Comments & Questions
In this section, we aim to provide the reader
with an array of perspectives on the text, as well as questions
that challenge those perspectives. The commentary has been culled
from sources as diverse as reviews contemporaneous with the work,
letters written by the author, literary criticism of later
generations, and appreciations written throughout the work’s
history. Following the commentary, a series of questions seeks to
filter Henry James’s The Wings of the Dove through a variety of
points of view and bring about a richer understanding of this
enduring work.
Comments
WILLIAM JAMES
I have read The Wings of the Dove (for
which all thanks!) but what shall I say of a book constructed on a
method which so belies everything that I acknowledge as law? You’ve
reversed every traditional canon of story-telling (especially the
fundamental one of telling the story, which you carefully
avoid) and have created a new genre littéraire which I can’t
help thinking perverse, but in which you nevertheless
succeed.
—from a letter to Henry James (Fall 1902)
J. P. MOWBRAY
In trying to form anything like a comprehensive
estimate of Mr. James’s mature work, the effeminacy of it has to be
counted with. One cannot call it virile, and—with the best examples
still with us—hardly Saxon. —from Critic (November
1902)
—from Critic (November 1902)
SATURDAY
[The Wings of the Dove] consists of 576
closely printed pages. We were curious to know the average number
of dashes, commas and semi-colons on a page; and we found the
calculation entirely beyond our powers. Suffice it to say it is
enormous; and most of these interruptions serve no purpose save
that of making the reading more difficult. The effect is
irritating: what might have been clean prose is broken, finicked,
piffled away. Yet we see plainly enough that such lame writing is
essential to the effect Mr. James wished to get. He wanted to make
us feel all those artificial, subtle, trifling or meaningless
changes of mood; and the more he makes us feel them the more
artificial, trifling, meaningless we find them, and the less
inclined we are to read on. We even suggest that the achievement of
such a prose has become with Mr. James somewhat of an end in
itself. The incessant ‘perhaps’ -es, and ‘consciousness of
something deeper still,’ and ‘clearly, as yet, seeing
nothing’—these not only give that effect of blurred vision and lack
of definite intention, but weave into a word-tissue which Mr. James
seems to like and which we heartily dislike. It is a word-tissue
that hides the author’s thought—that gives one a sense of his
reserve, aloofness. There is no energy, passion, color, and because
there is no motion, there is no rhythm in this prose. The prose
becomes as trivial as the trivial moods aroused by trivial
middle-class things it is meant to express; and not from Mr. Henry
James nor another do we require 576 pages of such prose fine-spun
out with such an object.
After all, this kind of writing, crabbed,
finicking, tedious in its struggle to be exact about nothing, marks
a strong reaction against the kind that prevailed until twenty
years ago or even later.
—January 1903
JOSEPH CONRAD
One is never set at rest by Mr. Henry James’s
novels. His books end as an episode in life ends. You remain with
the sense of the life still going on; and even the subtle presence
of the dead is felt in that silence that comes upon the
artist-creation when the last word has been read. It is eminently
satisfying, but it is not final. Mr. Henry James, great artist and
faithful historian, never attempts the impossible.
—from North American Review (January
1905)
GEORGE MOORE
I’ve read nothing of Henry James’s that didn’t
suggest a scholar; so there shall be none of the old taunts—why
does he not write complicated stories? Why does he always avoid
decisive action? In his stories a woman never leaves the house with
her lover, nor does a man ever kill another man or himself. Why is
nothing ever accomplished ? In real life murder, adultery, and
suicide are of common occurrence; but Mr. James’s people live in a
calm, sad, and very polite twilight of volition. Suicide or
adultery has happened before the story begins, suicide or adultery
happens some years after the characters have left the stage, but in
front of the reader nothing happens.... Is there really much to say
about people who live in stately houses and eat and drink their
fill every day of the year? The lady, it is true, may have a lover,
but the pen finds scanty pasturage of the fact; and in James’s
novels the lady only considers the question on the last page, and
the gentleman looks at her questioningly.
—from Confessions of a Young Man
(1916)
VIRGINIA WOOLF
How consciously Henry James set himself to look
for the weak place in our amour of insensibility it is not
necessary to decide. Let us turn to another story, The Friends
of Friends, and judge whether he succeeded. This is the story
of a man and woman who have been trying for years to meet but only
accomplish their meeting on the night of the woman’s death. After
her death the meetings are continued, and when this is divined by
the woman he is engaged to marry she refuses to go on with the
marriage. The relationship is altered. Another person, she says,
has come between them. ‘You see her—you see her; you see her every
night!’ It is what we have come to call a typically Henry James
situation. It is the same theme that was treated with enormous
elaboration in The Wings of the Dove. Only there, when Milly
has come between Kate and Densher and altered their relationship
for ever, she has ceased to exist; here the anonymous lady goes on
with her work after death. And yet—does it make very much
difference? Henry James has only to take the smallest steps and he
is over the border. His characters with their extreme fineness of
perception are already half way out of the body. There is nothing
violent in their release. They seem rather to have achieved at last
what they have long been attempting—communication without obstacle.
But Henry James, after all, kept his ghosts for his ghost stories.
Obstacles are essential to The Wings of the Dove.
—from Times Literary Supplement (December
22, 1921 )
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
Henry James had turned his back on one of the
great events in the world’s history, the rise of the United States,
in order to report tittle-tattle at tea parties in English country
houses.
—from Cakes and Ale: or, The Skeleton
in the Cupboard (1930)
Questions
1. What does the prose style of The Wings of
the Dove accomplish that a more direct style does not? What can
it not accomplish that a more direct style can? How would you
formulate a description of James’s late style? He himself in an
offhand moment described it as “sub-aqueous.”
2. Of James’s late fiction George Moore asks,
“Why does he always avoid decisive action? ... Why is nothing ever
accomplished? ... Mr. James’s people live in a calm, sad, and very
polite twilight of volition.... Is there really much to say about
people who live in stately houses and eat and drink their fill
every day of the year?” Has George Moore got it right? Is he being
fair? And what do you think about Somerset Maugham’s observation
that what James does is “report tittle-tattle at tea parties in
English country houses”?
3. Some readers of The Wings of the Dove
have found in the novel a sense of doom, a sense of a civilization
in a decline and about to crash. Do you see this in the book? How
is this sense or atmosphere created?
4. In spite of the somewhat rarified milieu of
the novel, do the characters seem to you to be motivated by the
same ambitions, emotions, fears, and desires as, say, a group of
average Americans? Or a group of movie stars, factory workers, or
Appalachian Amish—in spite of the differences in circumstances? In
other words, are James’s characters fully human?
5. What would you say is an accurate
characterization of Merton Densher? He thinks too much? He’s weak?
He has flaws but is essentially a good man? He begins ill and ends
well? He is despicable? Instead of doing what he did, what should
he have done?