The Portrait of a Reader

In retrospect, a clue to what lay ahead occurred at the Orillia Public Library, when the helpful librarian went down to the basement stacks and brought up three books that, though long in the collection, had never been opened. Clearly, Henry James’s reputation for ornate prose had kept him unread for decades in this little Ontario town — home of Stephen Leacock, another kind of writer entirely.

I had asked for only The Portrait of a Lady, but she also handed me The Golden Bowl, in two volumes. Before she went downstairs, I had explained that as part of my undergraduate degree (Western ’65), I’d taken a “Moderns” course that James Reaney had taught and had answered exam questions on this work, but I’d never actually read it or any of James’s other novels. It was enough in those days to know the plot, memorize a few key quotes, and save my energy for writers who excited me (I blush to admit: Ernest Hemingway).

But now, to better appreciate the contemporary brilliance of Colm Tóibín, whose novel The Master follows the life of Henry James, I needed to tackle his oeuvre. The Portrait of a Lady was an obvious place to start, as the central character is called Isabel and I reckoned there might be an energizing bond with a protagonist bearing my name. Substitute your own name for any fictional character of your choice, and you’ll see what I mean: an immediate frisson of connection. (Isabel Karenina . . . I’m weeping already.) 

At first, I did identify with Isabel — bright and eager, I too went off to Europe at age twenty-three — but by the closing pages, I could not read her mind. I understood her refusing to marry Caspar Goodwood (a bloke of oak) and why she turns away Lord Warburton (though I rather liked him and think we would have made a lovely couple). But I could not grasp why she returns to Gilbert Osmond, the thoroughly nasty and emotionally abusive husband of whom she is frightened.

Isabel’s choice seems bizarre, unless she makes it for the sake of Pansy, Gilbert’s vapid young daughter, whose spirit has been crushed by him and by her dreadful mother, the manipulative American expatriate Madame Merle.

Indeed, that final scene haunted me, and I leafed back through the pages for some hint. Perhaps this was James’s intent: to send us round for a second reading. Isabel’s departure is quickly recounted, a noticeable change of style. Was James just tired of his own gothic melodrama and ready to wrap it up? Doubtful. I think he intended to leave us with a question.

What are we to make of women — especially smart, financially independent women — who return to and remain with awful men? Of course, this is as much a modern-day question as a literary conundrum. In Isabel’s case, it seems she gives too much weight to her legal and marital obligations. But even without those social restrictions, “She’s gone back” is a familiar phenomenon. How did James, a bachelor, have such intimate knowledge of the female heart?

By any measure, The Portrait of a Lady is overstuffed, so burdened by ostentation that action within the frame is slowed: lengthy descriptions linger on every visual aspect of a scene, weighing it down with historical, social, physical, and psychological detail. Had James lived later, he might have made sedate, elegant films of the Merchant Ivory variety. (I watched only five minutes of Jane Campion’s 1996 adaptation of the novel and found it intolerable.)

Still, it is instructive to read Henry James, especially for those of us fearful of becoming garrulous old ladies. Speaking for myself, I find it increasingly difficult to tell an anecdote without several rich layers of recollected data. While making my way through The Portrait of a Lady, I often felt waves of irritation, wishing he’d bloody well get on with it. And this reaction has served as an excellent reminder to quell my own tendency to go off on the side roads, believing I am enhancing the journey and quite neglecting the destination.

James, however, stays on course. He knows where he’s going. That’s the ultimate joy of him. As I read and read and read — as the many hours of reading passed — I slipped from sleepy antipathy into cautious admiration. By page 100 (of 500), I was hooked. His elaborate style — perfect sentences, clause upon relentless clause, constructed, according to James in his preface, “brick upon brick”— was, in the end, seductive.

And now, to dip into The Golden Bowl.