Modern Library Revue: #26 The Wings of the Dove

November 5, 2013 | 2 books mentioned 16 8 min read

coverI have tried several times to read The Wings of the Dove and always stalled somewhere around page 30, when Kate Croy and Merton Densher meet in Kensington Gardens. A couple of months ago, after spending my summer reading back-to-back Stephen King novels, I was restlessly scanning the bookshelf for something new and experienced the intellectual version of the thing where anemic people yearn to eat dirt. I had surfeited myself on easy reading; my brain, sensing the slow atrophying and death of its parts, compelled me to reach for Henry James, and together we chugged right through the gate of Kensington Gardens and all the way to the end. When you’re ready, you’re ready.

I was so ready to read The Wings of the Dove that it caused me to have a mystical experience of the sort typically associated with psychotropic drugs. Let’s say that my previous efforts with this book were equivalent to the disappointing herbal cigarette from a store called Groovy Vibes, or a bag of mulch obtained at the concert from someone’s questionable cousin. But this time I got, so to speak, the good shit. You eat the Henry James mushrooms, you look upon his dense thicket of sentences, his plodding parade of commas, and suddenly the text, and the entire world, come into insane focus. The mere act of securing myself a sour-smelling BART seat and opening the paperback was enough, for the two weeks it took me to finish the novel, to return me to this heightened state.

As it happened, reading The Wings of the Dove coincided with a breakthrough in my note-taking. Rather than trying to hold my book and write out long quotations on the train, rather than snapping acid-weakened corners with excessive dog-earing, I realized that it’s possible to take a picture of the choice passage with my spiffy phone. Since discovering this tactic I have used it to very good effect with some books. However, when my consciousness-elevating sojourn with Henry James ended, I was confronted with nearly a hundred photos of pages — a mute and largely meaningless mosaic of text and image like an ill-considered senior art project. Looking at them now is like reading the mad scrawl of someone who has actually taken drugs. Perusing these “notes,” all I can  hope for are a few good flashbacks.

Flipping hopelessly through the Henry James digital photo album, I find that some of my choice passages retain the startling magic that I felt during my trip. Some of them, in fact, leave me with the distinct impression that there is actually something a little bit trippy about Henry James. Kate’s beau Merton Densher, a journalist without enough money to be a suitable husband, is offered the chance to go to America and write a series of society dispatches for his paper; the advent of this opportunity is described as an “imprisoned thought” that “had, in a word, on the opening of the door, flown straight out into Densher’s face, or perched at least on his shoulder, making him look up in surprise from his mere inky office-table.” I see the imprisoned thought like a friendly little pterodactyl, the inky table, Densher looking up with a charming startled look on his guileless face (specifically, I see a young Daniel Day Lewis, as directed by Martin Scorsese or Francis Ford Coppola).

(If Henry James wasn’t the originator of the vision of hope as “the thing with feathers,” he certainly made something of it with all his lovely winged things. Here’s Mrs. Stringham, the companion of a young heiress named Milly Theale, when they first form their connection: “But this imagination — the fancy of a possible link with the remarkable young thing from New York — had mustered courage: had perched, on the instant, at the clearest look-out it could find and might be said to have remained there till, only a few months later, it had caught, in surprise and joy, the unmistakable flash of a signal.”)

As far as I know, the major complaint about Henry James is that he is insanely boring. But if you look at him the right way you understand that he is just relentlessly attuned to the dimensions of moments and thoughts, like people on drugs, or teenagers, or neurotic adults. It is easy to miss this when you are busy being grumpy about the incomprehensible passages that pop up all over:

Not to talk of what they might have talked of drove them to other ground; it was as if they used a perverse insistence to make up what they ignored. They concealed their pursuit of the irrelevant by the charm of their manner; they took precautions of a courtesy that they had formerly left to come of itself; often when he had quitted her, he stopped short, walking off, with the aftersense of their change.

coverI can’t believe I’m going to say this, but squinted at in just the right way, some passages reminded me a bit of Tao Lin’s Taipei, a book I am on the record as finding abhorrent. Here, when Kate thinks about her sister, who made an undistinguished marriage and is now saddled with undistinguished widowhood: “She was little more than a ragged relic, a plain, prosaic result of him, as if she had somehow been pulled through him as through an obstinate funnel, only to be left crumpled and useless and with nothing in her but what he accounted for.” How, when I loathe the style of Tao Lin, can I see him preordained in a book I found so stirring? Some of it is merely coincidence, the deployment of similar analogy and rhythm, as here in Taipei: “He imagined his trajectory as a vacuum-sealed tube, into which he’d arrived and through which — traveling alone in the vacuum-sealed tube of his own life — he’d be suctioned and from which he’d exit, as a successful delivery to some unimaginable recipient.”

I think, though, that while there is a universe separating their prose, Henry James wields a real-time emotional barometer in the way that Tao Lin strives to do. The difference is that Tao Lin’s project is concerned only with the measurements of one person. Perhaps this is a more honest project, if we are to concede, à la Conrad, that life is ultimately a solo enterprise. But this can be such a limiting approach. In The Wings of the Dove, James devotes his prodigious abilities to the group, so that we feel, more or less, the preoccupations of Kate, of Merton, of the mysteriously ailing Milly, of her anxious minder Susan Stringham. James also manages to show the gulf that exists in human consciousness between certain hard revelations about the self and deeper, damning truths still unplumbed:

[Kate] saw as she had never seen before how material things spoke to her. She saw, and she blushed to see, that if, in contrast with some of its old aspects, life now affected her as a dress successfully “done up,” this was exactly by reason of the trimmings and lace, was a matter of ribbons and silk and velvet. She had a dire accessibility to pleasure from such sources.

Kate sees this, but she doesn’t see the way that this relatively common and redeemable “accessibility” to material things will cause her in the end to do something irredeemable. James scrupulously describes his characters while still managing to leave the impression of a final veil separating each person from what they really think of themselves, and one another.

Another key difference between James and Lin is that, if James, like Lin, has you living so much in the moment and inside the minds of his characters, his moments are all of them in service to a story. James strikes me as very bold and modern in his approach to the novel, but he does not abandon plot as a critical component of the form. When we learn about Kate’s knowledge of her own weakness for the finer things above, it is as critical a plot-point as Milly’s wealth, described inimitably thus:

…it was in the fine folds of the helplessly expensive little black frock that she drew over the grass as she now strolled vaguely off…it lurked between the leaves of the uncut but antiquated Tauchnitz volume of which, before going out, she had mechanically possessed herself. She couldn’t dress it away, nor walk it away, nor read it away, nor think it away; she could neither smile it away in any dreamy absence nor blow it away in any softened sigh. She couldn’t have lost it if she had tried — that was what it was to be really rich. It had to be the thing you were.

And the plot is a real doozy. Poor Kate with a dead mother and unsuitable father, taken in by a rich aunt, who forbids her marrying poor Merton even as the aunt finds Merton a charming companion. Merton goes to America, meets heiress. Heiress falls for Merton, which may or may not be a result of Merton’s excessive attentions. Heiress meets lady writer. Lady writer falls for heiress. Heiress and lady writer go to England, and meet Kate and Aunt. Heiress is discovered to have unnamed fatal disease with very few symptoms. Kate convinces Merton to woo heiress, even to marry her, so as to get her money. Merton demands sex in exchange for his promise. How did these nice people go so wrong? How will it end?

Another surprise, considering my earlier struggles with Henry James: this is actually a very sexy book. It’s a canard of old people that entertainment of yesteryear had a kind of chaste sexiness that you just don’t see today, when TV is a riot of exposed jugs and racy language. Usually I am inclined to disagree; the old movies that are allegedly sexy always just leave me feeling desolate over the thinness of Grace Kelly or Ingrid Bergman, unmoved by Cary Grant, and wondering if people used to go all the way to fourth base while exclusively doing close-mouthed kissing. But Wings of the Dove is such a suggestive book that if two characters had even the briefest conversation I fancied that they then ravished one another on a credenza. As Merton returns to London from New York, he yearns for Kate: “His absence from her for so many weeks had had such an effect upon him that his demands, his desires had grown; and only the night before, as his ship steamed, beneath summer stars, in sight of the Irish coast, he had felt all the force of his particular necessity.”

Once Kate and Merton are reunited, this “particular necessity” remains unmet in a spicy way:

If Kate had consented to drive away with him and alight at his house, there would probably enough have occurred for them, at the foot of his steps, one of those strange instants between man and woman that blow upon the red spark, the spark of conflict, ever latent in the depths of passion. She would have shaken her head — oh sadly, divinely — on the question of coming in; and he, though doing all justice to her refusal, would have yet felt his eyes reach further into her own than a possible word, at a time, could reach.

When Merton finally understands the full extent of Kate’s plot — that he should lay hold to Milly’s fortune by marrying her before she dies, he is by then so full of unrelieved passion that he will do anything:

…he passed his hand into her arm with a force that produced for them another pause. “I’ll tell any lie you want, any your idea requires, if you’ll only come to me.”

“Come to you?” She spoke low.

“Come to me.”

Very few people really come out well in this novel, but there is still sympathy to go around. How awful to be Kate and belong to the chattel sex; for your earthly comfort to be tied up with the whims of your benevolent relative; how awful to have been brought up with fancies and expectations you can ill-afford, ill-equipped to earn a living. How sad for sex to be your only bargaining chip, so that when it’s gone you’ve got nothing left to trade. How sad to be Merton Densher, with an excess of chivalry deployed only when it’s too late. And how sad, of course, to be Milly, to be so young and rich and lovely, and dying and preyed-upon.

Just like you have to exercise your idiom when you’ve spent the summer devouring beach reads, you have to exercise your emotional register. When you are in a state of placidity, you must remind yourself of the way that it is possible to feel like a giant, throbbing nerve. But if mushrooms leave you fetal in a corner, if you’re too old for MDMA, thrill-seek with Henry James. He is there to remind you that every conversation, every interaction shared among human beings, is multidimensional and freighted with meaning.

is the editor of The Millions. She lives in San Francisco and tweets sporadically at @lydiakiesling. You can read more of her writing at www.lydiakiesling.com.

16 comments:

  1. If comparing a master stylist like Henry James (and, by the by, I’m far from his greatest fan) to a callow drug-addled opportunist who will likely not be read in a decade is The Millions’s idea of considering a 111-year-old novel (i.e., linkbait for a sputtering online army of millennial narcissists who will flood this comment thread with detestable illiteracy), then this online journal is in very grave trouble indeed.

  2. And yet, Mr. Champion, you read the site every morning. One wonders what sort of statement this makes about you.

    I’m not a Millennial–I’m a retired grandpa, but I do have three children who are Millennials. I have never found narcissism to be limited to a particular generation.

  3. Nice piece. Of the “trilogy” of his third period, I always thought “Wings of the Dove” a lot less compelling than either “The Ambassadors” and (my favorite) “The Golden Bowl.”

    As far as comparing a sixtyish novelist at the turn of the 20th century with any contemporary writer in their twenties — well, I don’t know. I’m over 60, and I find a good deal of the material in my first books, written in my twenties, to be from a very different sensibility. The longer you live, the less self-centered you get — hopefully.

    But I enjoyed reading this thoughtful appreciation. Thank you for allowing my detestable, illiterate comment to be printed.

  4. I haven’t read Henry James at all- yet. He’s one of those writers who is so esteemed among critics and scholars and other writers that I know I need to read him but I haven’t got the stamina to attempt anything by him.

    This article really shows why I should and why I haven’t. I’ve got no problem with the occasional jazz cigarette, and I’m all kinds of down with intense literary observation but James sees so…daunting.

    But Lydia Kiesling’s review pushes his work closer to the “will read NOW” pile.

    Great work!

  5. Edward Champion has a hot and purdy mouth. He’s like the Thomas Bernhard of people-that-will-die-as-we-all-must-surely-die. Anyway. Henry James? Loved “Turn of the Screw” until he fucked it up with that ending. Otherwise I only read the video summaries on porno websites.

  6. It’s depressing to think that people like C.V. think James is just too hard for them. Maybe some millennials just are as dopey as a lot of we baby boomers think they are, but maybe they could start with “Daisy Miller,” “The Turn of the Screw,” “The Beast in the Jungle,” or, if they are brave enough to attempt a novel, “Washington Square.” If they can’t handle this, then they need to just stop pretending they are at all “literary.” Seriously, people.

    James’ “first period” novels are probably the most accessible to newbies. Try “Portrait of a Lady.” There’s a great plot motif involving a copy of this book in Roth’s “Letting Go,” and if nothing else, it tells you that even mildly literary twentysomethings did read James back in the day. Besides this and “Washington Square,” also pretty easy are “What Maisie Knew” and the delicious “The Bostonians.”

    For the non-readers among millennials, the Merchant Ivory film version with Vanessa Redgrave, Christopher Reeve, Jessica Tandy, Linda Hunt and Wallace Shawn is quite nice, as are the Merchant Ivory “The Golden Bowl” — although I preferred the BBC series — and “The Europeans.” But the problem with James onscreen was summed up by Terrence Rafferty:”:

    ” Even the most intelligent attempts to be wholly faithful to his stories and his characters — films like Peter Bogdanovich’s “Daisy Miller” (1974), Jane Campion’s “Portrait of a Lady” (1996) and Agnieszka Holland’s “Washington Square” (1997) — seem finally to bump up against something stubborn and unyielding in the material. . . In the absence of strong, clearly defined dramatic action James’s leisurely plots can feel frustratingly irresolute, and the characters’ many scruples and hesitancies, so evocative on the page, can become downright puzzling on the screen.”

    Some people like C.V. apparently don’t have think they have the patience for either James or some contemporary fiction, finding them too complex. They are either sad cases of arrested development or poor educations or else they are seriously underestimating their own intelligence.

  7. I find it rather baffling that James has earned a reputation for being boring. I’ve read quite a bit of his fiction, and find him to be anything but boring. The list Mr. Grayson provided really is a good place to start. Those are some of the more accessible of his novels and stories. There are a couple more I would add–such as The Other House, another novel from James’ third period. And something that is actually different from what anyone would expect from James, as the plot includes the murder of a child. James really had many tricks up his sleeve, and you never hear of James as a comedian. He can actually be quite funny. There are some marvelous satiric touches in The Bostonians. The short story The Death of the Lion has a comedic, frenetic pace and involves lost manuscripts, a male writer who assumes a female nom de plume and a female writer who assumes a male non de plume. Other works that are more accessible include The Aspern Papers and The Jolly Corner. Just as an aside, I used to have an anthology of modern short stories that was edited by Somerset Maugham and published in the 1940s. Most of the writers, of course, are unknown and forgotten today. But he did include The Beast in the Jungle, and argued that that was the only work of James’ that would survive. Some 70 years later, James’ reputation is still as bright, but Maugham’s is much more eclipsed these days. I love the irony of that.

  8. I forgot about The Spoils of Poynton–the epic battle of wills between Mrs. Gereth and her son Owen over his upcoming marriage! Nothing boring here.

  9. Thank you, LK, for your commiserating emotion: your boredom for my intimidation. My feeling, as yours, was only a symptom of readiness (maturity).

    After reading tWotD, I felt as satisfied and accomplished as a lone hiker who after becoming lost, stranded, exhausted, exposed, and dehydrated, rescues himself with perseverance and critical thinking.

    Standing to read aloud dense passages including every punctuation mark as a deadpan comedic act (a la Pat Paulsen) and hooting at the reading like a rowdy audience (She! She who? Three women are in the room, you idiot!), helped to release frustration and renew determination.

  10. For what it’s worth, I wasn’t saying that I hadn’t read Henry James because he was “too complex” or that he made my brain do hard think thoughts. I like complex writing. Classic and contemporary fiction is ok with me, too. I just don’t think Tao Lin does very much with his books. I actually have an MA in English and I wrote my thesis on Ulysses. Is that literary enough?

    Lydia’s excellent review made me more interested in giving James another look. As you yourself point out, people’s tastes change over time. Some writers didn’t do much for me until I looked at them again later. And that goes for people who wrote “complex” fiction and the ones who didn’t.

    So thanks for not pre-judging people younger than you, Dick!

  11. reading the golden bowl earlier this year, I had a similar thought about tao lins’s relation to the protracted and dizzying narration throughout james

    dont really understand why one has to be better than the other, but ok

  12. >>>don’t really understand why one has to be better than the other, but ok

    Its called critical thinking.

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