It strikes me that one's experience of reading "Portrait of a Lady", which in my edition clocks in at 630 pages, is likely to be colored by one's previous experience with James, and the resulting predisposition. Since my unlikely conversion upon reading "The Ambassadors", I am quite favorably predisposed. Thus, when instead of telling us that "the three people enjoying tea on the lawn were all men", Henry instead delivers himself of this sentence:

"The persons concerned in it (the tea party) were taking their pleasures quietly, and they were not of the sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have mentioned",

I just smile to myself and think, "O, Henry!" (no, not that one, you know perfectly well what I mean).

But this sentence, right there on the first page, is a good indication of what's to come. So you should either give yourself over and let Henry's orotund phrasing wash over you in all its florid glory, or if you don't have the patience for such verbosity, you should quit at once, because it's not going to be any different for the upcoming 600 pages.

Me - right now, I've got the time, and I am happy to discover that I find James's style in this book (which, the cover informs me, is a masterpiece of his middle period ) much easier reading than that in "The Ambassadors". As he's still got the same fascination with the psychological nuances of his characters' interactions that got me hooked in "The Ambassadors", I think that I'm going to enjoy Isabel Archer's story.

We'll see how it goes.

Ugh.


If I could describe this book in one word it would be "Laborious."

If I were allowed more space, which apparently I am, I would go on to say that in addition to being deathly slow and horrifically boring it is also a little brilliant, a little impressive, and, if you have the patience to look for it, more than a little interesting.

There's a LOT in here. James wanted this novel to be the antidote to the Jane Austen romance. He wanted to show life as it is- money as a burden, marriage as a trap, and people as egotistic, petty, manipulative, and kind.

If I told you how disappointing the ending is, though, you wouldn't want to read it, so I won't mention that.

If you have the patience, it's worth reading, but not unless you read it closely. I recommend a Norton Critical Edition.

RTC

An odd choice while in a prolonged reading slump, but this one did the trick !

The Portrait of a Lady (as the title would suggest) is an astute rendering of the psychological life of Isabel Archer, a woman who reckons with two opposing needs: preserve her independent mind or conform to societal conventions of the 1860s.

I don’t usually read classics, but this one captured me within the first 40 pages. The observations are so intimate, I don’t think I will ever be able to say men don’t know how to write women because Henry James truly does. I am in awe of his documentary style observations of the human condition. The language is breathtaking and the characters are so well fleshed out you won’t even mind that the plot lags slightly in the middle. It’s well worth pushing through for the revelations of the last 50 pages.

I will ponder this book for a very long time.

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.

I tried to read this book around 10 years ago and abandoned it pretty quickly.  What a difference timing makes. This time I was easily pulled into Jame's lusciously descriptive prose.  To borrow a phrase from the Hamilton play, he put me right in "in the room where it happened".    I was transported into this time and place vividly and intimately.

It's hard to review this book without spoilers so I'll just say that Isabel is now one of my favorite literary characters. She's is a well-read woman of great imagination and independence who judges people on their own merits rather than letting others' opinions influence her.  She has admirable ideas that prove to be unrealistic when it comes to love.  

Besides being about Isabel, it's also a great deal about the differences between American and European culture.  I would have certainly thought the American way of courtship and matchmaking was superior, but now I'm not so sure.  There are clear flaws in both.  One thing that's clear is that whether people are well-intentioned or not, they can take you off the path you have planned for yourself.   

I loved the somewhat open ending that left room for our imaginations to take Isabel where we thought her imagination could take her.

When I finished this book, I threw it down on the table in anger and walked away muttering. I guess we all want books to end like.. well, books! Not like real life. We have enough real life around us. Aren't books for escaping all that?

Maybe. This book is probably a classic because it is complex enough to actually resemble the real world. People make mistakes. Small mistakes. Big mistakes. Life-changing mistakes. They also show a lot of spirit and charisma, which is also real. None of the characters are simplified into "good" or "evil" exactly. They're ... REAL. They have good points. They have bad points. They make you angry while you're reading so you want to slap them and tell them to "cut it out!!" But then you learn for them to find love and fulfillment and happiness. That's real life. It's not simple and easy to read like most books, with a happy or predictable ending. I HATED the ending because it left so many things unresolved.

But, despite all that... I have to admit it was an amazing read.

Well, cripes. My second time through. Review tk.

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.

“The great thing is to love something.”

Set in England and Italy, The Portrait of a Lady is the story of Isabel Archer, a young, beautiful, strong-willed and free-spirited American.
She is proud to be independent and has plans for the future. She wants to make something of herself. She wishes to travel the world and see everything there is to see. And when she inherits a great sum of money from her uncle, she realizes there is nothing to hold her back from fulfilling her dreams.
But life has other plans for her.

This is a story about choices and consequences; about honoring promises and about decency and integrity as opposed to perfidy, vanity and conceit.

There is 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 made my way to the strange and lovely The Portrait of a Lady (1881) via a series of James’s earlier novels and novellas: Roderick Hudson (1875); The American (1877); Daisy Miller (1878). That made an appealing approach route. There are strong thematic continuities among all these fictions, so you have a sense of James working through the same concerns from a variety of different angles. At the same time, Portrait seems a clear advance on the earlier novels and a kind of consummation or climax, perhaps a breakthrough: an indisputable masterpiece, in any case.

The introduction to my edition (Oxford World’s Classics, ed. Roger Luckhurst) points to analogies between James’s Portrait and Sargent’s oblique, evocative, “hauntingly incomplete” female portraits, citing especially the compelling 1882 group portrait The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, which James praised in an essay. I found that parallel hugely suggestive. In his introduction to Portrait for the New York edition (1908), James draws on architecture as an analogy when speaking of his novel, yet Sargent’s portrait, with its elliptical framing and free, sketchy handling of paint and air of suffused mystery—and sheer beauty—worked better for me.

The plot of The Portrait of a Lady is somewhere between sentimental education and tragedy, in classic sense of great man, or great woman, brought down by a fatal flaw. We are supposed to fall in love with the heroine, Isabel Archer, I think, as does just about every man in the novel, not to mention its author. I’m not sure I did, exactly, but she is certainly absorbing, and she grew considerably in stature for me as the novel progressed.

The surrounding characters are also very successful in the main, although I shared James’s later reflection there is a little too much of Isabel’s bustling lady journalist friend Henrietta Stackpole. I especially loved Ralph Touchett, Isabel’s witty, wise, brave, cousin, who spends the entire novel gradually dying of consumption. In Jane Campion’s 1996 film, Ralph is styled in a way that recalls Sargent’s wonderful 1885 portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson. I’d love to believe that Ralph was James’s own portrait of Stevenson, but the two writers didn’t meet until 1885, so I guess I will have to abandon that theory.

Two novels I was strongly reminded of while reading The Portrait of a Lady were Les liaisons dangeureuses, for certain details of the plot (Jane Campion cleverly underlines this subtext by casting John Malkovich, who played Valmont in the 1988 film of Laclos’s novel, as Gilbert Osmond), and Middlemarch, for the character and predicament of Isabel, who has quite a bit of the Dorothea Brooke in her literary DNA. Her surname, Archer, for me, recalled the tradition of the huntress goddess Diana and her free-spirited nymphs. Isabel, too, has a kind of restless, free-wheeling, huntress spirit at the beginning of the novel; she wants to do something and be something, other than the romance heroine whose sole possible plot line leads inexorably to marriage. That is part of her resemblance to Dorothea, as is her fatal naivety and her disastrous taste in men.

Among James’s own novels, one that I kept thinking of as I read Portrait—apart from the 1870s works mentioned above—his much later The Spoils of Poynton. As in Spoils, houses and art collections and object collections feature very large in Portrait, similarly infused with desire and entangled with human relations and human identities. Among the houses, the Touchetts’ idyllic Gardencourt is beautifully evoked, as is Gilbert Osmond’s exquisite, over-curated hothouse of a Florentine villa.

In an important exchange early in the novel, Isabel professes disdain for the appurtenances of a discarded suitor—she doesn’t care whether he lives in a castle or an ugly townhouse—and her worldly new friend, Madame Merle, lectures her instead on the importance of externals in defining our identity for others (“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 garments, the books one reads, the company one keeps—these things are all very expressive.”) As in Spoils, James shows himself morally wary of this investment in “things,” even as he polishes them up as the sumptuous settings of his novels. Madame Merle’s stated credo of artful self-staging gains a dire dramatic irony as the novel plays out.

It is very unlikely that anyone would be able to articulate as well as Henry James himself did his intentions and method of writing The Portrait of a Lady in his New York Edition Preface, which was included in my Penguin edition. For this reason I recommend the edition over the Library of America version, or any other which lacks the Preface. He describes the building of his novel-cathedral as an effort of placing brick upon brick. Truly, each brick is well-moulded, carven with impressions of great interest to the reader of 19th-Century fiction. Henry James is very much of that particular century a paramour, if not the Demi-god, who employed all known instruments of the human intellect to construct a virtual portrait of several character archetypes in prose which seems in itself alive, even as it confounds with its arabesques, its circumlocutions, and its encumbrances. That there is any question whether it is relevant or readable is a testament to the author’s inscrutable style - an acquired taste if there ever was one. Insinuating that he utilized a large number of superfluous words is unnecessary. One acquainted with James should know that words were more of a malleable clay, the mere molecules of the organisms he crafted.

The Portrait of a Lady is as overwrought and sumptuous as anything else he wrote - a judgement based solely on the 1500 pages from his oeuvre I’ve thus far read. It is simple of plot and complex of texture. It is a potent and aromatic tincture. Only a refined connoisseur might pick out all its manifold emanations and insinuations. ****Trigger Warning **** There is quite a lot of gratuitous syntax in this book - but mentioning this again is extraneous. Furthermore, he is fond of the emdash. —As am I. I might also warn the reader that the level of obsession with the institution of marriage goes beyond unhealthy into the territory of the uncanny, even - dare-I-say - into the obscene. It was a common practice around this time for pudgy, well-leisured, stocky, balding, over-educated men to write of nothing else. James was perhaps leader and prime advocate for this cause. In fact the subtleties of his fictional universe might all trace their gravitational attraction to this central source. Put simply, this is a book about marriage. Women, according to the characters in this novel, had a duty to marry, and above all, to marry well. She, as a species, was capable of little else, one might gather from James’s theories. Isabel, our central character, throws a wrench into this mechanistic worldview - at least for a good half of the novel. She remains a captivating character nonetheless, as do even the least woke of James’s brainchildren.

Of course, the characters have no day jobs to trouble them. Not a single one of them has worked a day in his or her life. Their time is amply consumed sniveling and braying, offering a grotesque variety of overarching societal observations. The commentary is in large part as spinsterish as was James. The discussions are speculations and measurements upon the manifestations of propriety, also stipulating upon the various measures of men and women within the household - which in itself is a vehicle of procreation - and yet this facet of human existence, i.e. sex, was apparently a vast, unknowable mystery to our poor author. All of this immanent melodrama is inflicted unfairly upon the unsuspecting natives of the trendy European locales frequented by our players. They cannot spend their money fast enough. It flows like manna. Nor can they hope to inherit enough for their needs. James is so phobic of bachelorhood, so consumed with the importance of marriage, one wonders if he was at all a fisherman of eligible women, if he was not the most eligible of them all.

Furthermore, the story is not of much concern here, but the people are. James is capable of tenderness, as well as a lot of snideness. His powers of dialogue are only equalled by his extraordinary description. This novel offers ample prestidigitation in that regard. You will not tire of viewing the landscape he has painted, if you can stand the people in the foreground. Above all, this is a masterpiece of elocution, enlarging upon the above-mentioned questions and tensions, arising from quite natural human associations. The verisimilitude is a superstructure upon the underlying themes. The flabby sentences take on weight as they accumulate, barreling forward in that Jamesian snowball, until they finally hit home, touching upon the elusive natures of our fellow sufferers, gracing that beautiful pinnacle of textual refinement, sought after by such purveyors of the experimental mode as David Foster Wallace. No one else approaches James in my opinion when it comes to thick and rich adornment. The superhuman powers of articulation were possibly James’s forte, if not his charm.

Look for the clear signs of faith in the study of physiognomy. Bask in the splendor of the author's rhetorical aplomb as his inexhaustible sea of atmospheric minutiae congregates into a finely stippled rendering of moral ambiguities. Relish the witty banter, envy the swaggering Lord Warburton as he fulfills what you suspect will be a major role in the heroine’s life. This is an idyllic document of great power, if one can weather the grueling mental maneuvers required to keep pace. At bottom, it asks whether marriage is a prison or the relief from a meaningless existence. It would be a pity if James never defined the answer in his own case.