Por mais encantadora que ele a achasse, a rapariga impressionava-o mais pelo seu ar de desafio, que constituía, na realidade, um dos seus atractivos. (...)
- Não tenho medo, bem sabe – declarou então Isabel, de uma forma, na verdade, um tanto impertinente.
- Não receia o sofrimento?
- Sim, do sofrimento tenho medo, mas não dos fantasmas. Acho que nos deixamos invadir facilmente pela dor. (...) Não é necessário sofrer; não somos feitos para tal. (...) O pior é que, se não sofremos passamos por insensíveis.

Nem se fosse mulher Henry James conseguiria criar heroínas com mais personalidade, e é esse o maior elogio que hoje posso fazer-lhe. Quer seja pespeneta como Daisy, serena como Catherine, decidida como Gertrude, esplêndida como Isabel, o que sinto sempre com cada protagonista deste autor é que, se ela fosse de carne e osso e eu pudesse recuar até ao século XIX, gostaria de ser amiga dela. Foi por me ter afeiçoado tanto a Isabel Archer que, a determinada altura, fechei o livro zangada com HJ e o pus de lado durante uns tempos. Poderia culpar os quase dois quilos de páginas ou as 26 horas de audiobook para explicar os sete meses que levei a ler esta obra-prima, mas foi só a pura indignação que tive de deixar dissipar que me impediu de avançar a bom ritmo num livro que até aí fluía com diálogos espirituosos e personagens fascinantes.

Disse a Sra. Touchett: - Eu, por exemplo, gosto de ser tratada de uma forma pessoal. Miss Stackpole prefere que a considerem membro de um grupo.
- Não compreendo o que quer dizer – ripostou esta - O que prefiro é ser tratada como senhora... e senhora americana!
- Pobres senhoras americanas! – exclamou a dona da casa. – São escravas de escravos.
- Companheiras de homens livres – emendou a jornalista.
- Companheiras dos seus servidores: da criada irlandesa, do criado negro. Ajudam-nos ao trabalho.
(...)
- Companheiras de homens livres... Apreciei a sua frase, Miss Stackpole – interveio Ralph - É uma definição admirável.
- Quando falo de homens livres não me refiro a si, Sr. Touchett.

Os escritores banais criam triângulos amorosos. Os mestres criam pentágonos, e não deixam nenhuma das arestas mais fraca que as outras. Isabel Archer, não sendo particularmente bonita, tem quatro pretendentes e o mais espantoso é que eles estão sempre a entrar e a sair de cena ao longo de toda a obra. Temos Caspar Goodwood, que veio dos Estados Unidos atrás de Isabel, Lord Warburton que se apaixona por ela logo no início da sua estadia em Inglaterra, Ralph Touchett, o primo inteligente e generoso, e um quarto homem odioso que não será aqui nomeado. O casamento, porém, não está nos seus planos imediatos.

- Se casasse consigo, fugiria à minha sorte.
- Não entendo. Por que razão o seu destino se deve desenrolar longe do meu?
- Porque é assim – respondeu ela, como só as mulheres respondem – Sei que é assim. Está escrito que não deve renunciar a ele. Sinto que não posso.
O infeliz Lord Warburton ficou perplexo, com uma expressão de dúvida.- Então casando comigo, renunciaria...?
- Não no sentido usual da frase. Ganhava até... ganhava muito. Mas desistia de outras possibilidades. (...) É-me impossível impedir a infelicidade. Casando consigo, tentaria fugir a ela...

Vi o filme homónimo de Jane Campion quando estreou nos cinemas, mas não me lembro rigorosamente de nada a não ser do grande erro de casting que foi no geral. Nicole Kidman, com a sua eterna cara nº 17 na alegria e na tristeza, na saúde e na doença, não faz justiça a Isabel Archer, e John Malkovich, para mim, há-de ser sempre Valmont das “Relações Perigosas”, e no fundo é esse papel maquiavélico que lhe coube aqui, com direito até a uma espécie de Madame de Meurteill, com quem conspira contra Isabel.
Se de boas intenções está o inferno cheio, “Retrato de uma Senhora” é um exemplo disso. Trazida dos Estados Unidos para a Europa pela tia, depois de ter ficado órfã, Isabel a todos encanta, mas é o seu primo Ralph Touchett, a minha personagem masculina preferida, que mais se deslumbra com o seu carácter, com a sua curiosidade em relação ao mundo e com a resposta sempre na ponta da língua. Num gesto altruísta, para lhe proporcionar a total independência e a possibilidade de realizar os seus sonhos, Ralph consegue que a prima receba uma avultada herança.

- Absorvi-me demasiado em mim mesma; encaro a vida como se ela fosse uma receita médica. Porque havemos de estar sempre a magicar se as coisas são boas para nós, tal se fôssemos doentes deitados numa enfermaria? (...) É porque tenho medo. – deteve-se. A voz tremia-lhe um pouco. – Sim, tenho medo. Não lhe sei explicar. A riqueza implica liberdade, e a liberdade assusta-me. É uma coisa admirável! Deve-se saber empregá-la senão, cobrimo-nos de vergonha. Além disso, é preciso que nunca deixemos de pensar. Obriga a um esforço contínuo. Quem sabe se ser-se pobre não será maior felicidade?

É esta tentativa de brincar aos deuses que acciona toda a trama e empurra Isabel para situações fora do seu controlo, levando-a numa viagem puramente emocional.

Sim, ele quisera dizer isso: gostaria que a mulher não possuísse nada no cérebro e se limitasse à sua bela aparência exterior. Ela própria sabia que possuía excesso de ideias – e até talvez tivesse mais do que ele supunha, muitas mais do que exprimira quando fora pedida em casamento. De facto, mostrara-se hipócrita, mas só porque o amava tanto, tanto! Tinha muitas ideia para si somente: todavia se casasse, poderia partilhá-la com mais alguém. Não era fácil arrancá-las pela raiz, embora, com certeza, fosse possível reprimi-las, tendo o cuidado de nunca as manifestar.

Ma quel che più lo offendeva, ella non tardò a percepirlo, era ch'ella avesse un suo modo di pensare e un cervello tutto suo. Ella avrebbe dovuto avere una mente asservita lui, attaccata alla sua come un piccolo stralcio di giardino a un gran parco di daini. Egli avrebbe rastrellato gentilmente il suolo e annaffiati i fiori, avrebbe sarchiato le aiuole e raccolto occasionalmente qualche mazzetto. Sarebbe stata una graziosa aggiunta di proprietà per un proprietario già ricco. Egli non desiderava ch'ella fosse stupida, al contrario: proprio perché era intelligente gli era piaciuta; ma si aspettava che la sua intelligenza operasse interamente a favore di lui, e ben lungi dal desiderare che la sua mente fosse vuota, si era lusingato che potesse ricevere un'impronta dalla sua.

Non potevo iniziare questa recensione se non citando uno dei passi del romanzo che mi ha colpito di più, e mi sono dovuta trattenere, perché Henry James sarebbe da citare tutto.
L'ho fatto di nuovo, ho fatto passare secoli per una recensione e continuerò a farlo, perché non ho tempo e da un po' nemmeno un computer, ma questo romanzo stava lì, in attesa che scrivessi qualcosa e ho dovuto per forza ritagliarmi uno spazietto.
"Paesaggio d'anime, tratteggiato da un maestro del realismo psicologico." È così che nel retro copertina viene descritto James, e io non potrei essere più d'accordo, perché dire che i suoi personaggi sono semplicemente ben caratterizzati sarebbe troppo poco. L'eroina del romanzo è Isabel Archer, giovane americana orfana di padre e di madre, che entra a far parte della famiglia inglese della zia, sorella della madre, che decide di occuparsi di lei. Isabel dimostra di essere una ragazza aperta al cambiamento, ben disposta ad imparare e a seguire i consigli della zia, ma ciò non toglie che sia dotata di una coscienza propria e che sogni l'indipendenza. Indipendenza che verrà grazie al cugino Ralph, che la renderà padrona di un'eredità importante.
Isabel Archer è una sorta di eroina anti-eroina, dotata dei soliti bei sentimenti che si trovano nelle eroine classiche ma anche con qualcosa in più. È palese la sua voglia di fare da sé, di viaggiare e scoprire il mondo, ma proprio la sua indipendenza la porterà vicino alla rovina. Sono tanti i personaggi che entrano in contatto con lei e ciascuno di loro cerca di indicarle la strada, sempre sottoforma di un buon matrimonio. Ma lei va per la sua strada e quando questa si rivela essere piena di infelicità e delusioni, non cerca aiuto ma prova a nascondere la sua palese infelicità agli amici di un tempo, senza rinnegare nulla e accettando i propri errori.
L'accostamento con Emma Bovary non mi aveva fatto ben sperare ma una scintilla di speranza nel suo futuro si intravede ancora.
Henry James accosta la vita di Isabel a quella di due antagonisti, se così si possono chiamare, che non vengono presentati come tali al lettore, o meglio il lettore capisce che c'è qualcosa sotto e ha libera interpretazione dei fatti e dei caratteri, capendo così le influenze che possono portare a personalità più deboli, come la piccola Pansy, punto in cui Henry James non lascia un briciolo di speranza.
Curioso poi, che proprio Isabel, che tanto sognava l'indipendenza, si ritrovi poi non padrona della sua vita. Ma se l'ambiguità di quei due personaggi era chiara al lettore, non era ancora chiara ad Isabel, ingannata senza pietà.
A fare da sfondo alle vicende non solo il paesaggio inglese ma anche l'Italia, con Roma e Firenze che rendono questo quadro ancora più bello.
Del suo romanzo Henry James dice:

La prima critica ovviamente sarà che non è compiuto - che non ho accompagnato la protagonista fino alla conclusione della vicenda, che l'ho lasciata en l'air -. Ciò è vero e falso al tempo stesso. Non si dice mai tutto di una cosa: si finisce per scegliere soltanto ciò che sta bene assieme, ciò che ho fatto ha questa compatezza: sta bene assieme. In sé è compiuto: quanto al resto, ci si potrà sempre tornare sopra, in un secondo tempo.

Henry James lascia perciò un finale aperto alla sua protagonista, un ritratto imperfetto e un futuro incerto, a differenza di tutti gli altri personaggi, ma che proprio nelle ultime azioni di Isabel mi ha fatto ben sperare, ritrovando in lei quell'indipendenza che le era stata strappata.

This is my first James (not counting his little book on Hawthorne and scattered essays on French novelists), and I started it out of a sense of dutiful curiosity. I was not prepared for it to be such an engrossing masterpiece. There so much good stuff here: the psychological portraiture, the descriptive scene painting, the simple human energy of the plot.

James is such an odd bird because he was so steeped in the 19th century French fiction, was a social intimate of such Continental wellsprings of modern fiction as Flaubert and the Goncourts, but he doesn't really resemble them. The need to nimbly and precisely render the meaningful trifles of physical appearance and gesture that you find in Flaubert, and in his faithful heirs Joyce and Nabokov, is nowhere in James. He can evoke and scene-paint with the best of them (Osmond's Florentine villa, Isabel's melancholy wandering around Rome), but it's not his obsession. In his essay on Turgenev, James spends many pages almost chuckling at the energy and time Turgenev spends visually distinguishing and individuating his characters. James is, in that way, backward: by which I mean that his fictional aesthetic is very 18th century, aiming not at visual peculiarity and novelty, but at what Johnson called "the grandeur of generality." The style too is very redolent of Johnson and Gibbon in its rounded, formal pomp, in the pageantry of its circumlocutions. This backwardness may be one significantly "American" trait of James. Henry Adams, George Santayana and Van Wyck Brooks in various places point out that New England intellectual life remained firmly fixed in the 18th century well into the 19th. Johnson, Gibbon and Pope were the household gods of the colonial elite circa 1776, and they remained so long after the American Revolution. In Hawthorne, James actually singles out Hawthorne's vestigially "Augustan" style for special praise. In a book so mindful of American deficiency, the preservation of Britain's 18th century literary aesthetics is viewed as one of the new country's few cultural strengths.

So James's descriptive forbearance makes the vividness of the characters all the more spooky. I can't put my finger the device that does it. It's certainly well hidden (as Walpole said in praise of Gibbon, he is strong but doesn't show off his muscles). Maybe it's the close attention to how a voice quavers or modulates in emotionally significant ways throughout the course of conversation, or the pictorially vague but atmosphere-altering metaphors. I'm impatient to reread this novel, to become acutely conscious of its magic. I can count on one hand the number of times James tells you what Madame Merle is wearing or how she's moving, but she's as alive and embodied as the more closely drawn Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina. I mention Merle in connection with Flaubert's and Tolstoy's heroines and not Isabel because, after this reading at least, I prefer Isabel as a foil for the more interesting Merle, with her deceptively amiable social masks (Merle is a very 18th century figure as well--her scenes always made me think of Lytton Strachey's descriptions of the ready wit, the tact, the armored poise and smooth sociability of ancien regime manners). My interest in the book actually lagged for a month, after Isabel's marriage to Osmond--that is, when Merle was out of the picture. Not that I'd want Merle as the heroine--no, she's a secondary character, and like Ralph Touchett, like Pansy, she goes away having but insinuated or at most only partially revealed her private history. Poignantly mysterious is how I like it.

why won't the men leave isabel alone

Un capolavoro fra i capolavori.
Un personaggio splendido, Isabel Archer, la Nuova Ragazza Americana che rifugge anche la più dorata gabbia matrimoniale pur di non rinunciare al suo sogno di totale ed inattaccabile indipendenza, che finisce per trasformarsi nell'antitesi della contemporanea Nora di Ibsen, attuando una ribellione al contrario che la porta non a sbattersi definitivamente la porta di una vita infelice alle spalle ma a rinchiudersi consapevolmente all'interno di essa.
Splendide anche le altre figure femminili presenti nel romanzo, soprattutto alla luce dei loro rapporti con Isabel; la non bella Madame Merle, descritta tuttavia come incredibilmente affascinante, abile manipolatrice degli stessi pensieri della protagonista della quale si finge amica; la giornalista Henrietta Stackpole, eccessiva fin quasi al ridicolo nella sua instancabile difesa dello stile di vita americano ai danni di quello britannico, annientata alla fine del romanzo in tutto il suo essere attraverso il matrimonio con il gentiluomo inglese Bantling ed il suo trasferimento definitivo in Europa, ma tuttavia sincera e sempre presente, con la sua affettuosa amicizia, per Isabel; la dolcissima Pansy, una pagina bianca; la contessa Gemini, chiacchierata e ormai totalmente priva di morale, un foglio su cui troppe mani avevano scritto, cancellato e scarabocchiato.
Un romanzo di incredibile spessore, una prosa inimitabile, il ritratto di una donna - che l'autore non descrive mai nella sua fisicità - che a poco a poco permette inconsciamente che anche tutto ciò che avrebbe dovuto garantirle l'agognata indipendenza la spinga con crescente decisione verso il baratro dell'infelicità; il tutto, simboleggiato dal personaggio di Ralph Touchett, forse fra tutti l'unico veramente innamorato di Isabel, l'unico a non cercare di rinchiuderla in una propria gabbia ma a spingerla, cercando di donarle ciò che ella desidera, in quella fabbricata per lei con grande ed astuta perizia da altri.
Imperdibile.

What I love about this edition is that the James expert in the introduction cites all the flaws that were so glaring to me in the beginning of the book: Ralph and his father's constantly applauding Lord Warburton for his fine conversation, the father telling Lord Warburton not to fall in love with his niece (I didn't see that coming!), one of them mentioning how amusing the other is (hahaha). It was just intolerable how heavy-handed the dialogue was. Nor did I find it cute how much of a caricature Isabel's friend, the woman journalist, was or acceptable that Mme. Merle's conversations with Isabel were "edited" by James so that the former spoke in a seeming monologue for three pages. But once the characters' choices spoke for themselves and Osmond was introduced, it did become fascinating. And from that point on, it was impossible to stop reading, however devastating it was.

This book disappointed me sadly. I was expecting it to be a classic of realist tradition a la carte War and Peace or Middlemarch. I was expecting to learn a lot as a writer developing my craft as well. James' notes on structure development are examples of some of the best literary criticism you can find. So, I was a little surprised to see it not so as effectively rendered in his work. Certainly, his beginnings are captivating, and well-thought out, but James has a propensity for extremely long sentences. He divides the purposes of his paragraphs well, setting the scene when he needs to, or introducing a telling detail of a character when it suits, but it almost feels schematic. Well-organised, but almost too much so.

The dialogue was built for another generation, and I realise that, but there were plenty of times I circled things, not even understanding what it was meant to say. A lot of the chapters end on paragraphs that don't create a denouement or tension; they just simply seem done, and that was that. A lot of the writing is spent in exposition, and even a lot of the ways characters are described feel generic.

I'm a little surprised that this book has lasted as long as it has, and I think a lot of it has to do with Isabel Archer, who is fairly well drawn. While I don't think she is a very realistic or well thought-out female character, I do like what James was trying to explore; that sort of reckless and self-propelling independence, and the consequences of it. The ending is also quite good, in that is well-paced, clear, and yet somehow still mysterious.

I think it's a novel worth returning to, and a novel to still possibly learn from, but yes, I'm more perplexed by its reputation than I am enthralled by it.

There are some classics I read and do not like but still am grateful for having read. I do not think this is one of those. My gut reaction to concluding this book is definitely:



and



butttt I won't give it one star for two reasons.

1. I loved Ralph. Any moment with him was a moment I was happy.

2. I feel so emotionally frustrated with this book that I recognize there has to be something to this story. It didn't bore me. It made me mad but it didn't put me to sleep so I guess it has that going for it.

Overall, though, ridiculously flowery and not much of a plot. Some intriguing characterization, though. Glad I'm done.

"I'm so tired of old books about tea," said my friend Lauren recently, and I hope she stays the hell away from snobby constipated Henry James. Here he is with the least engaging first sentence in literature:

"Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea."

Many of the other sentences are also about tea. But it's not all tea; while they drink tea they talk! And talk, and talk. James reminds me of your shitty coworker who makes a lot of excuses. He spins words upon words explaining what's going on, what he's thinking, what his plans are, how his personal affairs have affected his performance, and it all sounds very convincing but at a certain point you're like but what have you done?

It's an apt title because it's a portrait. A beautiful one, full of detail and shading - "recessed and deferred complexities," James Woods calls it - but it doesn't move much. Henry James himself was aware, when he wrote its preface, that it "consisted not at all in any conceit of a 'plot'." And he makes this bizarre decision: when plot arrives - when Isabel chooses a husband, and again when she marries him, and at a momentous later decision - he skips ahead. We don't get to be there for the crucial moments of her life. It feels like looking at a mountain range wreathed in clouds; we see them going up, and we see them coming down, but we never get to see the peaks themselves. He writes between the lines, and omits the lines.

This is frustrating, and yet: I feel like this is one of those books that will be closer in the rearview mirror. It has a distinctive voice and feel. James has insight into how people work. In Colm Toibin's fictionalized biography The Master, he quietly suggests that James benefited from his closetization: he carefully pretended to be someone else throughout his life, and he got very good at pretending to be someone else. He certainly does get deep into Archer's head, and several others.

Not that he shows you everything. He shows you some things in great detail; others stay shrouded. In a way it's a psychological novel; in another way it's more like a mystery, where the crime is her life. The experience of being mystified by Isabel is frustrating; with time, though, I suspect the mystery of Isabel will stick in my head.

So, four stars. Three stars for the experience of reading it; five stars, I'm predicting, for having read it. Full of recessed and deferred complexities it is. It might also be one of those books that get better with re-reading. But the question is, how much tea can I stomach?

As can be inferred from the title, this novel is really a character study, and what a fascinating – and occasionally infuriating – character Henry James created with Isabel Archer. As I was reading, I wasn’t sure if I liked or despised her, I recognized myself in some of her behaviors, and shook my head at others. Wonderfully realized and complex, it’s impossible not to be fascinated with Isabel, so I get why her three suitors just won’t leave her be.

Isabel is very modern for the time at which “Portrait of a Lady” was written: stubborn, highly intelligent and fiercely independent; but she lacks worldly experience, so she makes willful choices that aren’t always the smartest. In a typically American way, Isabel desires above all the freedom to make her own choices. But the freedom to choose often entails the freedom to makes mistakes: this is essential to self-discovery, of course, and Isabel being full of contradictions (and a rather high opinion of herself) she will not let herself be swayed from doing exactly what she wants to do…

We all make mistakes: that’s life, and no mistakes would make for rather short and boring novels. But I am confused as to what Mr. James is trying to say about female independence: how independent is Isabel, really? Freedom entails responsibility, and I found Isabel rather capricious and immature in her reasoning: it seems to me that she rejects Goodwood and Lord Warburton more to show that she can than for any other reason, as if to show off her capacity to say no. She admits to wanting to be happy, and not knowing what happiness is all in the same breath. Poor Henrietta tries really hard to tell her she needs to keep her wits about her, but Isabel reacts to that the same way teenage girls react when their mother scolds them: by being defiant and sulky and throwing the baby out with the bathwater. She wants to be strong and assertive and while she claims that bad choices are hers to make, that doesn’t make them any less bad. Her lack of experience allow the deviousness of Osmond to work with ridiculous easiness: he just has to not fall all over himself to get her attention as she is fascinated and seduced. Gawd, teenage girl behavior, again! Idealism is great, but realism is important too: the world does not adapt to our whims, and Isabel learns that the hard way.

In some ways, this felt like the urban version of “Far From the Madding Crowd”: pretty headstrong lady with three beaus who makes all the wrong decision and is too proud to admit she put her foot in it up to the ankle. The difference here being that Mr. Goodwood, Lord Warburton and Mr. Osmond are all detestable. At least Bathsheba had Gabriel Oak, but poor Isabel only has a pile of louts… It was also hard for me to not think of “Liaisons Dangereuses” while reading “Portrait”: Isabel is no hare-brained Cécile, but in Ralph Touchette’s words, she gets caught just the same – there are no scandals, but plenty of misery. The general ambiguity that permeates this novel like a fog is fascinating: Is James praising feminism, or does he think it’s a doomed effort? Is he pro-marriage, or virulently against it (I mean, find one happy union in this book… go on… I’ll wait…)?

When Isabel realizes that she married a pretentious poser, she knows she has no options but to put up with it, because she can’t bring herself to do anything she would consider dishonorable. That, and her pride won’t allow her to show she is unhappy, even to her closest friends. She also considers the welfare of her stepdaughter very carefully: the repercussion of a scandal would affect Pansy and her chances of escaping the scheming her father and his acolyte probably have in store for her.

I am a huge Edith Wharton fan, and I knew James had been her close friend and inspiration, so I knew I would enjoy his work, but I also found it a lot less engaging than Wharton’s. It took me a while to read “Portrait of a Lady” because it was a strangely impersonal reading experience: I didn’t feel much for any of the characters besides a mild pity that they should all make such unhappy lives for themselves. Osmond and Madame Merle are certainly malevolent and manipulative, but I was expecting them to be more outrageous in their behavior towards Isabel: their villainy is not at the same level as the Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil. As lovely as the writing was, the whole novel ended up feeling a bit too flat to really be enjoyable: I never felt immersed in the world on the page, and while this might have been deliberate on James' part, I did not enjoy feeling so remote from the story I was reading. This was disappointing, because I had heard so many people rave about this classic, and I thought I would love it. 3 underwhelmed stars.

One of the most enthralling and enchanting novels that I've read in a long, long time. The Portrait of a Lady is early Henry James (written in 1881), and as cliche as it may sound, it is a veritable masterpiece. There is simply so much going on within the covers of this elegantly crafted and sophisticated novel that it will take me a while to sort out my swirling thoughts and emotions upon finishing it. Simply put though, this is the story of the young American woman, Isabel Archer, and her voyage of self-discovery among the staid and traditional landscape of British and European society. Isabel's ability to 'choose', and the 'choices' she makes are the thread that is carefully woven throughout the novel, and it raises her stature as a fictional heroine, in my opinion, to the level of that of an Anna Karenina or Dorothea Brooke. The novel's Chapter Forty-Two--with Isabel, by herself, sitting in the darkened room thinking for most of the night--is perhaps the greatest psychological tour-de-force I've encountered in fiction. I reread that chapter probably four times in a row, and simply marveled at the creative genius that is Henry James in writing this novel and creating the character of Isabel Archer. Stunning stuff!

This is an immensely powerful and profound novel that I am going to reread again very soon. I want to reread it in conjunction with a reading of Michael Gorra's recent book, Portrait of a Novel: Henry James and the Making of an American Masterpiece, a runner-up for the 2013 Pulitzer Prize for biography and autobiography. Give me a couple of weeks to reread The Portrait of a Lady and Gorra's book, and I'll be back in an effort to provide a more comprehensive review that will do justice to what just may be the 'Great American Novel'.

Update July 7, 2024--

I just finished my second careful reading of The Portrait of a Lady and it bears up to my earlier accolades. This is a novel of "thought balloons", sure there is a lot of verbal dialog amongst the characters, but James spends a lot of the novel on the internal thoughts of his characters and particularly those of Isabel Archer. Finally, I have to say that I find the character of Gilbert Osmond to be one of the most monstrous creations in literary fiction, rivaling that of George Eliot's 'Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt' in her last novel, Daniel Deronda. Now, I am going to read John Banville's 2017 novel Mrs Osmond which picks up where James ended his.

آیا درمقابل بخت بیدادگر و تنهایی بی‌سلاحیم؟ آرزو بر جوانان عیب نیست ولی چه تضمینی برای تحقق توقعات یک دختر جسور و باهوش آمریکایی برای پیداکردن خوشبختی و دلخوشی پس از انتخاب شریک زندگی‌اش وجود داره؟ اصلا رومی رو انتخاب کنه یا زنگی؟ انتخابش درسته یا غلط؟ همونطور که کتاب این سوال رو خصوصا مطرح می‌کنه، مسئله رو هم در ذهن مخاطب به صورت عمومی اشاعه می‌ده.

تصویر یک زن در واقع داستان "ایزابل آرچر"ه که از آمریکا به انگلستان سفر می‌کنه و در خانه‌ی خاله‌ی پیر خودش سکنا پیدا می‌کنه. در اونجا یک مثلث رقابتی‌ بین پسر‌خاله‌ی او، یک لرد انگلیسی و یک جوان آمریکایی پُر شر و شور برای به‌دست آوردنش در‌می‌گیره ولی "تقدیر" مار‌های دیگه‌ای تو آستینش داره.
اول از همه جیمز در مقدمه‌ی داستان به این امر اذعان می‌کنه که "داستان تصویر یک زن، داستان بانوی جوانی‌ست که تقدیر خود را خوار می‌کند." و این نتیجه‌ایه که از پرداخت این "بنای معماری"‌ یعنی پلات داستان می‌گیره. بنای عظیمی که در موخره کتاب "گراهام گرین" اون رو به کلیسای جامعی با شبستان‌ها و دخمه‌های تاریکی تشبیه می‌کنه و پایه‌های اون رو "زمان" می‌دونه و بعد با اشاره به بی‌وفایی جیمز به شخصیت اصلی راه چاره رو فراموشی و مرگ یا عهد‌بستن با امید می‌دونه اون هم درست بعد از وقتی که در ۲۰۰ صفحه‌ی پایانی کتاب ایزابل آرچر رازهای افشانشده‌ای رو از دهان "کنتس جمینای" می‌شنوه و پرده‌ی عظیمی که روی این بنا بود برداشته می‌شه و تا چشم انسان بهش می‌افته حقایقی برملا شه که علت سنگینی این ساختمانِ روابط و پیچیدگی‌های‌ تاریکش بر پایه‌های بنا (زمان) رو مشخص می‌کنه.
اون‌طور که گفته‌شده، سرچشمه‌ی شخصیت ایزابل دخترعموی محبوب جیمز در جوانی بوده که در ۲۴ سالگی بر اثر ابتلا به سل می‌میره و فکر سرنوشت تلخ و آرزوهای بربادرفته‌‌شون، ذهن هنری رو تا دم مرگ به‌خودش مشغول نگه‌ داشته.
تصویر یک زن تصویری نیست که خود ایزابل تمام و کمال به‌دستش بده. همونطور که مشخصه سهم بیشتر تکامل تصویر ایزابل بر دوش شخصیت‌های دیگر داستانه. اون هم به طوری‌که جیمز در قالب راوی‌‌ای مدرن بر همه چیزِ درونی سیطره داره و این ویژگی‌هارو در رفتارها و گفتارهای شخصیت‌های دیگر داستان قرار می‌ده تا پازل‌های این تصویر کنار هم بچسبن و اون رو شکل بدن اون هم با نفوذ در جهان‌های ذهنی و لایه‌لایه‌کردن شخصیت‌ها برای پیدا کردن کلید حل معما. ولی آیا جیمز جواب سوالی که پرسیده رو میده؟ باید بین سطور و در شکاف‌های خالی و پُرِ زمان دنبال پاسخش گشت.

پ.ن: علی‌رغم بعضا روده‌درازی‌های جیمز در برخی نقاط داستان به‌خصوص در اواسط کتاب -جایی که داستان در ایتالیا می‌گذره- و همینطور ترجمه‌‌ای که بد بودنش محسوس بود و از اصطلاحات محاوره‌ی سنتی زبان فارسی استفاده کرده بود یا بعضا جملات سلیس و روان نبودند و با منظور نویسنده تا جایی که با متن اصلی مقایسه کردم مطابقت نداشت، چیزی که بسیار برام درمورد این کتاب جالب و قابل‌توجه بود این بود که هنری جیمز یکی از اولین افرادی‌ست که اصطلاح "جریان سیال ذهن" (stream of consciousness) رو به‌کار برده و در جواب مقایسه با اصطلاح "رشته‌ی فکر" اون رو تایید و به رودخانه تشبیه می‌کرد و در کنار جویس و وولف و فاکنر و پروست جایی رو برای خودش در ادبیات مدرن دست‌وپا کرده که روحمم خبردار نبود. ترغیب شدم که بیشتر ازش بخونم.


۴ آبان‌ماه ۱۴۰۳