287.

 

168

Isabel, as one might expect, disagrees with these ideas:
I don't agree with you. I think just the other way. I don't know
whether I succeed in expressing myself, but I know that
nothing else expresses me; everything's on the contrary a
limit, a barrier, and a perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly the

clothes which, as you say, I choose to wear, don't express me;
and heaven forbid they should!

The key idea of Madame Merle's exposition is her conclusion that
"one's self--for other people--is one's expression of one's self. " In
other words, one decides, if one can, what kind of society to belong
to and then proceeds to groom one's personality accordingly. Madame
Merle had dreamed about a position among the great of the world,
therefore she had decided to cultivate the image of herself as a lady.
She practices the genteel arts of sketching, embroidery, music,
grooms her personal appearance carefully, and enters a social
gathering with studied dignity and at the right moment to draw atten-
tion to herself at the best advantage. Her idea of the lady, then, is
close to Osmond's idea of the gentleman--one must do the right
things and know the right people.

Isabel, on the other hand, believes that society should take her
on her own terms. No outside trappings should be taken as an
essential part of her being. The accomplishments that according to

Madame Merle one practices to express the self to others, to Isabel

 

61
'The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 287.

 

ll

 

169
have value only as far as they are essential means toward self-im-
provement. As such they become means for better appreciation of
others rather than means of representation of the self to others, an
idea which was examined before as Isabel's aiming at "the aristo-
cratic situation. " The difference between these two views is carried
out by the different attitudes the two women diSplay toward Osmond.
It is implied that Madame Merle has lost interest in Osmond because,
in spite of his social virtuosity (which Serena herself practices) he
has not really belonged to the exclusive company Madame Merle
wants to keep for the perfection of her own image. Isabel chooses
Osmond exactly for his presumably high sense of values and his
worldly insignificance.

The irony of Isabel's position at the time she defends her views
against Madame Merle is her inability to take her friend at her word.
Like Osmond later, Madame Merle has told her some unflattering
truth about herself, but Isabel has given these revelations no more
attention than one would to a general topic of conversation without
any particular personalities involved. Serena remains the EL lady
for her for some time yet which proves to be long enough for this lady
to practice her splendid deceptions on Isabel. But the irony of the
relationship between the two women is more complex than that. Be-
cause Isabel assigns to Madame Merle non-existent virtues, she her-

self holds the idealized Serena as a model for her own develOpment

170

and eventually comes through as the stronger of the two. When at
the end of their relationship the disillusioned Isabel faces Madame
Merle for the last time, it is Madame Merle, the cleverest of
women, who shrinks into insignificance and I sabel the one whose
clarified vision is large enough to go beyond the sense of personal
injury and to let her former friend escape with scraps of dignity left.
The final ironic twist in the I sabel-Merle relationship is Isabel's
coming to terms with Serena's (and by the same token Osmond's)
methods and turning them against their creator. Even if Isabel
never accepts Merle's idea of the self versus society, she finds her-
self in a society which does exactly that. As was seen, to function
in this society she has to practice some of the postures advised by
Merle, but with this difference--where the likes of Merle and
Osmond have personal gains in mind, Isabel learns to outmaneuver
them so as to protect her own integrity against their abuses.

In a curious, ironic way, then, Isabel has been, yet has 11.2".
m a Madame Merle. The idealized surface coating of Merle as
a lady has become the whole being in Isabel. On the other hand,
Serena's very basic convictions about the value of social masks are
worn lightly by the disillusioned Isabel, who takes them only as
protective devices when dealing with a world which honors them.
The final scene between Isabel and Madame Merle once more

stresses this point. Here the two ”ladies" confront each other, but

171

the reader can tell the difference between the real and the faked one.
Oscar Cargill describes this scene as follows:

Through the reverence Isabel has paid Madame Merle, the

latter has come to stand for the 'lady' of the younger

woman's aim; disillusioned now about Madame Merle's

motives in all that concerns herself, Isabel must still measure

herself in terms of self-possession and human dignity against

this other woman--the confrontation is imperative to the por-

traiture.
At the realization that her plotting has been discovered, Madame
Merle loses her admirable self-possession. Isabel lets her recover
herself as if she had not even noticed the slip. It is mainly through
her silence and a slight, indirect remark that Isabel conveys to
Madame Merle the fullness of her knowledge. As they are not direct
attacks, Madame Merle is allowed to depart With most of her appear-
ances intact. Isabel, the lady, has defeated Madame Merle, her
anti-self, the thing she might have but did not become. When this
ironic illumination has reached Isabel's consciousness, Madame
Merle fades out of her story.

Of the two remaining women characters, Pansy and the
Countess Gemini, Pansy plays the greater illuminative role in rela-
tionship with Isabel. From the discussion in part I of this essay, it

is evident that Pansy carries an important part in the dramatization

of Isabel's moral battle against Osmond. By taking an active role

 

6‘Z'The Novels of Henry James (New York, 1961), p. 94.

 

172.

in Pansy's fate, Isabel discovers her own resourcefulness which she
can use against Osmond at his own game. Besides this, as Dorothy
Van Ghent rightly notices (op. _cit_. ), Pansy ”shows the full measure
of the abuse that Isabel resists. " As such she is another ironic
illumination of what Isabel could have but has not become. If
Osmond had hoped to groom Isabel's personality as he would his own
garden plot, Pansy serves as the finished model of such grooming.
As she is the living image of his idea of the ingenue, Isabel was to
conform to his idea of the lady. Through her attempt to protect
Pansy's gentle spirit from complete suffocation, Isabel discovers
that Pansy herself has vaguely groped around for some covert ways
to resist her father, whom she could not dream of opposing openly.
For the first time Isabel realizes that there has been more to Pansy
than she so far has given credit for; it is Pansy's misfortune that
her possibilities as an independent spirit have never had a real
chance under Osmond's suppressive will. For the reader this illumi-
nation accents Isabel's own course against Osmond--she takes over
at the point where Pansy professes herself beaten.

The role of the Countess Gemini is slight but, nevertheless, a
very interesting one. I see it as one of James' earlier symbolic uses
of a character sketch. The Countess Gemini carries the satiric

weight of The Portrait. She is the distorted, grotesque face hovering

 

around the heroine and symbolizing the corrupted and corrupting

173

forces of society Isabel sets out to resist. As such she foreshadows
James ironic techniques of his satiric works, "What Daisie Knew"

and The Awkward Age. She is the caricatured image of what Isabel

 

could have become as the disillusioned, embittered married woman.
The Countess, too, we are told, has made an unfortunate marriage.
Her choice may not have been a self-determined one, as Isabel
believes her own to have been, but as for the outcome of their
marriages, both women find themselves tied to men who turn out to
be egotistic tyrants. The Countess finds her revenge for her dis-
appointment mainly through liaisons with other men. When she
reveals to Isabel the extent of Osmond's deception, she urges upon
her a course of action similar to her own: " 'Don't try to be too good.
Be a little easy and natural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the
comfort of it, once in your life !' "63 The differences between the
courses the two women ultimately take are implied in the pictures
the author paints of each of them as representatives of their married
state. As one remembers, Isabel goes through her social functions
at Osmond's opulent house as the splendid presence of grace and
dignity, and only the subtlest of observers might suspect that she is
wearing a mask. As a contrast to this restive, subtle portrait of

Isabel comes the restless, somewhat grotesque first appearance of

Counte s s Gemini:

 

63The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 371.

 

174

. Isabel could see she was a woman of high fashion. She
was thin and dark and not at all pretty, having features that
suggested some trOpical bird--a long beak-like nose, small,
quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin that receded
extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various
intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was
not inhuman, and, as regards her appearance, it was plain
she understood herself and made the most of her points. Her
attire, voluminous and delicate, bristling with elegance, had
the look of shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were as
light and sudden as those of a creature who perched upon
twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never
known any one with so much manner immediately classed her
as the most affected of women.

As does Isabel, the Countess too "represents something. " Under the
mask of the great lady of Osmond's making, however, Isabel care—
fully protects her own self. The Countess, on the contrary, is all
surface or, as Isabel observes, she reveals no depths. As such, she
represents another way of coping with the world in face of personal
disillusion. It is as if she has taken care of her problems through
the very denial that she has any, and instead of facing them head-on,
seeks continual entertainment to forget them and grooms herself
after the image of the theatrical personality. Her invitation to

Isabel is to join the circus.

In the "Preface" to The Portrait James divides his characters

 

into those who "are of the essence" or belong "to the subject direct-
ly" and into those who are "only of the form" or who belong to the

subject "indirectly. " Among the latter group he places Henrietta

 

64The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 365.

 

1“?—

175
Stackpole, and I am sure that the Countess Gemini would eventually
have to be placed there. Her main function is, after all, the exposure
of Osmond's and Madame Merle's duplicity to Isabel. Without her
the plot of the story can not be completed. It is to James' credit as
an artist that he has managed to make Henrietta as well as the

Countess into more essential parts of the "essence" of The Portrait

 

than he himself seems to have suspected. Both point ironically to
the possible other sides of Isabel's personality, thus stressing the
emergence of her true identity.

As I have shown, the five women involved in their respective
relationships with Isabel point up the multiple possibilities of her
becoming as an individual, and stress her actual growth as a person.
They may be said to represent either some passing stages of her
development or a flash of insight into what I have called her "anti-
self. " As centers of intelligence placed around Isabel, they at times
provide the reader with knowledge as yet unavailable to Isabel, but
gradually fade into inferior positions as Isabel emerges as the true
center of consciousness whose mature vision encompasses them all.

Talking about the relationships between Isabel and the suitors

and admirers around her, Oscar Cargill notes:

As all moving objects need their motion clarified by relatively
stationary things, so Isabel's growth, and especially the

176

reader's sense of it, is established by the human markers
the novelist has posted on her way. 65

So far I have shown this to happen with Isabel in relation to the other

women in The Portrait. In respect to her male admirers, I maintain

 

that even if they too establish for the reader Isabel's growth, they are
not, except for Ralph, intimately related to Isabel as the very parts
or contrasts of her growth, but rather are to be taken as the outside
world she is to face on her way to maturity. I have dealt in Part I
of this essay rather completely with the male relationships because
Isabel's rejections and acceptances of them seem to coincide dra-
matically with the climactic points of the tragic rhythm of her story.
Additional remarks, however, are in order concerning the male
characters as "reflectors. " Compared to the fast growing vision of
Isabel, they are indeed "relatively stationary things, " again with the
exception of Ralph Touchett.

To begin with the case of Lord Warburton, James' critics for
the most part are inclined to see him as the most attractive of
Isabel's suitors. Perhaps, this attitude even includes James him-
self, or at least his implied author of the novel, who stops the pro-
ceeding of his story in order to plead directly with the reader not to
smile "at this simple young woman from Albany who debated whether

she should accept an English peer before he had offered himself and

 

65Cargill, p. 109.

177

who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do better."66
One remembers too that the gracious Lord himself had a complaint
about Isabel's amusing herself while she saw things only from the
outside. I maintain she sees him right and from the inside as soon as
she senses that he threatens to become her intimate concern instead
of the delightful "specimen" of a Lord she readily enjoys as an out-
side observer. Before Lord Warburton has actually proposed to her
(with a woman's instinct she senses that he is about to do so), Isabel
sees that this delightful "specimen" has a system of territorial,
political and social powers behind him which he in a way represents.
As his wife she could not maintain "a system and an orbit of her
own. " She knows that she may do worse than to resist his system,
for although it may prove to be delightful to see from the inside (from
his point of view), she cannot see herself committed to it for the rest
of her days. With "the peace, the kindness, the honour, the pos-
sessions" that Lord Warburton would offer, there would also be "a
deep security and a great exclusion, " which, if positive things of a
kind, would rather offer fixity instead of possibility for growth.
Perhaps even more essential objections than the above con-
siderations are Isabel's conviction that she and Lord Warburton

would not hit it off as individuals, or, as Isabel puts it, she would

 

66The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 144.

 

 

 

178

not suit him as a wife. She is not just pretending when later, in
considering Warburton's suit to Pansy, Isabel calls him "simple"
and as such quite suitable for the simple Pansy. He isflg simple
for Isabel, and she can't miss the fact at the time he proposes to
her. Warburton's admiration for Isabel is not unlike Mr. Bantling's
appreciation of Henrietta. The girls attract them as foreign
creatures--they are unlike anything they have seen before. As a
person in her own right, Isabel somehow escapes Warburton's
grasp. In his anxiety to overcome Isabel's hesitation to accept him,
he can only suggest some objections she may have as the future mis-
tress of Lockleigh, his estate. Should she fear the climate or find
Lockleigh a damp place to live, he is ready to oblige with whatever
other choices she should make to suit herself better. In the special
kindness with which Isabel assures him that she adores his place of
residence, there is something of the attitude a grown-up takes with
a child whose feelings he tries to protect against his own ironic view
of the subject under consideration. And when Warburton expresses
fear of her "remarkable mind, " one senses in the anxious blush with
which Isabel takes this remark that Lord Warburton has definitely
lost his suit-~it is he who can see Isabel only from the outside, and
what he sees is a strange, delightful and very feminine creature for
whom he is prepared to provide as best he can. But would there be

a place in Lockleigh for unfurling that remarkable mind of hers?

179

Isabel is right; she has to reject Lord Warburton "in favor of the free
exploration of life" she has all along entertained. One might also
add that it is not an accident that some years later in Rome Lord
Warburton should be the one among Isabel's former suitors who is
the easiest for Isabel to convince that her marriage with Osmond is
indeed a happy one. In terms of two visions matched against each
other, Isabel's has all along been the more inclusive one, and as
such has discerned the incongruity between Lord Warburton's aspira-
tions and her ability to provide for them.

As I have remarked before, Isabel's rejection of Goodwood
seems to be an inexhaustible topic for critical disagreement. The
reason for this is partly the vague, undecisive attitudes Isabel suffers
when confronted with the single-minded adoration of Goodwood.
Isabel's seeming vacillations give Caspar more encouragement than
she means to and puzzle the critics as to her motives for rejecting
him. I think the puzzle can be unravelled to Isabel's advantage. The
air of indecision Isabel gives under Caspar's pressure comes largely
from her sense of justice. She appreciates his qualities objectively
but finds him incompatible as a prOSpective husband. What infuri-
ates and at times intimidates her in Goodwood's presence is her in-
ability to convey these things to him-—he is the "mover of men" and
won't take "no" for an answer. His confidently expressed conviction

that, whatever Isabel might say, she has not given him a satisfactory

180

reason for refusing his proposal shakes her out of her self-assur-
ance. What if she really underestimated him? What if the time
should come when his very impediments should appear to her to be
"a sort of blessing in disguise--a clear and quiet harbour enclosed
by a brave granite breakwater"? 67
The scenes between the two, with Caspar pressuring Isabel to
marry him and the girl trying her utmost to find a satisfying reason
for her refusal, are revealing to the reader, who can assume the
position of a disinterested observer. These scenes support Isabel's
conviction that Goodwood has an offensive air of knowing better what
is good for her than she possibly could herself. Because of his
particular attitude, Isabel tends to lose her temper and lapses from
her tactical reasoning into angry attacks; then the image of Caspar
as "the strong man in pain" appeals to her sense of charity, and she
ends up with some indecisive step which at least postpones the
danger of a renewed proposal for a year or two. From these skill-
fully worked and amusing scenes, the reader sees that in Spite of
Caspar's assurance that through marriage he would give Isabel all
the freedom she claims is necessary for her, his very presence
seems to stifle her spirit at every encounter. As matters stand,

Isabel's final rejection of Goodwood is not an unexpected action. She

 

67The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 32.3.

 

181
has really seen the incompatibility of their relationship from the
beginning. What she has lacked has been a complete conviction that
her judgment is right. The strength of her clarified or ironic vision
at the end of her story gives her this conviction. When this has
taken place, Caspar's dismissal is unavoidable.

The relationships between Isabel and Warburton, and between
Isabel and Goodwood, from their beginning to their end, justify con-
vincingly her refusal to accept the proposals of either. Her vision
reaches beyond the offers of both. She can have security and esteem
as a wife, but there is nothing in these honest, relatively simple men
that promises any further developments for her as a person. She
can see beyond them, but she cannot find herselfin them. After this
realization, the time is ripe for Osmond to appear--he seems to hold
the promise that Isabel's vision of the world "as a place of bright-
ness, of free expansion, of irresistible action" has not been just an
idle dream. It seems to be in his power to bring about the magic
transformation which neither of the other suitors promises to do. In
his talk, and more so in his silences, there seems to loom an in-
exhaustible store of information, experience and taste. The only
other man who gives Isabel a sense of a wider view of things than
her own is Cousin Ralph, but his easy going surface, or as he puts
it, his band of music in the ante-room, keeps Isabel out of his

"private apartments, " and she has no way of knowing how seriously

182

Ralph really takes the world for all "this perpetual fiddling" which
turns everything into a joke. Osmond, by comparison, seems Open
and generous in sharing his knowledge, in talking about himself, his
family, in taking note of Isabel's own opinions about everything. Yet
he never seems to have said all, and Isabel finds herself looking
forward to meeting him again for other stimulating experiences.
Moreover, there hangs about Osmond an air. of hardships endured;
thus it is easy for Isabel's imagination to supply "the human
element" to the story of his life so that his image comes off rich in
knowledge, as well as human associations.

Beyond Isabel's idealized portrait of Mr. Osmond, the reader
is permitted to see the other, much smaller one. Not only through
the Merle-Osmond scenes does the reader receive a more realistic
estimation of Osmond than the one Isabel's consciousness presents,
but he is repeatedly placed beyond the scenes taking place between
Osmond and Isabel by the implied author's comments and his ironic
tone. By the same devices he is made to understand why Isabel,
whose vision deals adequately with Goodwood and Warburton, fails
to see Osmond in the right perspective. The other two men deal
with her directly; Osmond only pretends to do so, and her experience
is not large enough to tell the difference. Osmond knows the world
and this includes the world of women. While he sincerely appreciates

some of Isabel's qualities and h0pes to correct the ones he does not

183

like, in his dealings with her he is careful to strike the tone which
he senses she would appreciate. As the implied author puts it, "He
never forgot himself" and his calculated effects "made him an admi-
rable lover. " Here is the implied author's estimate of Osmond as
the admirable lover to please Isabel (and any young romantically in-
clined girl for that matter): "He never forgot himself, as I say; and
so he never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--
which presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep in-
tentions. "68 One has only to remember Goodwood's stubbornly re-
peated, "When will you marry me? That's the only question," to see
the appeal of Osmond's practiced art in lovemaking. As opposed to
Goodwood's aggressive approach and Warburton's assurance that by
marrying him Isabel will be on the gaining side, Osmond's profes-
sions of love are humble and unpretentious:
"I'm absolutely in love with you. . . . I haven't the idea that
it will matter much to you. . . . I've too little to offer you.
What I have--it's enough for me; but it's not enough for you.
I've neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages of
any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think
it can't offend you, and some day or other it may give you
pleasure. It gives me pleasure, I assure you. . . . It gives

me no pain, because it's perfectly simple. For me you'll
always be the most important woman in the world. "69

 

68The Portrait, Vol. II, p. 79.

 

691bid., pp. 18-19.

184

He seems to expect nothing; instead, he graces Isabel as the giver,
and that is what she has longed to be. Her vanity is pleased with
this image of herself--he makes her feel she is filling it "with a
certain grace. " She is conquered before he has made any demands
of her. Finally, the vision of their future life together that Osmond
present after his acceptance rounds out her own vision of the happy
work she has hOped life has in store for her:

"We've got what we like--to say nothing of having each other.

We've the faculty of admiration and several capital convictions.

We're not stupid, we're not mean, we're not under bonds to

any kind of ignorance and dreariness. You're remarkably

fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor

child to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for

her. It's all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring"?O
What Osmond offers, then, has all the promise, and, one might add,
all the poetry to make it romantically appealing.

The portrait of Ralph, as it is first presented to the reader
through an omniscient sketch of the author which seems to merge
into Ralph's own point of view in several places, has none of the
studied charm Osmond has ready for Isabel. Even Osmond's care-
fully groomed appearance seems to be patterned after some painting
of the master; Ralph has only an "ugly, sickly, witty, charming

face" and a tall, lean, feeble figure in a casual jacket to represent

himself. With this goes his manner, which is at once unpretentious

 

70The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 81-82.

 

185
and self—deprecatory. That the independence of spirit which
Osmond proclaims to be his is really one of Ralph's admirable
qualities is hard for the inexperienced Isabel to discern. As the
reader is told, Ralph too has masked his face:

His outward conformity to the manners that surrounded him

was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed its

independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a bound-

less liberty of appreciation. 71
Isabel is impressed by qualities Osmond claims for himself or skill-
fully implies he has, and she is confused by Ralph's masks (his
cheerful band of music in the ante-room). Dupee's exclamatory
remark describing Osmond's dubious claims to independence is
indicative of Isabel's plight in trying to read Ralph and Osmond right:
"Alas, the real free spirits are not those who make a profession of

72
it!"

At the time Isabel meets Ralph, he moves on a plane she is to
occupy much later when she too has learned about the advisability of
a mask of outward conformity to the manners that surround her. His
attitudes toward the world and himself have been formed by his

personal sufferings. His ill health has made him useless for the

physical, active world. He is resigned to his situation and has even

 

71The Portrait, Vol. I, p. 49.

 

72Dupee, p. 121.

186

found his meager joys in it. His has become largely the world of
contemplation, of observation--he has his "boundless liberty of ap-
preciation. " To protect this liberty, he wears a mask of easy
urbanity. Only after Isabel has had her share of suffering and a
similar need to protect her own integrity is she capable of seeing
Ralph for what he is or of sharing the breadth of his ironic vision.
Meanwhile Ralph is not completely helpless in the education of
Isabel. He teaches through playful attacks on Isabel's provincial
views, and by the time Henrietta arrives on the scene, Isabel's views
are so much broader than her friend's that Henrietta exclaims in
dismay: "You've acted on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr.
Touchett. " Gradually Isabel relies more and more on Ralph's
judgment when she tries to make up her mind about people and ex-
periences new to her. When Ralph arrives in Florence shortly be-
fore her marriage, Isabel has grown fond of him, and the glance the
reader gets of the physically declining Ralph, filtered through
Isabel's consciousness, shows that she has come a long way toward
judging him right:
Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness had
become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association;
they struck her as the very terms on which it had been given
him to be charming. He was so charming that her sense of his
being ill had hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of
his health had seemed not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual
advantage; it absolved him from all professional and official

emotions and left him the luxury of being exclusively personal.
The personality so resulting was delightful; he had remained

187
proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to consent to
be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally
sick. . . . He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all

the illumination of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he
was distressfully dying. 73

Because she is in love with Osmond at the time when she makes this
estimate of Ralph and believes that Osmond is endowed with great
qualities, her vision has a generous latitude toward Ralph. Osmond
has been her first close experience of the sophisticated man as op-
posed to her honest but simple suitors in Warburton and Goodwood.
As such he has given her a frame of reference in judging Ralph,
another sophisticated spirit, yet seemingly much harder to know than
Osmond. Every time some pleasant discovery about Osmond's subtle
qualities delights her, she finds herself thinking that some such
quality is in Ralph too. When, however, Ralph attacks Osmond, she
sides with the brighter vision of sophistication and charm of Osmond's
creation against the one casually and ironically presented by Ralph.
On the matter of her marriage, Isabel is convinced that she has the
ironic View and Ralph the limited one: "One's cousin always pre-
tended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it was a

part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. "74 So it

happens that with her growing trust in Ralph's wisdom, Isabel fails

 

73The Portrait, Vol. II, pp. 59-60.

 

74Ibid., pp. 60-61.

188
to honor his judgment when she most needs it. Ralph, as was shown
earlier, is partly to blame for his lost footing with Isabel. Striving
to be her "apostle of freedom, " he does not want to cramp her mind
with his own opinions about people. He states his disapproval of
Merle and Osmond obliquely, believing that these subtle hints will be
enough for Isabel to arrive at the right conclusions herself.

For a large part of the book, especially of Volume I, the
reader is helped by the clarity of Ralph's vision. It is he who
assesses Henrietta, Madame Merle, and Osmond so that the reader
is placed above Isabel before she herself can match Ralph's insight.
When it comes to Isabel herself, however, Ralph, while capable of
pointing out most of the shortcomings of her views, misjudges the
validity of her great expectations from the future. As the implied

author explains, Ralph has a "reduced sketch" of himself as an

(active participant in life. But if he has "forbidden himself the riot
'1

'Of expression," he is still too young to have given up "the imagina-
tion of loving. " This imagination is stirred by the arrival of Isabel.
In respect to her intentions, he becomes almost as nearsighted as
Isabel herself where Osmond is concerned. The very phrases of her
midnight meditation about her own infatuation with Osmond could be
applied to Ralph's glorified view of Isabel: a certain combination of

features (her enthusiasms, her sense of purpose) appeals to him and

in them he sees the most striking figures. Isabel, in short, proves

189

to be the one limitation of Ralph's vision. The reader now needs
Mr. Touchett Pere to throw an amused glance at Isabel's girlish
chatter about things read in books for which she expects copies to be
found in life. With the practical wisdom of a long, active life, Mr.
Touchett detects the incongruities between life as actively lived and
Isabel's bookish, romantic theories about it. Consequently, his
simple, direct question to Ralph when the latter wants to share his
money with Isabel "to facilitate the execution of [her] good impulses"
convinces the reader at a stroke that Ralph's vision for once has
fallen short. In Mr. Touchett's thoughtful remark, "Isabel's a
sweet young thing; but do you think she's so good as that?" there is
benevolence but there are no optimistic expectations. His is the
voice of scepticism brought about by a long intimate relationship
with life itself.

Once Ralph has taken active part in the fate of Isabel by giving
her the power of money, he has triggered a course of events which
puts both giver and receiver in multiple ironic relationships. Her
"apostle of freedom" indirectly promotes Isabel's eagerness to rush
into a life which promises no freedom at all. By wanting to give
Isabel the chance to meet the requirements of her imagination, Ralph
had hoped to meet the requirements of his own imagination as well:
he had wanted to satisfy his imagination of loving by vicariously

enjoying the splendor of Isabel's active, freely planned life. She has

190

gone forth in "ardentgood faith" as he believed she should, but she
has placed her faith in the wrong hands, and so, in a way, has
Ralph. On the other hand, if both have made generous mistakes,
both suffer for their choices but are also purged through their
suffering. Ralph's vision receives the needed touch of correction,
and Isabel finally sees the whole of Ralph, and what she sees looms
much larger than her formerly admired picture of Osmond. At last
they are "looking at the truth together"--they see their curious
mistake, their frustration and their love. Through this they have
shared an experience large enough for Isabel to find herself. When
the dying Ralph assures her that she won't lose him ever, he is
right--at the end of the story she is what Ralph has been.

The relationships between Isabel and the other women, and
between Isabel and her male admirers become inseparable parts of
the ironic fabric of her story. They highlight the tragic irony of
the work and mark the stages of her growth. The most important
of these relationships are those with Madame Merle, Osmond and
Ralph. Because of them, Isabel's fate achieves tragic dimensions.
Madame Merle and Osmond account for her darkest hours; the final
scene with Ralph suggests the final purgation which brings about
Isabel's new innocence, freedom and integrity similar to the

qualities Oedipus seeks at the end of his life at Colonos. Her story

191
is not "simply about marriage"75 but becomes a tale of universal
importance as the noble Spirit's quest for identity and for spiritual
satisfaction. It is mainly through Isabel's relationship with Ralph
that the universality of the theme is brought out. There is no
question that Isabel either should have or could have married Ralph;
he is, nevertheless, the most important man in the work to teach her
about life and the importance of love. Because of the stress on the
Isabel-Ralph relationship, her involvements with the other male
characters, in final estimation, seem to outgrow their mere sexual
reference and serve as vehicles for a larger purpose. Her ironic
story is large enough to be called tragic. It is not small enough to be
called ironic melodrama as Mackenzie (23.519 ) would have it. True,
James' ironic tone delights in attacks on Isabel's romantic imaginings,
and there are plenty of splendid examples in the book to prove it. But
one has only to arrive at chapter XLII of Vol. II, the high point of
Isabel's "passion" and the beginning of her "perception," to discover
that the author has drOpped his ironic tone completely and now grants
his heroine the full stature of a tragic figure. From then on he main-

tains this attitude and saves most of his ironic attacks for Madame

 

75Stephen Reid in "Moral Passion in The Portrait of a Lady and
The Spoils of Poynton, " Modern Fiction Studies (Spring 1966), p. 27. ,
maintains that "the story is simply about marriage. " As one would
suspect, after this simplistic evaluation the psychological investiga-
tion of Isabel's sexual inadequacies follows.

 

 

 

192

Merle and Osmond instead. In terms of literary genres, The

Portrait of a Lady comes close to being a tragedy because of the

 

glimpse it provides of an ideal world for which Isabel fruitlessly
strives. Thus there is some "contact with a relatively timeless
world" as in a tragedy. On the other hand, because the final view
the reader obtains of Isabel still suggests a scene of bondage and
frustration, her story has an equal share in Frye's mythos of irony.
As a final note on the application of James' ironic methods in

The Portrait, I would like to say that from Longmore as the center of

 

intelligence in "Madame de Mauves" to Isabel, the author has come a
long way. Even if the story is not told exclusively through Isabel's
consciousness, as I have pointed out, she virtually becomes the
central reflector. Her role in this respect, when compared to
Longmore's, shows greater sophistication of the artist's craft because
of the complexity and variety of the relationships in which the author
places her in order to show the growth of her consciousness. It is
only to be regretted that James has wasted much of Volume I of '_1_"_1_1§_
Portrait in leisurely omniscience, including direct addresses to the
reader, as if he had not yet quite trusted his newly discovered ironic
method. When Isabel and her "satellites" are allowed to take over
Volume II, one can't help noticing the difference. While every word
of Volume II advances the theme of the work and creates intensity

in projecting it, Volume I seems to have more words than matter even

193
if the experience of reading them is pleasant. In light of the thematic
weight and the overall technical skill, this, however, proves to be a
rather minor fault. In my estimation, The Portrait of the Lady

remains to this day one of the great novels in the English language.

CHAPTERIH

"The Aspern Papers"
Irony and the Artist
In "The Aspern Papers" James employs a first person narrator

to tell his own story. The story teller, an unnamed critic and biog-
rapher, arrives in Venice in pursuit of some as yet unearthed cor-
respondence between the late poet Aspern and his one-time mistress,
Juliana Bordereau. Once a great beauty and source of inspiration for
the best of Aspern's love poetry, Juliana spends the last days of her
long life in the seclusion of her dilapidated Venetian palace and in the
sole company of her middle-aged niece, Tina. Since the old lady has
refused all previous requests for public access to her previous
letters, the narrator decides on a course of diplomacy. He seeks to
rent some rooms in Juliana's spacious palace on the pretext that her
seedy garden (gardens being rare in Venice) will provide, once
cultivated again, the necessary inspiration for his Italian summer of
literary work; for, as he insists, he can't live without flowers. Upon
his willingness to pay a rent of one thousand francs per month in gold,
the narrator is admitted as a lodger in the Bordereau palace. To the
great delight of Tina, the gardener he hires succeeds in shaping up

the garden and in producing an abundance of roses and other flowers.

194

195
Through his floral tributes and other attentions to the simple Tina,
the ambitious biographer hopes to gain her loyal aid in securing from
Juliana the coveted Aspern papers.

The narrator of "The Aspern Papers" reveals his story in two
narrative voices. As the above sketch of his quest implies, the
reader sees him now as a man of professional dedication to the arts,
now as a man practising hypocrisy and duplicity in the name of his
dedication. Here is then the ambiguous or, as Wayne Booth (22. £1.11)
would have it, unreliable first person narrator of James whose split
personality makes considerable demands on the reader's intelligence.
In his private moments he either contemplates his next strategic
move against the Misses Bordereau or muses on matters of art, on
the greatness of Aspern's poetry, or on the beauty of Venice. In his
social encounters with the Bordereau ladies, he assumes the posture
of the conscientious flatterer. Confident in his intellectual superior-
ity where women are concerned, he sees Tina as easy game for his
own ends and blithely overlooks the possibility that the obviously
shrewd Juliana might after all prove to be his equal in matching wits.
It is this second narrative voice, the voice of "the man of light char-
acter who manipulates others so cleverly that he 'destroys' himself,"1

which Booth in his analysis of "The Aspern Papers" finds

 

1Booth, p. 356.

196

unreconcilable with the aesthetic presumptions of the same man.

The voice of the "publishing scoundrel" (as Juliana calls him)
belongs to an unscrupulous man, thus to "an agent of a particularly
insensitive kind, " Booth maintains. When this same agent under-
takes to praise praiseworthy things with a sensitivity worthy of
James himself, Booth finds it difficult to accept that a morally in-
sensitive man can at the same time be capable of such sensitivity.
He concedes (without much conviction) that we might "imagine a
reader so flexible and so thoroughly attuned to James' own values
that he could shift nimbly from stance to stance, allowing the nar-
rator to shift his character from moment to moment. "2 As for him-
self, Booth admits he is unable to make such shifts. Moreover, in
Booth's view, through the first person narrative the reader is con-
fined to the drama of the narrator's own scheming; therefore, he
cannot always be sure when the man is giving us straight facts and
when only his subjective interpretation of them. In this Booth sees
the emergence of a third narrative voice—-between the two psycho-
logically unreconcilable narrative voices, he feels, lie these un-
certain Spots or "pas sages of mumbling. " While admitting that
there are many good things in "The Aspern Papers, " Booth obviously

does not see James' handling of the narrative voice as one of them.

 

2Booth, p. 363.

197

At the risk of falling among the Jamesian enthusiasts who,
according to Booth, "idolize him for his subtle ambiguities, " I am
willing to count James' selection of a first person narrator as one of
the distinguished features of "The Aspern Papers. " I feel there is a
major weakness in Booth's reading of the story, namely, his insist-
ence on reading it "with the head only and not the sensibility. "3
Under "sensibility" I would list the critic's intuitive capacity and his
emotional cormnitment to the work, both required for a full apprecia-
tion of a story like "The Aspern Papers. " In other words, "The
Aspern Papers" needs to be approached as a poem, for it is largely
just that. As John Lehmann noticed more than a decade ago, " 'The
Aspern Papers' is a new invention, a sonnet of the novel"; it is "the
translation into terms of prose and plot of a poetic apprehension. "4
I would go a step further and declare that "The Aspern Papers" reads
very much like a special kind of poem, the dramatic monologue. In-
deed, I have found the best entrance into the story through Robert

Langbaum's brilliant treatment of the dramatic monologue in his

The Poetry of Experience.

 

 

3A phrase borrowed from Langbaum's "The Dramatic
Monologue: Sympathy versus Judgment" (22. cit. ).

4"A Question of Covering One's Tracks," in The ORen Night
(London, 1952), p. 53.

 

198

In the first place, as in a dramatic monologue, the reader's
entry into "The Aspern Papers" takes place through the speaker's
point of view. The speaker of a dramatic monologue, as Langbaum
maintains, does not see himself from a general perspective as would
a self-analyzing soliloquist who is trying to find the right point of
view. Instead, he starts with an established point of view which is
determined by some strong preoccupation he entertains and which he
uses as his own standard of judgment to the exclusion of the accepted
moral standard of the world around him. His point of View is thus
a limited one and is likely to involve distortions of the physical and
moral truth as objectively seen. The narrator of"The Aspern Papers"
treats the reader to his story exactly through such a limited point of
view, determined by his preoccupation with the Aspern papers. His
ability to see himself objectively or from a general perspective is
limited to a few flashes of sudden illumination which he insists on
rationalizing away. As Langbaum points out, "most successful

dramatic monologues deal with speakers who are in some way repre-

hensible. H5 Again, the "publishing scoundrel" of "The Aspern
Papers" can be placed among such reprehensible narrators. His
character is, in a way, a combination of villain and aesthete, the

kind of character which has, as Langbaum notes, provided an

 

5Langbaum, p. 85.

199

excellent vehicle for several dramatic monologues of Browning.
These Speakers have presented the reader with equally "impossible"
personalities (the combination of villain and aesthete) and have even
been praised for it. It might be argued (the Duke of Browning's
"My Last Duchess" is a case in point) that the peculiar tension be-
tween the two sides of their characters as revealed by the speakers
in the course of their stories has proved to be one of the lasting
delights of the monologue form. There is, then, a well established
line of Speakers in the tradition of the dramatic monologue who can
stand witness to the simultaneous presence of seemingly antithetical
character traits in the same individual, traits which are revealed to
the reader without the explicit aid of an omniscient narrator.

The matter seems to come down to the reader's willingness
to be charmed by the speaker's address. He can be so charmed if
he submits to the lyrical intensity of the speaker's voice as it
caresses the object of its attention to the exclusion of all other con-
cerns, at times rising to the pitch of an incantation. Under the spell,
the reader suspends, at least partially, his moral judgment in favor
of sympathetic understanding of the character of the speaker; he is
fascinated with the very contradictions of the man, because the force
of the Speaking voice has convinced him of their co-existence in the

same character. What Langbaum says of the reader's response to

200
Browning‘s Duke is largely true of our reaction to the narrator of
"The Aspern Papers":
The utter outrageousness of the duke's behaviour makes
condemnation the least interesting response, certainly not the
response that can account for the poem's success. What
interests us more than the duke's wickedness is his immense
attractiveness. His conviction of matchless superiority, his
intelligence and bland amorality, his poise, his taste for art,
his manners. . . . We suspend moral judgment because we
prefer to participate in the duke's power and freedom, in his
hard core of character fiercely loyal to itself. Moral judgment
is in fact important as the thing to be suspended, as a measure
of the price we pay for the privilege of appreciating to the full
this extraordinary man.
The narrator of "The Aspern Papers" is not, in my estimation, quite
the same "unmitigated villain" as the Duke (in several readings by
other scholars he becomes one); but, like the Duke, he is attractive
and poised, convinced of the superiority of his intelligence and of his
taste in art, and above all he too is "fiercely loyal" to his particular
monomania--the Aspern papers. The reader suspends his judgment
for the privilege of partaking in his quest, or in Langbaum's words,
in order "to see what it feels like to believe that way, without having
finally to agree. "
Having understood the narrator through a sympathetic entry
into his point of View, the reader, as Langbaum reminds us, remains

aware of the moral judgment he has suspended for the sake of under-

standing. Because the form of the dramatic monologue allows for

 

6Langbaum, p. 83.

201

the reader this combination of sympathy and judgment, he is not
really at a complete loss in discerning when the narrator is giving
him straight facts and when he is giving only his subjective interpre-
tation of them. What Langbaum says of the Duke can in this respect
again be transferred to James' treatment of the narrator of "The
Aspern Papers": the Duke, while preoccupied with his own standard
of judgment and oblivious of the world's, does not conceal the good—
ness of his late Duchess; James' narrator too lets the essential
qualities of the Misses Bordereau slip through his utterances while
he is directing his attention at deceiving them in the name of his love
for Aspern's poetry. This factual accuracy of the narrator's utter-
ances has been carefully noticed in Walter Wright's chapter on "The

Aspern Papers" in his The Madness of Art:

 

What the man [narrator] says is at all times factually accurate;
apart from moral considerations his inferences are, likewise,
to be accepted, and even his occasional self-rebukes are in
convincing language. The irony, however, comes in the fact
that, though he accurately describes his evil conduct, he
manages always to rationalize it and plunge still deeper, till
finally he has reached a depth which he cannot describe because
he has at last lost awareness of how far he has descended. 7

As Wright sees it, the narrator of "The Aspern Papers" might be
confused himself, but he is not confusing his reader to the same

degree. Furthermore, as the above statement implies, the first

 

7(Lincoln, Nebraska, 1962), p. 103.

202

person narrator of the story becomes the vehicle for the ironic form
and content of the work. Some of the ironic tension in the story is
created through the reader's ability to see beyond the willful self-
deceptions of the narrator regarding his motives as well as his Skill
of diplomacy in securing the papers. For the rest of the ironic
impact of "The Aspern Papers, " let me once more quote Langbaum
on the dramatic monologue:

It can be said of the dramatic monologue generally that there

is at work in it a consciousness, whether intellectual or

historical, beyond what the speaker can lay claim to. This

consciousness is the mark of the poet's projection into the

poem; and it is also the pole which attracts our projection,

since we find in it the counterpart of our own consciousness.
Applying this conclusion to "The Aspern Papers, " I want to stress
that the sense of irony in the story comes largely through the reader's
constant awareness of a distance between the narrator and his con—
cerns and a larger perspective which opens up above the narrator's
view and which the reader, while he maintains a sympathetic relation-
ship with the speaker, can also Share. This is the implied author's
almost imperceptible intrusion which subtly manipulates the entire
presentation so that the Juliana or the Tina whom the narrator
describes and the ones the reader sees are never quite the same char-

acters. In "The Aspern Papers, " then, James' ironic technique un-

dergoes a reversal from that in The Portrait of a Lady. There we

 

 

8Langbaum, p. 94.

203
had a host of lesser stars to show up the brightness of Isabel. Here
the sparsely arranged figures are placed in the narrator's memory
and undergo a transformation as he talks about them; or, putting it
another way, the chief reflector's satellites give out a light much
different from what he thinks he illuminates them with.

Turning now to the story itself, one sees that in the very first
chapter James secures this double perspective for the reader con-
cerning the narrator himself. (Because I find the namelessness of
the speaker an inconvenience, I shall call him, for discussion
purposes, Mr. X.) As the story Opens, the reader is placed above
the narrator through his remembered confidences to Mrs. Prest, a
friend who Shows interest in his plan to secure the Aspern Papers.
It is Mrs. Prest who suggests that he take lodgings with the Misses
Bordereau on the supposition "that the way to become an acquaint-
ance is first to become an intimate. " Mr. X is pleasantly surprised
that Mrs. Prest, being a woman, should "throw off a bold concep-
tion" such as that, since in his view, "It is not supposed easy for
women to rise to the large free view of anything . . . to be done. . ."
In the narrator's surprise the reader senses his rather low opinion
of female intelligence. Again, in his musings about the antique
relationship between Aspern and Juliana, Mr. X at one point defends

the poet against the charge of having mistreated her. In the narrator's

opinion, half the women of Aspern's time "had flung themselves at

204

his head, " had been unreasonable and unbearable and had been
treated more kindly than Mr. X himself, in similar circumstances,
would have deigned to treat them. Unconsciously the narrator has
revealed his arrogance concerning his mental abilities as well as
the general worth of women and has prepared the reader for the
eventual failure of his plan in the face of Juliana's cunning, the full
extent of which Mr. X will not see in time. Similarly, one can
predict the narrator's mistreatment of Tina, whose finer qualities
escape his superficial view of women.

With Mrs. Prest's help the reader can also fathom the immen-
sity of the narrator's absorption with the Aspern papers. She calls
it "a fine case of monomania" and adds, "One would think you ex-
pected from it the answer to the riddle of the universe. " Mr. X
feels challenged to defend himself but only succeeds in justifying the
charge:

. I denied the impeachment only by replying that if I had to
choose between that previous solution and a bundle of Jeffrey
Aspern's letters I knew indeed which would appear to me the
greater boon. She pretended to make light of his genius and I
took no pains to defend him. One doesn't defend one's god:
One's god is in himself a defence. 9

As the speaker goes on, the intensity of his devotion to Aspern is

revealed: with the rising pitch of the Speaking voice, Aspern turns

 

9ttThe Aspern Papers," The Novels and Tales of Henry James,
Vol. XII, p. 5.

 

205

from a greatly admired poet into a god. While perhaps a bit
appalled with the zest of the narrator's adulations, at once self-
righteous and bordering on the pathological, the reader is also
attracted by its force. Because of this attraction, he can make the
necessary transfer to the next outburst of admiration in which Mr. X
convinces him that his devotion is closely related to the true worth
of the poet of which he is passionately aware:

Besides, to-day, after his long comparative obscuration, he

I: Aspern] hangs high in the heaven of our literature for all the

world to see; he's a part of the light by which we walk. 10
Thus the two irreconcilable sides of the narrator fuse into one
plausible, however ambiguous, character as soon as one makes the
required emotional commitment to his narrative voice. The full man
who hereby emerges is capable of both aesthetic sensitivity and an
egotistic conviction that any means he might choose in reaching his
goal would justify his ends. The reader is charmed into a readiness
to partake in the narrator's strange quest, a quest in which, as the
man himself admits, hypocrisy and duplicity will be his chosen
means.

By the time Mr. X enters Juliana's palace for the first time,

he has outlined his plan of attack and thouglt even of such details as

securing a false name on his visiting cards in case the Bordereau

 

10"The Aspern Papers: P 5-

206

women should have heard of his real name from some biOgraphical
material of Aspern. He is certain "there's no baseness he wouldn't
commit for Jeffrey Aspern's sake." AS he jokingly tells Mrs. Prest,
he would even make love to Miss Tina if there were no other way of
getting around Juliana. The narrator's strategies to secure some
profitable intercourse with the Misses Bordereau provide the frame
for his quest, and, consequently, for the whole story. Above the
three human figures hovers the spirit of the great Aspern, whom the
narrator and Juliana both have pronounced to be their God. Mr. X
invokes his assistance and sees him now smiling approvingly, now
mockingly, depending upon the changing fortunes of his battle.
Through his private communion with the venerable ghost and through
Juliana's cunning defence of the latter's memory, Aspern in way be-
comes the fourth character involved in the struggle about his memo-
rabilia. The reader at once partakes in the narrator's dealings with
the Misses Bordereau and with the invisible presence of Aspern
while he also shares some wider consciousness which places him
above the scene. In other words, while sharing the narrator's quest,
the reader manages to pursue his own goal from which the narrator
is largely excluded but in the light of which he is judged at the

simultaneous end of both quests.

207

To explore the narrator's involvement with the other charac-
ters, I Shall turn first to his confrontations with Juliana as being the
ones the narrator himself finds from the very beginning to be the
most frustrating. When Miss Bordereau grants her first interview
to Mr. X, she has learned from her niece about the man's eagerness
to become a lodger in her house. Thus she has been provided with
some clue by which to test his intentions. From the way the inter-
view unfolds, the reader sees that She is indeed testing him. After
the first excitement the narrator experiences at the presence of
"the Juliana of some of Aspern's most exquisite and most renowned
lyrics, " he is taken aback by the weird feeling that he is facing a
terrible relic instead. It is an apparition "too strange, too literally
resurgent" from the past for a human contact. The next moment he
realizes that he is not actually facing the old woman but a green shade
which covers the upper part of her face. It is as if the old lady,
while seemingly protecting her eyes, were really wearing a mask to
protect herself against the stranger's intrusion and to make her own
calculations about him. At the same time her strange mask, sur-
rounded by a black lace which completely covers her hair, suggests
to her visitor "some ghastly death's-head lurking behind it. " The
divine Juliana becomes for an instant for Mr. X the vision of a
grinning Skull. Therrfioment he pushes this nightmarish phantom out

of his mind for what he thinks is the quite promising reality behind it;

208

namely, that the lady is tremendously old, that She will die shortly,
and that he then can "pounce on her possessions and ransack her
drawers. "

Up to this point, the reader has been sharing the narrator's
experience; first, his anticipation of the grand event, then his
momentary terror, both presented with the force of first-hand ex-
citement. Now, while Mr. X is indulging in his seemingly rosy
prospects, the reader hangs back for another look at Juliana's mask.
The double meaning of her covered face touches the narrator's con-
sciousness lightly; it impresses the reader as being forebodingly
significant of the man's fruitless quest. Juliana behind her green
gambler's shade will seek to win her own game from the intruder;
as a symbol of that past the narrator dreams of uncovering, she will
prove to be "a terrible relic, " a death's-head to block any living
entrance to the dead past.

Confident in his forthcoming victory, Mr. X undertakes cheer-
fully to deal with the living gambler confronting him. He finds out
soon enough that the very small and shrunken presence of Aspern's
Juliana hides an alert mind. The intruder is submitted to a cross-
examination liable to put even a quicker intelligence than his under
a strain:

[ Juliana: ]"If you're so fond of a garden why don't you go

to terra firma, where there are so many far
better than this? "

 

209

[Mr. X:] "Oh it's the combination!" I answered, smiling;
and then with rather a flight of fancy: "It's the
idea of a garden in the middle of the sea. "

[Julianaz] "This isn't the middle of the sea; you can't so much
as see the water. "

[ML le I stared a moment, wondering if she wished to

convict me of fraud. "Can't see the water? Why,
dear madam, I can come up to the very gate in my
boat. "11

Finally, the narrator thinks he has gained the old lady's confidence,
because she seems to lose interest in questioning him and switches
her attention to the advantage of a gondole, a luxury she cannot
afford. He jumps at the chance to offer her the services of his boat
once her lodger. Conscious of the extravagance of his offer, Mr. X
worries about having appeared too eager and is once more annoyed
by the green Shade which seems to give Juliana "a fuller vision of
him than he has of her. " At the end of the interview, the reader, if
not the narrator, is convinced that this is the situation. It is as if
Juliana behind her green shade has been forcing her guest into
making more and more extravagant commitments and now needs
only one more to justify her suspicions. She presently gets it with
her sudden announcement: " 'You may have as many rooms as you
like--if you'll pay me a good deal of money. ' " A good deal of
money proves to be a thousand francs a month, delivered in gold for

three summer months in advance. While the reader marks the

 

11"The Aspern Papers," p. 26.

210

narrator's quick decision to pay the outrageous rent with a smiling
face in hope of getting his "Spoils" for nothing and sees that his
strange dedication to Aspern would not have Mr. X chaffer with the
great poet's Juliana, he also sees that the man has fallen into her
trap. Next to replenishing the meager funds of Tina, she has gained
the knowledge that the narrator has more at stake than the wish to
cultivate her garden--the price he is willing to pay for this privilege
is too big to be convincing. Juliana has also seen that she can out-
smart her prospective lodger, who, being preoccupied with his own
concerns, overplays his part and undervalues his opponent's ability
to see through him. Her conviction is pronounced at the end of the
interview when the narrator inquires whether she Should not be afraid
of keeping the large sum of gold in her house: " 'Whom Should I be
afraid of if I'm not afraid of you? ' "

Thus Juliana has won the first round with her predator. The
gentleman himself, of course, thinks he is the winner and overlooks
the skeptical reaction of Mrs. Prest, " 'They‘ll lead you on to your
ruin . . . . They'll get all your money without Showing you a
scrap. ' " And there are other implications contained in the first
scene with Juliana and reported while not fully understood by the
narrator. As one sees, during the process of bargaining, Miss
Bordereau turn 5 for Mr. X from the divine Juliana, who at first

gives him a sense of nearness to the great poet himself, into a

 

II II I it‘ll

211

hardened bargainer; so much so that he ends by being irritated with
her great stress on "the pecuniary question." At some point during
the interview he has managed to observe, however, the "agreeable,
cultivated murmur" in the old lady's voice as a remnant of some
"individual note" once reserved for Aspern's ear. He also marks
the traces of her once delicate features and of a wonderful complation
in the lower, uncovered part of her bleached and shrivelled face.
This is still Aspern's Juliana, but it is also the Juliana he cannot
reach, for it is really the gambler he has invoked to deal with. At
his dismissal, the narrator feels an urge to bridge the gap, "to hold
in [his] own for a moment the hand Jeffrey Aspern had pressed. "
With her cold reply, " 'I belong to a time when that was not the
custom, ' " Juliana signals his exclusion from the more sacred side
of her existence or from the past he has come to violate.

A second confrontation between the two combatants takes place
some eight weeks later and is brought about by one of the strategic
moves of the narrator. He has had a chance meeting with Tina in
the garden after some six weeks of watching for just such an occur-
ence. Not to waste more precious time, he has tricked Tina into
admitting that her aunt had known Aspern and has pronounced his
interest in the Aspern papers. Although Miss Tina has been pleased
with the flowers Mr. X has daily sent to the Misses Bordereau and

has enjoyed his friendly chat in the garden, the news frightens her

212

and she disappears from the narrator's sight for another two weeks.
To force some kind of reaction from the quarters of the ladies,
Mr. X tells his gardener to stop the "floral tributes." Juliana
responds to the pressure and sends for her lodger to thank him for
the flowers (now, when they have stopped coming, as the narrator
notes).

Again there is no handshake at this meeting, and the narrator
observes that by now it has been "sufficiently enjoined on him that
She was too sacred for trivial modernisms--too venerable to touch. "
It is obvious that he does not grasp the full meaning of his observation
because he has come in the hope of an opening that would somehow
provide him with an entrance into the forbidden territory. The
following interview baffles and frustrates him greatly, and only the
reader is provided with some clues as to Juliana's intentions. What
unfolds before the reader is the spectacle of Juliana as the represent-
ative of the venerable past launching an offensive against the intruding
present and on the same cunning terms she has seen the represent-
ative of the present employ. There is this difference though: if
Mr. X employs flattery as his main weapon, Juliana resorts to
mockery and sarcasm. This device becomes her tool in pointing up
the differences between what in her View has been the higher tone of
her days and the shabbiness of the spirit of the present, symbolized

for her by the morally ambiguous actions of the narrator. Her

213
proceedings endow the scene with a heightened sense of irony: on
the one hand, she seems to be encouraging the narrator's visits,
especially with Tina, and thus giving him hope for eventual success
with his plans; on the other hand, her sarcastic treatment of him
once more emphasizes for the reader's benefit her determination to
frustrate those plans.

Before anything is said, the old lady's formidable posture
behind her green Shade convinces the narrator that she has guessed
his secret and that She might "at a pinch" burn her incomparable
treasure. He braces himself for some immediate unpredictable
reaction Juliana might Show because of this knowledge. The reader
Shares his suspense but also suspects the bafflement in store for
him. The interview begins with the visitor's formal inquiry after
the lady’s health. She replies that it is good enough, that just being
alive is a great thing. Mr. X tries to give a light turn to the con-
versation by suggesting that the value of being alive depends on what
one compares it with. Juliana's reply to this remark startles him
by its suggestiveness: " 'I don't compare-—I don't compare. If I did
that I should have given everything up long ago. ' " Unable to see
what exactly Juliana means, the narrator nevertheless suspects that
She might be thinking of other times and other visitors, such as
Aspern, for which there is no comparison in what ever the present

offers. Miss Bordereau's remark together with Mr. X's

214
interpretation of it sets the tone of the interview, since the content

of it points constantly to the untouchability of the past by any con-
temporary measures.

Presently Miss Bordereau turns to the subject of her sum-
mons-—her gratitude for the beautiful flowers. The narrator rejoices
in the success of his cunning move--stoppage of his floral tributes
has brought out Juliana. He promises to renew the delivery soon and
is met with the old lady's advice to do just that unless he wants to
make a bower of his own room or to sell the surplus flowers. She is
obviously making fun of the "flowery disguise" of his hidden purpose
as well as of the mercenary direction the hOped for execution of it
has taken. In her accompanying laugh Mr. X hears the "faint 'walk-
ing' ghosts of her old-time tone" cutting a caper but is more affected
by the incongruity between his preconceived idea of the divine Juliana
and what he takes to be her great interest in "pecuniary profit." The
attack on his own position in the lady's talk escapes him. Mean-
while, the youthful side of Juliana's spirit is ready for another

"caper." She declines Mr. X's invitation to visit the garden herself
but suggests that the arbor he has arranged there (the odd thing in
the corner, as she calls it slightingly) would do very well for Miss
Tina to sit in. As for herself, Juliana remarks that she has had
enough arbors in her time. In her voice the narrator detects again
an echo of the boldness "of her adventurous youth . . . which has

somehow automatically outlived passions and faculties. " At this

215
point the reader remembers the actual meeting between Tina and the
narrator in his arbor, and the man's private observation that there
is no romance in their meeting, that Tina is not a poet's mistress any
more than he himself is a poet. It is obvious that Juliana's sarcastic
suggestion is meant to press the same point: his inferior arbor is
only good enough for the likes of the simple Tina whereas she herself
as the £1113 mistress of a poet could not possibly grace an inferior
man with her presence. This implication of her remark is made
explicit shortly when she advises Mr. X not to pay her a compliment:
" 'Don't try that; you won't do as well as they [the poets of a hundred
years ago :1 1'"

Her next move brings the whole scene into focus. She switches
to the narrator's previous offer of his gondola and asks him to give
Miss Tina a ride in it. At the timid protestations of Tina, Juliana
becomes, in the narrator's view, "a sarcastic profane cynical woman"
when she tells her niece:

". . . at your age--I don't mean because you're so young--

you ought to take the chances that come. You're old enough,
my dear, and this gentleman won't hurt you. He'll Show you
the famous sunsets, if they still go on- :93 they go on? The
sun set for me so long ago. But that's not a reason. Besides,
I shall never miss you; you think you're too important. Take
her to the Piazza; it used to be very pretty. "12

 

12"The Aspern Papers," p. 73.

216

Between the old lady's apparent agitation and Miss Tina's conster-
nation, Mr. X tries to arrange the gondola ride with Tina and another
interview with Juliana. Miss Bordereau first inquires bluntly
whether seeing her is very necessary to his happiness, then tells him
that such interviews kill her. Finally, having expressed a strong
opinion about the poor manners of the society of the day and having
upbraided the man once more concerning his presumptions to attempt
compliments with one so Spoiled with them as herself, Juliana gives
him leave to knock at her door sometimes, then leaves the room in

a huff.

What is clarified by all this to the reader goes beyond the
narrator's observation that Juliana is letting herself go as "a sarcas-
tic profane cynical woman. " While not appearing very civil to the
modest Tina, she is after all trying to secure her a gentleman's
company, and as it is here implied and later on justified--with the
purpose to present her niece to Mr. X as a 9111i: Her manner
seems somewhat inhuman to the narrator, because, while attempt—
ing a benevolent act for Tina's sake, she cannot resist reminding

the intruding stranger of the differences between her romantic past

and his Shabby pretences of understanding it. Moreover, for her

amusement she turns the whole scene into a mock-courtship between
the narrator and Tina: the aging Tina and the stranger may form a

couple, but it would be a far cry from a romance such as Juliana's

217
and Aspern's.13 Finally, she has also tried to entertain her lodger
(even if it kills her spirits) in order to keep up his hOpes of getting
at her papers and to provide a lucrative source of income for Tina's
future at the same time. While all this is going on, there flickers
through the scene, however, an "echo" of the divine Juliana of
Aspern's poetry. As an echo it tells of boldness, evenimpertinence,
qualities which in their youthful form might have manifested them-
selves as the high spirits and wit of youth Aspern had found charming.
For the narrator the faint echo of these qualities is pushed aside by
the image of the sarcastic old woman, an image he himself has
greatly been responsible for invoking.

His bafflement and irritation notwithstanding, the narrator is
pleased with the interview. He has come away with promises of
Tina's and even of Juliana's company, and feels he has only to wait
now to see his plan fulfilled. He has learned from Tina about the
major intent of the interview; as Tina sees it, her aunt has made a
concession to see him, because Juliana thinks it will make a differ-
ence with her lodger to see her once in a while--he will stay on for

this privilege and Tina "shall have more money . " He has labored

 

l3See Laurence Bedwell Holland's article on "The Aspern
Papers" in his The Expense of Vision (Princeton, New Jersey, 1964).
Holland sees the whole story take its form and meaning from the
implied re-enactrnent of the ancient love story of Aspern and Juliana
as it is ineffectually and in a way of a parody carried out by the
narrator and Miss Tina.

 

218

to impress upon Tina's consciousness that his reasons for staying go
beyond the pleasure of seeing Juliana and thinks he has succeeded in
persuading Tina to lend him some help. She will at least, he thinks,
report to him on the state of the papers--does Juliana still have
them and where? He overlooks Tina's warning that everyone can be
managed by her aunt, and even if by now he has admitted to himself
that in Juliana he has met with an unprecedented cunning in the female
sex, he is still confident of his ability to outwit her, provided he has
the niece's help. The weeks pass, however, and there is no Sign of
Tina. AS his anxiety mounts, the narrator decides to see for him-
self how matters stand and is granted another interview with Juliana.
"Have you come to tell me you'll take the rooms for six months
more? " is Juliana's greeting as the narrator enters her great sala.
He is once more irritated by' the false note her money hunger lends
to his image of the woman who had inspired a great poet, but this
time he realizes that he himself has kindled "the unholy flame, " has
given her the idea that she has the means of making money. Never-
theless, the lady's phrase has given Mr. X some kind of opening for
a talk, and he hastens to take hold of it by complaining about the
exorbitant rent. Juliana seems willing to bargain. She first offers
him more rooms for the same price, then suddenly investigates
whether he does not make enough money on his books. The question

of books brings them to the subject of his writing. The narrator has

219
become impatient with not making headway with his plan, is con-
vinced that she has guessed what he is after, and decides through
the tOpic of book-writing to pressure Juliana by indirection to do
more for him than just giving more rooms or personal appearances.
Asked what kind of people he writes about and what he says about
them, Mr. X says rather pointedly that his subjects are philosophers
and poets of the past and that he says of them that they "sometimes
attached themselves to very clever women." In this disguised way,
they are really talking about their respective positions concerning
the Aspern papers. Juliana feels one Should not rake up the past; it
is only lies the biographers usually discover, because only God and
not the man who digs into the past can judge the lies from the truths.
The narrator maintains that with all this uncertainty about such
things one has to keep on exploring; otherwise many a fine thing
would be lost to people forever, and the work of the great poets
would have nothing "to measure it by. " With a whimsical phrase,
"You talk as if you were a tailor," Miss Bordereau terminates the
subject. The reader anxiously waits with the narrator to see what
Juliana will do next, but he also attempts some evaluation of what
he has just heard. Now and again throughout the story, Mr. X has
asserted his right to get control of the Aspern Papers. The papers
are of "immeasurable importance as a contribution to Jeffrey

Aspern's history, " he explains to Miss Tina at one time. All he is

220

doing is meant to be of service to the public. Juliana, however,
questions the purity and the factual worth of his endeavor; all he may
succeed in doing might be to give a new suit to the man, an ill-fitting
one at that. Thus she stresses the moral ambiguity of his quest.

Juliana resumes her bargaining and implies that She intends to
treat her lodger better since he seems to have a complaint. For once
the narrator loses assurance that he knows where he stands with her.
After a moment of apparent irritation with his unwillingness to
promise her another six-months stay at her house, she produces a
miniature of Jeffrey Aspern as another lure for her lodger. She says
She wants to sell it and asks his estimate of a possible price. With
all his excitement, Mr. X pretends he does not know the man, surely
some important poet, but would buy the picture if he could afford the
price. Juliana expresses her surprise that he should want a picture
of a man he does not even know, takes back the portrait saying that
she really does not want to sell it and in case she Should, the price
would be a thousand pounds. She is obviously testing how far the
narrator is prepared to go for anything of Aspern's. When one
recalls the fine remarks the old lady has made about Tina at one
point of the interview, and the narrator's growing suspicion that she
is representing her as a p_:—.1_£t_i, her test of the man's willingness to
do almost anything for ASpern's belongings receives an added Sig-

nificance. Anyway, Juliana assures the entering Tina that she knows

221
what she is about and that She usually gets things done her way. All
in all she has given Mr. X a fair warning not to presume too much.
Juliana leaves the room with a pronouncement that she intends to
watch her stranger. The narrator tries ingeniously to prolong her
stay by suggesting that they spend as much time together as possible
so that she can watch him better. Miss Bordereau replies that she
has seen him enough for a day and is satisfied with what she has seen.
To his gallant Offer to assist with her wheel-chair, She replies
ominously: " 'Oh yes, you may move me this way--you shan't in any
other! ' " Juliana's last test of her lodger has, very likely, convinced
her that he is more dangerous than She might have suspected at first.
He has pressured her; they have arrived in a way at the point of open
warfare, and there is no knowing now what kind of aggression he plans
next. She has to be on her guard.

Each of the three interviews marks a stage of progression in
the contest Of wills and wits between the two combatants. The first
confrontation has been mainly a test of strength, and each contestant
believes that he comes out as the stronger. The reader gives the
palm to Juliana. The second encounter witnesses subversive manip-
ulations by which each Opponent seeks to promote his own plan at
the expense of the other. The narrator's position is considerably
weakened, since he sees that his plans are guessed but is unable to

see the ultimate aim of Juliana's manipulations. He begins to suspect

222

that he has met with a stronger resistance than he has counted on.
The final interview threatens to break into a "pitched battle. " The
opponents bandy words and care little to conceal their purposes from
each other. The tensions, and for the reader the suspense, mount
throughout the three encounters and prepare both, narrator and
reader, for the now inescapable showdown. The reader is actively
engaged on the side of the narrator but promises victory to Juliana.
The climactic encounter iS brought about Shortly by the utter
frustration of the narrator and the exhaustion of Juliana. The last
interview has taken the Old lady's physical strength, and Mr. X
decides to take advantage of this fact. His eagerness about the
papers has become unbearable. He imagines them already burned
and to assure himself pressures Tina, afflicted with grief about the
state of her aunt, to find out where the papers are. By indirection
he suggests that Miss Tina steal them for him, but the innocent
woman does not understand the hint. When Tina does not show up
with the expected report later in the evening, he succumbs to the
temptation to ransack the dying lady's apartment himself. He is
caught in the act by Juliana herself, who has watched him, even in
her sleep it seems. She for once lifts her'green shade, her "ever-
lasting curtain" and "for the first, the last, the only time the nar-

rator beholds her extraordinary eyes. "

223

They glared at me: they were like the sudden drench, for a
caught burglar, of a flood of gaslight; they made me horribly
ashamed. I never shall forget her strange little bent white
tottering figure, with its lifted head, her attitude, her
expression; neither shall I forget the tone in which as I turned,
looking at her, She hissed passionately, furiously:--"ah you
publishing scoundrel!"14

They are still the magnificent eyes of the Divine Juliana, and it is
she who pronounces a moral judgment upon the intruder. As she
collapses in her niece's arms, Mr. X flees the scene. He is
completely unmasked; the blow he has received as a moral human
being he will never be able to rationalize away completely.

The Juliana who emerges from the successive encounters with
the narrator is surely not for the reader the demonic Old crone the
narrator sees her to be most of the time. AS the narrator feels
often enough, she Should have more of the air of the divine Juliana
about her. For Jeffrey Aspern's sake, she should not soil her image
as the former idol of a poet by her open preference for money. And
what about her cunning and torturing cross-examinations, fits Of
wrath, curious mockeries? As his obsession with his "spoils" grows,
so does his self-righteous belief that the means he employs are justi-
fiable and SO does his irritation with the encountered resistance. Thus
he is unable to see, as does the reader, that in Juliana he has met a

worthy Opponent to his cunning. Most of the methods he employs in

 

14"The Aspern Papers," p. 118.

224
trying to secure the ASpern papers are evident in her moves to
protect them. He flatters and lies to her; she beats him Off with
sarcasm and tests his purposes by a series of cross-examinations.
The narrator himself convinces Juliana to enlarge her lean susten-
ance by taking a lodger who is willing to pay well; she takes him
upon his word and in addition also takes her revenge on his decep-
tions by extracting as much money from him as she possibly can.
He makes love to Tina (while he tells himself he doesn't) to gain her
help in snatching the papers; Juliana holds them out as a bribe to
lure him into an actual marriage with her niece. The narrator
justifies his dubious actions by his commitment to save for posterity
a great poet's biographical data; the poet's mistress seems to be as
strongly convinced that by protecting the poet's private papers she
is also protecting the poet's memory against possible misrepresen-
tation of his most private thoughts. She is, after all, the magnifi-
cent Juliana whose passion for her poet as a man governs her actions,
and it is as strong a passion as the narrator's ambiguous involve—
ment with Aspern, the poet. The precious letters, tokens of agreat
love, can only, in Juliana's view, become a transferrable commodity
in service of love, namely her love for Tina, whose chances for life

(also'love) She strives to secure.

225

Structurally, the role of Tina is largely that of a messenger to
and from the great Juliana. She meets the stranger on her aunt's
behalf, reports back to her (and sometimes doesn't) the narrator's
requests and intentions as she understands them. From her reports
and even from her silences, her shrewd aunt reconstructs the man's
hidden purposes, guesses her niece's growing attachment to Mr. X
and decides to promote it. Tina arranges the great scenes between
Juliana and the narrator and again reappears at their termination.
AS She provides some forecast (more often a misinterpretation) of
what the forthcoming interview with her aunt will be about, she also
submits a kind of interpretation of Juliana's purposes to Mr. X after
each encounter, and gives the narrator and the reader a chance to
compare their conclusions about them with Tina's. Thus She
provides some clues for the narrator's subjective quest as well as
for the reader's quest after an objective view of the unfolding action.
Tina is not, however, one of James' "fifth wheels to a carriage";
she is not "only of the form" of the work as Henry James felt
Henrietta Stackpole to be, She is very much "of the essence" as well.
Her frail spirit, fragrant with lingering innocence which is at once
strange and delightful considering her advanced years, permeates
the whole story; SO much so that at least one critic has considered

"The Aspern Papers" to be Tina's story:

226

Tina, the credulous niece, fascinated by the guileful stranger,
and under the powerful domination of her aunt, who will
sacrifice her letters to give the girl a future, becomes the
heroine Of the story. Her tragedy, not the loss of the papers,
is, or should be, its climax. Alas, James has not so cast her.
She is not a dramatic, scarcely a very human figure, certainly
in her flurried emotions she lacked the fiber of a heroine. 15
To me, Tina is very human indeed. Only by being so, can She point
up sharply when the narrator risks becoming inhuman. She is not
the heroine, but She becomes an inseparable part of his quest; while
ineffectually trying to help him and at the same time to remain loyal
to her aunt, Miss Tina serves to bring out now the worst, now the
best qualities of the narrator. At the same time she carries on her
own quest, unobserved by the narrator and promoted by her aunt,
and it is this quiet pathetic quest for the stranger's love which in the
final estimate of the story defines the limits between the world of the
narrator and the one he fruitlessly tries to enter (the romantic spirit
of the past.) For Miss Tina herself, her frustrated quest (as with
Catherine Sloper or Isabel Archer before) brings some painfully

earned growth of the Spirit.

As was noted before, the narrator has decided to engage Miss

Tina's sympathy for his cause before he has met her. " 'Wait till

you see her! ' " has been Mrs. Prest's ambiguous warning to her

 

15Henry Seidel Canby, Turn West, Turn East: Mark Twain
and Henry James (Cambridge, Mass., 1951), p. 233.

 

 

227

ambitious friend. At first the narrator sees Tina more objectively
than later because he is as yet not sufficiently involved in his plot
and takes time for objective observation. Later, while he lets the
essential Tina still come through his utterances for the reader's
judgment, he himself is liable to stress her innocence or "witless-
ness" as he harshly labels it, a quality he hopes to exploit in making
her into a tool for his own purposes. The Tina who comes to re-
ceive Mr. X upon his first arrival at the Bordereau palace is "a long
lean pale person" who speaks very simply and mildly. Her face is
neither young nor fresh, but it is candid and clear. She has large
eyes, but they lack the necessary brightness to be called handsome;
her hair is thick but is not dressed to advantage. She has long, fine
hands and from their nervous movements her guest judges her to be
a Shy, timid woman. It is a portrait of a guileless, pleasant person.
She is not young and has never had claims to prettiness, but she
obviously possesses some fine features (large eyes, fine hands, rich
hair) which a more clever woman would show to advantage and thereby
pass for attractive. Miss Tina, however, has her own charm, and it
asserts itself despite her unattentiveness to grooming. She is at
once an aging fairy princess lost in some bygone world and at the
same time surprised that the present might not have heard of her
world with the great Juliana as a representative. AS the narrator

observes:

228

There were contradictions like this in Miss Tina which, as I
observed later, contributed to make her rather pleasingly
incalculable and interesting. It was the study of the two ladies
to live so that the world Shouldn't talk of them or touch them,
and yet they had never altogether accepted the idea that it
didn't hear of them. 1
As Tina says of herself, she has always been with Juliana. From
what the narrator sees, all her former contacts with the rest of
humanity have been of her aunt's making. Now that the old lady "had
drawn in," Tina too has lost all these contacts "so that her range of
reminiscence struck one as an old world altogether." Both ladies
are then almost equally of the past, or as Mr. X finds, "There was
nothing in them one recognised or fitted [ they are so much the past
that he cannot see them as representing any one nationality]. " Miss
Tina senses this oddity herself when She tells the stranger at his
first appearance that she and her aunt used tg_b_§_American, then
adds: " 'It's so many years ago. We don't seem to be anything

nOW 1!!

If Juliana represents the mystery and the faded glamor Of
this romantic past, Miss Tina stands for its spirit of innocence and
inhibition. The two of them together (plus the colorful backdrOp of
Venice) give his summer an air of the unusual or, as he expresses it,
"the whole situation had the charm of its oddity." This charm, one

might add, gives him as much entrance into the romantic past as he

is ever to get. While he senses it only incompletely as a part of his

 

16"The Aspern Papers, " p. 21.

229

"eccentric private errand, " it becomes his limited means of com-
munion with the spirit of Aspern as his sporadic musings on his
relationship with the poet seem to imply:

My eccentric private errand became a part of the general

romance and the general glory--I felt even a mystic companion-

ship, a moral fraternity with all those who in the past had been

in the service Of art. They had worked for beauty, for a

devotion; and what else was I doing? That element was in

everything that Jeffrey Aspern had written, and I was only

bringing it to light. 17

Ironically, it is the belated innocence and the faded fairy-tale
quality of Miss Tina which recreates for the narrator the spirit of the
past much more than Juliana, who deliberately bars his entrance into
it behind her mask Of calculations. Bent on his decision to use Tina's
simplicity for his own purposes, he only senses her own romantic
quality in retrOSpect and incompletely when he remarks that cultivat-
ing her garden had, after all, been almost the happiest time of his
life. For the present, she iS no more a poet's mistress for him than
he is a poet. While amusing himself with Tina's charming oddities,
her strange combination Of Shyness and directness or what he calls
her irresponsible incompetent youthfulness "almost comically at
variance with the faded facts of her person, " he studies her as a

possible link to the Aspern papers. He presently finds it, not in her

out-dated spirit, but in Miss Tina's unconscious yearning for some

 

17"The Aspern Papers, " p. 43.

J—M

 

230

human contact outside of the society of her superannuated aunt. Such
"contact of a limited order there would be if he should come to live in
the house. " Whenever in Tina's company, he strikes the friendly
note. As he well notices, she has never before been spoken to in
any such fashion--"with a humorous firmness that didn't exclude
sympathy, that was quite founded on it. " It is this tone more than
anything else in the stranger's presence that appeals to the childlike,
helpless Side of her nature. It of course also deceives her with its
sincerity (the narrator does not have to force an artificial amiability
because he truly enjoys Tina's child-like ways), and in her inexpe-
rience of the world, She places her affections where she thinks she
has found an unexpected but delightful interest in herself when in
truth it is only a casual and patronizing benevolence she has been
Offered for an expected service. The narrator is deceived in his own
way. As it is much easier for him to estimate Tina than to see
through Juliana, in his confidence he underestimates the extent of
Tina's growing attachment to him. He seems to be quite blind to her
timid attempts to ascertain whether outside of his need Of her help
with Juliana he could also be interested in her as a woman.

Throughout her various meetings with the narrator, Tina
employs her own ways of testing the intentions. of her newly gained
friend from the great world outside her garden. This is true

especially of her own three great scenes, which structurally

231
interweave with Juliana's three interviews with the narrator and
can be said to balance them with ironic similarity: Tina too puts
the stranger to test; as with Juliana, he is largely ignorant of what
is going on. The first scene takes place on a summer evening in the
garden. The narrator takes a stroll there after the hot day,
conscious of the romantic setting Of the garden, but thinking rather
of ancient Italians like Romeo and Juliet or Aspern and Juliana, not
of himself and Tina, as romantic figures. Presently he Spots Tina,
who seems to be greatly relieved by his presence. She emerges
from the arbor "as if to throw herself in his arms, " but immediately
clarifies his mystification about her act--She is simply afraid of the
dark. Mr. X notes with a sense of relief that her intentions are not
romantic, that her uninhibited responses are SO transparent "that
it was impossible to allow too much for her Simplicity. " She is "up
to nothing at all" even if it appears that her aunt has sent her, and
the narrator has for a moment suspected some plot. As he finds,
Tina has not even dreamed that his "floral tributes" are not exclusive-
ly for Juliana and has to be told that they include herself as well.
Thus assured, however, Tina immediately Opens up for a personal
chat--She has found-a friend. She lingers on, Obviously to prolong
the pleasant visit. It is "as if she were waiting for something--
something {he} might say to her--and intended to give him his

Opportunity. " But Mr. X has already decided on her great simplicity

232
and is not alarmed as to her possible expectations. At their parting,
he expresses the wish to see her again and the hope that Tina may
find time to please him and not just her aunt. The narrator has, of
course, his papers in mind, but he might as well be courting her.
He changes his gallant manner only when he sees her mystified by it:
he would not have it on his conscience that he had made love to her.
From his habitual treatment of Tina later on and from his own
remarks at the end of his story, one sees that the narrator is thinking
rather of the technical aspect of what could be called his love-making
and not so much about the actual impression he might create. In
other words, his gallantries are not to be such that he might be
accused of having given Tina a "cause. " As for the impressions,
they would be taken lightly by a sophisticated woman used to the
casual pleasantries of a drawing room. Miss Tina is not such a
woman. In her case, the narrator apparently counts on her great
simplicity: he decides now and again that she is "a perfectly artless
and a considerably witless woman." She will do anything for him
and take his gallantries as her reward. Seeing beyond the narrator's
confident conclusions, the reader guesses that he has missed Tina's
first test Of his intentions, a test as yet consisting only of her un-
expressed, vague expectations. The ironic relationship between
Mr. X and Tina, with each one working at cross—purposes with the

other, has, however, begun.

233

Tina does not Show up for some time after this meeting, be-
cause the narrator has apparently alarmed her with the news that he
is interested in the Aspern papers. AS it turns out, her silence is a
Sign of her loyalty to her aunt. Meanwhile, as it seems, she has
been thinking of a way whereby She might preserve her loyalty to
Juliana and yet enjoy her new-found companionship. Hence her
Obvious excitement when she finally can come to Mr. X with just
such news: " 'She wants to talk with you--to know you, ' " the niece
announces to the narrator, "smiling as if she herself appreciated
that idea. " From her expectant posture at the interview, one sees
that she does appreciate the idea. While her aunt prepares for her
sarcastic attacks on Mr. X, Miss Tina anticipates some wonderful
talk to come Off between them for her delight. Even if the following
conversation is not as pleasant as She might have wished (Juliana
embarrasses her by suggesting the gondola trip), she is anxious for
her aunt to continue receiving Mr. X, and eagerly suggests that the
interview has done Juliana some good. The aunt's sneering remark,
" 'Isn't it touching, the solicitude we each have that the other shall
enjoy herself, ' " Shows that Tina's little plan of securing a gentle-
man's company through the old lady's participation has been guessed
and in a way provided for. On the whole, Tina has understood little
of her aunt's droll attacks on Mr. X which have not even spared her-

self and now turns to her new friend "with a deprecating, a clinging

234

appeal to be spared, to be protected. " The narrator draws from
this action a just estimation of her ways:
Her attitude was a constant prayer for aid and explanation, and
yet no woman in the world could have been less of a comedian.
From the moment you were kind to her she depended on you
absolutely; her self-consciousness dropped and She took the

greatest intimacy, the innocent intimacy that was all She could
conceive, for granted.

The following gondola trip shows that he has taken account of this ob-
servation and attempts to treat Tina with some delicacy. Ironically,
by doing so he only stimulates her attachment to him and unwittingly
works for his own coming embarrassment.

The gondola trip means a great deal to Tina. It is her return
to the world since her aunt's decline, and with a child's eagerness
she wants to visit the shops on the Piazza and not to miss the ices
before the grand Cafe’. With a grown-up's regret She feels the new-
found attraction of the world from which she has been so long ex-
cluded. The narrator graciously lets her enjoy herself. For him it
is a business trip, but he feels some pangs of conscience every time
he pressures her about the papers and is decent enough to wait until
She brings up the subject herself. He is glad to learn that there are
indeed a great many letters but disappointed in Tina's convictions

that she could not provide them for him without being false to her

 

18"The Aspern Papers, " p. 75.

235

aunt. If his reason for staying at their house is exclusively the
papers, he should give up the idea of getting them and go away
altogether, Tina suggests. When Mr. X continues to press her for
more information about the papers, concerning their value or their
possibly compromising nature, she lapses into a sudden gloom.
Again there is a look of helplessness on her face, an appeal to deal
fairly with her, but also, as the narrator sees it, an appeal not to
presume too much on her kindness. He does not take time to
analyze Tina's changing moods but concentrates on winning her
loyalty which unquestionably belongs to her aunt. With an air of
intimacy, he touches her arm across the cafe table and tries to
extract from her a general promise of help. Tina is startled by the
personal importance the narrator attaches to her participation, and
at their parting She gives him the expected, however vaguely stated,
promise: " 'I'll do what I can to help you. ' "

The narrator returns from the trip with a false confidence that
he has won Tina's loyalty. During their cafe chat, he has observed
in her an "absence of the habit of thinking of herself, " a charming
quality which should provide him her aid. He has overlooked Tina's
own timid attempt to check whether all his interests lie in pursuit of
the papers. As her subsequent actions show, She has felt that after
all She has been treated with much personal regard. With a new

confidence she runs to Mr. X for help when Juliana collapses, and

236
acts on his advice in the crisis because he would know better what to
do. While she notices and seems to rebuke his searching looks in
her aunt's bedroom, She obviously does not judge him. She seems to
hear his lightest step and runs to meet him. A free moment from
the Old lady's bedside and spent with Mr. X on the balcony she takes
as his favor to herself and finds it hard to get back on his subject of
the exact whereabouts of the papers. " 'Yes, I've looked-—for you, ' "
she finally replies, and there is a stress on "for you. " At this, the
narrator feels encouraged to ask whether she would have given him
the papers if found. Now, however, Tina replies enigmatically, " 'I
don't know what I'd do--what I wouldn't! ' " and is apparently irritated
by his implied suggestion that she search the dying woman's room.
She could not so deceive her aunt. To change the subject, the
narrator reveals that he himself has been a deceiver having come
into the house under a false name and pretenses. This is a confidence
given Tina, and she does not pronounce him base for his dubious
actions. She remarks, however, that She likes his real name better,

as if imply ing that she herself prefers Mr. X the man to the biogra-

pher in search of the Aspern papers: " 'I rather feel you a new
person, you know, now that you've a new name. ' " At this the
narrator cannot resist his by now almost automatic gallantry: " 'Oh
if you didn't I would almost go on with the other! ' " In Tina's,

" 'Would you really? ' " one senses how seriously She has taken the

c omplime nt .

237

It can be assumed that Miss Tina has by now accepted the
narrator, if not as a sure lover, at least as a benevolent guardian.
What seems to be sure to h_ir_n is her readiness to assist his plan, no
matter how vague She actually sounds on the matter. This confidence
provides him with a splendid sense Of justification when he sees an
Opportunity to snatch the letters himself. The door between the great
hall and Juliana's apartment is left Open--surely Tina has arranged it
SO for his easy access. When she does not appear in the doorway to
meet him, again he sees in it a Sign for him to act--Tina has gone to
bed in order to leave him an open field. This is what she must have
meant by helping in whatever way she could. Even after his shameful
departure from Venice, he manages to convince himself that Tina
would wish his return even if she has not replied to any of his letters
to assure him of it.

Tina's silence can be regarded as her last test of the narrator--
Should he return on his own accord, she could be assured of his
interest in her. Mr. X does return and seems to be most considerate.
He spends the first day in her company without as much as suggesting
the troublesome papers. He worries about her well-being and sug-
gests a trip to get her mind off her grief about Juliana's death. The
next day the narrator decides that he has done his share of courtesy
and can not linger any longer "to act as guardian to a piece of middle-

aged female helplessness. " He must find out about the papers and

238

depart with or without them. While his thoughts are rather cynical,
his words raise great hopes for Tina when he asks her to settle his
fate. Thus encouraged, She gives Mr. X Aspern's miniature for
what she feels has been the great difference he has made in her life
and timidly explains that she has prevented Juliana from destroying
the papers. They would be his if, according to her aunt's last wish,
he were to become a member of the family. Tina's quietly cherished
little plan is bordering on succeSS--she has secured her aunt's
approval for the company of the stranger. For her there is no other
way; Juliana's extraordinary eyes seem to watch over Tina even
from her grave and demand her niece's undivided loyalty18 as much
as the spirit of Aspern seems to have demanded the narrator's
devotion all through his quest. As he looks at his idol's portrait
now, however, the dear ghost seems to desert him. It is as if he

is telling his great admirer that now he is on his own: " 'Get out of
it as you can, my dear fellow! ' " Aspern has not, after all, support-

ed his Siege of Juliana's castle, but has now re-united with his

 

18For a different attitude toward Miss Tina's choice Of

loyalties, see Sam S. Baskett, "The Sense of the Present in the
Aspern Papers, " Papers Of the Michigan Academy of Science, Arts
and Letters, XLIV (1959), 381-388. Baskett feels that Tina trans-
fers her loyalty from the aunt to the narrator (p. 384). It seems
clear to me that her quiet quest consists of a search for a way to
please her lover without forsaking her allegiance to Juliana.

 

 

239
mistress against him and smiles at him from the still unreachable
mysterious past.
Only now the clever man sees that he has overreached him-
self. The ironic outcome Of his quest is well summarized by Holland:
His [the narrator's] engaging tactics bring him closer to, but
fail to culminate in, the marriage Tina longs for; his courtly
Siege reaches the fortress but terminates in embarrassed
retreat; his expensive suit brings him closer to the papers he
would gladly buy but results in their permanent removal from
the market.
Try as he will, he cannot quite convince himself that he has not
trifled with Tina's affections; but he had not "given her a cause, " he
insists on that: "I had been as kind as possible because I really
liked her; but Since when had that become a crime where a woman of
H20 . .
such an age and such an appearance was concerned? His splendid
rationalization only shows how little he really has understood a
woman of Tina's inexperience. His drawing room techniques would
have been accepted as mere pleasantries by a likable woman of
Tina's age and appearance in a circle Of SOphisticates. In Tina's
garden, where she wanders about in her prolonged innocence and in

no need Of artificially imposed inhibitions, they could only be

accepted at face value. From the uncertain human contacts between

 

19The Expense of Vision, p. 148.

 

20"The Aspern Papers, " pp. 136-7.

240
the narrator and Tina, which for most of the time work at cross-
purposes, one concludes, however, that he could not remain
in her garden for the rest of his days any more than one could
imagine Tina being transplanted into the SOphisticated world from
which he has come on one summer's errand. It is a credit to
his sense of decency that he sees as much and tells her, "It wouldn't
do, it wouldn't do!" In his private outrage and in his desperate
attempt to convince himself of his clean record with her, he does
not, of course, sound very flattering to poor Tina: "At any rate,
whether I had given cause or not, there was no doubt whatever that
I couldn't pay the price. I couldn't accept the proposal. I couldn't,
for a bundle of tattered papers, marry a ridiculous pathetic provin-
cial old woman. "2'1 There is some truth in this harshly stated con-
clusion: Tina _i_S_ an aging provincial woman and her reaching out for
a sophisticated man of the world i_s_ pathetic. The man's fault cannot
be lessened because of thiS--he has, after all, made her believe
that he feels wonderfully at ease in her decaying old house and in
her overgrown garden. On the other hand, credit is due to him that

he can restrain his monomania for the Aspern papers long enough

 

21"The Aspern Papers, " p. 137.

241

to Spare her another deception-~a marriage on false pretences. 22

For Tina the experience is no less ironic, if altogether
different, than the narrator's involvement with her. AS an incon-
gruous remnant from Juliana's romantic past, She spends her un-
eventful days between the hushed Old palace and an entangled, for-
gotten garden. When the stranger arrives from the world of the
present, he tidies up her garden but brings disturbance into the
house. When he leaves, much of her world, like the old house, has
been disturbed forever, but it has, like her garden, also witnessed
a great flowering. As even the narrator has to admit, in her abjec-
tion she has acquired "the force of soul" to forgive and to absolve
her friend Of a short season. It is not only because the narrator
still believes Tina has the papers and hopes to win them yet that She
appears upon his last return as transfigured and beautiful enough for
him to reconsider her Offer. The "force of soul" lingers all through
the last scene and is still in her long last look (it is poi a look of

resentfulness) she turns on the narrator for him to remember the

 

22William Bysshe Stein in "_'I_‘_he Aspern Papers: A Comedy
of Masks, " Nineteenth CenturLFiction, XIV (September, 1959),
p. 178, expresses the opinion that by rejecting Tina, the narrator
has rejected his one chance to cure his narcissism through the
healing power of her love. In my reading of the story, whatever
charm one might find in Tina, she is not a match for a SOphisticated
man of the world. There is really no level upon which she could
truly reach the narrator; that he declines her offer is, therefore,
one Of his most honest actions in the story.

 

 

242

rest of his days. This is not any more her accustomed look of help-
lessness; it is rather the look Of one who has understood and for-
given, but above all has ceased to seek help and is ready now to
manage without it. Tina has not been destroyed;23 she has come into
her own, overnight, as it were. She has found her hopes to have been
false; and since she apparently cannot be loved for what she is, she
has made a decision not to settle for less--she burns the Aspern
papers in loyalty to her aunt, forgives the "publishing scoundrel" his
deceptions and graciously but firmly closes her door to him forever.

AS Tina has gains with her losses, the narrator, as was noted,
loses where he most hopes to win. After his rejection of Tina's
proposition, he spends the day rambling uneasily around Venice,
pacifying his conscience, trying to decide whether to face Tina once
more (which he eventually does) or to leave without a word. There
are two symbolic scenes from his day Of aimless roaming which
remain sealed in his memory, unexplained by himself as to their
possible meaning. For the reader they provide some clues for
Speculation. At sunset, he lingers in front of the statue of

Bartolommeo Colleoni, "the terrible condottiere, " before the church

 

Of Saints John and Paul:

 

23Here I disagree with Charles G. Hoffman (2p. cit.) Hoffman
believes that the "guile of the narrator corrupts and then destroys
the guileless Tina." (p. 47).

243

. I only found myself staring at the triumphant captain
as if he had had an oracle on his lips. The western light
shines into all his grimness at that hour and makes it
wonderfully personal. But he continued to look far over my
head, at the red immersion of another day-—he had seen so
many go down into the lagoon through the centurieS--and if
he were thinking of battles and stratagems they were of a
different quality from any I had to tell him of. He couldn't
direct me what to do, gaze up at him as I might.

Both the portrait of Aspern and the statue of the condottiere are

 

symbols of the past, and as such are beyond the reach of the living.
Their unreachability is at once their mystery and their beauty. This,
the narrator, in his zeal to pierce into the past, fails to realize.
From the brief confrontation with the past, the narrator is
thrown upon the living present of the Venetian crowd around him:
I don't know why it happened that on this occasion I was more
than ever struck with that queer air of sociability, of
cousinship and family life, which makes up half the expression
of Venice. Without streets and vehicles, the uproar of wheels,
the brutality of horses, and with its little winding ways where
people crowd together, where voices sound as in the corridors
of a house, where the human step circulates as if it Skirted

the angles of furniture and Shoes never wear out, the place
has the character of an immense collective apartment.

"I don't know why, " says the narrator; the reader, subtly placed
above him by the implied author, knows why he is struck with the air
of sociability around him. This is the air Of the Sincerely offered

and humble everyday existence which he has just been asked to share

 

24"The Aspern Papers," pp. 138-39.

3511mm, pp. 139-40.

244

and in his fixation with the dead past has not only rejected but also
violated through his deceptions of Tina. He returns from his quest
as an outcast from both worlds--the past has rejected him; to the
living present he has not found a way. His ultimate gains from this
quest are the dearly bought picture of Aspern (he pays Tina for it
to quiet his conscience) and the story of Tina, now resting in his
memory. As he looks up at the portrait in later years, he may
briefly remember the giver of it, but his main concern still remains
the loss of the precious papers. In this he reminds us once more of
Browning's Duke: as this other aesthete leaves the portrait of the
Duchess and with it the story of her whole life and proceeds to the
figure of Neptune to be admired next, so the narrator puts the
slightly sketched Tina and her pathetic story behind him and eyes
longingly the Aspern Papers as a symbol of ideal beauty.

For the narrator's particular quest, however, I would like
to add that there is a double irony in its outcome. As was stressed
before, he loses where he hopes to gain. There have been some
gains but these he cannot see as such. His journey into Juliana's
country, from which he returns with the story of Tina and Aspern's
picture, is clearly a gain on a symbolic level. The vague figures of
the Misses Bordereau and even of Aspern had emerged from the past
and come to life during that journey. They had given him as much

of the sense of that romantic past as he might ever have been able

245

to extract from any of the Aspern Papers. The narrator's intuitive
sketch of Juliana's youth without the accessibility of much actual
biographical data, creates a creditable, sensitive recreation of the
young Juliana. With much of Aspern's life-story in his hands before
he starts his hunt for the papers, Mr. X as the poet's biographer is
guilty many a time during the story in tailoring the poet to whatever
possible styles he can get hold of in this material. Juliana has been
right-~there is no sure reaching to the truth of the past through its
documents. The faded spirit of the past is not in the papers but
ultimately in the imaginative powers Of the re-creator of that spirit.
In his encounters with Tina and Juliana, the narrator greatly misses
the romantic spirit still hovering around their figures, because he is
too busy using them as tools for getting at the dead letters in their
possession, in his Opinion the only reliable records Of that Spirit.
Thus in search of the Spirit of the past, he has actually pushed it
aside, even violated it, as the last haunting looks of both Tina and
Juliana witness.

Almost any critical study of "The Aspern Papers" ends with
a moral judgment of the narrator. He has been condemned as a
narcissistic self-seeker, a commercial exploiter of the past and the
like. He may be all of these things. I only maintain that James has
not meant us to trouble ourselves exceedingly with the final moral

quality of his publishing scoundrel. Instead, he has invited us to

246

withhold our judgment for the understanding Of this fascinating man
who loves the arts to the exclusion of human concerns. Being a first-
person narrative told greatly in the manner of a dramatic monologue,
"The Aspern Papers" presents its material empirically, "as a fact
existing before and apart from moral judgment which remains always
secondary and problematic. "26 The reader's business becomes an
imaginary journey with the narrator into his experience for the
understanding of it, if not necessarily for a complete agreement

with it. With the narrator of "The Aspern Papers, " the reader lands
at the gate of Juliana's palace, invokes the great Aspern as a guide,
watches for opportunities to unveil the "esoteric knowledge" the
Bordereau ladies seem to possess, shares the excitement of the
hunt, and finally departs defeated. While about it, he is also granted
a certain capacity of aloofness or the ironic view of the whole field,
if not the final moral judgment Of it.

As an ironic work, "The Aspern Papers" shows a marked
SOphistication in technique quite beyond James' achievement in the
works so far discussed. When one remembers Frye's remark about
irony in its simpler form being revealed through the author's tone
and in its more SOphisticated form being embedded in the very struc-

ture Of the work, "The Aspern Papers" clearly falls among the

 

26Langbaum, pp. 97-98.

247
sophisticated ironic works. The author's tone is largely withdrawn;
the field is given over to the subjective narrator, and the ironic
tone is supplied by the reader himself as he watches the narrator
expose himself through scenic encounters with other characters and
even through his reactions to the back—drop of Venice. Symbolic
uses of Objects, characters and whole scenes are given as assisting
clues in the reader's quest for the ironic truth of the tale. The
result is a great poetic work "suggesting a number of different mean-
ings at different levels simultaneously, "27 as the many different

critical readings of the story suggest.

 

2 7Lehman, p. 50.

Chapter IV
. Maisie and Nanda —- The Troublesome Face of Truth
(James' Satiric Irony)

Introduction

In critical appraisals Of "What Maisie Knew" (1897) and Of

The Awkward Age (1899) . One finds them called satires "on the sur-

 

face" or "superficially. " Such passing remarks give the impression
that satire belongs to some branch of the literary arts which does not
carry much weight, at least not for a serious artist like James. The
satirist's art, of course, is an Old and respectable form, and, if
anything, James' application of it to his stories makes them weightier

not lighter. The satire of "What Maisie Knew" and The Awkward Agg

 

are not surface coating to these stories but the very bones and marrow
of them. The ironic techniques employed in the two works are also
devices of a satirist and an understanding of James' ways with them
secures the reader's submission to the particular atmosphere of the
tales. When one understands that the stress on the dramatic elements
and on formal arrangements of characters is not an artificially imposed
stricture upon these works but is brought about by the ironist's
deepened awareness of the relativity of things and of the uncertainty of
the human predicament (which is usually also the satirist's concern),

the Often expressed objections to James' seemingly unnecessary

technical brilliance in both stories fall away.

248

249

According to Frye (who, as was noted before, also calls
satire "militant irony"), "satire is irony which is structurally close
to the comic: the comic struggle of two societies, one normal and
the other absurd, is reflected in its double focus of morality and
fantasy. "1 As is well known, the satirist is concerned with human
shortcomings. 2 He is pointing out the enemy of society as a spirit
within that society. The content of his work is critical in nature,
and it projects some standards against which the issues in question
are measured. Thus the moral norms are more clearly suggested
in satire than in a "purely" ironic work. For the work to succeed
as a satire, the reader's sympathy must be engaged on the side
Of these moral norms. The skillful satirist usually avoids the
direct approach or invective but feigns an ironic distance from
his subject. He lets the human vices, follies, and absurdities
speak for themselves instead. Thus the satiric method is always
largely a mimetic method which explains James' concern with

dramatization in "What Maisie Knew" and The Awkward Age.

 

Because the satirist's object is the reader's persuasion, he
paints the vices in thick colors for the reader to be properly

appalled by them. There are several ways of doing this, but

 

1Frye, p. 224.
For the following summary of the satirist's devices I am much
in debt to the before mentioned works of Frye and Worcester.

250

whatever way he chooses, the satirist violates to some degree our
ordinary sense of reality. He may turn his characters into a parade
of grotesques and make their bizarre appearances and movements
impart to the reader ironic insight into the human situation they
suggest. Or he may work with subtle analogies and portray a
society bursting with good spirits, geniality and warm humanity,
then cut the ground under this society to expose the selfishness,
insincerity and cold calculations which lurk beneath the surface
polish. The comedy of manners or the burlesque become his
means of satiric treatment here. Whatever means of exaggera-
tion the satirist selects (and exaggeration includes not only
making Objects big but also making them unbelievably small),
he may choose to place some commonsense persons (the plain
dealers, the self-deprecatory eirons, the dewy-eyed innocents)
among his bizarre cast to guide the reader toward the moral
norm of the work. These characters, who represent the "normal"
society, are either opposed to or eventually excluded from the
fictional or "absurd" society around them, but during the course
of the action they gain the reader's sympathy for themselves and
his disapproval for that society.

It is evident that the satirist has to concentrate on the
particular details and arranganents of characters to create par-

allels and contrasts which will engage the reader into an active

251

participation in the work. He is at once within the outlandish at-
mosphere of the total design and detached enough to test the details
submitted to his view for the ironic implications they contain. There
is, thus, by necessity, a particular stress on the matters of form
and on the dramatic elements in a satiric work. The author him-
self seems to be totally absorbed with the aesthetic values of his
creation (as James has been accused of being in the two works
under consideration) and uninvolved in the moral issues played
out on the stage he has arranged in an eccentric and fantastic
rather than a realistic manner. 3 The more he moves away from
straight invective toward the subtler uses of irony, the more he
is bent on creating a world of absurdities and the more this
fictional world reveals by ironic anaIOgies or contrasts a world
of actuality with dislocated standards and relative rather than
absolute values.

The worlds around Maisie and Nanda are largely such
dislocated worlds. Maisie and Nanda are the innocents Of Frye's
other society in Opposition to these worlds, and to enter them,

the reader is asked to suspend his sense of ordinary reality

 

3'See Canby's complaint (Op. cit. , p. 216) about James "the
technician enamored of a 'scenic philOSOphy'" who does not
seem to be "stirred by the plight of a child" in "What Maisie
Knew. " Beach (op. cit.) expresses similar ideas.

252

while the action lasts. The parade of grotesques around Maisie
and the ever-chattering, polite society around Nanda Signal to
the reader that he is entering the world of satire. Once this is
understood, the objections to James' excessive concern with
form in the two stories fall away. The reader submits himself
to the curious delights of James' satire and waits to see where
they carry him.
Part 1.

In the Preface to "Maisie, " the author calls Maisie his
"ironic centre" in the sense that she is the centrally placed char-
acter -- her story is given only "through the occasions of her
proximity and her attention. " The reader is placed with the im-
plied author above her as the adult mind who can "take advantages
of these things better than She herself. " There are situations
which she interprets differently from the adult reader, there
are those she perceives but lacks adequate terms to translate,
and there are those the meaning of which she misses altogether.
The reader, more favorably placed than Maisie herself, is able
to register the differences. He is the appointed ironic observer
of the action. In this narrative scheme, the author has not with-
drawn himself completely, but, as D. W. Jefferson puts it, his

presence is "marvelously tactful. "4 Because of this, the story

 

4Henry James and the Modern Reader (New York, 1967), p. 137.

253

gives the illusion of revealing itself before the reader rather than
being told by an ever present author. It is, then, a highly dramatized
way Of telling a story and a needed one in "Maisie" for James' par-
ticular ironic conerns, which are indeed those of the satirist. To
assist the drama or, in other words, the satire, he adds around
Maisie a cast Of grown-up figures who can define her for the reader
and whom she, in turn, can expose to the ironic-satiric view of
the author and to the reader who is placed with him. It is Obvious
then, that to reach the ironic center of the story, one must work
from the satiric form, which for a story like "Maisie" means in-
vestigating the girl's relationships with the grotesque adult figures
around her. 5

In his comments on "What Maisie Knew, " Pelham Edgar
can not quite excuse James' extravagantly sketched human depravity,
but while he goes about criticizing it, he also, perhaps quite inad-
vertently, sums up the story's virtues as a satire:

This is a monstrous dose of iniquity for the reader

to swallow, and seems like the travesty Of burlesque.
Yet James, while deriving some amusement out of

 

The importance of form as a key to the meaning of "What Maisie
Knew" is stressed in two recent critical articles on the story:

a) James W. Gargano, "What Maisie Knew: the Evolution Of a

'Moral Sense, "' Nineteenth Century Fiction (June 1961), pp. 33-46;

b) Joseph A. Hynes, "The Middle Way of Miss Farange: A Study of
James' Maisie, " Journal of English Literary History (December 1965)
pp. 528-553.

 

 

25.4

his extravagance, has set a definitely serious pur-

pose before him, and he has not been so pointedgy

and designedly moral in any other of his books.
If we ignore the literalist's censure of James' satiric devices, we
have in the above statement a neat outline of the nature of the story:
it is a satire, structurally close to the comic, serious in moral pur-
pose. To get to the moral core of the story, one has to begin with
the amusing complexities of the design.

The satiric design of the story could be called the dance
of the grotesques. During the approximately six years of the child's
life (from the age of six on) which her story covers, Maisie is in-
volved in the various, symmetrically arranged movements of the
adults around her. At first her divorced parents fight about the
rights to keep her so that they can hurl insults at each other as
the bad parent; then each remarries and fights as hard to keep
her at the Opposite household and away from his own for the in-
convenience she now creates. Through the shuffling Of Maisie
between the two households of her parents, the step-parents
discover each other and establish a liaison while her own parents

lose interest in their new spouses and seek lovers on the side.

The step-parents take over Maisie as a convenient cover-up

 

6Hengy James: Man and Author (New York, 1967), pp. 122-23.

255

for their affair and the natural parents disclaim their responsibility
for the child altogether. The parents declare their estrangement
from their spouses; the step-parents, now free to arrange for them-
selves, abandon Maisie to an Old, ignorant but motherly governess,
because the child is now more of an impediment than a Sign of re-
spectability. Among the movements of the parents and the step-
parents which work toward the eventual rejection of Maisie7 weaves
Mrs. Wix, the Old governess, who tries to establish her own fortunes
through guardianship over the child.

If one accepts the fantastic pattern in which the characters
move as a means of entrance into the story, it seems fruitless to
insist that the rest of it be kept on the representational level.
Maisie, for example, does not have other children to play with
(Edgar thinks James should have given her some for the sake Of
reality) because her world could not accommodate them. They
could only be monsters (and there are enough monsters in the
story) or they would lessen the force of Maisie as the necessary
igenu figure at the satiric center of the story. Maisie's French

doll Lisette serves better here than a possible child companion

 

7See Joseph A. Hynes (Op. cit.) In this perceptive article, Hynes
sees the design of the story as a game of renunciation played by
the grown-ups in a way that would seemingly give Maisie her own
choices but actually tricks her into renouncing those she loves and
who are only too anxious to reject her.

256

could. Lisette's imaginary questions transfer the child's own

sense of confusion to the toy, and for once she feels wiser in her

darkness than at least one "creature of her acquaintance when

She snaps back at Lisette in her mother's tone, "Find out for
yourself!" For the reader, the scenes with Lisette stress the
loneliness of the child as she reaches out in search for a point
of balance amidst the wanton movements of her grotesque elders.
Her puzzled state about the shifting positions of these peOple is
rendered through her own consciousness as she tries to figure
out, at the time when the affairs of her various guardians seem
to be at their most "involved" state, on whose side each of them
might be at the present:

. . Sir Claude [her step-fathefl had all the air of
being on hers. If therefore Mrs. Wix was on Sir
Claude's, her ladyship Maisie's mothefl on Mr.
Perriam's [one of her ladyship's lovers] and Mr.
Perriam presumably on her ladyship's, this left
only Mrs. Beale [the step-mother) and Mr. Farange
[Maisie's father) to account for. Mrs. Beale was,
like Sir Claude, on Maisie's, and papa, it was to
be supposed, on Mrs. Beale's. Here indeed was
a slight ambiguity, as papa's being on Mrs. Beale's
didn't somehow seem to place him quite on his
daughter's. It sounded, as this young lady thought
it over, very much like puss-in-the-corner, and
she could only wonder if the distribution of parties
would lead to a rushing to and fro and a changing
of places.

 

8"What Maisie Knew, " The Novels and Tales of Henry James.

Vol. x1, p. 95.

 

257

The action of the story is framed by this apprehended "rushing to
and fro and changing Of places" by the above characters. Each of
the guardians takes Maisie along part of the way, then drops her
for another to snatch up. Through her discovery that nobody is
really unselfishly on her side, not even Mrs. Wix who finally

gets her, the theme of the work is defined. From her passive
position in relation to the more or less vigorously moving phantom
shapes around her, Maisie tries to read their faces, to learn the
meaning of their movements, and to judge what position she her-
self should eventually take.

The first we encounter are Mr. and Mrs. Farange, the
divorced parents. They are extremely handsome peOple of magni-
ficent prOportions: between the two of them they make up "some
twelve feet three of stature. " Ida Farange has unnaturally long
arms, and her skill with them at billiards is her great accomplish-
ment. She can be said to manipulate peOple, especially her various
lovers, with equal skill. As the years go by, her eyes seem to
grow larger and larger with increased quantities of eye make-up,
applied in direct prOportion to the decline of her moral nature.
Her golden hair changes to a coppery red and seems to lift her
head, in Maisie's view, "still further aloft, " and her bejeweled

elegance becomes more pronounced. Nothing, however, matches

258

the eloquence of her voice, which is an even more skillfully man-
ipulated instrument than her billiard cue. Mrs. Farange has a
scale of "professions and explanations, " of "eager challenges and
sudden drOps" through which she gets her way. She is the com-
pletely theatrical character, tuned to role-playing like the Countess
Gemini and with similar moral qualities, but while the Countess is
harmless, Ida is deadly and moves in the world of satire. Maisie's
instinctive reaction to her magnificent mother is fear.

The good looks Of Mr. Beale Farange have a golden quality:
his fair beard is like "a golden breastplate, " and his white teeth

have an "

eternal glitter. " He is the magnified presence Of "the
joy of life" gone astray. His appetites are large, undiscriminative,
and mainly self-consuming, and all he seems to want is to be left
alone to pursue them. His ways with others, except his former
wife, are careless and not intentionally pain-inflicting like Ida's;
nobody fears him. Even Maisie, with a borrowed grown-up phrase,
hOpes "to manage him."

At first, Maisie is charmed by her impressive parents
and by their professions of love toward herself. She obediently
carries the messages of hate each sends to the other: ". . . her

mother, all kisses, ribbons, eyes, arms, strange sounds and

sweet smells, said to her: 'And did your beastly papa, my

259

precious angel, send any message to your own loving mama? "'9 In
response to this grand manner of motherliness, Maisie confesses
that her father's message this time has been to call mama "a nasty

" The author's tone is heavy with satire in these des-

horrid pig.
criptions of the appearances and of the ways of Maisie's parents,
and the child herself is quick to notice that she is being used for
purposes which have little to do with parental love. She learns
to feign stupidity, to appear "not to take things in, " and thus to
stop her role as a messenger of ill will. This is her first step
toward finding her own identity. As a child, she cannot yet
determine many of her actions, but She can choose to turn from
being a blind tool in the hands of the adults into a spectator of
their squabble. She spoils the adult fun and earns the term
"idiot" for it, but her own sense of amusement is increased by
her Sharpening powers of Observation. She also gains a weird
sense of the self as being a character outside of herself and as
"being present at her (own) history in as separate a manner as

if she could only get at experience by flattening her nose againstapane

of glass. ,,10 About mamma's and papa's world she learns to

 

c)"What Maisie Knew, " p. 13.

10"What Maisie Knew, " p. 107.

260

practice caution: it is full of matters for her not to go into, every-
thing seems tO have something else behind it, and there are many
closed doors where it is wise not to knock. Only the grown-ups
seem to enter them at ease and to share some self—contained
world of intimacy. The reader, being in a more advantageous
position than Maisie herself, sees that she is on her way to be-
coming the ironic observer Of her own history. She is also in-
stinctively preparing herself for a practical way of dealing with
the world of reality even if She does not fully understand its
nature. While she is about it, Maisie exposes the ugly face of
this reality to the full view of the reader.

The most ironic gain from the warped version of family
life to which she is subjected is the fact that the very sordiness
of her own condition helps Maisie to imagine what a happier
parent-child relationship ought to be. If papa calls mamma
something and mamma calls papa another horrid thing, there
ought to be also a state of parenthood where they Should not have
to do such things and where the spirit of good will prevails in-
stead. When her charming step-father Sir Claude comes into
focus, Maisie sees a future Of brightness Open before her.

In mamma's "peals of natural laughter" with her new husband,

Maisie gives herself up to "happy selfish meditation on good

omens and future fun. " Her unnatural natural parents have

261

also called her their angel and themselves her loving mamma and
papa; therefore, Maisie knows that there ought to be love between
parents and children. Whenever a crumb of it falls her way, she
snatches it up as a precious gift. Her elders learn about her
hunger for love, or what Sir Claude labels her "beauty of character, "
and also learn to exploit it for their selfish ends. Some of the most
powerful and the most ironic scenes in the book present such ex-
ploitation of the child. Through Maisie's generous response to

the cunning maneuvers of the adults, the reader perceives the
satiric attacks aimed at the grown-ups as well as the pathos of

the child's situation. At times when no direct scheming against
her is at work, Maisie's naive deductions about the nature of the
adult activities serve to point up the ironic discrepancies between
the moral void around her and her purity of spirit which survives
this void.

Maisie is delighted to witness the much praised "charm"
of her mother. She is sure she has seen it at its best when Ida
smiles at Mr. Perriam in a certain way. When the Captain
(another of Ida's subsequent lovers) calls mamma "good, " the
child is happy to know that somebody really loves her mother.

To promote mamma's happiness, Maisie advises the man to
love her for always, not just for a while like the others. When

Sir Claude wants to know the contents of her talk with the Captain,

262

she plays "dumb" to her beloved step-father for the first time,
just to protect mamma's goodness from his unkind remarks.
Because of papa's charm and affectionate manner, Maisie lets
herself be tricked into a posture of renunciation with the full
understanding of his maneuver. The father wants to abandon
the child but hOpes to convince his daughter that she really does
not want to go with him. He is, whatever his faults and ugly in-
volvements with yet uglier Countesses, still her magnificent papa.
Only the idea that she might not see him ever again breaks down
her heroic compliance with his will. When the time comes for
Ida to desert her daughter, the child senses what is in store

for her because her mother seems to repeat the same pattern
her father has already employed. Ida resorts to her magniloquence
and emerges from her oration as the all-sacrificing mother who
has not been properly appreciated by either her second husband
or her daughter. She is finally becoming aware of the fact, she
explains to Maisie, and has decided to live her own life and to
leave the two to each other according to their own wishes. The
girl, worn out by her mother's eloquence and stirred to pity,
wants only to assure her that she understands her position:
mamma is as good as the Captain had said she is. But by this

time the Captain to Ida is "the biggest cad in London" and Maisie

263

"a dreadful dismal deplorable little thing" for talking of him.
Without more ado, her ladyship sweeps away in a magnificent
display of hurt pride and out of her daughter's life forever.

These are amusing scenes, but besides the amusement
they provide for the reader, they also reveal the moral sordid-
ness of the parents and the pathetic state of the child who vainly
reaches out toward them for love. The uncanny quality of the
Faranges as they hover above the child stresses the moral
ambiguity of their intentions. There is papa showing his "shining
fangs" and overwhelming her with "the fragrance of his cherished
beard. " He moves in the Oppressive air of the Arabian Nights
luxuriance his ugly Countess provides, and while Maisie feels
the fairy tale charm of the place, she also knows that she wants
to escape it. Mamma fascinates but also frightens with her un-
naturally red lips and huge eyes -- symbols both of her charm
and of her moral depravity. The fantastic appearances of the
Faranges and the similarity of their movements are equally
impressive:

. vice for vice and lover for lover Ida and

Beale are equals. And James can pick no more

economic way of dramatizing this than by show-

ing the two doing such similar things.

Not only do events like these parallel each

other, but also they serve to Show the ever ob-
servant Maisie that the world of "saying' and

264

that of 'doing' are two different worlds as far as

mamma and papa are concerned.

This is also to say that James' economy and the satiric force of the
story become one as they promote the ironic theme Of the work.

In Spite of the magnificence of the Faranges as they glide to
and fro through Maisie's early years, their reality as parents has for
their daughter "vague edges. " In the shifty world of the parents, the
more tangible adult figures are the child's governesses. Her thought
of a possible future does not involve her parents but "the number of
governesses lurking in it and ready to dart out." The story accounts
for two of them. There is Miss Overmore (the later Mrs. Beale,
her father's second wife) and Mrs. Wix. Miss Overmore is young
and pretty; grace, affection and good spirits seem to be her second
nature. It is hard not to like Miss Overmore, especially because
papa seems to like her too. Mrs. Wix is old and dingy. But if there
is something elusive about Miss Overmore with all her charm, Mrs.
Wix is a solid presence. In the eyes of the world, Mrs. Wix is a
comic figure. She has dingy snuff-colored dress "trimmed with her
satin bands in the form Of scallOps and glazed with antiquity" and
her greasy grey hair is dressed in an old-fashioned manner. With her

"straighteners, " the immense goggles worn to conceal her "divergent

 

11
Joseph Wiesenfarth, Henry James and the Dramatic AnalOgy

(New York, 1963), pp. 71-2.

 

265

obliquity of vision, "

and with her much repeated story of poor Clara
Matilda, the daughter who died in infancy, Mrs. Wix, as Maisie
senses it, "was as droll as a charade or an animal toward the end

of the 'natural history' -- a person whom peOple, to make talk lively,

described to each other and imitated. "12

What eventually wins Maisie
to Mrs. Wix despite her grotesque traits is the instinctive feeling that
the funny lady has been a mother, which neither Miss Overmore nor
(strangely enough) mamma has ever been: "one couldn't rest with
quite the same tucked-in and kissed-for-night feeling" under the care
of Miss Overmore as one could with Mrs. Wix. There is safety in
the very poverty of Mrs. Wix. As Maisie soon learns from her, the
child is her only means of sustenance; therefore, when Mrs. Wix
takes her, Maisie feels that She will "never let her go."

The academic accomplishments Of the two governesses differ
as widely as their appearances. Miss Overmore's academic qualifica-
tions can not be doubted; Mrs. Wix, as a governess, is "beyond a joke. "
But she knows "swarms of stories" with wealth of detail for Maisie's
delight: "They were all about love and beauty and countesses and wicked-

ness.”

This "great garden of romance" which Mrs. Wix supplies for
her pupil and their endless talks about Sir Claude, who has charmed

both pupil and teacher, constitute most of Mrs. Wix's classroom

 

12
"What Maisie Knew, " p. 25.

266

lessons. With all her ineptitude as a teacher, Mrs. Wix gives to
Maisie's precarious existence a sense of stability as well as an air
of story-book romance at an age when for a child "all stories are
true and all conceptions are stories. " Neither her beautiful mamma
nor the charming Miss Overmore can do as much. It might appear,
then, that in Mrs. Wix the author gives us the ironic contrast to
the physically beautiful peOple of the tale. Mrs. Wix, who is Often
concerned with Maisie's "moral sense" and the lack of it in the world
in which the child has to live, is ugly and strange. Through her
"straighteners, " however, she is on the lookout for moral corruption
among the attractive ladies and gentlemen who have all the good looks
but none of the virtues. She is indeed often thought by James' critics
to indicate the moral norm of the story. On closer examination,
however, the ever-present Mrs. Wix proves to be a more complex
creation than virtue wearing the garb of ugliness.

The further one reads into the story, the more one dislikes
Mrs. Wix. Structurally she serves to familiarize the reader with
the various immoral attachments and hidden designs among the other
characters beyond the level -' Maisie herself could either understand
or project. As a character in her own right, she turns more andmore

into a moral zealot who seems to enjoy both a self-righteous sense

of moral superiority toward the other characters and an actual

267

delight in peeking into their sordid affairs. From her mother, Maisie
learns that there are some things for a child "not to go into" and

others, such as her father's flirtatous relationship with Miss Overmore,
for which her ladyship might "come down" on them all. These are
vaguely stated directives for the child's behavior toward an immense
and impenetrable adult world, but they keep her on the level of a child.
Mrs. Wix, while forcing the consciousness of a "moral sense" upon

her charge, also seeks to unmask and to explain to her all the moral
ugliness which lies in the unfathomed depth of the adult world. Ironically
then, it is less the child's Openly immoral mother than her emphatically
moral governess that contributes toward Maisie's premature disillusion-
ment with the world. It is mostly with Mrs. Wix that Maisie learns to
feign a SOphisticated knowledge of the world which in actuality she does
not possess. Thus she encourages the old lady to exPound her favorite
topics in greater and greater detail until finally the child gains, if not

a clear knowledge Of the kind of moral corruption around her, at least

a sense of its existence behind the attractive surfaces of her parents
and step-parents. The final touch of irony in the Maisie-Mrs. Wix
relationship comes with the child's realization that the Old woman

can make compromises regarding her "moral sense" once she is
properly fed and courted by the great of the world. This bit of

knowledge lends the finishing touch to Maisie's early education in

268

the ways of the world, but it also changes her from a passive observer
who has been dominated by grown-up schemes (Mrs. Wix's "moral
sense" being one of them) toward becoming an active manager Of her
own fate. The Maisie who claims her independence from Mrs. Wix's
"moral sense" at the end of the story has "something still deeper than
a moral sense" to guide her; whatever its name, it is of her own crea-
tion and, in Sir Claude's words, "the most beautiful thing G18 has)
ever met. " It is clear that Maisie herself and not Mrs. Wix repre-
sents the moral norm of the story and that it is not a simple norm.
One only needs to examine closely James' satiric method in sketching
the portrait of Mrs. Wix to see that he does not intend her rise in

the material world to be taken as a Sign of the superiority of her
celebrated "moral sense, " although that "moral sense" appears to

be the victor in the battles over Maisie.

Mrs. Wix gains in grotesque magnificence as she strives to
take possession of Maisie and, through her, of Sir Claude. She sees
herself as the moral guide of Sir Claude and presses upon him her
plan through which she, Maisie and her step-father would form an
alliance away from her ladyship's unpredictable moods. As Mrs. Wix
sees it, Sir Claude should provide them with a little home of their
own which the three of them can share under her moral guidance.

With a child's intuition, Maisie feels that Mrs. Wix requires too

269

much Of her step-father. Sir Claude himself is more direct as he
exclaims: "Dear Mrs. Wix is magnificent, but she's rather too
grand about it. I mean the situation isn't after all quite SO desperate

13 . . .
For the reader, Maisie's unvo1ced Observa-

or quite so Simple. "
tion and Sir Claude's statement cut Mrs. Wix down to size: she is
assuming a dominance over other peOple's lives out of prOportion
with her abilities. Solving the moral problems of a SOphisticated
man of the world is not a matter for Mrs. Wix.

When Mrs. Wix arrives in France, where Sir Claude has
taken Maisie, she has discarded her dingy robes and parades in
"fine draperies" supplied by her employers, alternately Ida and
Sir Claude. Her new smartness appears incongruous with her odd
person and serves to stress the by now greatly inflated idea she has
Of herself. The governess has definitely come to take charge not
only of Maisie but of Sir Claude as well. Moreover, she comes
securely endorsed by Maisie's mother. For Mrs. Wix, Ida has
changed now from the bad woman who had not properly appreciated
her services into kindness itself. Her ladyship has recognized "the

importance for Maisie of agentlewoman, of some one who's not -—

well, so bad!" This someone good is, of course, Mrs. Wix herself.

 

13"What Maisie Knew, " p. 107.

270

With such endorsement behind her, the old woman sees herself on
the level of her backer. She has come to keep Sir Claude decent,
to save him from the wickedness of Mrs. Beale. As the poor man
attempts to shake her off with more firmness than before, Mrs. Wix
upbraids him for his "princely" tone with her, then pours out a flood
of grandiloquence worthy Of Ida herself. It is about her readiness to
serve him better than Mrs. Beale ever could and about her devotion
to Maisie and her stepfather. "Here I am, here I am!" Mrs. Wix
cries, as if Offering herself to the young man "for strange offices
and devotions, for ridiculous replacements and substitutions. "14
The barb of satire is sharp in this picture of the old woman who
clearly has forgotten her place and in the name of moral goodness
strives to dominate Sir Claude. Her strange infatuation with the
young man, her jealousy of Mrs. Beale, his young mistress, and
her at time flirtatious ways of pleading with him make her appearance
and demands more and more fantastic. From her grotesque magnifi-
cence the reader suspects that the moral passion Of Mrs. Wix is not,
after all, the pure flame she claims it to be.

In Sir Claude's absence, Mrs. Wix works on Maisie's "moral

sense. " This means instilling the child with the idea that Mrs. Beale

is a sinner "branded by the Bible, " and using Maisie's sense Of pity

 

14
"What Maisie Knew, " p. 263.

271

for herself. To the girl's timid protestations that Mrs. Beale is good
and beautiful and that she loves her, Mrs. Wix poses the cruel question:
"And I'm hideous and you hatepip?" To understand why Mrs. Wix is
good and Mrs. Beale bad when Sir Claude obviously pays them both
for some services is beyond the child's grasp. There is, indeed,
some ironic truth in her suggestion -- if Mrs. Beale is a kept woman,
Mrs. Wix, in view of her actual worth as a governess, is pretty much
in the same position. That Mrs. Wix can be bought is proved soon
enough when the hated Mrs. Beale tries "to make love" to the old
woman. Mrs. Beale attempts to win her to her own side and thus

to secure Maisie and through Maisie the presence of Sir Claude

whom she is in danger of losing. Once the wicked world pays

court to Mrs. Wix, she looks more kindly upon the hideous sins

she had seen there before. In a flash the child perceives the
flexibility of Mrs. Wix's "moral sense" and with it the coldly
calculating nature of her seemingly loving step-mother. Shaken

by her discovery, Maisie demands to know whether Mrs. Wix now
adores Mrs. Beale because of her step-mother's sweet manner.

Mrs. Wix resorts to evasiveness, first upbraiding the girl for

her new decisive tone, then calling her "most remarkable" for

such conclusions. In her response -- "I think you've done a great

deal to make me so, " -- Maisie, while not knowing it herself, has

272

given the reader the ironic truth of her situation. Mrs. Wix 2335. made
her "remarkable": she has so well educated Maisie to look for the sins
Of the world that the child is able to suspect even Mrs. Wix's "moral
sense." From now on, she will use her own eyes rather than the

codes of Mrs. Wix to get by in the world.

AS was shown, the satire around Mrs. Wix involves the mock-
magnificence Of her person as the counterpart to her warped moral
sense which seeks spiritual possession of those she attempts to edu-
cate to the moral life. As her vision is myOpic, so is her over-
simplified view of the moral problems of living peOple. The short-
comings of Mrs. Wix's moral vision are exposed as she rises to
importance and as Maisie's wide-eyed wonder is turned more and
more upon her with questioning glances.

Miss Overmore, Maisie's other governess, is the very
contrast to the dingy Mrs. Wix. Miss Overmore is all charm,
grace, youth and elegance, and she easily establishes herself in
the house of Beale Farange, charms its master, and becomes the
second Mrs. Beale Farange (called Mrs. Beale to distinguish her
from the first Mrs. Farange) and Maisie's step-mother in short
order. It is mainly as Mrs. Beale the step-mother and the Opponent
to Mrs. Wix, Maisie's governess at Ida's house, that she asserts
her influence over the child. If Mrs. Wix is overwhelming and

1

even in her absence seems to be 'intensely" waiting for her turn,

273

Mrs. Beale is vague, hushed, full of myseries. Mrs. Wix Oppresses
with her sordid explanations of things; Mrs. Beale puzzles with her
concealments and lightly dropped hints. To keep up with Mrs. Wix's
explanations, Maisie feigns sophisticated understanding of them;
around the mysteries of Mrs. Beale, she resorts to the waiting
game: "sometimes, patient little silences and intelligent little
looks could be rewarded by delightful little glimpses" about the
state of affairs which is always in one way or another "involved. "
Mrs. Wix at her grandest takes Maisie into the frightening regions
of a nightmare; the world of satire in which Mrs. Beale moves is
like a pleasant dreamland with no sharply edged objects of reality.
There is motherly safety in the hug Of the terrible Mrs. Wix; the
"rich strong expressive affection" the pretty Mrs. Beale bestows,
especially when Sir Claude is present, frightens the child no less
than the unpredictable endearments of mamma. To come to terms
with Mrs. Wix means to pierce through her layer of "moral sense";
to shake the influence of Mrs. Beale, one must see what is under
her affections and that is a harder matter than Mrs. Wix's "moral
sense."

There is plenty of affection for Maisie before Miss Overmore
becomes Mrs. Beale. The darling child is indiSpensable to her governess

and papa -- she keeps them "perfectly proper. " When Sir Claude first

274

comes to see his wife's daughter at her father's house, Mrs. Beale
hugs Maisie most charmingly: Sir Claude, by his Own admission,
is a born family man; Mrs. Beale picks up the hint and poses as a
loving family woman which her ladyship at the other house obviously
is not. When Mrs. Beale becomes intimate with Sir Claude, she
engages in bolder maneuvers at Maisie's expense, because the

girl admires him greatly and is not likely to suspect her step-
mother's doings whenever her step-father is involved. By subtle
manipulations, Mrs. Beale tries to establish herself with Sir
Claude as Beale Farange is fading out of the scene. Maisie is
returned to her father's house from her stay at Ida's so that she
might lend an air of propriety to her step-father's visits with

Mrs. Beale. But Sir Claude, as Mrs. Beale obscurely explains,

is "awfully delicate" and would rather postpone the visits than get
Maisie "mixed up" in the affair. In a delightfully ironic scene be-
tween Maisie and her step-mother, Mrs. Beale in her customary
vagueness agrees with the child's h0pefu1 suggestions that there
could not be any harm in the doings between Sir Claude and herself
and therefore no harm for Maisie "being mixed" in them. The girl
is full of admiration for the loveliness of her step-parents, of their
"fatal gift" of charm (a phrase she has picked up from the SOphisti-

cated slang of the grown-ups), and hOpefully describes their coming

275

into her life as "a new phase." The "fresh enthusiasm" with which
Mrs. Beale returns from some vaguely explained meeting with Sir
Claude gives Maisie the happy feeling that she is "very clear at
least to two persons. " In contrast to her mother, who can be
Openly cruel, there are no sharp contrasts of black and white in
the manner of Mrs. Beale, and all her actions have too cheerful

a rosy glow about them for Maisie to suspect any evil. To this
rosy surface the child clings as long as she can in Spite of

Mrs. Wix's constant digging into the ugliness behind to under-
mine Mrs. Beale's hold over her.

The time arrives, however, for Maisie to see through
the cheerful ng surrounding her step-mother. Mrs. Beale, as
Mrs. Wix, has her hour of eloquence, Of talk "so brilliant and
overflowing as to represent music and banners. " Maisie has
learned from the experience with her own mother to look for
hidden meanings behind the great flow of words and suspects
now her step-mother's flattering talk to Mrs. Wix:

She talked mainly to her other neighbour curs.

Wix), and that left Maisie leisure both to note

the manner in which eyes were riveted and

nudges interchanged, and to lose herself in

the meanings that dimly as yet and discon-

nectedly, but with a vividness that fed ap-

prehension, she could begin to read i to
her step-mother's independent move.

 

15"What Maisie Knew, " p. 300.

 

 

 

276

For the first time Maisie has a chance to see Mrs. Beale "work"
somebody else besides herself, and the method is now magnified
enough for the child to suSpect its charming slickness. As the
satiric light focusses on Mrs. Beale and her "love making, "
Maisie begins to sense the true nature of her step-mother's
"fatal gift" and terminates her happy "new phase" under

Mrs. Beale by refusing to live with her again.

Compared to the other figures, floating around and snatch-
ing up Maisie, the charming Sir Claude suffers less from the satiric
attacks of his creator. The irony reserved for him does not so much
turn him into a grotesque as expose his all too human nature. He is,
nevertheless, joined in the dance of the other grotesques by the
structural moves through which the author yokes him with Mrs. Beale.
His entrance in the story is marked by the thrice repeated phrase
tossed from Sir Claude to Maisie and from Maisie to Mrs. Beale
about the child's having brought Mrs. Beale and her step-father
together. The repetition turns Maisie's proud accomplishment
into a ludicrous chant with ironic implications foreshadowing the
licentious relationship between the step-parents. This affair is
to undergo the same grotesque steps as the partings and re-locations
of the girl's parents. Amidst the doubled-up marry-gO-round sits

the child with a turned up gaze of wonderment and fear: she senses

 

'I [It (1) 1111 I'll"

 

 

277

the time approaching when "with two fathers, two mothers and two
homes, Six protections in all, She shouldn't know 'wherever' to go. "
If Sir Claude, besides his grotesque dance with Mrs. Beale,
still Shares some of the unearthliness of the other adult characters
in the story, it is mainly through the magnifying lens of the girl's
imagination which turns him into one of the knights of Mrs. Wix's
romances. It is, in fact, Mrs. Wix, who brings his photograph to
Maisie with the announcement of her mother's prospective marriage.
Both governess and pupil are lost "in admiration of the fair smooth
face, the regular features, the kind eyes, the amiable air, the
general glossiness and smartness of her prospective step-father. "
When he comes himself, his smile drops in Maisie's consciousness
with the promise "as bright as that of a Christmas tree. " The rest
of their acquaintance is for the child a trip through fairy land, with
enchanting walks in sunlit parks, with treats in coffee shops, cakes
sent to the school room and a foreign trip to tOp it all. All her
fears of being deserted someday by everybody disappear in the
ecstasy of packing for abroad with her step-father: "it clearly
wouldn't be this day. " The fast-moving scenes of the travel give

her the heightened sense Of an extraordinary experience: there

 

1
6"What Maisie Knew, " p. 48.

 

lll’ljl‘ll‘llll-J

278

are banquets and savory dishes and the excitement of crowds to add
"to the joy of life." In this enchanted land, the most irrestible things
are Sir Claude's easy ways; Maisie is his "Old Fellow" and the two
Of them are exploring the world as a couple of devoted pals. Thus
the sway of Sir Claude's magic wand prevents the girl from ad-
mitting that he is not true to her at all times. She brushes away
her growing suspicions that he lies about his meetings with Mrs.
Beale to preserve her precious relationship with the step-father.
Only the realization that, after all, Mrs. Beale counts more for
him than the combination of Mrs. Wix and herself forces Maisie
to side with the old woman who, as the girl has been told Often
enough, would be on the streets if not employed as her governess.
For the reader, the exposure of Sir Claude begins with
his visits to Maisie's school-room at her mother's house. During
one of them, for example, Sir Claude, in order to escape the con-
stant pressure of Mrs. Wix to provide for the three of them, re-
sorts to high-sounding general promises never to forsake Maisie.
By a stroke of comic irony, James turns the whole scene upside
down when at this solemn pronouncement all three participants
break down in sobs, with Mrs. Wix being "the only one who made
a noise. " Against the moving gratitude of the child, both the

sentimentality of Mrs. Wix and the vacillating nature of Sir Claude

279

become subjects of ridicule. One way or another, Sir Claude always
tends to escape binding decisions. His most successful way of doing
this is by changing threatening topics into "gratuitous jokes and
generalities. " In this he is quite the match to Mrs. Beale's "love

' Through Sir Claude's evasive maneuvers, the reader per-

making. '
ceiveS the well-meaning but weak man who truly cares for his step-
daughter but gets forever sidetracked from his efforts to provide
for her by what he calls his "fear" of either Ida or Mrs. Beale,

his fear, which is so aptly illustrated by his long glances at pretty
ladies and at the fine limbs of a passing fisherwoman and by his
readiness to comply with Mrs. Beale's plans as he emerges from
her hotel room. In the cast of the magnified figures displayed
around the centrally placed Maisie, Sir Claude comes the closest
to being an unexaggerated sketch Of a character with human charms
and weaknesses.

There seems, then, to be a scale ranging from the bizarre
toward the more human in which the adult characters of the story
are placed. The more exaggerated characters give the appearance
of impersonations of single dominating passions. Here belong the
carnality of Ida lurking under her lavishly dressed, heavily made-

up person, and the greed of Beale Farange Shining in the very

whitness of his teeth. Mrs. Wix with her moral zeal and the need

280

to possess human souls comes close behind. She is saved from the
total grotesquery of the Faranges only at the very end of the story
when She achieves an amount of true dignity by her refusal to be
completely compromised by Mrs. Beale. She is ready enough to
form an alliance of three, with Mrs. Beale for employer and Maisie
for a charge but balks at the idea Of Sir Claude joining them as
Mrs. Beale's lover. Mrs. Beale's prettiness is not tainted by

the suggestion of the ugly which always lurks behind the broadly
painted handsomeness of the Faranges. Because Of this, her
myseterious flutters, concealments and engaging ways mark her

as the worldly woman bent on success by any means available to
her rather than as a representative of a single viéze.. On the

other hand, she is more dangerous because she is harder to un-
mask than the truly grotesque figures Of the Faranges. Sir Claude
shares some of Mrs. Beale's charms and mysteries, and, as was
pointed out, parallels her stylized movements. He is endowed,
however, with fine sensitivity and human compassion, faculties
which seem largely lacking in the other adult characters. It seems
natural that he should be the one to "explain" Maisie to the reader
more than any Of the other grown-ups.can. Maisie, as the common
sense figure of the satire, does not share their grotesqueries, but

they in turn, cannot register her own growth adequately because

281

they are not human enough to see it fully. Thus the sensitive, human
Sir Claude, who is also closely involved with the child, is needed to

point up what he terms to be the "exquisite" or '

'sacred" quality of
the Maisie who is stepping out of her childhood at the end of her
story. James' carefully balanced scale of grotesques, then, gives
him the necessary means of traveling between the world of satire
and the world of reality behind it at any moment of the story. The
gaze of the child illuminates and magnifies the figures for satiric
exposure as they move by and they in turn expose the innocence
and charm of the i_g_e_ri\\_1_ character. As Tony Tanner puts it:

(James) wants to make the naive zero central, but

he wants the adult reader to see the neighbouring

numbers; numbers which Maisie cannot make out,

but which Show up in fierce clarity by reason Of

their proximity to the luminous zero.

For the "exquisite" Maisie who departs from her childhood,
one needs to examine the final chapters of the work. Here the last
struggle over the possession of Maisie takes place with Mrs. Beale
now trying to secure the loyalty of Mrs. Wix, now attempting to have
Sir Claude get rid of the old woman altogether. Sir Claude has re -

joined the three women at BoulOgne and spent the night with Mrs. Beale.

The two seem to have smoothed out their differences. To Maisie, who

 

17
"The Range of Wonderment" in his The Reign Of Wonder (London,

1965), p. 281.

 

282

runs to greet her step-father, he appears like a changed man. Between
their breakfast coffee and tartines for Maisie, she senses the approach
of one more sacrifice she will be asked to make-~the giving up of

Sir Claude. She is shaken by fear in the face of this immense task.
What her step-father asks her explicitly, however, is the sacrifice

of Mrs. Wix. As Maisie understands, Mrs. Beale won't leave, and
Mrs. Beakplus Mrs. Wix make things "fearfully awkward" for

Sir Claude. As with her papa, Maisie wants to ease him out of an

"sacrifice" and to "betray"

awkward situation, but his asking her to
Mrs. Wix for the purpose is a serious matter. Maisie feels she
cannot abandon Mrs. Wix to destitution, but takes most of the day
to postpone the painful decision which will mean a farewell to
Sir Claude and thus to all that has been charming and carefree in
her childhood:

The only touch was that of Sir Claude's hand, and

to feel her own in it was her mute resistance to

time. She went about as sightlessly as if he had been

leading her blindfold. If they were afraid of them-

selves it was themselves they would find at the

inn 8
A train goes off to Paris, a boat leaves for England, both imagine
themselves landed and escaping, but neither moves. The way is

back to the inn to find themselves, to take up a world of reSponsi-

bilities. There is Mrs. Beale awaiting Sir Claude and Mrs. Wix

 

18"What Maisie Knew, " p. 342.

283

lost without Maisie. If a clean sacrifice is tO be made, Sir Claude
ought to be giving up Mrs. Beale for Maisie's giving up Mrs. Wix.
Tremulously the girl suggests such a choice but in his surprised,
"Oh!" sees that her idol is not prepared to comply with her request.
From here on, the way is clear -- they have understood each other,
and their actions at the inn proceed from this unspoken agreement.
On the surface, the final scene resembles the other re-
nunciations Maisie has been asked to make. There are subtle
differences, however. 19 When upon their return to the inn, the
two face Mrs. Wix's shabby traveling boxes in the hallway ( a sign
to indicate that Mrs. Wix has understood herself defeated and is
clearing out), Maisie feels direct responsibility for the old woman's
fate. She has also found out for sure that Mrs. Wix cannot be worked
into Sir Claude's future in any way. At this point her step-father an-
nounces to the two awaiting women that Maisie has refused to give
up Mrs. Wix, a decision she has not explicitly stated yet. He is
not being Beale Farange all over again and forcing his own decision
upon the child, however. MaisieELs indeed made her decision, but
Sir Claude gives her a chance now to repudiate his announcement

(which she promptly does) and thus Spares her the pain of Openly

 

For a close, sensitive reading of this scene, see Hynes (op. cit).

284

renouncing himself. Maisie, in turn, can once more ask her step-
father and Mrs. Beale to give up each other -- their negative reactions,
which she now expects, preclude her necessity of open renunciation of
each by herself and of choosing Mrs. Wix over their heads. While
solving her problem in this way and while the two women in the back-
ground engage in a ludicrous battle over her soul, Maisie feels
"something still deeper than a moral sense" being born in her. All
she knows herself is that she has to settle with Mrs. Wix to provide
for both Sir Claude and the old woman. For herself, she has lost
everything -- Sir Claude and with him her childhood. But she has given
up the two as best she could, and as his final tribute to her, the step-
father has helped her along. Over the closed deed their eyes can meet
"as the eyes of those who have done for each other what they could. "
She has lost her dream, but she has also lost her fear and she has made
Sir Claude for Once make a firm decision -— not to desert Mrs. Beale and
thereby perhaps to expose Maisie to her schemes again.

In "What Maisie Knew, " the reader has witnessed "the girl's

n29

'subjective' adventure into the world which looms large and mysterious
around her, at once terrifying and inviting. It is a world projected

through the satirist's magnifying 'glass, a world which in Frye's terms

 

zolam applying here James' phrase used in connection with the heroine
of "In the Cage, " in the Preface to Vol. XI of the New York Edition,
p. xxi.

 

 

285

is "full of anomalies, injustices, follies, and crimes, and yet is
permanent and undiSplaceable. " To function in this world, Maisie,

' must

very much like Frye's 513132 of the satire of "the low norm, '
learn first of all to keep her eyes Open and her mouth Shut. Thus
she gathers impressions about the nature of this world and eventu-
ally takes her place in it and conducts herself upon the strength Of
her daily earned wisdom rather than upon any established dogma.
In this too She follows the ways of the _e_ir_02 of a satire; she will
never again be dominated by Mrs. Wix, but has simply accepted
her inescapable presence as a bundle of old conventions, long es-
tablished but harmless to one who has learned the commonsense
way of handling them as Maisie obviously has at the end Of the story.
"Just £11.33}; me, dear; that's all!" she replies to the old woman's
worries about finding herself in the proximity of Mrs. Beale's
licentiousness with Sir Claude. While Maisie is repeating here a
grown-up phrase to appear SOphisticated, she ironically has told
the truth: at the end she takes Mrs. Wix in tow with the assurance
that She knows what she wants, while the Old lady is still lost in
wonder "at what Maisie knew. "

The resolution of Maisie's story does not impress the

reader, however, as a happy ending of a comedy. Maisie, as the

representative Of the "normal" world of the satiric structure,

286

neither completely defeats the "absurd" world nor escapes it. Mrs. Wix,
after all, is part of the "absurd" and this part Maisie can only learn to
manage but not to dispose of. When I say that Mrs. Wix is the world
Of conventions, it must also be admitted that by turning Mrs. Wix into
a grotesque, the satirist has scrutinized the sources and values of con-
ventions themselves and has found them wanting. Therefore, when
Maisie leaves with Mrs. Wix, she has not achieved a diSplacement
of the absurd or satirized society but carries a part of it with her.
Because of that, by the end of her story there is no happy relief but
"deserts of futility Open up on all sides, and we have in spite of the
humor, a sense of nightmare and a close proximity to something

21
demonic. "

It can be concluded that Maisie's story is "the human predica-
ment intensified and made objective"22 through the satirist's gaze
which sees the sordid, even the demonic, as an undisplaceable part
Of the experience of living. Maisie needs her grotesque dancers
around her to drive the satirist's point home. When, as in chapter XX,
James removes them for some pages and lets the child muse in

silence about Sir Claude's intentions with the foreign trip, She loses

much of the sharpness that returns again with the entrance of Ida at

 

21Frye, p. 226.

22Wright, p. 164.

287

Folkstone. Immediately the scene lights up in wit, pathos and ironic
exposures of the participants (comic as well as demonic) -- in all

things one expects to find in a successful satire.

Part 2.

The Awkward Age has often been compared to "What Maisie

 

Knew" and with some justification. Nanda, in a way, takes over where
Maisie leaves Off. Maisie covers her childhood at a rapid pace and is
rushed into adolescence by a world which rather exploits than protects
her innocence. Nanda's world, with all its surface respectability,
meets her in a similar manner. The adolescent Nanda, who hovers
at the edge of her mother's drawing room, has gathered some com-
passionate insight into human affairs from the snatches of experience
(where the sordid is never far from the polished surface) available to
her. Like Maisie, she comes through essentially uncorrupted but at
the expense of lost illusions about her most charming friends. Like
the moral beauty of Maisie, the independent spirit of Nanda has
managed to grow on a soil inimical to such growth. As Nanda de-
parts from her adolescence, there hangs about the young woman an
air Of maturity which the eternally youthful Mrs. Brookenham, her
mother, will never achieve. Indeed, Nanda has been made to provide
for this youthfulness at the sacrifice of her own.

The society around Nanda could be called an enlargement

of the world of charm shared by Mrs. Beale and Sir Claude, where

288

289

under the cloak of reSpectability selfish designs and licentious affairs
are carried out. The "temple of analysis" of Mrs. Brookenham, how-
ever, has an additional feature which makes it into a more fascinating
if more deceptive society than the one Mrs. Beale manipulates. The
world Of Buckingham Crescent prides itself on its free talk and un-
prejudiced exploration of life. Naturally Nanda, with her youthful
eagerness, looks forward to hearing all the talk with the hope "that

it helps to form the young mind. " Ironically, her mind is formed in
a rather unexpected way when she discovers that the very apostles Of
freedom cherish stale conventionality as the final measure of things.
This discovery brings about her maturity but also her retreat from
the fashionable world of Buckingham Crescent -- her penetrating
gaze makes things look indeed awkward there. It is not an accident

that James' narrative technique in The Awkward Age is a highly

 

dramatized way of story telling. To project a society as intriguing
and deceptive as Mrs. Brook's "temple of analysis, " the author

does well to check his own presence in the story. He confines him-
self only to what could be called stage directions added to the Speeches
of the participants. Through these he alerts the reader as to the
postures, appearances, and gestures of the speakers and thus

gives him an Opportunity to discern some discrepancies between

290

what is being said and the hidden motives behind the talk without

lessening the atmosphere of duplicity which he needs for satiric
1

purposes.

Contrary to Maisie, Nanda is not anchored at the center of
her story with the Obvious firmness of Maisie. She seems to be per-
petually and precariously lingering at the edge of it the same way she
lingers at the edge of her mother's social circle. Structurally as
well as thematically this arrangement means that Buckingham
Crescent, with Mrs. Brook (short for Brookenham) as its star per-
former, plays a very important part in the story; so important, in
fact, that at least one critic believes that Mrs. Brook and not Nanda
is the heroine of the story. 2 I believe, however, that we have to

grant Nanda the honor. If her mother, and, by implication, her

whole society work to expose and to reject Nanda, it is Nanda in

 

l .
The importance of structure as a key to the meaning of The Awkward

Age is explored in Eben Bass' "Dramatic Scene and The Awkward Age, "
PMLA, (March 1967), 148-157. Bass sees the novel as divided into
two contending halves: Mrs. Brook governs the conversational or
"scenic" books and Mr. Longdon, her moral antagonist, the less
"scenic" ones which are closer to being "pictures" in the Jamesian
sense. (James' distinction between "picture" and "scene" is taken
from his Preface to The Ambassadors.)

 

 

 

2
Dupee, p. 198.

291

turn, who has the final say in the satiric exposure of this society.
Moreover, it is Nanda who gains the reader's sympathy during her
controversial stay at Buckingham Crescent and who carries it away
with her securely when she departs.

The stress on the world of Buckingham Crescent, perhaps

more than any other device, marks The Awkward Age as a satire.

 

Buckingham Crescent represents the "absurd" society versus Nanda,
who stands for the better or "normal" world. She suggests the pos-
sibility of some humane ideal which cannot be reached within the
limits of Buckingham Crescent. Since in the satirist's vision,
the "absurd" world is also the human world as he chooses to see
it, much time is usually devoted in a work of satire to the anomalies

of this world. As Alvin Kernan explains it:

Although there is always at least a suggestion of

some kind of humane ideal in satire . . . this ideal

is never heavily stressed, for in the satirist's

vision of the world decency is forever in a pre-

carious position near the edge of extinction, and

the world is about to pass into eternal darkness.

Consequently, every effort is made to empgiasize

the destroying ugliness and power of vice.

In The Awkward Age, "the destroying ugliness and power of vice"

 

reveals itself in the chattering, glittering society of Buckingham

Crescent; the humane ideal can"only be perceived in the slight figure

 

The Cankered Muse: Satire of the English Renaissance, (New Haven,
1959). p. 11.

 

292

of Nanda lingering at the edge of this society and in her two honest
friends, Mitchy and Mr. Longdon. In Nanda, if compared to Maisie
then, we have a different use of the ingenu figure for satiric pur-
poses. She is not the centrally placed 31122 but what Frye calls

the ingenu outsider to the "absurd" society. As such she has no
dogmatic views, "but (she) grants none of the premises which make
the absurdities of (this) society look logical to those accustomed to
them."4 While not the pastoral character herself which her kind

of ingenu figure is likely to be, she is closely associated with one
in Mr. Longdon, who arrives from some less complicated world
(his country place at Beccles, Suffolk) with a set of Simple standards
against which the complex rationalizations of Buckingham Crescent
are measured. Thus Nanda and Mr. Longdon can be said to divide
the ingenu role between them. But while they are about it, they
also complicate this role.

Mr. Longdon, through his relationship with Nanda, loses
some of his pastoral simplicity; that is to say, he modifies his
standards to adjust them to the changed times since his last en-
counter with society. In search of the lost image of Lady Julia,

Nanda's dead grandmother and his ideal of purity and innocence,

 

Frye, p. 232.

293

he comes across Nanda, who has her grandmother's looks but whose
straightforwardness, self-assurance and grave serenity strike him
first as worldly when measured against the remembered shyness
and carefree gaiety of Lady Julia. Mr. Longdon soon comes to

see, however, that she lacks neither purity nor innocence, but that
Nanda could not be an identical Lady Julia because of the distance

Of time between their existences. Indeed, Nanda's uncorrupted
Spirit eventually strikes him as extraordinary against the social
background of her mother's house.

If Mr. Longdon modifies his pastoral simplicity to incor-
porate Nanda in the world Of Beccles, the girl on her part has to
undergo a final purgation of the spirit of Buckingham circle to meet
him halfway. Nanda moves through her mother's house as if through
a world of a dislocated fairy-tale. The seemingly benevolent Duchess,
who poses as her fairy godmother, has her own gains in mind, and
Mrs. Brook only professes motherly devotion while like a cruel
step-mother she is ready to sell her daughter to the highest bidder.
Mitchy, the suitor favored by the mother, has all the wealth and
the capacity for romantic love of a Prince Charming, but he has
none of the princely graces for Nanda to recognize him as one.
Vanderbank, who fits the outward image of the fairy prince, hides

a stale priggish personality which Nanda mistakes for "a kind of

ll

294

delicacy" and strives to measure up to it. Only when she has seen
the true quality of Van's "delicacy" and learned to accept herself
for what she is (as Mr. Longdon has) can she enter the world of
Beccles with him as a simplified presence -- without the artificial
prejudices of Buckingham Crescent.

After his exposure to the SOphisticated society, the ingenu
outsider usually departs for some either unattainable or over-
simplified existence. As he does SO, he becomes a target of the
satirist's attacks for his utOpian presumptions the same way the
complex rationalizations of the "absurd" society have been attacked.

In the case of The Awkward Age, however, the reader's attention

 

is not directed toward Beccles as a utOpian shelter from the com-
plexities of life. If one wishes to speculate, it could be assumed
that Beccles will be spared the ridiculous fate of a never-never
land since neither Nanda nor Mr. Longdon will arrive there with
Longdon's initial simplicity. Be it as it may, the thematic stress

in The Awkward Age, from beginning to end, remains on Nanda

 

versus Buckingham Crescent. Against her honest directness,
the eloquent, self-congratulating chatter of the devotees of the
"temple Of analysis" is exposed as basically insincere and shallow

in intentions when important human concerns come in question.

But as in "Maisie, " the society in which the innocent moves,

295

besides its overwhelming sordidness, ironically also contains a
touch of beauty, a handful of hope. Thus it still is the human world
as we know it even if the satirist's touch has magnified its vices and
deprived it Of most of the joys. For Nanda it is, after all, a world
where her Short coming out or, in her own words, "one crowded
hour of glorious life" takes place. Her voice, however, does not
carry a happy tone as she says it, and she moves through her short
hour of hOpe also with a sense of doom that she may not marry and
arrange for herself while it lasts. Consequently, her expulsion
from Buckingham Crescent seems to extinguish most of her hOpes
for herself and to accent the moral ambiguity of the society she
leaves behind as being a force against which her chances for an in-
dividual existence based on sincerity and moral integrity are almost
non-existent. At the end of the story, the substitute society which
Nanda and Mr. Longdon arrange for themselves and partly also

for Mitchy, seems to be only a speck of sunlight when measured
against the uncanny splendor of Buckingham Crescent.

To examine the satire Of The Awkward Age, one must, as

 

it appears, examine Buckingham Crescent with Mrs. Brook as its
chief representative and with Nanda and Mr. Longdon as its Oppo-
nents. The action of the story could be called Nanda's ironic

journey into experience, and it reveals itself through a mother-

296

daughter conflict, a conflict which is handled as an undercover plot
by the mother against the daughter. Nanda has to be incorporated
into grown-up society, but for Mrs. Brook it means some toning
down of "the good talk" at her salon should Nanda be present. It
has also occurred to her that she may lose to the daughter the most
cherished ornament of her circle, Mr. Vanderbank. Thus Nanda's
absences from the social gatherings are encouraged and ways are
sought to prevent Van's prOposal. Structurally it means that Nanda
is completely absent from several chapters, or books, of the work
(four of the total of ten) and that her entrances in the other books
are comparatively short except for her dominant presence in the
last book. It also means that there are very few direct encounters

between mother and daughter, namely just two -- a short tEte-a-tgte

 

at the end of Book VI, Mrs. Brook's book, and the dramatic exposure
of Nanda by her mother at Tishy Grendon's dinner party (Book VIII)
in the presence of other peOple. As one might expect, Nanda's ab-
sences are used by Mrs. Brook for subversive scheming against
the girl, her presences for more direct attacks.

Her frequent absences notwithstanding, Nanda's presence
is felt all through the story. When she is not on the scene, her
name comes up in the talk of others. The reasons for her pro-

longed absences are questioned, and Mrs. Brook usually explains

297

them by alluding to the independent ways of her "modern daughter. "
She has a way of reporting Nanda's comments on and encounters with
her supposedly experienced friends that would stress Nanda's own
knowingness in matters that should be beyond the knowledge of an
innocent young girl. She never misses such remarks when Vanderbank
is present and she can watch the young man's annoyance with them.
Thus it is an Obvious structural advantage that most Of Nanda's
appearances should exclude her mother to give the reader a chance
to weigh the image Of the daughter as created by Mrs. Brook in the
girl's absence against Nanda as She is exposed to his view directly.
There is an ironic discrepancy between the honest, direct dealings
of the girl and the oblique uses the mother makes of them in the
daughter's absence. Because Of such discrepancies, the reader
learns to suspect Mrs. Brook and her "absurd" society as the
"unreliable" characters whose speeches don't necessarily match
their hidden motives and to accept Nanda and Mr. Longdon as
speakers for the moral norm of the work.

Through the various dealings of Mrs. Brook with the in-
itiated members of her circle and with those who don't strictly
belong there as well as through her plans against the outsiders,
the reader enters the "absurd" society of Buckingham Crescent.

Mrs. Brook's "temple of analysis" could shortly be classified as

298

as a society of the "high burlesque" (Worcester's term), for its
carefully preserved illusion of warm humanity (almost everybody
there is "charming, " "wonderful," "magnificent, " "splendid, " and
is addressed as, "my dear," and "my love") and for its pretentious-
ness to serious intellectual endeavor. In reality it is only the manner
of the social intercourse that sounds warm, informal and high-spirited,
but the concerns behind the manner are either trivial or selfishly cold.
When Mrs. Brook complains to her friend Van about the restrictions
upon her intellectual habits Nanda's arrival in her drawing room has
caused, one might think she has some weighty matters in mind:

I happen to be so constituted that my life has some-

thing to do with my mind and my mind something to

do with my talk. Good talk: you know -- no one,

dear Van, should know better -- what part for me

that plays. Therefore when one has deliberately

to make one's talk bad -- !
The "good talk, " when Observed in action, amounts mostly to witty
exposures of other people's faults for the general amusement of
those "in the know, " or to subtle manipulations of other people for
one's own selfish ends.

Under the mask of amiable charm, Mrs. Brook has two
pressing ends to meet. Van has to be convinced, indirectly of

course and through the use of the less attractive characters Of

her acquaintance, that he does not want to propose to Nanda even

 

5The Awkward Age, p. 284.

 

299

if it is known that Mr. Longdon would "doter" her richly in case he

 

should. Nanda has to be settled with Mr. Longdon himself so that
she will be out of her mother's way and inherit Longdon's money

by the same stroke. As soon as Mrs. Brook sees the old gentle-
man's interest in Nanda and that he seems to disapprove of herself,
Mrs. Brook plans her strategies accordingly. While she praises
Nanda to Mr. Longdon, she also strives to stimulate his dislike

for herself and her circle so that he may wish to remove the girl
from her mother's sphere of influence. As Mrs. Brook tells her
husband at one point of the story, everybody can be made helpful

in settling Nanda with Mr. Longdon. The helpers include the "fools"
of her salon as well as the few distinguished wits, the "we" of the
"temple of analysis. " "The one who does most is of course Van
himself" in Mrs. Brook's estimation, and this means her success

in keeping him from proposing to Nanda and thus accelerating
Longdon's wish to provide for her himself. There is also Jane

the Duchess (a cousin to Edward Brookenham and a member of

the inner circle of the Brook salon), who helps a great deal, and
only Mr. Mitchett (called Mitchy in the informal spirit of Buckingham
Crescent), who next to Vanderbank or Old Van is Mrs. Brook's
other young man of wit, has to be left out of her list Of helpers.

This young and very rich man of humble beginnings hangs around

300

Buckingham Crescent not SO much because of any real Spiritual
affinity with the "temple of analysis, " but because of too much
leisure, boredom and, most Of all, because he is helplessly in
love with Nanda. While he takes most of Mrs. Brook's social
scheming with generous and amused tolerance, he is seldom
fooled by her maneuvers and speaks up Sharply when he thinks
Nanda is abused. Thus he waivers between Buckingham Crescent
and the two ingenu outsiders, Nanda and Mr. Longdon, and to-
gether with these forms the "reliable" cast of characters as
Opposed to the devotees of Mrs. Brook. These three the reader
learns to trust as guides toward the satiric exposures of the
Buckingham Circle group. Contrary to the burlesque figures,
they are not subject to satire, but, if at all, to some mild ironic
attacks by the author, as Mr. Longdon for his Open childlike
wonder about the complexities of modern society or Mitchy for
his strange outfit of ill assorted pieces by which he seeks to stress
his plain man's difference from the high society around him.

By pitting the two casts of characters against each other,
the author shuffles between the world of satire and the world of
reality for the reader's ironic insight. The careful groupings of
the characters, the entrances of the most important Ones among

them (by which the respective books or chapters of the story are

301

named), the elaborate scenic arrangements (the many ironic "lamps"
James focusses on Nanda's Situation), and most of all, the eloquence

of the participants, unfold the satiric drama of The Awkward Ape.

 

The first three books of the work could be called introductory. In
them we are introduced to the brilliance of Mrs. Brook's salon and
to the private and social selves of Mrs. Brook; to the young girls,
Aggie (niece of the Duchess) and Nanda, who ought to be married
well and soon; to the available bachelors, the homely but wealthy
Mitchy, and the handsome but moderately provided Vanderbank;
and to Mr. Longdon, who has arrived from the country "to try
(them) all. "

Mrs. Brook, being the leader of her group of burlesque
figures, has a greater variety of masks to meet the world than
any other character of her circle. Her private self has an air of
the sufferer who carries the burdens of the whole family. Her
carefree gaiety and brilliant wit is for the salon; at home she has
a scale of moods and appearances ranging from the indifferent and
disenchanted to the woeful and the dimly tragic. Behind these
delicate postures, however, she manages to handle such cold
facts of daily routines as instructing her son Harold in the art
of social climbing. While about it, Mrs. Brook complains with

lovely woeful vagueness and with childish innocence in her voice

302

about all the things she has to do to keep her family in society. Thus
she drives her household through a day's business with her appearance
as a lady unimpaired. Her cynical son Harold and the author's ironic
tone in describing Mrs. Brook's assumed postures help the reader see
the discrepancies between these postures and the motives that have
triggered them.

The witty, charming side of Mrs. Brook comes to the sur-
face with the arrival of her friends for the tea hour. Ahead of the
others comes the Duchess. She is a kind of antagonist and "standard"
against which Mrs. Brook measures her own success. The Duchess
arrives with her inevitable "system, " the question of rearing young
girls in the right way. Later she reappears with her niece Agnesina
or "little Aggie" as the living proof of her system -- nobody could
accuse the girl of knowing a thing about the world. Nanda's knowing-
ness (she spends a great deal of time with Tishy Grendon and her
sister Mrs. Donner, both unhappily married young women) and thus
her somewhat corrupt state is suggested against Aggie's purity.

Mrs. Brook, however, can manage any time to make the theories

of the Duchess look somewhat silly by lovingly calling them, "charming
and old-fashioned and . . . aristocratic, in a frowsy foolish way. "

For her part, she can cite Nanda as an outcome of her own system,

Obviously a more intelligent one than Jane's:

303

"I'm an English wife and an English mother -- I live

in the mixed English world. My daughter, at any

rate, is just my daughter, I thank my stars, and one

of a good English bunch: She's not the unique niece

of my dead Italian husband [as Aggie is), nor doubt-

less either, in spite of her excellent birth, of a

lineage, like Aggie's so very tremendous. I've my

life to lead and she's a part of it. "
SO far so good, and one might give Mrs. Brook the expected applause
for such sturdy common sense notions. Soon it becomes apparent,
however, that Mrs. Brook's'lsystem" is rather a convenience than a
principle She has observed for the good of Nanda. Nanda is at Tishy's
because she is a bother at home and her knowingness does not matter,
because Mrs. Brook wants to marry her to Mitchy, and Mitchy finds
her good enough as she is. At the present, things have changed;
Mr. Longdon has come on the scene and has taken an interest in
Nanda, and he is perhaps as rich as Mitchy, whom Nanda does not
favor. Under the pretentious cover of a debate on the education of
young girls, the two women complete a business transaction: Mitchy
is released by Mrs. Brook to the Duchess to be courted for Aggie.
The irony of the new situation is obvious: the Duchess has wasted‘
precious energy on guarding the cloistered innocence of Aggie for

a man who flouts tradition as Mitchy does. Mrs. Brook, on the

other hand, has to readjust her "system" for Longdon's consumption.

 

6
The Awkward Age, p. 56.

 

304

With the beginning of the tea hour at Mrs. Brook's drawing
room, her unquestionable role as the guiding light of the proceedings
is firmly established. On the surface, it is a gay, witty social gather-
ing with a pervading spirit Of youthful and irresponsible fun. Mrs. Brook,
with "her flexibility, her flickering colour, her lovely silly eyes, " and
with "the pure light of youth" (inextinguishable yet at the age of forty-
one), is the very spirit of its everlasting youthfulness and irresponsi-
bility. As her "gulls" arrive, she places them in ridiculous positions
for the fun of the spectators and to put herself to the best advantage.
The "magnificent, simple, stupid" Lady Fanny, for example, is
placed in a close circle with her husband's mistress Mrs. Carrie
Donner so that the two women are forced to put on a Show of friendli-

ness. It is Mrs. Brook's circle in a very special sense: it defines

 

herself. She comes to life with each Opportunity to display her wit,
and the harder the challenge, the more brilliant her "good talk. "
The more sophisticated the spectators of her performance, the
more She seems to be stimulated to Show off to her best advantage.
Take away her "temple of analysis" and there is no Mrs. Brook
left. Vanderbank, the slick SOphisticate who can always be counted
on to feed the right line, to smooth out a situation, and to appre-
ciate a brilliant phrase, becomes the most cherished member of

the temple. AS Mrs. Brook expresses it, he is the one who has

305

"really brought her out. " To give him up means for her giving up
the greatest part of herself and it cannot be done.

What is wrong with the "temple of analysis, " besides its
being a tool for Mrs. Brook's Showmanship, is its basic moral
shabbiness so well hidden behind the surface lightness. One becomes
aware that the playthings provided for the general entertainment are
human beings with misfortunes on their hands. They have come in
good trust to Mrs. Brook, who listens to their troubles, "strokes
her chin and prescribes," and who does a great business in husbands
and wives. It is all done for the fun, for the sake of "analysis" as
to the possible "combinations" resulting from the various unfortunate
involvements of these peOple. It is implied that some of the "combina-
tions, " such as Cashmore's (husband of Lady Fanny) and Mrs. Donner's
have been produced right at the "temple of analysis" to supply the
entertainment. An inexhaustible source of speculations is Lady
Fanny, who spends most of her time packing and unpacking for some
mysterious eIOpements which never quite take place. Mrs. Brook
reads all sorts of wonderful things even in Fanny's great stupid
silences. Since so much can be done with Lady Fanny, She is pre-
vented from her elopements and finally assigned to the care of
Harold to be kept on indefinitely. Even the arrival of Mr. Longdon

is viewed as a possibility for entertainment -- as a "unique" remnant

306

from another age, he may be given the straight man's role for the
fun of the sophisticates.

The appearance of the members of the "absurd" society
stress their moral qualities in much the same way James used the
physical features of the Faranges or Of Maisie's step-parents in
"What Maisie Knew." The carnality of the Duchess is implied in
her robust good looks. Her lover, Lord Petherton, reminds one
strongly of Beale Farange when "with the flare of his big teeth"
Petherton displays an air of "brutal geniality. " He has Beale's
admirable faculty for constantly being on the lookout for his own
conveniences. Mrs. Brook, of course, is all youth and "extremely
pretty. " With these qualities go her charming little ways and touches
or "delicacies and odd things, " as she calls them -- all her evasive
roundabout strategies, so well stressed by a peculiarity of her
"lovely silly eyes" which seem always to escape anybody's direct
look. Her match in handsomeness and grace is her old Van. His
is the self-consciously studied naturalness, mastered with such per-
fection that his great charm (his "sacred terror") completely covers
his "diplomatic and calculating" self from the public view.

In sharp contrast to Mrs. Brook and company are the
prescences of Mr. Longdon and Nanda. Mr. Longdon is slight and

neat, delicate of body, has a keen and kind face, and somewhat

307

resembles a priest. Nanda has a beauty that has nothing to do with
prettiness but with the faded portraits of Gainsborough. Her face
reflects, as even Van admits, "all that's charming in her nature, "
but he also explains to the newly introduced Mr. Longdon, who has
only seen Nanda's picture, that hers is not a beauty her society
appreciates:

"But beauty, in London . . . staring glaring Obvious

knock-down beauty, as plain as a poster on a wall,

an advertisement of soap or whiskey, something

that speaks to the crowd and crosses the footlights,

fetches such price in the market that the absence

of it, for a woman with a girl to marry, inspires

endless terrors . . . London doesn't love the latent

or the lurking, has neither time nor taste nor sense

for anything less discernible than the red flag in

front of the steam-roller. It wants cash over the

counter and letters ten feet high. "
Such "knock-down beauty" Nanda does not have, and it suffices to
compare the sketches of Mr. Longdon and Nanda with those represent-
ing the "absurd" society to see that both characters are at odds with
the world whose ways they have set out to learn. Their first entrances
into the story reenforce the same impression.

Mr. Longdon makes his way into Mrs. Brook's world with

Vanderbank for a guide. It is this deceptively frank, natural young

man who answers his first puzzled questions about the "absurd"

 

7
The Awkward Age, p. 34.

 

308

society. Mr. Longdon is struck with the air of friendliness and in-
formality; there seem to be only nicknames, and nobody is a Mr.
Somebody in particular but rather a member of a collective where
all "trifling varieties are merged." Yet with all the smooth friend-
liness, it seems easy for everybody to give anybody away, and, as
Van eXplains it, everybody knows it and allows for it. When the
old gentleman despairs to think of the slim chance for friendships
to survive under such conditions, Vanderbank maintains: "I never
really believed in the existence of friendships in big societies -- in
great towns and great crowds. It's a plant that takes time and Space
and air . . . "8 Perhaps Vanderbank is at his most honest when he
tells Mr. Longdon that he personally has not a "rag of illusion"

left about the society he shares, and when he expresses the hOpe
that this consciousness might set him off as different from the

rest of his crowd. For this knowledge of his own doom, perhaps,
he is good enough for Mr. Longdon to save him: "See what can be
done with me. " Then he adds for his whole society: "You see we
don't in the least know where we are. We're lost -- and you find
us." For the story, these are mimetic gestures by which

Mr. Longdon is assigned the role of the outsider who has come

to expose the complexity of the "absurd" world. Like a priest,

 

8
The Awkward Age, p. 20.

 

309

he will try to save the soul of Vanderbank, who at this point does not
yet know how strongly he is a part of the society about which he has
no illusions.

Nanda is first introduced as a visitor at Van's apartment,
where she and her mother, as well as Mitchy and Mr. Longdon, are
expected for tea. She arrives with no sense of the awkwardness of
the young but self-possessed and "almost unnaturally grave. " Her
naturalness is neither a Sign of social expertise nor a cover-up for
youthful insecurity; it is her honest self. Her Simplicity and in-
nocence are evident in the literalness with which she carries out
her mother's orders, and in her hopeful expectations from Mrs. Brook's
first gesture of "throwing (her) into the world. " Mother has told Nanda
it would be all right to come by herself to Mr. Van's apartment (no
doubt to stress that he is no more than a sort of an uncle to the girl)
and for the purpose has taught her how to make tea (a lesson overdue
for more than a year), a duty Nanda promptly sets about to perform.
She will sit now downstairs with her mother, the girl explains, and
it will be a great thing for her to hear all the good talk of such people
as Mr. Van and Mr. Mitchy, who are thought to be "awfully clever. "
So far she has spent a lot Of time with Tishy Grendon and Mrs. Donner,
and to know the two sisters is supposed to be awful. For herself,

Nanda wouldn't "have a very high Opinion of a person who would

310

give up a friend" like Tishy for some slander. The tales about
Carrie Donner don't seem to be true, and at any rate, they are
nobody's business. Thus Nanda carries on in her simple, grave,
innocent manner but also shows that she has a mind Of her own in
moral questions which she is ready to defend. The two young men,
who listen to her grave talk and who obviously have Mrs. Brook's
airy lightness as a comparison in mind, sense something tragic
in Nanda's honest seriousness. The reader too can see that she
will never have her mother's "delicacies and odd things" in dealing
with people but in the eyes of the Brookenham salon and in the words
Of her mother will remain in her honesty "as bleak as a chimney-top
when the fire's out. " Nanda's own sense of her gravity and her un-
conscious yearning for a glamour she does not have is implied in
her remark to Mr. Longdon, who has just admitted that Vanderbank
"dazzles" him. "You're afraid he may be false?" Nanda questions
and then admits that she likes being dazzled herself. Her deception
and eventual rejection by the society she is about to enter can be
read in these statements. With her uncompromising honesty She
is marked for the other world of Mr. Longdon but has first to be
deceived by the false dazzle of her mother's house.

By the end of Book III, the reader has met most of the

participants of the story and heard about the rest. Each has been

311

placed in either of the two societies to illuminate the action of the
story. The reader has been enabled to forecast the eventual out-
come Of the conflict from these placements. Mrs. Brook has out-
lined her basic strategies against Nanda and begins her offensive
with the announcement that she is ready now for Nanda "to sit
downstairs. " Her sitting there will obviously be for Mr. Longdon
instead of either of the two young men. Mitchy has been signed
over to the Duchess for Aggie, and old Van ii being carefully
watched. Mr. Longdon and Nanda, judging from what has been
seen of them, are two guileless innocents —- too guileless to COpe
with Mrs. Brook's calculations. The suspense of what is to follow
in the story from this point on does not depend so much on things
yet undiscovered as on the deepening of the situation which is
already to some degree revealed to the reader if not to the par-
ticipants of the drama themselves.

The spheres of activity of the two representative groups
are sharply contrasted. One never sees Mrs. Brook outside of
either her Own or somebody else's drawing room. Her moments
of solitude are Spent in some cushioned corner of her drawing room
for the purpose of speculations as to her next moves which Shortly
will reveal themselves with the entrance of her next victim. As

she herself says in one of her moments of candor (and she uses

312

candor to her very best advantage and ppiy when it is advantageous),
she "takes in" all she can: "Ctaking things in is) a great affair in
London today, and I often feel as if I were a circus-woman, in pink
tights and no particular skirts, riding half a dozen horses at once.
We're all in the troupe now, I suppose, . . . and we must travel with
the Show. "10 The actions of Mrs. Brook to the end of the story fit
her own metaphor of herself as the circus woman riding half a dozen
horses at once. Nanda's descent from upstairs to her drawing room
has challenged the security of the mother's position. Her "good talk"
has to be censored for Nanda's ears; Mrs. Brook is losing some of
her objects of analysis, such as Cashmore, to the consolations of
Nanda, who pronounces the man to be a very unhappy human being,
not necessarily a ridiculous one as Mrs. Brook tries to make him.
To defeat Nanda's growing importance, every possible means is ex-
plored including the girl's own sensitivity. Nanda has felt, the
mother explains to the visiting Cashmore, that she is an impediment
to her mother's intellectual pursuits and for her own comfort is
allowed to lead her own "free young life" elsewhere. Cashmore's
Open admiration for Nanda's purity is turned against her when

Mrs. Brook insinuates in Van's presence that the adulterous man

 

Here I disagree with Dupee's position, who feels that it is Mrs. Brook's
candor which makes her the "circle's scapegoat" (p. 201) while others
practice deceit.

10The Awkward Age, p. 188.

 

313

has switched his attentions from Mrs. Donner to Nanda, and Nanda,
of course, is "much nicer. "

Against Mrs. Brook's busy activities in the drawing rooms
are set the quiet honest ways of Nanda and her attempts to arrange
some kind of decent existence for herself and for those whom she
seeks to help. One never sees her surrounded by many but in a
quiet serious talk with a single friend and more likely in a spacious
garden than in a high society drawing room. Mr. Longdon either
Shares her quiet hours or lingers indecisively in the drawing rooms
where the young men Of the new generation (as Opposed to his own
remembered youth) seem "to take in" so much and where everybody
is so clever as to appear "very, very wonderful. " He watches over
Nanda while he withholds judgment about the others, except for
Mrs. Brook, who does all she can to stimulate his dislike for her-
self. Mitchy weaves between the two sets of opponents: super-
ficially he seems to fit in with the "good talk" at the Brook salon,
emotionally he is attached to Nanda and wishes to be delivered
from Mrs. Brook's circle. His emotional commitment notwith-
standing, he maintains an amount of detachment toward both
worlds and thus becomes the ironic Observer within the limits

Of the story itself who assesses and pronounces the final quality

314

of Mrs. Brook as well as of Nanda. At the end of the story, the
reader sees pretty much what Mitchy sees.

Of the drawing room scenes which focus on Nanda's fate
in the girl's absence, Book VI, named after Mrs. Brook, is of
Special interest. It is perhaps one of the most difficult and also
one of the most brilliant chapters of the story. It witnesses
Mrs. Brook's rise to new heights as the master of her circle and
foreshadows the doom Of Nanda. It also contains ironic exposures
of the participants, especially of Mrs. Brook herself and of "her"
Van and forecasts the crumbling of the "temple of analysis. " The
participants are Mrs. Brook, Van and Mitchy, the "we" of the
salon. The case of "analysis" this time is Mr. Longdon's prOposal
to Vanderbank that he provide a settlement for Nanda should Van
choose to marry her. Mrs. Brook employs a skillful mixture of
candor and guile to give Vanderbank the idea that he will never
want to prOpose to Nanda. 11 So skillful is she that even her two
SOphisticated young men cannot tell her guiles from her pro-

nounced sincerities and accept them for the latter.

 

ll
Cargill (p. 268) believes that Mrs. Brook knows Van so well she

realizes "her daughter will never bring him to declare himself."
I think it is closer to the truth to say that she knows him well
enough to see how to convince him that he could £93 possibly
want to declare himself. Judging from her actions, She is not
sure to the very end of the story about Van's intentions Since
she never stOps working on her preventive measures.

315

Mrs. Brook begins her "analysis" of Vanderbank's predica-
ment by pronouncing that she has guessed the cause of his hesitant
attitude toward Longdon's proposal. The prOposal has the appearance
of a bribe, and Van's sense of pride will prevent his accepting it: on
one hand, according to Mrs. Brook, "he won't want -- . . . out of
kindness for Nanda -- to have the money suppressed; and yet he
won't want to have the pecuniary question mixed up with the matter. "12‘
Thus old Van will become for the salon a "combination, " a male counter-

part to Lady Fanny's case. While he will be "charming, touching . . .

awfully interesting" about his difficulty, he will provide for the rest

 

of them food for Speculations -- will he or won't he accomodate

Mr. Longdon. Whatever he does in the end, Mrs. Brook lightly
suggests, he won't really hurt Nanda, because surely Mr. Longdon's
benevolence will cover her doubly in case she loses Van; he will see
that she has her tangible consolations.

Through subtle use of psychology, Mrs. Brook has touched
Vanderbank in a vulnerable spot. She has turned the mirror of the
salon upon him, and in it he has seen a damaged image of himself
as the perfect social being: his pride seems to be compromised,
his status in the circle made somewhat ridiculous by the implication
that he and Lady Fanny are on the same footing. He had really con-

fessed his secret to Mrs. Brook in order to polish his social image

 

12The Awkward Age, p. 300.

 

316

and finds it impaired instead. AS Vanderbank says, he could not
"arrive at any respectable sort of attitude in the matter" without
Mrs. Brook knowing about it. Within the context of the resulting
scene between the two, it means that he first needs to score per-
fectly in the question of manners and only after that can he start
thinking about either taking up Longdon's proposal or leaving it.

He needs, in the first place, the official approval of the mother

to woo the daughter; besides, he needs to know whether Mitchy

is also still a candidate (it would not do for him to assume the
vulgar role of a rival), and he also perhaps needs, as a member

of a social group, not to be suspect of acting without Mrs. Brook's
knowledge. The reader has seen what has happened to his sought
after approvals: Mrs. Brook has turned the tables upon him by
showing that he has nothing to ask, because he intends to do nothing.
She has also implied that She still considers Mitchy a candidate, and

only the reader knows that is not so. 13 Last but not least of her

 

13See Mildred Hartsock, "The Exposed Mind: A View of The Awkward
Age," Critical Quarterly (Spring 1967), pp. 49-59. In an otherwise
perceptive study of the work, Hartsock offers a rather "straight"
reading of Mrs. Brook's subtle maneuvers. She maintains that
Mrs. Brook, being highly perceptive, realizes from the beginning
that Van and Nanda are deeply incompatible and tells Mitchy to
wait, because she foresees that Nanda will come to appreciate
him. In reality, Mrs. Brook could not care less about Nanda's
marriage being based on matching personalities. She keeps
Mitchy on to frustrate Van, and does not really care whom
Nanda might marry (provided it is not Van) as long as he be
wealthy. She is not, after all, above suggesting Mr. Longdon
(old enough to be Nanda's grandfather) as a parti for the girl.

 

 

317

gains at the moment is the admiration she receives from Van for
her analytic abilities. He compliments her objectivity with which
she looks into the truth of things even when they strike as close to
home as her own daughter's marriage:

"What's really ‘superior' in (Mrs. Brook] is that,

though I suddenly Show her an interference with a

favourite plan [Nanda's marriage to Mitchy), her

personal resentment's nothing -- all She wants is

to see what may really happen, to take in the truth

of the case and make the best of that. She offers

me the truth, as she sees it, about myself, and

with no nasty elation if it does chance to be the

truth that suits her best. It was a charming,

charming stroke. "
Very subtly Mrs. Brook now picks up the compliment to herself and
applies it to their secret society of three (they all hold the secret of
Nanda's future) by asserting in high-sounding terms that what Vanderbank
is really saying is that "the principal beauty of [their] efforts to live to-
gether is . . . in (their) sincerity. " They go to the bottom of things, their
personal involvements notwithstanding. As a refrain to Mrs. Brook's
theme; on"sincerity" the three, including Mitchy, toss the phrase, "we
are sincere, " among themselves, and Mrs. Brook gives Van one of her
rare direct glances to make the sincerity firm. Among themselves, she

adds, they needn't be "so awfully clever," but as they have just shown,

"(they) can be simple," they can be "natural. " With "simple, " and

 

14
The Awkward Age, p. 302.

 

318

"natural" again repeated by Mitchy and Van, the firm bond of trust
between the three seems to be established. While they are about
this profession of friendship, however, the whole scene turns into
a high burlesque through the reader's realization that behind the
pompoxs if somewhat humorously handled assertions at least two
of the participants hide their selfish and not so very sincere selves.
Of the three, only Mitchy can be said to be truly "Sincere, " because
he practices the detachment the others only profess to have: he is
truly in,1ove with Nanda and seeing his own chances lost, disin-
terestedly endorses Vanderbank to be the lucky suitor for Nanda's
hand. Van indeed has forgotten his own squeamish concerns in the
general fun of pursuing the "high intellectual detachment" in the
case. For the reader's ironic knowledge, he himself supplies the
clue to what is wrong with their whole precious intellectual occupa-
tions when he adds, with a touch of self-criticism, "What are we
playing with, after all, but the idea of Nanda's happiness?" In
Mrs. Brook's prompt reply, "Oh I'm not playing!" another ironic
touch to the situation is added -- beneath her mask of amusing de-
tached speculations, she plays a serious game for high stakes.

AS the scene draws to its close, the reader gains another
ironic illumination about the participants. Their occupations at the

salon really consist of "mere talk. " It is as much as saying that

319

instead of active engagement with life a dissecting analysis has
been preferred, or as Mrs. Brook sums it up for the others, "You
mean that we haven't had the excuse of passion? " This statement
defines all three characters as they are presented in the total scope
of the work. For Vanderbank, it points to his inability to engage
himself emotionally with Nanda, and, it might be suspected, with
any one. He may sit at the feet of Mrs. Brook to the end of his
days and chat brilliantly about unimportant things; to come to
terms with real life through Nanda is a different thing, and he
admits as much to her at their last meeting when for a Short while
he has been forced to step out of character (has lost his "sacred
terror"): "The thing is, you see, that I haven't a conscience. I
only want my fun. " For herself, Mrs. Brook's rhetorical question
sums up her relationship with Vanderbank, which often and, as I
think, unduly has been explained by the critics as a flesh and blood
affair. They have not enough passion for that; their only passion
is for appearances. One can trust the Duchess's estimation of
Mrs. Brook when she talks about her, gives her away to other
peOple, mostly to Mr. Longdon: She informs the old gentleman
that Mrs. Brook wants to keep Van for herself, a fact she herself
does not quite understand. What she understands (and one can

contrast her own relationship with Petherton to Mrs. Brook's

320

involvement with Van) is either "taking a man up or letting him alone."
With a woman's intuition, She assures Mr. Longdon she knows that

the pair "haven't done, as it's called, anything wrong. " Mrs. Brook,
it appears, also wants her fun without that inconvenience.

Finally, there is Mitchy, who $35 have a passion and who
feels that he is in a false position within the circle while he is chatter-
ing along with the others. He senses his doomed state and wants to
get out of it through his passion for Nanda. He is the one, therefore,
who at this particular scene of the story brings in the pure image of
Nanda and by so doing tears down the "temple of analysis" as a
burlesque house of cards the three have been building. Van will go
on mysteriously undecisive, Mitchy explains; he himself will have
to carry the loss of Nanda. Whatever each of them does will not
affect her, however: "to the end of her time, [She] will simply re-
main exquisite, or genuine, or generous -- whatever we choose to
call it. " The thing that really counts has already happened to Nanda:
"You (Van) can't belong to her more, for herself, than you do already --
and that's precisely so much that there's no room for any one else. "15

Through Mitchy's affirmation, Nanda emerges strongly as the speaker

for the "natural society, " a human being with passions and sorrows

 

15
The Awkward Age, p. 307.

 

321

against the bloodless burlesques of her mother's circle. As she
does so, she pulls up Mitchy to her own level because of his passion
for herself and his sorrow about the loss of her.

The shortcomings of Mrs. Brook are once more exposed,
this time more directly than in the previous scene, at the end of

Book VI through a short tete-a-tgte between mother and daughter.

 

This time Mrs. Brook "works" with her face unmasked; even the
broken lily postures she keeps in reserve for Harold have fallen
off, and the ugliness of her exposed self is brought out in sharp
contrast to Nanda's purity of spirit. Nanda has returned from an
engagement with Mr. Longdon at the museum. Mrs. Brook takes
her Opportunity to question the girl as to the old gentleman's in-
tentions beyond Nanda's proposed visit to Beccles. Would Nanda
accept him as a suitor, is he likely to adopt her, what exact
material advantages would she secure (and She should see that
she does secure them) for herself and the Brookenhams from her
friendship with granny's admirer? Nanda states her gain from
Mr. Longdon's company in one simple statement: "It's so charm-
ing being liked without being approved. " Mr. Longdon grants her
the precious acceptance her mother's circle seems constantly to

withhold. For Mrs. Brook these are no advantages at all. There

322

is some 231 good to be gotten out of Mr. Longdon, and with that in
mind Nanda ought to prepare for her stay at Beccles.

An additional ironic touch to the mother-daughter contrast
is added when Nanda mentions the Cashmores, whom she and Mr.
Longdon see as unfortunate (not silly) peOple. Mrs. Brook misses
the human element in Nanda's appraisal altogether and immediately
starts her old speculations on Lady Fanny's elOpements, a subject
Nanda apparently does not care to explore. At the end of the inter-
view, the reader sees Nanda as one who has the mature vision of
things versus her mother's much praised but humanely insufficient
sharp insights. When one remembers the Duchess's remark to
Mr. Longdon that of the two Nanda is any age one likes while her
mother's youthfulness is that of a two year old baby, the scene
becomes a satiric illustration of this remark to the great disad-
vantage of Mrs. Brook's youthfulness.

It is apparent, then, that the sixth book of the story is a
crucial one. It shows Mrs. Brook in full possession of the temple
of her making, but it also reveals the doubtful "sincerity" as its
foundation. Vanderbank and Mitchy may have departed from their
charming visit with Mrs. Brook with the assurance that she is not
"capable of anything deliberately nasty, " but the reader thinks

otherwise.

323

Against the sense of heightened activity in the Brook salon
are set the movements of the visitor from Beccles. With a bewildered
look, Mr. Longdon glides in and out of the splendid drawing rooms
listening, feeling, trying to size things up. When Mrs. Brook is
at her most "wonderful," he seems to have lost all powers of speech
himself, and his only wish is to escape and to take Nanda along. What
exactly could be done for her he does not quite know and here the
Duchess, posing as Nanda's well-wisher, gives him some hints.
Before one accepts the Duchess's benevolence to the girl at face
value, her important transactions with Mrs. Brook must be remembered.
Mrs. Brook has given her a free hand to woo Mitchy for Aggie, but
Mitchy's heart is with Nanda. It is an Open secret that Nanda's heart
is with Vanderbank. The safest way to be sure of Mitchy is to promote
Nanda's marriage to Vanderbank, and the Duchess attempts to do just
that by whispering to Mr. Longdon that Nanda's secret wish could be
fulfilled if only Van had enough money to support a wife in the style
of London society. After Mitchy is secured for Aggie, the Duchess
can graciously reward Mrs. Brook for the permission to have him.
Now she convinces Longdon that he ought to adopt Nanda. It looks
to everybody as if that is Mr. Longdon's idea, the Duchess implies.
Moreover, Mitchy's marriage has disrupted the inner temple of
Mrs. Brook and, as everyone can see, she has now to hold on to

Van to save what is left of her salon. While the Duchess speaks the

324

truth about the motives of Mrs. Brook, she seems to speak against
her (and Mr. Longdon is inclined to trust her because of it) but ac-
tually serves her ends -- Mr. Longdon, to save Nanda, does exactly
as told.

While her happiness is played with in the drawing rooms
of the grotesques, Nanda muses in the garden and at Longdon's
country house and tries to arrange something for herself. The
next time the reader sees her, some ironic reversals of her first
expectations have taken place. She has never really reached her
mother's drawing room for the expected educational talk, because
things are hushed at her entrance. She has felt the artificiality
and disappeared to the much-rumored-about Tishy, who at least
talks naturally about her misfortunes and needs some human
sympathy. Nanda also begins to suspect that her mother wants
Vanderbank for herself. When the young man is called away from
a social talk with herself, she knows it is mother who has sent for
him. The meagerness of Nanda's chances to become integrated
with the complex society of her mother's house is shown by her
inability to establish a meaningful relationship with Vanderbank
as her desired means of contact with this society. During the
few direct encounters between the two, he seems to elude .:. her

quiet attempts to ascertain whether beneath his social grace and

easy compliments is any serious corner left for her.

325

Their first such interview takes place in the lovely garden
of a summer house Mitchy has rented in order to entertain his guests,
with the entertainment of Nanda especially in mind. Typically, the
rest of the society is engaged in a tea-party on the terrace by the
house, with only Nanda's solitary figure in the depth of the garden
where the late-arriving Van discovers her. With the rented summer
house in the background which passes from hands to hands, where
people congregate for casual contacts and forget about them as soon
as they are over, one can hardly suspect a serious commitment
from Vanderbank, who fits in so easily with the "inconstancy and
superficiality" of it all. Against Nanda's girlish honesty, he poses
a light-hearted kindness and gallantry. He may be dazzling her with
his display of wit and easy charm, but she has been long enough in
her mother's house to pay too much attention to Van's profession
that he is her best friend in the world. Her best friend, Nanda
insists, is Mr. Longdon, "the sort of friend who makes every one
else not count," and against him Van can only be called an "extra"
as a friend. With Mr. Longdon she has "happy relations"; with
Vanderbank, Nanda admits, she is uneasy. The young man leaves
her with a fear "of some dreadfully possible future [Van " She may
have to deal with. Vanderbank tries to escape her gravity with a

smiling assurance that surely there will be a future Nanda too

326

"prOportionately develOped" (as indeed there proves to be) to deal
with this monster. But Nanda is not bent on lightness and can only
Speak for the realities as she sees them: "I'm about as good as I
can be -- and about as bad. " There won't be any change in her
for the better to suit Van, she seems to be suggesting, while
perhaps hOping to be accepted for what she is at the moment.

She only hOpes, Nanda adds, not to have "wounded" the young man
by placing Mr. Longdon ahead of him as a friend. "It seems to
me I should like you to wound me, " is Vanderbank's reply and

in it the reader sees at once that Nanda has not yet gained the
young man's approval; at any rate, he is not "wounded" by her

the same way Nanda is struck by him.

The whole interview between the two young peOple has
taken place on two levels, with Vanderbank escaping at any
moment into the thin air Of charm and Nanda attempting to pull
him down into the sphere of human concerns. It is as if she is
constantly treading on his delicate toes with a heavy foot and
after much Shifting of grounds, he finally escapes altogether to
join his own world on the terrace with tea cups and laughter. Nanda
remains with the reader's sympathy and with the heaviness of reali-
ties on her shoulders: Van's friendly manner has not given her a

key to his serious intentions, and She apprehensively looks toward

327

the future where a more definite coming to terms with him seems to
be an unavoidable if not a happy experience. At the moment, Van
has escaped and he is replaced by Mr. Longdon through the Opposite
move —- he has escaped the tea party and replaces Van at the side
of Nanda. These are mimetic gestures to foreshadow the eventual
outcome of Nanda's predicament.

This quiet scene between Nanda and Mr. Longdon provides
an ironic contrast to the foregoing interview between her and
Vanderbank. If Van had appeared to fit in so well with the careless
ways of London society, with parties in borrowed country houses
which one can attend, then "quite forget to whom one has been be-
holden, " Mr. Longdon sees in the same situation increasing decay
and vulgarization of the social graces. As a representative of
’another world, he invites Nanda away from the rented house loom-
ing in the background to join his own simplicity which, as he says,

belongs to "the twilight of time. " He offers the pastoral life against

the frantic movements of a complex urban society: '.' . . come down to
Suffolk for sanity . . . I want to Show you . . . what life can give. Not
of course . . . of this sort of thing." Contrary to her inability to

secure Van's acceptance for what she is, with Mr. Longdon Nanda
achieves such acceptance with ease. Nanda points out to her pro-

tector that he should not look in her for the lost image of Lady Julia:

328

"If we're both [grandmother and granddaughter] partly
the result of other peOple, her other peOple were so
different. . . . And yet if she—had you, so I've got you
too. It's the flattery of that, or the sound of it [of
Nanda's own way of expressing and of feeling things],
that must be so unlike her. Of course it's awfully
like mother; yet it isn't as if you hadn't already let

 

me see -- is it? -- that you don't really think me
the same. . . . Granny wasn't the kind of girl she
couldn't be -- and so neither am I. "1

 

Thus Nanda wins her case with Mr. Longdon, and by taking her hand
he accepts her for Beccles. To Vanderbank Nanda appears too much
like her mother because of her seemingly great knowingness of the
world; to Mr. Longdon the essential differences have not escaped.
Nanda's innocence is her integrity, a quality which is totally lacking
in her mother's professed "sincerity. " Nanda practices no conceal-
ments, never tries to pass for something else than what she is. In
a society where each member wears a mask, she does not function
well. For Vanderbank, she would need a studied air of innocence
instead of her Open frankness which seems to stress her familiarity
with the ways of the world so much so that he fails to see that frank-
ness in itself is a Sign of the innocent, not of the knowing who have
learned the art of self—concealment.

In reality, Nanda does not have the knowingness of the

world everybody, including herself, claims her to have. She likes

 

16
The Awkward Age, pp. 230-31.

 

329

to repeat that she indeed knows "everything, " but her mistaken judg-
ment of Mitchy's interest in herself shows too clearly that an amount
of immaturity is yet a part of her innocence and that she cannot al-
ways judge the chaff from the wheat in the society around her. As
Nanda explains to Mr. Longdon, Mitchy is a man of large sympathies
and many things amuse him in his freedom and in his boredom. It
pleases him to feel that he is "indifferent and splendid. " For this
reason only, Nanda thinks, he has convinced himself that he wants
to marry her. For a man in Mitchy's position (with inherited wealth
but no social status), the usual or "vulgar" thing to do would be to
marry into the aristocracy for the acquisition of a social standing.
He could, however, "only afford to do what's not vulgar. " For

this reason he wants Nanda, who, in his imagination, is as good

as a "beggar maid. " To provide for Mitchy better than she could
for herself and to save her friend little Aggie from her formidable
aunt, the Duchess, Nanda has conceived a quixotic little plan of

her own. Aggie is a "beggar-maid too -- as well as an angel. "

The kindest man in the world, such as Mitchy, should be her
husband, because her kind of innocence needs protection. Mitchy,
kind as he is, can "scarcely be called particular" in his choice of
Nanda, because he seems to see her rather as a certain type of

girl than as an individual. Her conclusions about Mitchy not

330

being "particular" in his preference for herself explain to the reader
Nanda's striving for the approval of Vanderbank: by all appearances
he i3 particular, and to gain his acceptance would mean the assurance
of her own individual worth, an assurance which her mother's circle
does not seem to grant her.

The weaknesses of Nanda's reasoning are exposed to the
reader shortly in a scene between Mr. Longdon and little Aggie.
Here Mr. Longdon, the touchstone of moral goodness and innocence,
is confronted with Nanda's much praised beggar maid and true angel.
It can hardly be said that little Aggie passes the test. Mr. Longdon
soon discovers that there is no grown-up level on which to converse
with the girl, who strikes him as a lamb with a pink ribbon around
her neck, "being fed from the hand with the small sweet biscuit of
unobjectionable knowledge. " The Duchess fusses over her frail,
pretty young charge to insure that she should only know "the cheerful
happy right things" and thus pulls Aggie's passive, obedient little
figure into the absurd society with herself and out of the world of
true innocence which Mr. Longdon represents. The humorous
conversation between him and Aggie, with Longdon's frustrated
attempts to find any tOpic the girl can discuss with an inkling of
understanding, serves to expose the absurdity of the notions of

the Duchess that she has produced the perfect jeune fille. If she

 

 

 

 

331

has, the worse for little Aggie, who obviously won't be able to
function in the sophisticated society for whose consumption she is
being perfected. When Mr. Longdon compares the childlike Aggie
to Nanda, Aggie's blankness appears to be a dubious virtue next'to
Nanda, who is already a self-reliant individual, "struggling with
instincts and forebodings. " It is clear that Mr. Longdon endorses
Nanda and not Aggie as the chosen ingenii for Beccles. At the end
of the scene, Nanda's mistaken judgment about what is good for
Mitchy is only too clear to the reader: Aggie is a dressed-up
plaything; Mitchy needs the tested moral quality of Nanda.

Nanda's visit at Beccles has to be viewed as a contrast

to her actions in Book X, her book as well as the last chapter of

 

the story. Her stay at Beccles is her trial attempt to preside

over the pastoral society as Opposed to her mother's circle in
London. In the final chapter she assumes the full mature responsi-
bility of this role. As in her own sitting room in London at the'end
of the story, in Beccles her actions are defined in relationship with
the three important men in her life -- Vanderbank, Mitchy and-

Mr. Longdon. Mr. Longdon is only a vaguely felt presence in

his own lovely mansion in which he has arranged for Nanda's two
young men to appear and to be tested for their moral worth. Having

done so, he has withdrawn for Nanda to do the testing.

332

Vanderbank's position toward Nanda has not essentially
changed since their last encounter. He is still the indecisive
Prufrock, willing enough to be charmed but at no point quite sure
that Nanda has charmed him sufficiently to propose to her. Nanda's
attitude, on the other hand, has undergone a certain intensification.
It is to be understood that she has by now guessed Mr. Longdon's
prOposal to Van. If anything, she is more reserved and proud as
a result of this knowledge and asks to be accepted for what she is.
By no miracle could She turn into an Aggie: "If one could be her
exactly, absolutely without the least little mite of change, one
would probably be wise to close with it. Otherwise -- except for
anything pg; that -- I'd rather brazen it out as myself. "17 The
fact that "girls understand now" ought to be faced, she adds, and
even ventures to suggest that Van, with the rest of his society, is
rather dodging than facing the issue. For a moment it seems as
if he feels challenged to deny the charge, as if his moment to ac-
cept Nanda has come when he gets up with an air of "suspense
about himself. " But the moment passes and he settles down again
with a sigh as if recovering from a peril of short duration. By
the end of the scene, the gulf between the two has widened. Nanda
claims the right to be heard in her own voice, and the reader

sympathizes with her courageous attempt to be herself in the

 

17The Awkward Age, p. 343.

 

333

face of the strong odds against herself. Vanderbank, less than ever,
seems to have "any natural 'cheek'" of his own.

Mitchy has come with obvious excitement to meet Nanda,
even if his expectations of any personal favors from her are small.
His exuberance is in Sharp contrast to Van's indecisiveness. Mitchy
has learned to do with an occasional meeting like the present one, and
has also learned an ironic detachment from his own situation so that
he can chat about it with a touch of self-mockery. In an elaborate
tribute to Nanda he tells her he has come for his three minutes of
unexpected happiness. There is drawing room charm and eloquence
in his protestations, but they do not lack sincerity. One feels behind
the lavish compliment a strain of true emotion, even of despair. In
comparison, Van's evasive, patronizing tributes to Nanda look pale.
Mitchy is the true romantic lover and even possesses the enviable
art of expressing the magnitude of his feelings. He wears, however,
the wrong guise for Nanda to recognize him as one, and she takes his
tribute for a display of cleverness. .

If at any point of the story the satirist in any way attacks
the simplicity of Beccles, it can be said to happen in this scene be-
haveen Nanda and Mitchy. Nanda has brought Mitchy there to plead
for the hot-house innocence of Aggie with the naive conviction that

"the beauty of Aggie is that she knows nothing -- but absolutely,

334

utterly: not the least little tittle of anything. " If Nanda cannot share
Aggie'sinnocence, she can at least work to preserve that innocence
by promoting Aggie's marriage to Mitchy. Thus Nanda with her
quixotic plan to Mitchy and Aggie becomes for a moment an object
of a satiric exposure herself. She believes she can save Aggie as
well as Mitchy (who needs to be saved from his parasitic friend
Petherton), but she is offering a sophisticated world-weary man
an oversimplified solution. Hers becomes the limited vision against
Mitchy's, who sees that Aggie is no force to rescue him from the
complex society. Aggie is an unknown quantity yet; it is Nanda who
has been already immersed in the complexities and falsities of that
society and has emerged uncorrupted. If anyone, it is she who could
save Mitchy with herself. If he submits to her pleading, it is partly
because of his wish to please Nanda, partly because it provides the
only available tie with her: Nanda likes Aggie; through learning to
like Aggie, Mitchy in a romantic way would still be liking Nanda.
He submits, nevertheless, with a sense of doom. He has no trust
in Aggie's artificially imposed Simplicity, an innocence neither
Nanda nor Mitchy can reach, and which Aggie may not be able
either to maintain or to perpetuate for the blessing of others.

The testing at Beccles has turned into a test for Nanda as

well, and she has failed. She has not seen the moral superiority of

335

Mitchy to Vanderbank, but has attempted to arrange matters for
Mitchy from a Simpler point of view than even Mr. Longdon, the
master of Beccles, takes. To the end of her visit, Vanderbank re-
mains to her the one beautiful person who has refused to accept her. Ina
way, her arranging for Mitchy has also been a tribute to Van's
"delicacy. " While sincere about Mitchy's need of Aggie and about
her own inability to marry him, by hastening Mitchy's marriage to
Aggie, Nanda has also cleared Van's way to herself. From now on,
he need not worry about having a rival. As can be suspected, her
attempt has not essentially changed Van's indecision. He is still
struggling with his inability to overlook Nanda's knowledge of the
world when Mitchy tells him about his forthcoming marriage to
Aggie. Mitchy believes that by accepting Aggie he has accepted
life in the only way that has been offered him, and that it is only
through living one's life that one arrives at a state of consciousness
"enlarged and improved. " He now advises Vanderbank to accept his
share the same way -- namely, the wealth of Mr. Longdon and the
love of Nanda. But Van misses the point entirely and tells Mitchy
that his marriage to Aggie upon the suggestion of Nanda only in-
dicates that he takes marrying more lightly than himself. At the
end of the visit at Beccles, Van is more ready than ever to rejoin

the "absurd" society while Mitchy has loosened his ties with the

336

Brook circle to the same extent. As yet, the two worlds have not
come to a decisive battle. Such a battle is shortly provided in the
innocent guise of a social entertainment -- a dinner party at
Tishy Grendon's.

The whole rank and file of the "absurd" society is present
on the occasion. In the words of Wiesenfarth, the assembly at
Tishy's "is composed of unscrupulous parents and guardians, un-
happily married couples, sexually promiscuous individuals, social
parasites, the victimized, and the simply stupid. "18 The temple
of analysis performs at its best. The analyses include the hostess
herself when her back is turned, and a new "combination" has been
provided for discussion by the newly married Aggie, who carries on
an outrageous flirtation with Petherton in the next room. A new ad-
dition to the circle is Harold Brookenham, who is supposed to be
quite "the rage. " He has turned into something like a gigolo and
at the present has engaged the attentions of Lady Fanny. In contrast
to his mother's "little delicacies and things, " his way of social en-
tertaining consists of boldly cynical remarks which are directed
toward the "temple of analysis" itself. This is a style of hit own,
and it points to the possible younger generation of the "in-crowd"
which he may eventually create around himself, and in which the

materialistic aims will be less disguised and the stakes gambled

 

l8Wiesenfarth, p. 92.

337

for even higher than the ones pursued in his mother's salon. For
the social occasion at Tishy's, Harold serves two ends: he enter-
tains the party with his outrageous frankness which is nevertheless
accepted because he himself too obviously belongs to the society he
attacks, and he points up some ironic truths about the participants
for the reader's benefit at the same time. Thus he explains that
Aggie's sudden change should have been expected from somebody

of Aggie's former ignorance so suddenly turned loose upon the
world. The one truly odd example, according to Harold, is hi 5
sister Nanda, who has had the good fortune to reach "[her] time of
life with so little injury to [her] innocence. " As such, Nanda has
claims that should be recognized. By a stroke, Harold has secured
the reader's sympathies for the forthcoming exposure of Nanda by
her mother, who will wear the guise of the upholder of moral values
in publicly attacking her daughter for the lack of them.

The innocents and the victims sit almost Speechless through
the general chatter surrounding, them. Mr. Longdon shows positive
fear of Mrs. Brook's brilliance and seeks Van's protection and his
explanations of the strange "analyses" taking place. Nanda sits
quietly somewhere with Mr. Cashmore hovering above hierand
Mrs. Brook unfailingly commenting about it to Van. Somewhere

in the background floats Tishy in an elegant low-cut gown not quite

338

belonging anywhere in her own party. From her few rather naive
comments, one gathers the ironic truth about Tishy's supposedly
corrupting influence on Nanda. The truth seems to be that Tishy
had been a kind Of Aggie before her marriage, with the lucky dif-
ference that afterwards She had fallen into the hands of Nanda in-
stead of a Lord Petherton. She only knows what Nanda tells her,
She explains, and for herself can only say that she has not begun
to live yet. As an echo to this assertion comes Mrs. Brook's
lighthearted summary about her society: "The beauty of the life
that so many of us have so long led together . . . is precisely that
nobody has ever had [a life] . . . . " They lead the lives of those
who have truly never involved themselves into anything and thus
can talk lightly about everything. Under such conditions the chances
for the young to achieve a meaningful life are doomed from the very
beginning. Aggie leaps from a blank ignorance into a wild pursuit
of pleasure; Tishy's life has been shattered before it has really
begun, and Nanda's insistence on honesty has provided the best
means toward her complete expulsion from this society.

For the first time among the silent victims is Mitchy.
"Mitchy's silent, Mitchy's altered, Mitchy's queer!" Mrs. Brook
chants as she opens an investigation of his situation. He does not

participate in the guessing game played under the leadership of

339

Mrs. Brook as to what exactly Petherton and Aggie are doing in the
next room by themselves. His silence is of a man who has lived and
suffered disappointments, and has grown kind enough to grant Aggie
all the benefit of doubt instead of showing a callow willingness to
expose her. "The spell's broken; the harp has lost a string. We're
not the same thing. [Mitchy's] not the same thing," Mrs. Brook
chants again teasingly and for the fun of her company, but She is
nevertheless deadly serious about the imperiled fate of the temple
as her actions presently show.

According to the forecasts of the Duchess, Mrs. Brook
will try by any means to prevent the loss of Vanderbank; the loss
of Mitchy has been serious enough. Tishy's party provides Mrs. Brook
with the necessary opportunity to do just that. She has decided that
Nanda's stay at Beccles is really a disadvantage -- She is out of her
mother's reach and Van can visit her unchecked. Turning to the
already frightened Mr. Longdon, Mrs. Brook demands Nanda's re-
turn -- she is being missed at home. Her demand is followed by
"a quick silence that [is] like the sense of a blast of cold air, " be-
cause nobody of her circle believes she has told her reason, and
for the first time her reputation of not being able to do anything
really nasty seems to be endangered. In the next moment her

purpose appears in even more ambiguous light, when Edward Brookenham,

340

who has missed his "cue" from his wife, reassures the puzzled
Mr. Lonngn that they do ppt want Nanda back. With Vanderbank's
gracious assistance, Mrs. Brook turns the embarrassing situation
into a joke but, nevertheless, has suffered a setback. Her next
Opportunity comes when Aggie and Petherton emerge from the

next room with the object of their 'hide-and-seek game. It is a
French novel of dubious taste which belongs to Van, has been lent
to Mrs. Brook and discovered at Tishy's by Aggie, who insists on
reading it. Only Nanda could have brought it over for Tishy or
herself to read, and Mrs. Brook demands a public confession
from her daughter to that effect. Confronting Mr. Longdon with
the evidence of Nanda's crime, Mrs. Brook defeats her ingenu
Opponent in Nanda. With a steady gaze on her patron, Nanda
admits that she has read the book, found it useless and advised
Tishy not to read it. Mr. Longdon takes his leave to spare Nanda
the pain of his presence, and Mrs. Brook has gained two advantages:
Mr. Longdon pities the girl more than ever, and the fastidious Van
has been involved in a scandalous Situation of Nanda's making he is
not likely to forget. To the reader, who is placed above the scene,
however, the doom of Mrs. Brook herself in her moment of victory
is not concealed. By attacking Nanda, she has also attacked Van

as the owner and lender of the unfortunate book, and by both actions

341

has violated the pledge of sincerity, simplicity, and secrecy She has
given to Mitchy and Vanderbank. She has been deliberately nasty and
cannot very well insist on the innocence of her occupations any more.
For the reader, her famous trademark, the cherished rationalization
that her temple promotes free investigation of life, has also been ex-
posed as a false pretension. Nanda has been the free investigator who
has read and been critical enough to reject a worthless piece of writing;
those who have judged her for the reading without giving her credit for
the rejecting have judged her by a stiff social prejudice and with no
freedom of spirit at all.

Both worlds of the satire have been shattered. If Mrs. Brook
insists on her victory, she has to pick up the pieces of her own domain
with great care and even then She may not reconstruct her temple to
its former glory. She can make sure, however, that her plan against
Nanda is brought to completion and to that end she now incessantly
works. Nanda has been "called in" and is now provided with her own
sitting room upstairs. She has been granted a complete independence
(it is really an expulsion) from her mother's sphere, but Mrs. Brook
can keep an eye on the activities her daughter is carrying out in her
own salon. The last two books are structured for the ironic dif-
ferences between the activities in the two salons, with Mrs. Brook

salvaging her temple downstairs and Nanda putting her affairs in

342

order upstairs before her departure for Beccles. Within the world
of satire, the two salons represent a lower world and a higher world,
the latter a society of Nanda's own making and as such a place where
directness and honesty are practiced in contrast to the complex

rationalizations which Mrs. Brook still carries on in the lower

 

world or her salon. The contrasts are established through parallel
arrangements of characters in both salons. Downstairs Mrs. Brook
tries to manipulate her visitors, Van, Mitchy and Mr. Longdon (in

that order) to her own advantage and to the disadvantage of Nanda;
Nanda meets the same men in the same order upstairs on honest
terms. While defeated herself by the mother, she pleads with the
former associates of Mrs. Brook, Mitchy and Van, for sympathy
toward the mother, whom she sees now, in light Of her own clarified
vision, as "fearfully young" to manage without the accustomed company
of the young men.

Mrs. Brook's lost footing with Van is evident at the very
beginning of his call at Buckingham Crescent. He has not come to
the house Since her "wonderful" scheming at Tishy's some four
months ago. When he finally does come, he wants to see Nanda
and not Mrs. Brook. Only by thinking very fast, does she succeed
in keeping him downstairs to weaken his purpose (whatever it might

be) for seeing Nanda. Mrs. Brook suggests that Cashmore is visiting

343

Nanda at the moment, an idea not at all pleasant to Van, who deCideS
to wait downstairs for the visitor's departure. He appears to be
weary of Mrs. Brook's gossip, however, and suggests that she has
"as a Samson pulled down the temple" and buried and bruised them
all at the Grendon party. Mrs. Brook fakes innocence and brings

up Mitchy's marriage as the cause of the disintegration of the temple.
Had Mitchy been home (he is traveling abroad at the moment), Van
insists, the two of them could have puzzled out Mrs. Brook's motives
behind her actions against Nanda. Instantly Mrs. Brook begins

to maneuver a breach between the two friends. Mitchy has returned,
She says, and is expected to come to Nanda (the cause of his rotten
marriage) for consolations. The picture of Nanda ministering to

two unhappy married men (Cashmore and Mitchy) in her private
Sitting room Opens up to Van's imagination. Whatever have been

his reasons for wanting to see Nanda (the possibility of a prOposal

is not out of the question in view of the effort Mrs. Brook expends

to keep him away from her) he ends his visit at Buckingham Crescent
without having ascended to the upper world of Nanda. Toward the
end of the interview, Mrs. Brook has not only evaded his attacks

on herself and weakened Nanda's position but has even attacked

Van for a breach in his gentleman's code. He has tactlessly pressed

her for intimate information about her family affairs. The code of

344

the temple is delicacy in such matters. In face of this charge,
Vanderbank can only drop his inquest and retreat.

Mrs. Brook's movements grow more and more frantic with
every new step she undertakes in her final scheming against her
daughter. Her stature undergoes a shrinkage from her former mock-
greatness of a priestess of a temple toward the other end of the scale
of hyperbolic exaggerations of the satiric character. She now approaches
the incredibly little when,during her visit with Mitchy, who has so far
been one of the intimates of the inner temple, she tries to turn him
into one of her stupid consultees. Changing the subject of conversation
from Nanda to Mitchy's marriage troubles, she hOpes to forestall all
embarrassing questions concerning her actions against the girl. Her
techniques are just as vicious when she tries to escape Mitchy's charge
that she herself must have prevented Van's visit to Nanda. Van has
not gone upstairs, Mrs. Brook confides, because he is plainly jealous
of Nanda's sympathy for Mitchy. Finally she drOps almost all of her
masks, and with them her sense of pride, when she appeals to Mitchy's
capacity for tolerance by plainly asking him not to desert her whatever
her actions might have been.

While the dealings of Mrs. Brook are at their lowest, she
avoids facing the representatives of the ingenu world, Nanda and

Mr. Longdon, directly as if her own darkness could not endure the

345

pure light of their honesty. Instead, She uses her husband and Mitchy
as messengers to the upper world. Edward is to tell Nanda that Van
has come to see her but seems to have changed his mind about it.
Mitchy is sent with the same message to detain Longdon's ascent to
Nanda's salon. By the time Nanda and Longdon meet, both know that
Van has backed out completely and that Nanda's way now lies with the
old man. Mrs. Brook seems to approach the utterly despicable when
she tells her husband, who pities his daughter for the loss of Van,
that besides becoming rich, Nanda, in the old man, "has got what
every woman, young or old,wants . . . -- "a man of her own. "
Nanda's expulsion has been successfully accomplished, but
Mrs. Brook's victory has cost her a great deal. Within the comic
structure of a satire, the expulsion of the pastoral characters from
the "absurd" society affects in some way this society. The "we"
of Mrs. Brook's temple obviously will never be quite reassembled.
Upon Nanda's urging, Van will eventually return there and settle for
the amusements offered. Mrs. Brook will, Mitchy tells Mr. Longdon,
make a joke out of his possible hate for her now and in the general
dullness of London society, he will find it amusing. For Mitchy,
as he tells Mrs. Brook himself, it will never be like old times.
All his careless tolerance of her schemes has been destroyed by

her cruelty to Nanda. If he comes again, it will be for pity's sake

346

and to please Nanda. Mitchy is the one, however, to conclude that, on
the whole, the world of Mrs. Brook will continue to prosper. Aggie
will be his replacement in her salon, and Mrs. Brook "will attract
her, study her, finally 'understand' her. " In other words, as long

as there will be unhappy people in the world to take advantage of,

Mrs. Brook's consultations won't lack clients. Her world has only
been disturbed, not really destroyed.

Meanwhile, in the m world of Nanda, the final placement
of the main participants of the drama according to their moral value
takes place. During Nanda's farewell visit with Vanderbank, the gap
between the two becomes final. Nanda's position is implied in Van's
lighthearted comment that in her salon she is placed like a heroine
in a tower overlooking "the great wicked city" of London, but that
instead of enjoying the great sunsets above the city Skyline, she is
facing north (as if for suffering). The cheerfulness in her room
comes mainly from the colorful volumes of books Mr. Longdon has
sent her (to make up for the trashy novels in her mother's drawing
room), and even more so from the fresh flowers daily supplied from
Beccles. Explaining about the flowers, Nanda places herself and
Mr. Longdon in the same relationship with the world: "You know
he's a great gardener -- I mean really one of the greatest. His

garden's like a dinner in a house where the person -- the person

 

 

347

of the house -- thoroughly knows and cares. " There is nothing super-
ficial about either Nanda's or Mr. Longdon's; attitudes. In contrast

to this upper world of Nanda, Van has come from the very heart of
the wicked city and shows "ever so markedly that he [has] arrived

to be kind. " Behind this garrulous mask of kindness, he hides his
irritation with Nanda's boldness in summoninglhim and his fear that
She may put some weighty matters before him. His Short Spell of
sympathy for Nanda, brought about by the mother's conspiracy
against her, has passed and he has now definitely decided against

her.

Nanda's attitude toward Van's flow of Speech could be com-
pared to Mr. Longdon's puzzled silences in face of Mrs. Brook's
eloquence. By his evasive superficial manner, he more and more
places himself within the world and ways of Mrs. Brook for all times.
Nanda, similarly to Mr. Longdon versus her mother, tries to outsit
Van's brilliant Speeches to figure iout what lies behind them. At first
she allows herself to be dazzled by the performance in a desire "for
his talk to last and last" so that their last meeting might be extended.
But instead of lulling her into a state of false happiness, the visitor's
voice wakens her to an ironic insight into the man's character. She
finally sees him in the proper perspective: the superficial charm

is the whole man. Before her is a man of conventional prejudices

348

struggling with an embarrassing situation to come out of it with "that
refined satisfaction with himself which would proceed from his having
dealt. with a difficult hour in a gallant and delicate way. " For Nanda
"to force upon him an awkwardness" would mean to destroy the whole
man. He depends now upon h_e_1_' kindness, and Nanda takes hold of the
situation by interrupting his garrulousness with the simple question:
"What in the world, Mr. Van, are you afraid of?" Only then he sees
that she has no embarrassing matters in store and settles down to
listen to Nanda's plea on behalf of her mother, who is so "fearfully
young, " pretty and lonely in her drawing room. By doing so, she
sends him back to the world to which he unmistakably belongs. Van's
descent is marked by a similar shrinkage of moral stature the reader
has witnessed in Mrs. Brook. At his departure, he takes full advantage
of Nanda's kindness by asking her to look after his good name with
Mr. Longdon, whose kind offers he has found incapable of accepting.
In view of her feelings toward Van and of her knowledge of Mr. Longdon's
proposal to him, Van's request has turned his much cherished "kindness"
to Nanda into the greatest unkindness imaginable.

The friendship Nanda and Mitchy pledge before her departure
to Beccles can be seen as an ironic contrast to Mrs. Brook's attempts
to regain Van's admiration for herself. Theirs had been a relationship

based on mutual admiration of "each other's dim depths" or on their

349

famous technique of evasiveness and duplicity. The friendship between
Nanda and Mitchy will be founded on an Openness. As Mitchy tells
Nanda, he has found in her a friend with whom he "can always go to
the bottom of things. " Even if there is a touch of sarcasm in Mitchy's
pronouncement, and even if it is clear that he does not intend to rely
on Nanda's pity, he is speaking for an honest relationship with her.
Both are facing each other as two naked sOuls with their youthful
aSpirations smashed to pieces. If before, with their passions working
at cross purposes, they have "worked through the long tunnel of arti-
ficial reserves and superstitious mysteries, " now, when their hOpeS
have turned to ashes, there is no reason for concealments. On the
whole, the scene between Nanda and Mitchy marks the participants

as two proud, self-respecting peOple who have weathered some rough
times and now are in need of sincere human relationship. When at
one time Mrs. Brook had told Mitchy that she is not at all proud, a
remark Mitchy had met with an assurance that a woman as clever

as herself has no need of pride, the last scenes in each salon seem

to stress the point. Mrs. Brook relies to the very end on her
cleverness but at a greater and greater loss to her pride. Nanda
manages to survive the attacks from her mother's cleverness with

her sense of dignity intact.

350

For the final appraisal of Nanda, one must remember Mitchy's
remarks to Mr. Longdon when he brings the old gentleman the news of
Van's "defection." Admitting that Nanda has suffered a great loss,
Mitchy also sees some gain in her loss: "Any passion so great, so
complete . . . is -- satisfied or unsatisfied -- a life. " It is a comment
on Nanda as well as on himself: their passions have crossed without
meeting, but they have escaped the unlived lives of the devotees in
the temple of Mrs. Brook. They have both achieved the ironic
vision of things -- a state of consciousness Mitchy calls "enlarged
and improved, " and that is a clear gain. For Nanda to reach that
state, a purgation from her infatuation with the false glitter of her
mother's house has been necessary. Once she can admit to
Mr. Longdon that Van is not an ideal fairy prince but even a more
old fashioned person than Mr. Longdon, who has accepted the
changed times and Nanda with them, once she has had a good cry
over her lost idol and with it over her lost adolescence, Mr. Longdon
can seal their alliance with a kiss for her new maturity, if not neces-
sarily happiness, at Beccles.

The satire of The Awkward Age has run its course. The

 

vices and virtues have revealed themselves through their participa-
tion in a fashionably dressed morality play taking place in the middle

of the wicked city of London which is the world. The strict dramatic

351

form of the work has been clearly a gain: the characters have moved
across the stage by themselves and finally formed two opposing groups
to carry out the age-old battle between good and evil, and without the
need of the author to explain their guises and their moral positions.

As Gregor notes, "the moral judgment is built into the articulateness

of the characters. "19 The mise en scene of the London drawing rooms

 

and of the country houses outside have also been of help in establishing
the moral judgment. The society itself is a self-contained world of
the satirist's making and need not remind one of the real upper class
society of nineteenth century London any more than the orientals of
Gilbert and Sullivan's Mikado need to be convincingly Japanese to

serve the authors' purpose. 20'

The excessive social chatter, a
constant complaint of James' critics, also provides the reader with

a guide toward the moral norms of the satire, and so does the "thin

sense of life"‘?'1 which is a built-in feature of many of the drawing

 

19
Ian Gregor, The Moral and the Story (London, 1962), p. 158

 

20Cf. D. W. Jefferson, "The English Novels" in his Henry James
and the Modern Reader. Jefferson doubts James' realistic
knowledge of the English upper class and seems to hold the lack
of it against his achievement in The Awkward Age.

 

 

 

1
John Holloway in his The Charted Mirror: Literary and Critical
Essays, (London, 1960), p. 116, complains about James' "too
thin a sense of life" as a fault of The Awkward Age.

 

 

352

room scenes when the absurd cast takes possession of them. It
is "out there" somewhere, perhaps at Beccles if one gets there
safely, that a fuller, if also simpler, life might be found. In the

London world, and it is the world, human values have shrunk and

 

sincerity has been replaced by eloquence.

Through various dramatic means, then, the satirist has
made his moral norms clear -- he has gained the reader's sympathies
for one set of characters or for his ingenu world and has exposed and
condemned the absurd society as its Opponent. There his task ends,
however. He has appraised the ills of the world, but his cure con-
sists only in naming them. His battle between the vices and the
virtues has not ended with the decisive victory for the virtues as
in a pure morality play. His vision of the world has remained as

dark at the end of the drama as it was at the beginning.

CHAPTER V

Epilogue: Lambert Strether, Master of the Ironic Vision

Upon turning to The Ambassadors after reading The Awkward

 

 

Agg, one finds himself in the company of somewhat familiar faces.
There is something of the innocence and wonder of Mr. Longdon in}
Lambert Strether; some of Vanderbank's "sacred terror" in the slick
charm of Chad Newsome, and some of his built-in prejudices in the
"sacred rage" of Waymarsh. Madame de Vionnet is a lady of great
charm and great social skill as was Mrs. Brook, and her ingenu
daughter Jeanne is removed from the scene (this time througha success-
ful and convenient marriage) at the point when she may have fallen in

love with the mother's lover. As in The Awkward Age, the cast of

 

characters is divided into two different worlds. Mr. Longdon arrives
in London to find that his simple Suffolk standards need some adjustment
in face of the greater complexity of the London world from which he
wants to rescue Nanda. Strether comes to Paris to rescue Chad from
its snares but likewise finds the standards of Woollett inadequate to

do justice to the changed Chad he finds there.

The differences between the two works, however, are greater
than the similarities. Strether's industrial Woollett could hardly be
compared to Mr. Longdon's pastoral Beccles nor could Mrs. Brook's

"temple of analysis" be compared to Chad's social circle in Paris of

353

354
which Madame de Vionnet is the star. Marie de Vionnet may have
her own charming schemes by which she hOpes to keep Chad for
herself, but she is not at all a Mrs. Brook. In the Brook salon
"analysis" has replaced compassionate engagement with life, and the
schemes of the hostess have not "the excuse of passion. " In contrast,
the whole history of human suffering seems to hover in the hushed
rooms of Marie de Vionnet with their ancestral decor, and her own
story is a tale of passion and suffering, with dearly bought, fleeting
moments of happiness. Mr. Longdon faces the "wonderful" peOple
of the London world with certain reservations, and the more he sees
of these people the more his reservations grow and the more his
attitudes become the reader's guide toward the moral norms of the
story. There is no doubt that Mr. Longdon disapproves of Mrs. Brook
and of the Shallowness of her circle, and that he places his sympathies
with Nanda and asks the reader to do the same; he also is certain that
the world of Beccles offers more in human values than the world of
London. Strether, on the other hand, is enchanted by the aesthetically
satisfying surfaces of Paris from the first, and takes them as indicative
of moral refinement of the people as well. His journey into Paris marks
his spiritual departure from the inflexible codes of Woollett, but it also
forces him eventually to see the human shortcomings behind the rich
surfaces of Paris. At the end, he cannot claim a sure allegiance to

either Woollett or Paris as the better world of the two, but can only

355
claim, thanks to his experiences in Paris, to have seen both more
clearly than he did at the beginning of his journey. In the light of
his clarified vision, both Woollett and Paris are only parts of one
great and humanly incomplete world. Human shortcomings mark
both, and human compassion can be extended to both.

In Short, the differences between The Awkward Age and The

 

Ambassadors are those between a novel worked within the conventions

 

of the art of satire and one which deals with its characters and
situations largely in the manner of a realistically conceived literary
work. I am using the term realism here according to the definition

given by Rene Wellek in his Concepts of Criticism: "the objective

 

representation of contemporary social reality. "1 As such, realism
concentrates on the ordinary world of cause and effect and avoids
the miraculous: "it rejects the fantastic, the fairy-tale-like, the
allegorical and the symbolic, the highly stylized, the purely abstract

' HZ
and decorative. James, the satirist, obviously did not work within
the limitations imposed upon the novelist by a theory of realism. "What

Maisie Knew" and The Awkward Age abound in the fantastic, the fairy-.-

 

tale-like, and the highly stylized. The movements of the characters

are rigidly controlled, and the creatures themselves suggest the

 

1(New Haven), p. 240.

ZWellek, p. 241.

356

impersonations of vices and virtues of a morality play. The author's
aim is social criticism by way of satire, and his techniques lead the
reader to sympathize with the abused and to condemn the abusers.

The Ambassadors may contain, by implication, some social criticism

 

too, as does most realistic fiction, but there is no clearly drawn line
between good and evil, between the virtuous and the morally lax.

The illusion of "social reality" is, on the whole, preserved, and as

in real life vices and virtues dwell side by side and fight for supremacy
in the same character.

From his critical writings it is apparent that James considered
himself a promoter of realism, and it is certainly true, as Wellek
notes, that James stressed the value of "objective representation" as a
necessary means of creating the illusion of reality. But to James,
objectivity meant largely the suppression of the author's omniscient
presence in the work, a fact which led him to the dramatic mode of
presentation. Objectivity most certainly did not mean to him anything
like the "slice of life" that H. G. Wells might propose. No one, of
course, will argue that realism in art can or should reproduce the
happenstance of reality, although even in the structured realm of art
a Howells or a Lewis seems tediously to approximate such a happen-
stance. It is exactly on this point that James veers away from the

strictures of the "school" of realism and through the formal arrange-

ments of art builds structures that are at a great remove from the

357

simplistic doctrines summoned to most minds by the term "realism."
In "Washington Square" we noted the carefully balanced structural
arrangements as Opposed to a freely fluctuating stream of events which
a stricter adherence to any social reality would demand, and in T_he
Portrait, the controlled entrances and exits of Isabel's suitors and
their scheduled reappearances after her marriage certainly stress the
highly stylized over the naturally possible. His two satires, "What

Maisie Knew" and The Awkward Age, are the most "Objective" or the

 

most dramatically conceived of all his stories, but they are also the
most formal and the least "realistic" of them all.

The thing we should note, however, is that James' art is
Of that very highest kind--the art that seems no art at all. The extreme
attention paid to his "realism" and the trouble this kind of "set" gives
many of his readers is a measure of his success in concealing the very

bones of his structures. When we turn to The Ambassadors, the con—

 

summate artist is at work. One finds there everything James had dis-
covered in the way of ironic techniques; yet everything is handled with
new ease and unobtrusively. Only through a careful study of the work
does one discover that Lambert Strether does not really move in a
fictional world which is less formally supervised by the author than
was the world of satire for Mr. Longdon, his prototype. The fairy-tale
features, the sense of the allegorical, the carefully counterpointed

scenes and characters are still there. There is even a touch of the

358

satiric with the arrival of the Pococks in Paris. But as the satire is
mild, because its representatives lose their exaggerated traits and
merge with common humanity at any point of the story, so the other
formal means are subtle and relaxed enough to pass for techniques
which any advocate of the theory of realism might approve.

It helps, however, not to overlook the devices which go

beyond the techniques of strict realism when studying The Ambassadors,

 

because without them one might miss the artist's purpose. There has
been much critical energy expended, for example, on detailed exam-
ination of the differences between American and EurOpean ways of life

as they are thought to be represented by Woollett and Paris. Without
the necessary awareness that the symbolic value of both places tells
more of the author's purposes than their strict adherence to social
reality, such investigations seem rather fruitless. After the experience

with "Madame de Mauve s" and The Portrait of a Lady, one sees James'

 

international theme within a wider frame of reference. I agree with
Bewley, who believes that James' concern with the international theme
is a concern with life. The image of life is Europe in the sense that
the hero goes there to test his integrity and to find himself: "EurOpe
is a symbol that acts in James's fiction rather like Hawthorne's Great

Carbuncle. It shows everybody up for what they really are. "3 The

 

3Bewley, p. 181.

359

clue to the meaning of The Ambassadors is indeed provided by Europe

 

in this sense: Strether's journey from Woollett to Paris is a test of
his integrity and a way toward finding himself. It can also be said that
between Strether's arrival in Paris and his departure, all the characters
with whom he comes into contact, including the absent Mrs. Newsome,
undergo a similar testing. It is to Strether that the "results" of these
tests are revealed, and while he discovers the true selves of his new
acquaintances and revalues his old friends, his own vision enlarges.
Strether' S intercourse with the other characters, then, is a test for
himself as well as for them, and the whole action of the story can be
said to be also the structure of the tale. Structurally, Strether, of
course, is the central intelligence, but his position as the ironic
perceiver is by no means a secure one. While he "unmasks" the other
characters, his discoveries bring about changes in his own attitudes,
and these changes are observed by the other characters in turn; how-
ever, being limited perceivers, they will not give us the final word

on Strether; nor will Strether's own evaluation of himself suffice, for
ultimately it is again the reader who is endowed by James with the
greatest ironic perception of the action.

As in my discussion of The Portrait, "action" here does not

 

mean the series of outward events taking place in the novel but is
concerned with the hero's spiritual development. The action of The

Ambassadors, in this sense, is a kind of natural history of Strether's

 

360

psyche. Scholars, Quentin Anderson among them, 4 have noticed that

The Ambassadors constitutes something of an allegory, since every-

 

thing that happens in the fictional world of the novel registers and
takes meaning in Strether's mind. In the words of Percy Lubbock,
the real story of Strether "passes in an invisible world, the events

[15

take place in the man's mind. We might be reading about gardens,

Parisian dwellings, their furnishings and inhabitants, but we are
really reading about the spiritual changes of Strether. In the totality

of James' work, one might call The Ambassadors his Divine Comedy

 

 

for the complex, allegorical substance of the work. The remark
made by Francis Fergusson on the allegorical poetry of Dante points
to some similarity between the handling of the two works: "In his

[ Dante's ] poem-making, the literal texture of the poem serves, like
the outward deeds of a man or the visible leaves of a plant, to reveal

the life within. "6 "Life within" in the Divine Comedy, of course, is

 

the movement of the Spirit of the Pilgrim as he travels through the
Inferno and ascends the mount of Purgatory toward the Paradiso

Terrestre. Through a descent into the very depth of human experience,

 

 

4The American Henry James (New Brunswick, New Jersey,

 

1957).

5The Craft of Fiction (New York, 1957), p. 156.

 

6Dante's Drama of the Mind: A modern Reading of the Purgatorio
(Princeton, 1953), p. 92.

361
Strether too earns his right to ascend toward the stars--toward
understanding and compassion. In place of Dante's religious
imagery and historical figures, however, James' "Comedia"
sustains a continuous reference to the everyday human world, and
the author works with its features to register the subtle changes in
Strether's mind.

The techniques of The Ambassadorgare subtle and they make

 

great demands on the reader. From James' previous works,

especially from The Awkward Age, the reader learned to mistrust the

 

peOple of his polite society. Their talk could not always be accepted

at face value. Much the same is true of The Ambassadors, with this

 

additional difficulty-—that, contrary to the Londoners of The Awkward

 

£82.». the peOple of the Paris society don't give "each other away. "
Thus when Maria Gostrey or Miss Barrace talk to Strether about the
charms of Madame de Vionnet, their remarks might be kind and
gracious, but they do not provide either Strether or the reader with
safe clues as to the true "game" of Madame de Vionnet in the way
the Duchess provided them for Mr. Longdon and the reader about the

motives of Mrs. Brook. If in The Awkward Age, there was always

 

Mr. Longdon or Nanda one could trust, in The Ambassadors, in a

 

way, one can't trust even Strether. It is not that he tries deliberately
to cheat anybody, but it is rather a matter of his own misunderstand-

ing of himself. There is some resemblance between Strether and

362

Isabel Archer at the beginning of their stories in the sense that
both can be said to start with the wrong notions of themselves:
Isabel with an overestimation, Strether with an underestimation

of the self and of the value of his previous experience. In The

 

Portrait, however, the author's ironic tone warns the reader

 

against the discrepancies between Isabel's presumptions and the

realities she overlooks. In The Ambassadors, the author depends

 

almost exclusively on the reader for the ironic tone, and he can
achieve it only through painstaking examination of the structure of

the work. Because of such subtleties of technique, The Ambassadors

 

has often suffered at the hands of critics who fail to provide the
required ironic distance and instead read Strether "straight, " taking
him at his word as to his presumably unlived and wasted life in
Woollett. If we agree with Strether's estimation of himself, how can
we account for the man's sensitivity in aesthetic and human matters
which he brings from Woollett (the place where, as he feels, no real
living has taken place) to Paris, a sensitivity hardly matched by the
"truly living" peOple of Paris, whom he admires and in a sense
envies? Like Dante 's Pilgrim, Strether finds himself, halfway through
life, frustrated and perplexed, in a maze of experience. His story is
told in such a way that the reader is enabled to discount the seriousness
of Strether's doubts about himself and to see before Strether does (it

may be argued that he himself never consciously achieves such insight)

363
that he all along has traveled in the right direction. Paris is not as
much a new turn in his experience as a culmination of a life-long
search.

The Strether who arrives in Paris can be said to have
mastered one plane of experience without having suspected that there
might be room yet, at his time of life, for new explorations. Paris
teaches him otherwise. In the words of James himself, "Paris, " in
the action of Strether's story, becomes "a mere symbol for more
things than had been dreamt of in the pilosophy of Woollett. "7 On the
other hand, the mental habits Strether has acquired in Woollett,
have, after all, equipped him for the new experience awaiting him.
What he calls his detachment, or lack of prOper involvement with the
bustling industrial society of Woollett, has provided him with the
ability to see beyond the moral norms of his society should he be
required to do so. Thus, with all his sense of loss, he is "perhaps
after all constitutionally qualified for a better part"8 than he imagines
himself being able to play. As James further implies in the Preface,
the provincial man from Woollett has the makings of the man of the

world in him even if he is a "belated man of the world" in the sense

 

7"Preface" to The Ambassadors, p. xiv.

 

81bid., p. vi.

364

that his challenge to Show a "liberal appreciation" of new facts
outside the moral scheme of his locality comes rather late in
his life.

It seems that Strether's "belated" challenge is also a
challenge to James, who admits having "rejoiced in the promise
of a hero so mature, who would give [him] thereby the more to
bite into . . . . "9 Strether has come to Paris in me frame of
mind, but finds he is undergoing "a change almost from hour to
hour. " It is, in a way, a violent, dramatic experience for an
aging man, and James rises to the task of meeting it. In the
detailed synOpsis of the novel, meant for the publishers and now

available in The Notebooks, he calls his hero's undertaking "a

 

passage of irony for Strether, " who finds himself "up to his middle"

in the difference of everything, and it is this difference James

 

strives to give from many angles. In the synopsis, he talks about

the "contrasts and oppositions" in which he has placed his charac-

ters for this purpose, or, as Dupee expresses it, "everyone in the

novel . . . is vitally connected with everyone else and there is no
I ' I 1110 '

end of £0113 . One might add that there are also unsuspected

ironic Similarities, such as the spiritual affinity between the young

 

9"Preface" to The Ambassadors, p. vi.

 

10Dupee, p. 247.

365

Bilham and the aging Strether; that there are many telling scenes in
this respect as well, and that even Strether's physical movements
(at times solitary, at times in relation to other people) are designed
to point up his "passage of irony. " A thorough discussion of this
wealth of structural details will not be attempted here, for T_he_

Ambassadors has received more thorough critical attention than any

 

other of James' works; rather, I shall confine myself to features
which seem either to complement or to transcend the author's ironic
techniques and themes in the other works treated in this study.

At the very beginning of the novel, the changes Strether is
to undergo are foreshadowed by the positions of the other characters
and by his reactions to them. He is received in EurOpe by a kindly,
intelligent stranger, Maria Gostrey, who terms herself "a general
guide" to the place. Like the allegorical figure of Virgil, who
initiates Dante's Pilgrim into his strange undertaking, Maria too,
"standing on the threshold of Europe, virtually in waiting for Strether,
is almost like an emblematic figure in an old allegory. "11 She stresses
the strangeness of his new experience and his own sense of unprepared-
ness for the unknown quantity in this experience. Strether has the
sense that Maria knows things he doesn't, that she knows even intimate

facts about himself as her keen eyes measure him "as if he were

 

11Jefferson, p. 192.

366
human material they had already in some sort handled. " Maria's
superior knowledge notwithstanding, a certain similarity between
the two characters is suggested at this point. Maria's steady be-
spectacled gaze is matched with "a perpetual pair of glasses" through
which Strether seems to observe things with equal intensity, and both
have prominent noses as if to stress the curiosity about the world out-
side of themselves they both share. AS the author notes, they could
have been taken for brother and sister. Both may be said to have
Strether's oddity of a double consciousness, a quality of observation
to give him "detachment in his zeal and curiosity in his indifference."
In other words, they are at once interested in matters at hand (for
Maria it is Strether himself and his affair with EurOpe) and capable
of maintaining an objective distance from them. The difference in
their visions at this early point of the story is Maria's larger ex-
perience toward which she subtly guides her friend until later on,
Strether, in her own words, can "toddle alone."

Maria is to become Strether's guide to Europe in the sense
that her tactful, wittily stated questions about his relationships with
the people of Woollett and about his mission in Paris make him sus-
pect that his initial position toward each place may be in need of some
revision. By doing this, Miss Gostrey becomes also, as James calls
her, the reader's friend: he is the one to catch in her questionings

the implied ironic discrepancies, for example, between the

367

Mrs. Newsome Strether sees and the one who may have actually
sent him on his mission to rescue her son. Early in the story,

Strether describes Mrs. Newsome as "delicate, sensitive, high-
strung, " a dedicated woman who throws herself unsparingly'into

eve rything. "

Through the author's subtle manipulations of Maria's
response to Strether's appraisal, the reader suspects a certain
narrowness and inflexibility in Mrs. Newsome which Strether is not
yet ready to admit.

From the time of Strether's landing in Europe, he is drawn
to Maria by intuitive trust in their affinity of attitudes, and when he
takes her arm for their first Sightseeing trip, it is a symbolic
gesture that he has met EurOpe in the right spirit. The same gesture
indicates his unavoidable departure from the ways of Woollett: he is
in no hurry to meet his tardy old friend Waymarsh, who has promised
to greet him at his arrival, and when Waymarsh finally appears, his
"joyless" appearance provides a contrast to Strether's highspirited
escapade with Maria. For the reader, Strether's friend from Milrose
(the spirit of Milrose and Woollett are identical) immediately becomes
the means by which the hero's growing awareness about the insuf-
ficiency of the codes of Woollett is being measured. Unlike Strether,
who submits himself freely to the new if puzzling experience, Waymarsh,

who meets it with "the sacred rage" of rejection, is rather sitting

"through the ordeal of Europe" than actively enjoying it. At the side

368

of Maria, Strether sees as much--Maria, not Waymarsh, is to be his
guide to Europe. As he remarks to Miss Gostrey, She has cost him
his pis_t_ "in one great lump, " but he is prepared to pay for it with his
last penny. His vision has overtaken and passed Waymarsh, but there
flickers across Strether's mind for a long time yet the figure of
Mrs. Newsome, the chief representative of Woollett. Already from
his early days in EurOpe, however, he fights a feeling that should he
see Mrs. Newsome come towards him in the foreign setting he so
Obviously enjoys, "he would have jumped up to walk away a little. "

Through a subtle enlargement of Maria into a personage of
symbolic proportions who draws Strether into a new relationship
with almost a magic force and thus makes him see his past from an
unsuspected perspective, James works his ironic preparations for the
forthcoming Spiritual adventures of the hero with an ease and expert-
ness not matched in his earlier works. The man who has come on the
errand of one woman finds himself led "forth into the world" by
another. This world fascinates him, but in its strangeness his only
surety is the surprising thought "that he Should already have Maria
Gostrey, " and even this idea strikes him as droll. The reader too
has Maria, for that matter, and he learns to depend on her hints more
than does Strether when she undertakes the task of guiding him.

Strether's new experience affects him much like the theater

audience at a London play he attends with Maria: "the faces in the

369
stalls [seem to beg interchangeable with those on the stage. " In
other words, any sharp distinctions between appearances and realities
seem to be blurred. As Strether expresses it to himself, there are
no familiar Woollett types around him, and he wonders whether Chad
too, like the young man on the stage, will turn out to be a strange man
in perpetual evening dress and to be dealt with on such unfamiliar
terms. Strether's speculations foreshadow a parallel scene later on
taking place at the Paris Opera in which Chad makes his first entrance.
He is indeed a slick stranger in an evening dress, with no sign of his
former boyish crudeness about him, and Strether's sense of the un-
familiarity of his experience and of his own unpreparedness for it is
complete. His mental note about his position in relationship to Chad
sums up this state of mind: "You could deal with a man as himself--
you couldn't deal with him as somebody else. "

Tackling Chad has turned from the anticipated simple matter
into quite the Opposite. To deal with the unexpected, Strether seeks
first to rely on the familiar, that is, on his Woollett connections.

To begin with, he states Woollett's demands for Chad's return as soon
and as quickly as possible, his fear being that any delay may endanger
his Own convictions that Chad's place is in Woollett and not in Paris.
He correSponds copiously with Mrs. Newsome to give her a detailed
account of his activities and to keep up his own sense of loyalty to her

cause. He even turns to Waymarsh to check whether through liking

370
the new Chad and his friends he may not have already forfeited his
allegiance to Woollett beyond repair. As Waymarsh rightly suspects,
Strether is too sensitive to his new environment, therefore unfit for
his mission to insist on Chad's immediate return. He advises
Strether to quit the whole business, and it is this advice that enables
Strether to define his changed position. AS he explains to Waymarsh,
he cannot make out for sure "what people do know" in Paris, but he
likes them, and has decided to find out about them by himself before
he makes a value judgment even if he has to chance "being influenced
against Mrs. Newsome's feelings" to do so. The reader soon
suspects this coming rupture with Woollett from Strether's uneasy
reactions toward Mrs. Newsome's letters. In spite of his favorable
reports on Chad and his friends, her own evaluation of her son's
experience remains unchanged and as such sounds somewhat'tactless"
to Strether.

By this time Strether's new acquaintances have taken their
positions as the limited observers, and, next to Waymarsh and the
absent Mrs. Newsome, provide the reader with an ironic perspective
of the hero's adventure. The reader starts with Maria's pronounce-
ment that there are not many people like her and Strether, meaning
their greater readiness to adjust to new facts than, for example,
Waymarsh. When she adds Chad's friend little Bilham to the two

of them as "one of us," Miss Gostrey and the young man become the

371
reader's most reliable sources of information on matters which are
not quite yet within Strether's full comprehension. When little
Bilham remarks to Strether that the latter is not a person to whom
it is easy to tell things he does not want to know, he alerts the reader
to watch for just such things told to Strether, but which, in his
innocence, he will either ignore or generously misinterpret. As
telling at times are the silences with which these friends meet
Strether's premature conclusions about Chad's relationships with
the Countess de Vionnet and her daughter, their sudden changes of
subject at some of his pointed questions, and their disappearances
from the scene at a time when Strether seems to be most puzzled
and would appreciate their help. They seem to respect Strether's
attempt to find out the truth for himself, and the means they employ
to deny Strether assistance are exactly those things that can aid the
reader to see the truth.

If Maria has given Strether the impression that he may wish
to revise his former attitudes toward the world, little Bilham leaves
him with a sense that he does not know anything at all. He first
sees the young man on Chad's balcony observing the scene of Paris
as if he were looking out "at a world in reSpect to which he hadn't a
prejudice. " There flickers across Strether's mind an image of the
balcony as of something "that was up and up, " and as such a position

he should like to reach. As he begins to ascend toward it, he feels

372
as if he is leaving Waymarsh and everything he represents behind
him and is aware of his relief at this. The symbolic use of imagery
in this scene provides the reader with an effective shortcut to an
affinity of Spirit between the young Bilham and the aging Strether,
an affinity which Strether himself hardly suspects. 12 The parallel
placement of these two men at several points of the story often
serves to discount for the reader Strether's own evaluation of him-
self. At their first meeting, Strether is well on his way to viewing
the world without prejudices when he makes his admiring remark
about little Bilham; in fact his willingness to admit that he does not
know anything yet points to his readiness toward a tolerant view of
things. The most telling scene to point up ironic Similarities
between Strether and little Bilham is the much quoted one in Gloriani's
garden, with Strether's advice to the young man to live all he can:
The affair-~I mean the affair of life--couldn't, no doubt, have
been different for me; for it's at the best a tin mould, either
fluted and embossed, with ornamental excrescenes, or else
smooth and dreadfully plain, into which, a helpless jelly,
one's consciousness is poured--so that one 'takes' the form,
as the great cook says, and is more or less compactly held
by it: one lives in fine as one can. Still, one has the illusion

of freedom; therefore don't be, like me, without the memory
of that illusion. 1

 

12Tony Tanner in his "The Watcher from the Balcony: Henry
James's The Ambassadors, " Critical Quarterly (Spring, .1966), pp.
35-52, treats the symbolic meaning of the balcony scenes in The
Ambassadors, suggesting that Strether's progress in Europe can be
regarded as an ascent to a balcony.

 

13The Ambassadors, Vol. I, p. 218.

373

What the reader Should note from Strether's musings on the value and
limits of one's experience, are the afterthoughts he adds to these con-
clusions. fly time is the right time for one to experience the illusion
of freedom he adds, without suspecting that such a time is still ahead
of him rather than forever missed and behind. 14 He is, in a way,
advising himself on future things to happen to himself, while the young
man to whom the advice is given has, by all indications of his attitudes
toward life, already passed the need of it. On his part, little Bilham
endows Strether with much more "life" than the man credits himself
with when he exclaims: "Oh but I don't know that I want to be, at your
age, too different from you!"

What seems to affect Strether at this moment is a sense of his
own insignificance in relation to "the great world" at the Glorianis. The
people who move about with great social ease seem to complement the
aesthetically pleasing garden setting and make Strether feel that he
ought to be more "amusing" himself. "What am I to myself?" he

questions. There is no doubt, for example, that his host is somebodjr

 

to himself, at least in Strether's generous estimation:

 

14This passage is too often read as a direct assessment of

Strether's predicament. It is assumed that he indeed has come in too
late for "the affair of life" and can only make up for it through
vicariously participating in Chad's affair with Madame de Vionnet. An
article from this position is provided by L. B. Holland's "The 'Affair
of Life': The Ambassadors" in his aforementioned The Expense of
Vision.

 

 

374

With his genius in his eyes, his manners on his lips, his
long career behind him and his honours and rewards all
round, the great artist, in the course of a single sustained
look and a few words of delight at receiving him, affected
our friend as a dazzling prodigy of type. 15

Gloriani's charming smile seems to witness his "deep human expert-
ness" and at the same time to test Strether's own "stuff. " Then
there is Chad, an artist in his own right--the consummate artist of
social graces and of the art of living. With admirable ease he brings
forth first Madame de Vionnet, then her young daughter for Strether
to meet, and both ladies seem to be of such rare quality as to add to
Chad's credit—-he has not wasted his time in Paris in pursuit of
pleasures, as Woollett has suspected, but has profitted from the most
valuable relationships. As such, he appears to Strether as intensely
living, and he can only wish to have been like the young man.

The reader, however, sees beyond Strether's admiration.
While filtering the image of Gloriani through Strether's consciousness,
the author manages to add some ironic touches of his own for the reader
to suSpect a certain self-importance in the great man who has "his
honours and rewards all round. " By contrast, Strether's modesty
about himself gains the reader's approval. About the charms of Chad,
Strether is warned by Miss Gostrey, who tells him that he has not yet

seen the whole of Chad, and at several points by little Bilham, who

 

15The Ambassadors, Vol. I., p. 196.

 

375

implies that he himself has liked the older, cruder Chad better than
his new edition and that in spite of the beneficial influences of Paris
Chad really ought to return to business and Woollett. Strether, how-
ever, seems to take the remarks lightly, having decided to see things
for himself.

At the time, Chad's excellent manner seems like a "fathom-
less medium" to Strether, while he sees himself like a sinking
swimmer in it. He wonders whether the glittering surfaces Show

16

people for what they are, and he is met with two different reactions
to his probe in this respect. Miss Barrace, a lady of Chad's circle,
tells him it is sometimes so and at a later point adds that one
eventually gives up such probing, for the differences are really im-
possible to determine, and She, for herself, moves with ease and
amusement among the surfaces. Little Bilham's answer is given

in reply to Strether's inquiry about the Vionnet ladies. He can only
tell his older friend that they pass for Chad's "virtuous attachment, "
and then adds: "But isn't that enough? What more than a vain

appearance does the wiseSt‘d us know? " There is not quite the same

concentration on the surfaces in little Bilham's position as there is

 

16Frederick C. Crews, in his valuable section on The
Ambassadors in The Tragedy of Manners (New Haven, 1957), sees the
progress of Strether's consciousness as a growing awareness that
"surfaces and depths" are not, after all, interchangeable as the rich
surfaces of Parisian life have led him initially to believe.

 

 

376

in the attitudes of Miss Barrace. There is rather a great and
tolerant allowance given to the unknown depths, an attitude that is
increasingly becoming Strether's own. At any rate, Strether
decides at this point that it is too late for him to join in the bowing,
smiling crowd, --that is, to join the mere play of the surfaces and
to take the world as an old joke after the recipe of Miss Barrace.
He has had a full day at Gloriani's, with his meeting with Madame
de Vionnet as the most important experience of all the impressions
he has collected. She has provided a contrast to both Gloriani's
and Chad's impressive social manner by a simplicity Strether would
not have suSpected in a great lady. Her quiet charm has marked her
as a rarity among the social glitter around her, and Strether has
reSponded to it with as quiet a surrender.

In retrospect, he sees the whole event as having given him
"an amount of experience out of any prOportion to his adventures."
A mental note like this one provides the reader with the necessary
perspective of the foregoing scene. Strether's protestations notwith-
standing, he has been the one living intensely in the sense that he has
registered and weighted each bit of experience coming his way. The
socialites he has admired are, in comparison, thoughtless puppets
moving about by the force of few mastered social habits. The reader
learns more and more to rely on the silent thoughts crossing Strether's

mind in connection with scenes already treated or to come. These

377
unobtrusively scattered mental notes of the hero provide important
clues toward the ironic perception of the action the reader is required
to build. Even if Strether himself has the double consciousness of
seeing and, at the same time, eSpecially toward the end of his story,
seeing himself in the act of seeing and of trying to understand, he
takes many of his passing thoughts lightly without giving them as
much weight at the moment of their occurance as the reader is in-

clined to do. What this means is that one deals in The Ambassadors

 

with a very complex ironic structure: above the continuously en-
larging perspective of the hero, who views himself with a greater

and greater detachment as his vision grows, there is yet, to the very
end of the story, the reader's elevated position from which he gathers
a fuller knowledge of Strether's ironic journey into experience than
does the hero himself. By the time both Strether and the reader

have gone beyond the climactic scene at the Glorianis, they cannot

be said to share exactly the same amount of insight into the action of
the story. Strether had started on his mission to return a wayward
son to his excellent mother with the assumption that he was equal to
his task, but has found his assumptions in need of revision. Woollett's
insistence on Chad's waywardness does not seem to fit the pleasant,
mature young man he meets. Chad and his environment afford such
richness of new experiences instead that Strether has reversed his

initial position: he admits now that he knows nothing and that his own

378

narrow opportunities in Woollett have not given him a sense of life
at all. The reader's perspective includes Strether's own View of
himself, but also an outside view of Strether's adventure. Seen
from this vantage point, Strether, because of his fine sensitivity
to his new environment, has a greater capacity for life and,
eventually, for knowledge, than he himself suspects.

The next important step in the hero's "affair of life" is
reflected in his passing remark to Miss Barrace at Chad's dinner
party given in Strether's honor. He does not seem to have a life of
his own, he says, but only for other peOple. By this time he has
paid his first call to Madame de Vionnet, and has promised to save
her even if he does not really know to what end. She remains to him
an exquisite case "of . . . he did not know what, " and behind her
sweet Simplicity he senses depth he cannot measure. But in her
suppliant posture with which she has asked him to be patient with
her and to put in a good word for her to Mrs. Newsome, he has
sensed some deep human need and has spontaneously responded to
it. He has entered a relationship for which he does not know a name,
and sees himself as moving "in a strange air and on ground not of
the firmest. " He has a vague sense of being used but cannot discover
to what end, and the plotters seem to involve Chad as well as Madame
de Vionnet and their friends, the very people he has come to like. But

he has given himself to the new relationships without questioning the

379
importance of his own position in them, denying a life of his own.
Nonetheless he is an important quantity _i_I_1_himself, as his new
friends, who have learned to appreciate him and hope to rely on
his generosity for their own benefit, demonstrate as they present
his worth to the reader through their relationships with him. It is
no accident that to Strether thus engaged with the business of life,
the formerly admired Gloriani appears in a different light. As the
two men meet again at Chad's party, the great man's manner seems
only "a charming hollow civility on which Strether wouldn't have
trusted his own weight a moment."

He cannot see as yet what is hidden in the depth of Madame
de Vionnet; on the surface she has become to him the very epitome
of all the graces and fulfillment a highly cultured existence affords.
A relationship with such a woman could only grace Chad and should
not be forsaken. Little Bilham's sobering note that the relationship
seems to do a lot for Madame de Vionnet as well, and that she may
be caring more for keeping it up than Chad is taken lightly by
Strether at this point. But behind the idealized picture Strether
paints of Chad's friendship with the Countess, the reader senses
realities of a not so idealistic nature. The plotting Strether has
sensed behind the scenes involves an almost imperceptible struggle
between Chad and his mistress for Strether's support to their by

now differing aims. Madame de Vionnet hopes to charm him into

380

an indefinite stay in Paris, with Maria Gostrey as a consolation
prize for the inevitable loss of Mrs. Newsome; only by securing
Strether may She hope to secure Chad, whose interest is turning
from his glamorous conquest of Paris to the advertising business

at Woollett. At bottom, Chad's languorous attitude toward
returning immediately and his insistence that Strether see Paris
first contains his hOpe that the amiable man might secure his
release from Madame de Vionnet with his own sense of gallantry
unimpaired. This subtle scheming brings about results which

the lovers have not quite expected. Even at times when the two

are quite explicit to him about the nature of their relationship,
Strether can only see his own idealized version of it and by so
doing ennobles their deteriorating love affair anew. Chad finds
himself more honor bound to Madame de Vionnet than ever and obliged
to give her new signs of devotion, such as his help in settling the
marriage of Jeanne so that his own attachment to her mother will be
above suspicion. Marie de Vionnet, who sets out to charm Strether
with secure trust in her knowledge of human nature and with her
own need in mind, finds herself unexpectedly charmed by him in
turn. She has encountered a man of unusual sensitivity and insight,
qualities she has not seen in anyone before and ends up with the
realization that, other considerations aside, his friendship in itself

has been her greatest gain. It is Strether, not Chad, who shares

her hour of despair at the end.

381

Strether himself, due to his trust in the beauty of Chad's
involvements in Paris, has come out at the opposite side of his
undertaking. Suspecting that Strether's stay in Paris will tie him
to rather than free him from his mistress, Chad announces his
readiness to return to Woollett, and Strether is the one to request
his staying on. He now refuses to comply with Mrs. Newsome's
orders to return, begging Chad to await the arrival of the Pococks,
the new ambassadors from Woollett, on their way to check up on the
first ambassador. There is some vagueness in Chad's given reasons
for wanting to depart, and Strether feels that he must see more before
he can give Chad over to Woollett with the assurance that he "has
played fair. " Strether does not understand his own changed position,
sees himself as "quite fantastic, " but nevertheless acts in his mission
with new decisiveness even if against the explicit orders from Woollett.
He does not seem to need Maria's guiding any more, as She is the
first to admit; he senses that a new expansion of his vision has taken
place allowing him to move beyond her. She has become only a part
of his total experience, the end of which has not yet been reached.

The completion of Strether's experience with EurOpe comes
through his relationship with Madame de Vionnet. His friendship
with Miss Gostrey, which had seemed strange enough an occurance
to him at the beginning, appears to be a definable quantity when

compared to the more compelling, if to himself less explainable,

382

involvement with Marie de Vionnet. He surrenders himself
completely to her call for assistance before he can see where he
may emerge again. It is Strether's immersion in the "destructive
element" with the hope that the deep sea will hold him up. He can-
not explain his motives to himself any more and ceases to measure
or to understand what he expects to find at the end of his uncertain
venture; he now has passed into the disturbing state of not knowing
even himself. The things he undertakes to do for Marie and Chad in
face of the obvious disapproval of Woollett have nothing to do with
his previous well-ordered existence--the "conveniently uniform
thing" he had taken his life to be. But for all his insecurity about
his own whereabouts, his new position appears to him as being more
real than his old secure connections with Woollett. As he witnesses
the arrival of the Pococks, who, as he feels, have come to take a
sane look at his silliness, he asks himself the daring question:
"Wouldn't it be found to have made more for reality to be silly with
[ Chad and his friends] than sane with Sarah and Jim? "17 The
Strether who faces the arrivals from Woollett feels himself as much
changed as Chad, but in the eyes of these ambassadors he Spots no
recognition of such changes. It is from this point on that he begins

to see Woollett clearly.

 

17The Ambassadors, Vol. II., p. 81.

 

383

Soon enough Strether is called upon to take an Open stand
on behalf of Paris and, by implication, against Woollett in the
remarkable scene at Sarah's hotel suite, where Madame de Vionnet
has come to pay her reSpects to Chad's Sister. It is an interesting
scene from the standpoint of ironic techniques because it effectively
demonstrates Strether's position as the ironic perceiver at this
point of his story. He arrives for a morning call on Mrs. Pocock
to find Madame de Vionnet "already on the field" in her attempt to
win over the new ambassadors from Woollett. Sarah is supported
by the quiet presence of Waymarch, who has been instrumental in
promoting her trip to Paris because of his fear that Strether might
lose his "immortal soul" to the wicked city. One against two,
Madame Vionnet seeks Strether's help by creating an illusion of
intimacy between herself and him so that Sarah too might feel en-
couraged to entrust her well-being to Paris and the Countess. No
such intimacy has so far existed, Strether having kept his distance
from Marie de Vionnet in consideration of his obligations to Mrs.
Newsome. He sees at a glance the whole situation and each
person's position in it, his own being open to misinterpretations
by Woollett. Beyond him, the reader witnesses Strether's making
good his private conviction that being "silly" with Paris makes
more for reality than remaining "sane" with Woollett. He accepts

his part in the scheme of the Countess for the need he senses behind

384

it and in protest of Sarah's unchangeable haughtiness toward Marie's
humbly offered services to help her around Paris; Madame de

Vionnet has launched him in her boat, Strether tells himself, and

he settles in his place to pull it along even if he feels that "she was
giving him over to ruin. " With the eyes of Woollett upon him,

Strether sees himself and the Countess as "gathered for a performance
of 'EurOpe' " and symbolically ac cepts the challenge when he agrees

to call on Madame de Vionnet freely and does not deny her charge

that he Spends a great deal of his time with Miss Gostrey, whom the
Pococks might take for another siren of Paris.

From his open "performance" on behalf of Paris, Strether
moves toward greater freedom of action. He has been delivered into
the hands of Madame de Vionnet, and finds that he now can enjoy her
company without his previously self-imposed restrictions. From the
way he moves about before his hostess (his habitual movement while
calling on Maria Gostrey), one sees the new ease he feels in relation-
ship with Madame de Vionnet. It is as if these movements signal
another turn in his vision. As he has not needed Maria's guidance
lately, he does not seem to be in need of any now while he paces the
drawing room of Madame de Vionnet. Instead, he is seen explain-
ing things to E, and this time his subject is Woollett seen anew in
Sarah and Jim Pocock. Strether himself is far beyond their

provincial ways of enjoying Paris. The Pococks are the obvious

385

ironic counterpart to Strether's affair with EurOpe, except for
Mamie, the young sister of Jim, who, like Strether himself,
proves to be worthy of the attention of little Bilham.

For Strether there has opened up a wider view of things
as he moves through the home of Marie de Vionnet, where rooms
open into rooms as if leading him through Space back into human
history. After such an expanded view of life, he finds himself
ready when Sarah summons him for the final reckoning with
Woollett. This interview is his "single hour with Sarah" or the
"ruin" he has dreaded all along. She has come for his surrender;
Chad has promised to depart if Strether is ready. Strether feels
he has to see for Sure that Chad is prepared to break his admirable
relationships before he can announce his own readiness. What
Woollett now sees is that Strether has sold his "immortal soul" to
Paris. "Had he only been a little wilder" (in the way Jim and Sarah
would understand), he feels he would have been held "less monstrous, "
but he has given his very soul away to Paris, and this Woollett does
not forgive. Sarah walks away into the sunny street as if into her own
certainty about Strether's treachery and leaves him in the grey hotel
court as if to his own ruin. But there rises a new phoenix from the
ashes: Sarah has destroyed him-as the ambassador from Woollett,

only to make room for Strether the individual man, free to see life in
his own way, In his own words, he has been thrown over but has also

landed s omewhe re .

386

The new Strether feels at peace with himself and ascends
to Chad's balcony once more, this time "as if he had come for some
freedom. " If before the arrival of the Pococks he had decided to
stay by Chad and Marie, calling them his youth, in the lone moments
on the balcony now, he feels his own youth as a touchable, "queer
concrete presence, full of mystery, yet full of reality, which he
could handle, taste, smell, the deep breathing of which he could
positively hear. "18 This is his hour of the illusion of freedom, the
illusion he himself had felt as having by-passed his range of ex-
perience for all times. From this hour, he moves through Paris and
its countryside with a "sense of success, of finer harmony with

11

things, in short, with a sense of hip. It seems to him he is finally
accepted by Madame de Vionnet as a friend in his own right, not just

as an ambassador from Woollett to be bargained with for the possession
of Chad. He feels he has done his best by Chad himself, because he
has not deprived him of life by requesting his return to Woollett.

Mrs. Newsome, the high representative of Woollett, appears to him

now as being "all cold thought, " a perfection in her own way; to change

her would only mean to be "morally and intellectually rid of her. " He
has rid himself of her without telling himself so and has purchased life
for himself— -not at the cost of Mrs. Newsome, but by giving his life

away in his own chosen way.

 

18The Ambassadors, Vol. II., p. 211.

 

387

The culmination of Strether's "sense of success" and freedom
comes with the well-known scene taking place in the French country-
side. He has come away from Paris to enjoy a summer day in the
country with his new sense of leisure and views the scenery from a
riverside inn with the aesthetic satisfaction a remembered Lambinet
painting had once given him. He would only wish a boat coming up
the river to complete his picture, and when one presently appears,
it is to shake his new vision of life once more. The vacationers in
the boat are Chad and Madame de Vionnet, and Strether is forced to
admit that their "virtuous attachment" is after all an adulterous
affair. Once more he can be said to be "thrown over, " but once more
he safely lands, this time--into the very unsafety of human affairs.
Ironically, he has been called upon to make good his affirmation to
Sarah that the private life Of the Countess de Vionnet is none of his
business and that her miraculous education of Chad is enough for him
to judge her worth. To himself he has to confess that "he had really
been trying all along to suppose nothing. " But this innocent attitude
has also been a generous one, and because of the great allowance he
had given Chad and his mistress, he can adjust to the new facts as
they are revealed to him. From the elevated view of human affairs
on Chad's balcony, Strether finds himself submitted to another vision
of life and needs now to reconcile the two. To the reader such

reconciliation is foreshadowed by a momentary thought once again

388

crossing Strether's mind, this time at a Paris post office where he
has stOpped to send a message to Madame de Vionnet with his agree-
ment to see her once more. He suddenly feels at one with the people
from all walks of life around him--no better or worse than the rest
of them. He has not yet, however, descended to the very depth of
human experience. There are more things to learn about human
frailty from his last meeting with Madame de Vionnet.

Once more her home affects him in a strange way. This
time Strether sees the whole place as "the oldest thing he had ever
personally touched, " as old as human suffering itself. Presently
his hostess appears, dressed with severity in white and black, as if
ready to be sacrificed herself. Her time of subtle pretensions has
come to an end. She tries once more to plead for Strether's stay in
Paris, but her need behind her pleading is too great to be concealed
any longer. She breaks down in tears as would the simplest of women
in an hour of great trouble. It is then that Strether sees through her
polished surface into the depth he has been unable to reach, through
her little plots the need of which had remained obscure to him:
"What was at bottom the matter with her was simply Chad himself. "
She has achieved an almost miraculous transformation of Chad, but
she has not "made him indefinite;" he is still a young man with a
future awaiting him elsewhere and she a woman ten years his senior

and with little hope to keep him from the future he seems to be best

389

suited for much longer. She will be the loser in the end, one of
the penitent old women in the cathedral, where Strether had seen
her in a posture of great need once before. She is exploited by her
passion for her young man, and to face the approaching loss of him
is more than she can bear. Madame de Vionnet does not attempt
to hide the truth any longer but plainly admits: "It's how you see
me . . . and it's as I am, and as I must take myself, and of course
it's no matter. "19

These are words Isabel Archer might have spoken in her
final scene with Ralph Touchett, and indeed both scenes are marked
with an exchange of illuminative human understanding between the
participants of a kind which is rarely accessible to people through
their encounters in everyday living. By coming down to a level
of a self-revealing confession, the Countess de Vionnet has at once
become more common, because she has admitted to having a great
human weakness, and also become greater, because her confession
has given her a larger perSpective of things beyond her own hurt and
needs. As she sees it now, peOple (including herself) take out much

of the lives of others to be happy themselves, and even then they are

forever anxious that they might lose out at the end: "The only safe

 

1C)The Ambassadors, Vol. II., p. 285.

 

390

thing is to give. It's what plays you least false. "20 For Strether,
She has redeemed herself, taken the ugliness out of things by the
larger vision of them. She remains for him the finest creature
he has ever met, and her part in the affair with Chad has, after
all, largely consisted of giving-~it is her "virtuous attachment."
AS the reader might see it beyond Strether, he owes to her his
final illumination of the nature of experience as she owes to him
a similar one.

Strether's final appeal to Chad not to forsake Marie is
more his last tribute to the Countess rather than any attempt to do
something for Chad himself. As James notes himself in the syn0psis
of the novel, it is "the harmless panache of [Strether'g proceeding.
He measures exactly, himself, the situation. He knows he won't

make it all right. He knows he can't make it all right. "21

The irony
of Madame de Vionnet's much praised effort with Chad is the fact
that she has not really made him over (as Strether comes to admit--
he is, after all, just Chad) but given him a fine surface which will
indeed serve him well to become a successful advertising man in

Woollett. Bilham is right--Chad ought to go home. Strether still

givw him too much credit in thinking that Madame de Vionnet can

 

ZOThe Ambassadors, Vol. II., p. 283.

 

21The Notebooks of Henry James, p. 411.

 

391

yet do much more for him. He is really saying she could for a man
of Strether's own imagination. Chad has gained as much as he will
ever have a capacity for receiving.

AS for Strether himself, he has lost then found himself
again through his relationship with Madame de Vionnet. From the
sense of unlived life at the time of their first encounter in the
garden of Gloriani, he has passed to a stage of heightened feeling
for life, and thencbscended to share the darker vision of human
experience from which venture he and Marie have returned older (with
more insight) than the youthful Chad will ever be. Strether departs
from the Countess "lucid and quiet. " His new-found self shows in
his short exclamation to Maria Gostrey with whom he shares his
last experience: "I am sorry for us all!" "Us all" includes man-
kind itself--Woollett with the narrow perfection of Mrs. Newsome
as well as Paris and its fine surfaces and unbridled passions under-
neath. In the mind of Strether, both places constitute one great
mass of humanity for which a single angle of vision is not enough.
Having seen it, he has found in himself the sources of human com-
passion with which to meet the ever changing realities of life.

But he has landed neither exclusively in Paris nor in Woollett:
"Strether's spiritual voyage has, indeed, been a long one, much
farther than from Woollett to Paris, for it is neither of time nor of

place. It has encompassed the wildest yearnings and the deepest

392
compassion of a sensitive mind. "22 After an experience of such

dimensions, he can not settle at Miss Gostrey's "polished table

of hospitality" any more than he could fit himself comfortably into

the schemes of Mrs. Newsome. It is to the credit of Miss Gostrey
that she sees as much and accepts the unavoidable. Strether is
greater than She had suspected him to be--he has not been "smashed"
in his experience with EurOpe to need her tending for the rest of his

days. What Mitchy had said of Nanda in The Awkward Age can be

 

said as well of Strether: "Any passion so great, so complete .
is--satisfied or unsatisfied-~a life. " Strether's has been such
passion for truth itself, and he has seen the truth from the position
of the ironist in the scene of human frustrations and, while seeing
it, has partaken in the frustrations himself--he has become the

master of the ironic vision.

 

ZZWright, p. 240.

Conclusion

James, as it turns out, is a troublesome writer when
judged strictly within the theory of realism. His greatness un-
doubtedly lies in his ability to go beyond the strictures of realism
(as Wellek has noted) whenever his artistic aims so demand. He
has, however, done himself some disservice by proclaiming him-

self a member of the school of realism, because he has been judged

 

by its standards ever since. "What Maisie Knew" and The Awkward
$82 as one might expect, have suffered most, and even comparative-
ly recent critical studies fail to recognize that they need to be examined
with the conventions of the art of satire rather than the theory of
realism in mind.1 It also helps to remember that James himself was
still pleased with his achievement in "What Maisie Knew" and in TE

Awkward Age when he supplied the Prefaces to both years after the

 

completion of these stories. Among other things, he felt he had

achieved in The Awkward Age a perfect blend of substance and form:

 

 

1cf. Barbara Hardy, The Appropriate Form: An Essay on
the Novel (London, 1964). While Hardy acknowledges the virtue of
James' form which "gives us a dramatically enclosed and self-con-
tained world where everything has relevance to the main argument
(p. 15), " she insists that his two satires have purchased form "at the
expense of humanity (p. 46). "

 

 

393

394

I hold it impossible to say, before "The Awkward Age,"
where one of these elements [substance and form] ends and
the other begins: I have been unable at least myself, on
re-examination, to mark any such joint or seam, to see the
two discharged offices as separate.

My discussion of The Awkward Age indicates that I agree with the

 

author's conclusion. The social realities are not left out of The

Awkward Age, but James has met them by way of satire, not by way of

 

strictly imposed realism. Once this is understood, the objections to
the author's formal brilliance and to his seeming inhumanity fall away.
James' art, as I see it, proceeds from his ironic vision to

which he adapts his techniques for the finished artistic wholes. With
the ironic intent of each story in mind, the author transcends the
strictures of realism whenever he finds more adequate formal
means at hand. If one were to chart the develOpment and progress of
James' mastery of ironic techniques, it would be found to be a steady

ascent with The Awkward Age at its apex. AS was shown, experimen-

 

tations with multiple views of the same subject could be traced in such

early achievements as Washigton Square and "Madame de Mauves. "

 

In Washington Square, the reader was treated to Catherine's situation

 

through several limited perceivers, such as Dr. Sloper, his two
sisters and the girl's suitor. They could be called James' first ironic
reflectors, since Catherine's ironic journey into experience became

a matter of her ascending to and going beyond the limited visions of

 

2"Preface" to The Awkward Age, p. xxi.

 

395
each of these characters. A different technique for a different ironic
purpose was used in "Madame de Mauves. " Euphemia is a full grown
character when her story Opens; her tale is a gradual revelation of
the portrait already there. The full ironic view of the ambiguous
personality of Madame de Mauves is achieved through consecutive
discoveries of Longmore which are brought about by a series of
counterpointed scenes in which symbolic use of places and objects
promote the overall ironic effect of the story. Later on, James
amplifies these early techniques for more complex uses in a full

length novel like The Portrait of a Lady. The importance of scenes,

 

objects and places in signalling ironic discoveries reappears in The
Portrait and becomes a repeatedly and variously used technique in
James' later works as well. The reflectors, who were still in a

germinal stage in Washington Square, ' emerge as consciously

 

manipulated "sattelites" to light up Isabel's tragic endeavor to control

her own fate in The Portrait. At the same time, they are characters

 

in their own right who are engaged in a multiplicity of relationships
with the heroine. Isabel's own central position and her expanding
vision can be seen as parallel to the placement of Catherine SlOper,
but handled with greater SOphistication for the greater complexity of
Isabel's predicament.

The reflector technique undergoes further adjustments for

the requirements of "The ASpern Papers." If in The Portrait we are

 

396
concerned with Isabel's ironic discoveries about the nature of
experience, in "The Aspern Papers" the reader's attention is
focussed on what could be called an "unmasking" of the central
character as in "Madame de Mauves. " This time, however, the
central character tells his own story, and he does it by way of
self-flattering rationalizations rather than through honest self-
analysis. In a subtle way, the reader is enabled to embrace the
view of the narrator, to go beyond it, and to discredit his rational-
izations about himself and about the other characters involved for
the realities behind. Thus the ironic view of the central character
and of his situation depends largely on the reader's skill.

From "The Aspern Papers" on, the development is toward
increased SOphistication and complexity. If James' Maisie reminds
one of the centrally placed Isabel, she is only a child and cannot
pretend to have Isabel's insight into her own Situation. But the
author turns her shortcoming into a virtue: her very innocence be-
comes a touchstone against which her adult associates show up for
what they are, first to the reader, then to Maisie herself. In the
process, the author has almost disappeared, and the reader, like
the child herself, is guided toward the ironic discoveries of the tale
by the systematically repeated, stylized movements of the adult
figures. The faces turned to Maisie are either extremely lovely or

extremely hideous or a curious mixture of both, and together with

397

their symbolic movements they tell of a world of reality in which
human voices and follies threaten to extinguish the individual's
capacity for moral develOpment.

In The Awkward Age, the reader finds himself in drawing

 

rooms of idle, sophisticated people who exchange compliments and
call each other "wonderful. " The author limits himself to descrip-
tive stage directions by which the reader learns to judge the ironic
discrepancies between what is being said and what the characters
are trying to conceal. The girl Nanda, whose ironic discoveries
he is to witness, is not solidly placed at the center of the story,
but her true situation is to be re-assembled from the deceptive
salon talk about her. The idle, superfluous chatter has its own
reality—-it is the satirist's way of portraying the futility of modern
society. AS the reader shuffles through the glittering, chattering
crowd, he Spots some commonsense characters to help him toward
the ironic meaning of the story. Eventually the whole cast of
characters falls into two Opposite camps of which one becomes a
satiric enlargement of the evils of modern society and the other a
smothered humanity struggling for the right to survive. The reader's
experience of the whole work is not unlike the strenuous engagement
called for by the theater of the absurd.

The development of James' techniques, then, leads toward

experimentation and complexity as his ironic vision expands. This

398

vision cannot always be forced into the strictures of realism,

and the author never deliberately tried to do so. It has been

said often enough that James' fiction explores the growth, possi-

bilities and limitations of human consciousness. The reality of

the human mind is the reality he is concerned with:
'Experience, ' in the context of James's novels, signifies
generally the largest sensitive awareness one can have of
one's self, in both physical and spiritual dimensions, in
relation to others, to society, and to the whole fabric of
ideological assumptions and cultural myths of the time that
somehow govern or control the ordinary gestures of human
life.

From this 'experience, ' which could also be called a conscientious

striving toward "a comparatively accurate insight into objective

reality, ”4 the act of living proceeds. The movement toward the
more accurate insight is an ironic progression for James' charac-
ters, because at the outset of their journey into experience they are
burdened with misconceptions and illusions about themselves and
about the nature of reality. If they manage to rid themselves from
such a limited view of the nature of the world, they can begin the
act of conscious living. The high point of their insight, however,

coincides with their ironic realization that reality has many faces

 

3Epifano San Juan, Jr. "James's The Ambassadors: The
Trajectory of the Climax, " Midwest Quarterly (July 1964), p. 309.

 

 

4Quentin G. Kraft, "The Question of Freedom in James's
Fiction, " College English (Feb. 1965), p. 376.

 

399

and that human possibilities, by necessity, fall Short of their
strivings. It is usually at this point that the novel ends, leaving
the reader with a sense of a life going on after the book is closed.
One imagines this meaningful life of the hero, in light of his en-
larged vision, to be sober business, with deeper understanding and
human compassion as the rewards and limited hopes for personal
happiness.

There is, of course, also the Jamesian hero (or should one
call him an anti-hero? ) who resists the enlarged vision in favor
of a set of inflexible principles (as Euphemia de Mauves) or through
some rationalizations (as the narrator of "The Aspern Papers") to
guide him through the business of living. It is then that the author
throws the full light on the central figure to reveal his retreat from
that point of ironic insight, the acceptance of which might mark the
beginning of this conscious living. The character retreats into a
fixed world leaving the reader with the sense of the fullness of life
and the compounded sense of irony as he witnesses the character's
failure to avail himself of this knowledge.

The later James became increasingly preoccupied with the
evils of contemporary urbanized and commercially oriented society
as the limiting factors preventing the character's breakthrough to
the expanded vision of the potentialities of life. For this reason he

took up the tools of the satirist as effective means showing society

400

to be an immense force stifling to the human spirit. Needless to say,
his Maisie or Nanda show up the brighter against the uncanny gestures
and faces who surround them and who stand for the almost dehumanized
society into which the heroines attempt to bring life. If they can be

said to survive their ordeal by a slim margin, in the face of overwhelm-
ingly strong Opposition, their very attempt to do SO becomes a triumph.
To repeat, for the grim realities of modern existence, James chose the
most formally restricting means of expression when compared to the

rest of his writing. The Awkward Age is the apex of his technical

 

mastery in the sense that with this work the author can be said to have
conquered the restrictions of form. Paradoxically, his ability to ex-
press himself within the strictest limitations is also the mark of his

greater freedom. It is as if The Awkward Age had given a new lease

 

to James' art. From this point, he moves with the greatest of freedom
in whatever direction he chooses to go, be it the tightly knit structural

brilliance of The Sacred Fount (1901) or the more relaxed, yet very

 

subtle form of The Ambassadors (1903).

 

A S E L E C T E D B I B L I 0 G R A P H Y

I. WORKS BY HENRY JAMES

James, Henry. Autobiography: A Small Boy and OthersigNotes of a
Son and Brother; The Middle Years. Frederick W. Dupee, ed.
New York: Criterion Books, 1965.

 

 

----- .Henry James: A Collection of Critical Essays. Leon Edel, ed.
{1963]. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, Inc., A Spectrum
Book, 1965.

 

----- .The House of Fiction. Leon Edel, ed. London: Rupert Hart—
Davis, 1957.

 

----- .Notes of a Son and Brother. London: Macmillan and Co., 1914.

 

----- .The Notebooks of Henry James. F.O. Matthiessen and Kenneth
Murdock, eds.7[1947j. New York: Oxford University Press,
A Galaxy Book, 1961.

 

----- .The Novels and Tales of Henry James: New York Edition.[l907-l9l7].
New York: Scribner's, 1962-1965. 26 vols.

 

----- .The Scenic Art; Notes on Acting and the Drama: 1872-1901.
Allan Wade, ed.7[1948J. New York: Hill and Wang, Inc.,
A Dramabook, 1957.

 

————— .The Selected Letters of Henry James. Leon Edel, ed. New York:
Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1955.

 

----- .Selected Literary Criticism: Henry James. Morris Shapira, ed.[l964].
New York: McGraw-Hill Paperbacks, 1965.

 

----- .Washington Square and Daisy Miller. New York: Harper's Modern
Classics, 1956.

 

401

402

II. CRITICAL STUDIES

Anderson, Quentin. The American Henry James. New Brunswick, New
Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1957.

 

Baskett, Sam S. "The Sense of the Present in The Aspern Papers."
Papers of the Michigan Academy_of ScienceLgArts, and
Letters, XLIV (1958), 381-388.

 

 

Bass, Eben. "Dramatic Scene and The Awkward Age." PMLA, LXXIX
(March 1964), 148-157.

 

Beach, Joseph Warren. The Method of Henry James. [1918]. Revised
edition. Philadelphia: Albert Saifer, 1954.

 

Bewley, Marius. The Complex Fate: Hawthorne, Henry James, and
Some Other American Writers. London: Chatto and Windus,
1952. Pp. 1-149.

 

 

————— . "Henry James and 'Life.‘ " The Hudson Review, XI, No.2
(Summer 1958), 167-185.

 

Blackall, Jean Frantz. Jamesian Ambigpity and the Sacred Fount.
Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1965.

 

Booth, Wayne. The Rhetoric of Fiction. University of Chicago
Press, 1961.

 

Bowden, Edwin T. The Themes of Henry James. New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1956.

 

Brooks, Cleanth. "Irony and 'Ironic' Poetry," College Epglish,
Vol. 9, No.5 (Feb. 1948), 231-237.

 

------ "Irony as a Principle of Structure." In Morton D. Zabel, ed.:
Literary Opinion in America. [1937]. New York: Harper Torch-
books, 1962. Vol. II, Pp. 729-741.

 

Canby, Henry Seidel. Turn West, Turn East: Mark Twain and Henry
James. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1951.

 

Cargill, Oscar. The Novels of Henry James. New York: Macmillan, 1961.

Chevalier, Haakon M. The Ironic Temper. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1932.

 

Clair, John A. The Ironic Dimension in the Fiction of Henry James.
Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1965.

 

403

Cooney, Seamus. "Awkward Ages in The Awkward Age." Modern Language
Notes, LXXV (March 1960), 208-211.

Crane, Ronald S. "Cleanth Brooks; or The Bankruptcy of Critical
Monism." Modern Philology, (May, 1948), 226-45.

 

Cranfell, Thomas Marby and Clark, Robert Lanier, Jr. An Anatomy
of the Turn of the Screw. Austin: University of Texas
Press, 1965.

 

 

Crews, Frederick C. The Tragedy of Manners: Moral Drama in the
Later Novels of Henry James. New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1957.

 

Dove, John Roland. "Tragic Consciousness in Isabel Archer." In
Waldo McNeir and Leo B. Levy, eds.,Studies in American
Literature. Louisiana State University Studies, Humanities
Series, No. 8. Baton Rouge, 1960. Pp. 78-94.

 

Dupee, F.W. Henry James. The American Men of Letters Series:
William Sloane Associates, 1951.

 

----- . ed. The Question of Henry James: A Collection of Critical
Essay . New York: Holt, 1945.

Edel, Leon. "The Aspern Papers: Great Aunt Wyckoff and Juliana
Bordereau." Modern Language Notes, LXVIII (June 1952), 392-395.

 

----- . "Introduction." Henry James. The Ambassadors. Leon Edel, ed.
Cambridge, Mass. : The Riverside Press, 1960.

 

----- . "Introduction." Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady. Cambridge,
Mass. : The Riverside Press, 1956.

 

Edgar, Pelham. Henry James: Man and Author. [1927]. New York:
Russel and Russel, Inc., 1964.

Fergusson, Francis. Dante's Drama of the Mind: A Modern Reading
of the Purgatorio. Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1953.

 

————— . The Idea of a Theater: The Art of Drama in Changing Per-
spective. Garden City: A Doubleday Anchor Book, 1953.

----- . "Introduction" to Aristotle's Poetics. Translated by
S.H. Butcher. New York: Hill and Wang, A Dramabook, 1961.

 

Firebaugh, Joseph. "The Pragmatism of Henry James." Virginia
gguarterly Review, XXVII (Summer 1951), 419-435.

 

 

404

Friend, Joseph H. "The Structure of The Portrait of a Lady."
Nineteenth—Century Fiction, xx (June 1965), 85-95.

 

 

Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1957.

 

Gargano, James w. "What Maisie Knew: The Evolution of a 'Moral
Sense.'" Nineteenth—Century Fiction, XVI (June 1961), 33-46.

 

 

Girling, H. K. "'Wonder' and 'Beauty' in The Awkward Age."
Essays in Criticism, VIII (October 1958), 370-380.

 

 

Gleckner, Robert F. "James's ’Madame de Mauves' and Hawthorne's
The Scarlet Letter." Modern Language Notes, LXXIII
(December 19585, 580—586.

 

 

Gordon, Caroline. How to Read a Novel. New York: Viking Press, 1957.
Pp. 111-144, 148-155.

 

Gregor, Ian and Brian, Nicholas. "The Novel of Moral Consciousness:
The Awkward Age." In their The Moral and the Story. London:
Faber and Faber, 1962. Pp. 151-184.

 

 

Hardy, Barbara. The ApprOpriate Form: An Essay on the Novel.
University of London Athlone Press, 1964. Pp. 11-50.

 

Hartsock, Mildred. "The Exposed Mind: A View of The Awkward Age."
Critical Quarterly, Vol. 9, No. 1 (Spring 1967),49-59.

 

 

Hays, H. R. "James as a Satirist." Hound and Horn, VII (April-
June 1934), 514-522.

 

Hoffman, Charles G. The Short Novels of Henry James. New York:
Bookman Associates, 1957.

 

Holland, Laurence Bedwell. The Expense of Vision: Essays on the
Craft of Henry James. Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1964.

 

 

Holloway, John. "Tess of the D'Urbervilles and The Awkward Age."
In his The Charted Mirror: Literary and Critical Essayy.
London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960. Pp. 108-117.

 

 

 

Hynes, Joseph A. "The Middle Way of Miss Farange: A Study of
James's Maisie." Journal of English Literarngistory
(December 1965), 528-553.

 

Jefferson, D. W. Henry James. Writers and Critics Series.
Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1960

 

-—---. Henry James and the Modern Reader. Edinburgh: Oliver and
Boyd, 1964.

 

 

 

405

Kaplan, Charles. "James's 'Madame de Mauves.'" Explicator, XIX
(Feb. 1961), item 32.

 

Kelley, Cornelia Pulsifer. The Early Development of Henry James.
[1930]. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1965.

 

Kernan, Alvin. "A Theory of Satire." In his The Cankered Muse:
Satire of the English Renaissance. New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1959. Pp. 1-36.

 

 

Kettle, Arnold. An Introduction to the English Novel. London:
Hutchinson, 1953. Vol. 11, Pp. 13-34.

 

Knights, L. C. "Henry James and the Trapped Spectator." .EE:
plorations: Essays in Criticism Mainly on the Literature
of the Seventeenth Century. (1946]. New York: George W.
Stewart, Publisher, Inc., 1947.

 

 

Korg, Jacob. "What Aspern Papers? A Hypothesis." College English,
XXIII (Feb. 1962), 378-381.

 

Kraft, Quentin G. " The Question of Freedom in James's Fiction."
College English, XXVI (Feb. 1965), 372—376.

 

Krook, Dorothea. The Ordeal of Consciousness in Henry James.
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1962.

 

Langbaum, Robert. The Poetry of Experience: The Dramatic
Monologue in Modern Literary Tradition. New York: Random
House, 1957.

 

 

Leavis, F. R. The Great Tradition: George EliotyyHenry James,
Joseph Conrad. [1949] Garden City: Doubleday Anchor
Books, 1954.

 

 

Lebowitz, Naomi. The Imagination of Loving: Henry James's Legacy
to the Novel. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1965.

 

 

Lehmann, John. "A Question of Covering One's Tracks." In his
The Open Night. London: Longmans, 1952. Pp. 45-53.

 

R. W. B. Lewis. The American Adam: Tragedy and Tradition in the
Nineteenth Century._[l955j. Chicago: The University of
Chicago Press, Phoenix Books, 1959.

 

 

Lubbock, Percy. The Craft of Fiction. [1921]. New York: The Viking
Press, 1957.

 

406

McCloskey, John C. "What Maisie Knows: A Study of Childhood and
Adolescence." American Literature, XXXVI (Jan. 1965),485-513.

 

Mackenzie, Manfred. "Ironic Melodrama in The Portrait of a Lady."
Modern Fiction Studies, XII (Spring 1966), 7—23.

 

 

Marks, Robert. James's Later Novels: An Interpretation. New York:
William-Frederick Press, 1960.

 

Marshall Kenneth B. Ironyyin the Novels of E. M. Forster. Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan, 1955. (Unpublished dissertation).

 

Matthiessen, F. 0. Henry James: The Major Phase. New York: Oxford
University Press, 1944.

 

----- . "Introduction." The American Novels of Henry James.
F.O. Matthiessen, ed. (1947]. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1964.

 

Montgomery, Marion. "The Flaw in the Portrait: Henry James vs.
Isabel Archer." University of Kansas City Review, XXVI
(March 1960), 215—220.

 

Ortega y Gasset, Jose. The Dehumanization of Art and Other
Writings on Art and Culture. [1948]. Garden City:
Doubleday Anchor Books, 1956.

 

 

Patterson, Rebecca. "Two Portraits of a Lady." Midwesthuarterly,
I (July 1960), 343-361.

 

Poirer, Richard. The Comic Sense of Henry James: A Study of the
Early Novels. New York: Oxford University Press, 1960.

 

 

Powers, Lyall H. "The Portrait of a Lady: 'The Eternal Mystery
of Things.'" Nineteenth— Century Fiction, XIV (September

 

 

Reid, Stephen. "The Source of Moral Passion in The Portrait of a
Lady and The Spoils of Poynton." Modern Fiction Studies,
XII (Spring 1966), 24—43.

 

 

 

Rodenbeck, John. "The Bolted Door in James's Portrait of a Lady."
Modern Fiction Studies, x (Winter 1964-1965), 330-340.

 

 

Rovit, Earl H. "The Ambiguous Modern Novel." Yale Review
(Spring, 1960), 413—24.

 

San Juan, Epifanio, Jr. "James's The Ambassadors: The Trajectory
of the Climax." Midwest Quarterly, v (July 1964), 295-310.

 

 

Scholes , Robert. "George is my Name." The New York Times Book Review
(August 7, 1966), 1, 22.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sedgewick, G. G. Of Irony: Especially in Drama. University of Toronto
Studies: Philology and Literature Series, No. 10.
Toronto: The University of Toronto Press, 1935.

 

 

Sharp, Sister M. Corona. The "Confidante" in Henry James: Evolution
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Sharpe, Robert Boies. Irony in the Drama: An Essay on Impersonation,
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Stafford, William T., ed. Perspectives on The Portrait of a Lady:
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Stallman, R. W. "The Houses that James Built -- The Portrait of a
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Stein, William Bysshe. "The Aspern Papers: A Comedy of Masks."
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----- . "The Portrait of a Lady: Vis Inertiae." In William T.
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Stewart, J. I. M. "Henry James." In his Eight Modern Writers.
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Tanner, Tony. "The Fearful Self: Henry James's The Portrait of a
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----- . The Reign of Wonder: Naivety and Reality in American
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Pp. 261—335.

 

 

 

----- . "The Watcher from the Balcony: Henry James's The Ambassadors."
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Thomson, J. A. K. Irony: An Historical Introduction. Cambridge:
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Thompson, Alan Reynold. The Dry_Mock: A Study of Irony in Drama.
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Van Ghent, Dorothy. The English Novel: Form and Function.
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----- . "James's Idea of Structure." PMLA, LXXX (September 1965),

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Wasiolek, Edward. "Maisie: Pure or Corrupt?" College English,
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Willen, Gerald. ed. A Casebook on Henry James's The Turn of the Screw.
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Winters, Yvor. In Defense of Reason. Denver: University of Denver
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Worcester, David. The Art of Satire. Cambridge: Harvard University
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