Before Henry James became a befuddled, complex and confusing writer in the vein of The Golden Bowl, What Maisie Knew and that shitshow The Ambassadors, he wrote cohesive but psychologically complex human drama such as The Portrait of a Lady. Contrary to what one might believe about the title, the story does not involve a painting of a woman, but rather, a detailed record of a woman’s life and those immediate to her, and from what it seems, every crevice of their thoughts about each other.
Except it’s fucking Henry James, and even though he may be verbose about the character’s states of mind, he’d probably leave out saying the most important things — the elephant in the room that nobody wants to fucking say. But in a way, it makes his books enjoyable, it makes him an acquired taste and for the life of me, I still haven’t really acquired the taste of Henry James. But by far, The Portrait of a Lady is my favourite Henry James book that I’ve read so far.
Isabel Archer meets her match. Shit goes down.
Isabel Archer is an orphaned child, practically raised by her elderly sister and husband, and not doing much at all day except to read books, sitting pretty and occasionally flirts with random dudes in dances, kind of like Paris Hilton minus the millions of dollars and an annoying chihuahua. When her long, lost aunt came to visit, they immediately struck a friendship which resulted in her aunt’s resolve to bring her to Europe as a travelling companion.
Initially, we are only introduced to Isabel through hearsay. Her aunt’s sickly son, Ralph Touchett, his father and his friend, the more charming and well-to-do Lord Warburton can only speculate on her nature, before she suddenly shows up playing with the dog. Isabel, though not even the prettiest of the Archer sisters enamoured the men, which affected a proposal from Lord Warburton and a platonic infatuation from her cousin Ralph, who would become her lifelong friend.
She, of course, rejected Warburton’s riches, as she had rejected other men that came to her life: Ralph himself, Caspar Goodwood who crossed the Atlantic to woo her. Ralph convinced his father before passing away to leave Isabel with a generous fuck-off money, so that she became richer than Paris Hilton’s chihuahua overnight. Her friendship with her aunt’s friend, Madame Merle, who caught a sniff of Isabel’s newfound wealth proved to be the young heiress’s downfall.
Madame Merle introduced her to the one man who she somehow did not turn down, the almost broke but tasteful Osmond. By tasteful I mean he doesn’t have an ounce empathetic muscle, but rather a general good taste of inanimate objects and traditions. Because Isabel could not classify him, could not figure him out, she was drawn into this enigmatic man and fell for him. Oh, did I tell you that he has a teenage daughter when they met? Over the years, Osmond would dominate Isabel’s life, passively pressuring her to kowtow to his thoughts, lest he becomes irritable. In marrying Osmond, Isabel had lost herself — her identity and essence. It is fair to ask then, whether she’d be able to reclaim herself again, or whether she’d finish her days as a pushover.
The ladyness of Isabel Archer
The concept of being a gentleman predominates English novels perhaps as much as being a lady is. By this time, the Austen novels are English staples and the grounded heroines of the Brontës are also prevalent in the shelves of English literature. But there is no single definition of what being a lady means, for that matter, and even in a man attuned to his femininity may explore that concept.
Though it would be just as easy to define a lady or gentleman by the magnitude of their wealth, the clothes they wear and their manners, we must go a bit deeper than just mere appearances. What do we think when we say that someone is a gentleman? Or if someone is a lady? In our minds, we have somebody stately, comfortable with themselves, perhaps even content and mild-mannered. But maybe we need to look elsewhere in literature.
On the side of the gentlemen, I always think about Phillip Carey in Maugham’s Of Human Bondage, who would be labeled a “gentleman” by Kitty, who would constantly take advantage of him that you wouldn’t know what a gentleman is anymore. At times we are frustrated with Phillip because he was unable to do what’s best for him, and instead be duped into being a foolsh gentleman.
And I think that is where the core of the idea of a lady or a gentleman might uncomfortably lay: on the friction between one’s own intentions and the standards of behaviour one perceives to comply with. It is the fine balance between the ownership of one’s dignity and compliance to other’s expectations. To be a lady or a gentleman is to teether between both, elegantly.
In the case of Isabel, she had landed into a windfall of wealth, bequeathed with 70,000 pounds overnight, escaping the poverty that at first seemed inevitable. Though she was young, she had an independent mind and though she was more comfortable as an observer than a participant of life, she was gathering knowledge where perhaps this knowledge of humanity would be useful to her later on. But at heart, she appreciated her freedom, away from immediate commitments. Whether this is ladylike, I’m not sure, but we can say at this time that she had yet to become a lady.
When later on she inherited her uncle’s wealth, she may have lost a little of this zing of independent mind. She behaved independently enough with her money, but at this point in time the money had changed her a little. She may have been swayed a little, especially with her new friend in Madame Merle, and Henrietta, who for Isabel may be the model of an independent mind, has less influence on her. Her curiosity of humanity had been replaces by her passion for taste, which accumulated in Madame Merle’s experiences and her meeting Osmond, who was all about perfecting perfect taste.
Isabel herself juxtaposed Osmond to her invalid cousin Ralph:
“Ralph had something of this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter of connoisseurship; but in Ralphit was a kind of anomaly, a kind of humourous excrescence, whereas in Mr Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it.”
Ultimately, when she married Osmond and becomes respectable, she had created a gulf for herself between her independence of mind and falling in line with her husband’s wishes. By this time, her taste had been supplanted by her husband’s though others around her had credited her for it, and for having a shapely home. She lacked the meaningful relationships that she had had when she was young, and had become a practical prisoner in her own home. Had she then, become a lady as she had acquired the respect of society?
I would disagree if we go by our initial definition. Isabel at this time, had fallen by the wayside and lacked the psychological self-ownership which would shape her dignity. She would regain this by rejecting her husband’s wishes to keep her in their Roman residence while Ralph was dying in Gardencourt, and thus recuperating an ounce of her self-respect.
Underneath the fine damask
Reading Henry James pick apart his characters like Magnus Carlsen, the chess grandmaster picks up a much inferior online opponent, is the few joys of reading the English language. There are rarely other books that had explored the crevices of each character’s mind as James had done in The Portrait of a Lady. Yet, for all his exposure of each personage’s psychology, we can’t help thinking that there is something else beneath that, that the more important things are rather left unsaid.
What is left unsaid is the savagery of human nature, the erotic side that’s implied in the essence of the conversations between Isabel and her suitors, that her tastes and choices (for example, the choice of her husband) is defined more by her biology. Underneath the garments of behaviour, civil conversations and conventions is the innate desire for sexual relations, a motive rarely rearing its ugly head in James’ psychological explorations but more apparent in the choices and actions of its main characters.
Would Isabel consider Ralph as a valid suitor if he wasn’t an invalid and if he looked more like the 19th century version of Brad Pitt than a sickly Phillip Seymour Hoffman? The safety of Lord Warburton is more threatening than the adventures of the unknown. Her attraction to Osmond may be sparked by his appearances and tastes, instead of his personality. Her other suitor, Caspar Goodwood’s determination to win her heart reeked of simpiness and may have been offputting.
It is a novel where sex is central to the novel without it being explicitly mentioned. Madame Merle and Osmond’s history, resulting in the love-child Pansy, is a consequence of their sexual relations, an action which would also affect the characters intentions and claim innocent victims, such as Isabel. Countess Gemini, who has no shame of visiting around has no shame on her affairs.
The embodiment of this sexual liberation is Henrietta, who would go shamelessly with Mr Bantling all over Europe with no thought of other’s judgements except which city they’d be fucking in next. We can also assume Mrs Touchett’s lack of innocence, liberating herself from her husband to travel all around Europe, and perhaps indulging in her own adventures that’s more suited to the books of Anaïs Nin. Though not mentioned, we know for a fact that Mr Touchett isn’t getting any, at least from his wife.
James’ writing psychological poetry in the landscape of Isabel’s mind
Those things left unsaid were also at times, things left unexplored. Isabel, despite her drive to master the knowledge of humanity often overlook the important parts:
“With all her love of knowledge she had a natural shrinking from raising curtains and looking into unlighted corners. The love of knowledge coexisted in her mind with the finest capacity of ignorance.”
This attitude will prove to be her downfall as she omitted analysing the nature of the relationship between Osmond and Madame Merle more carefully. Yet, we can see that Isabel was also one to play it safe:
“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.”
And though she may be an independent thinker, she is still victim to her perception of other’s perceptions:
Isabel’s chief dread in life at this period of her development was that she should appear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she should really be so.
Yet, for all her deficiencies, Isabel is genuine. She was saddened by the death of her uncle, who she only recently met; she respected Ralph as a person and never once belittled his apparent weaknesses; she did not let her money make her arrogant and she felt a tinge of guilt when she inherited it. Most of all, when she found out that she had been betrayed by Madame Merle and saw through her plans, she felt sorry towards the traitor instead of feeling spite.
It is difficult not to dislike Isabel Archer and not forgive her shortcomings. When she reclaimed herself at the end of the novel, whether she would return to her husband to fulfil her matrimonial duties, or whether she’d return to fulfil her promise to visit Pansy and then be on her way elsewhere, we can assume that Isabel Archer is contented, given the circumstances.
The Transatlantic tug of war of the self
The Portrait of a Lady is also a novel about the self and the definition of the self, whether it’s defined by one’s self or others. This definition and redefinition is apparent in how the characters embody their cultural and national identities. Most of the characters are Americans living abroad, and thus have become naturalised Europeans. But by how much is one American, and by how much more is one European? And how much of it is neither, and defined instead by one’s own unique experiences independent of national traits?
The Europeans are forebearers of culture and tradition, they are of the old world, whereas America is the brash young thing: more liberal, yet a bit more reckless and lacking culture. This brazen American attitude is represented by Henrietta, a self-sufficient, career woman who speaks her mind. Henrietta, thus, lacks the restraint expected of traditional conventions. Yet, for this she is more sincere and honest.
On the other side, Madame Merle is all about restraint and very careful of the perception of others to a fault. Madame Merle is an elusive phantom, jumping from one place to the next, perfectly civil but this also creates a barrier for her. It is difficult for Madame Merle to make any genuine friends, and quickly losing the ones she makes. We can juxtapose Madame Merle’s behaviour with Henrietta, as she embodies the conservative European tendencies.
So where does that put Osmond? An American who had become a too-naturalised European. The fact that his origins were ambiguous, that Isabel could not figure out who he was, his roots and to her downfall, his intentions, drew him to her and made him magnetic. Perhaps Isabel, in her search for an independent mind, fell to the man who had lost his roots. Yet, Osmond was also obsessed with traditions of dubious origins, in the quest perhaps to be more European and shake off his roots.
James, in the portrayal of Americans living in Europe had captured a time of life and a community that he was familiar with, those who he saw often in his social circles. He had recognised thus the intricacies of this tug of war between the expatriates adopting a new culture and a way of life, and also losing what is essentially American. Had these Americans then lost their brash, but honest mannerisms and had become more reserved themselves?
Let’s not kid ourselves here. These people lead pretty good lives.
And I think this is where the book swayed and dwindled a little for me. I couldn’t give a fuck about any of these people, at least initially. They stank of riches and drama forged among themselves that their suffering and concerns do not seem real. But I wonder if this is James taking a piss out of this aristocratic expatriate class, perhaps the people in his own circle. And for a while, it seemed like that. For the whole two thirds of the book, my thoughts really were fuck this dude, and this dude, and this lady. I really couldn’t care less.
But this is not really a flaw of the book, it’s just my preference of characters. Early on, Isabel Archer was a Lily Bart in The House of Mirth who came from nothing and would finish up with less than nothing. For a while I thought that I would have preferred to read about that instead of some lassie who had run into a fortune and kept getting richer.
Ultimately, the book redeemed itself in the crescendo of Isabel Archer’s arc. Whether she had truly reclaimed herself is still an open question, but it does not matter. It is one of the few books in the English language that have the contention of being one of the most beautifully written, and even though it is still written by Henry James, somehow I do not mind this.
Do I still think that Henry James is a fucking cunt? Well he ended up being one when he started being more experimental, but I prefer his more pre-cunt body of work, though far from being straightforward, are far more accessible.
