BOOKS.
THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.* IF Mr. Henry James had called this book "The Portrait of Two Gentlemen," we might have admitted the aptness of the descrip- tion, for the real power of the book consists in the wonderful pictures given of Ralph Touchett and Mr. Osmond, which have rarely been equalled in fiction for the skill and delicacy of the painting. But as for Isabel Archer —or Mrs. Osmond, as she afterwards becomes—who is the lady of whom the por- trait is taken, we venture to say that the reader never sees her, or realises what she is, from the beginning of the book to the close. She is the one lady of whom no portrait
is given, though she is studied till the reader is weary of the
study. We have a very admirable portrait of Mrs. Touchett, a brilliant one of the Countess Gemini, a very clever one of Madame Merle, a most finished and attractive one of poor little Pansy Osmond, a very humorous one of Henrietta, Stackpole ; but of Isabel Archer one has no portrait at all; but only an interminable and laborious effort to paint one, an effort which is entirely in vain. One knows that she is pretty, that she loves freedom, that she loves experience, that she has endless day-dreams, that she is compassionate to the helpless, that she is grateful for goodness, and proud, not to say defiant, towards those who are not good to her ; but beyond that, one knows nothing about her. Apparently, she has no faith whatever, no fixed standard even of inward life and motive, though she is always chasing ideals with no particu- lar substance, or even uniformity, in them. Why she is so much fascinated by a man so utterly destitute of anything that in large in mind or heart, as Mr. Osmond, so made up, indeed, of fastidious selfishness,—unless it be for the artistic deference of his manner towards her, itis impossible to say. He says of him- self, " No, I am not conventional, I am convention itself ;" and, indeed, after one great breach of convention, sedulously con- cealed, he appears to have accepted convention, as distinguished from any of the moral or spiritual grounds of convention, as the whole aim of his life. So far as the reader has been prepared by the very elaborate studies of Isabel which precede the acquaint- ance with Mr. Osmond, one would have said that such a character as his could not have had any true fascination for her, and it re- mains one of the problems of the story why it ever had such a fasci- nation,—a problem that it is all the more difficult to solve, since the reader, though fully understanding the rather feline char- acter of Mr. Osmond's love of convection, is never really let into the confidence of his wife. It is this which, together with Mr. Henry James's very agnostic view of Art, spoils the book. The effect of the picture as a whole is this,—that while all the subsidiary painting is most lucid and deli- cate, the central figure remains shrouded in mist. Where the strongest light and the most definite impression should be, there is nothing but haze, nothing but a laborious riddle. Nevertheless, Mr. Henry James shows something more than his habitual skill,—and how great that is, in our
• The Portrait of a Lady. By Henry James, Junior. S vols. London : Macmillan and Co.
opinion, we have often had occasion to state,—in the wonderful picture of Mr. Osmond's temporary transfiguration during the few scenes in which he is presented to us as a suitor for Isabel. There one does, at least for a moment, understand that there might be some illusion about him,—not an illusion as to largeness of character, for he has not even a shadow of it, but as to the reverence and sweetness of his nature, of which he has really nothing but the outside, and yet so good an outside of it, that it is difficult for a moment to doubt that there is
not something more behind. Let us contrast the sub- tlety of the painting of Osmond, when he is making his own offer, with the mode in which he throws cold water on poor little Rosier. when the latter comes to him in the vain hope of being permitted to marry Pansy. We give first the close of the interview in which Osmond makes his offer to Isabel :— " ' Go everywhere,' he said at last, in a low, kind voice ; do every- thing ; get everything out of life. Be happy—be triumphant.'— What do yon mean by being triumphant ?'—' Doing what you like.' —'To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail ! Doing what we like is often very tiresome.'—' Exactly,' said Osmond,' with his quick re- sponsiveness. As I intimated just now, you will be tired some day.' He paused a moment, and then ho went on : ' I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I wish to say to you.'- ' Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I am horrid when I am tired,' Isabel added, with due inconsequence.—' I don't believe that. You are angry, sometimes—that I can believe, though I have never seen it. But I am sure you are never disagreeable.'— `Not even when I lose my temper!'—' You don't lose it—you find it, and that must be beautiful.' Osmond spoke very simply—almost solemnly. There must be something very noble about that.'—' If I could only find it now !' the girl exclaimed, laughing, yet frowning. —` I am not afraid ; I should fold my arms and admire you. I am speaking very seriously.' He was leaning forward, with a hand on each knee ; for some moments he bent his eyes on the floor. What I wish to say to you,' he went on at last, looking up, is that I find I am in love with you.' Isabel instantly rose from her chair. ' Ah, keep that till I am tired !' she murmured. ' Tired of hearing it from others ?' And Osmond sat there, looking up at her. No, you may heed it now, or never, as you please. But after all, I must say it now.' She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a moment in this situation, exchanging a long look—the large, con- scious look of the critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. 'I am thoroughly in love with you.' He repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal discretion ; like a man who expected very little from it, but spoke for his own relief. The tears came into Isabel's eyes—they were caused by an intenser throb of that pleasant pain I spoke of a moment ago. There was an itn- manse sweetness in the words he had uttered ; but morally speaking, she retreated before them—facing him still—as she had retreated in two or three cases that we know of in which the same words had been spoken. Oh, don't say that, please,' she answered at last, in a tone of entreaty which had nothing of conventional modesty, but which expressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread—the con- sciousness of what was in her own heart. It was terrible to have to surrender herself to that.—' I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you,' said Osmond. I have too little to offer you. What I have—it's enough for me ; but it's not enough for you. I have neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it can't offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It gives me plea- sure, I assure you,' lie went on, standing there before her, bending forward a little, turning his bat, which lie had taken up, slowly round, with a movement which had all the decent tremor of awk- wardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his keen, ex- pressive, emphatic face. It gives me no pain, because it is per- fectly simple. For me you will always be the most important woman in the world.' Isabel looked at herself in this character— looked intently, and thought that she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an expression of this complacency. You don't offend me ; but you ought to remember that, with- out being offended, one may be incommoded, troubled." In- commoded :' she heard herself saying that, and thought it a ridiculous word. But it was the word that came to her.—' I remember, perfectly. Of course you are surprised and startled. But if it is nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave something that I may not be ashamed of.'—' I don't know what it may leave. You see, at all events, that I am not overwhelmed,' said Isabel, with rather a pale smile. 'I am not too troubled to think. And I think that I am glad we are separating—that I leave Rome to. morrow.'—' Of course I don't agree with you there.'—' I don't know you,' said Isabel, abruptly ; and then she coloured, as she heard her- self saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord Warburton. If you were not going away, you would know me better.'—' I shall do that some other time.'—' I hope so. I am very easy to know.'—' No, no,' said the girl, with a flash of bright eagerness; there you are not sincere. You are not easy to know ; no one could be lees ' Well,' Osmond answered, with a laugh, said that because I know myself. That may be a boast, bet I do.'—' Very likely, but you are very wise.'—' So are you, Miss Archer,' Osmond exclaimed.—' I don't feel so jest now. Still, I am wise enough to think you bad better go. Good night.'—' God bless you!' said Gilbert Osmond, taking the band which she failed to surrender to him. And then in a moment he added, If we meet again, you will find me as you leave me. If we don't, I shall be so all the same.'—' Thank you very much. Good-bye.' There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor ; he might go of his awn movement, but he would not be dismissed. ' There is one thing more,' he said. ' I haven't asked anything of you—not even a thought in the future ; you must do me that justice. But there is a little service I should like to ask. I shall not return home for several days ; Rome is delightful, and it is a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you are sorry to leave it ; but you are right to do what your aunt wishes.'— ' She doesn't even wish it !' Isabel broke out, strangely. Osmond for a moment was apparently on the point of saying something that would match these words. But he changed his mind, and rejoined, simply, Ah well, it's proper you should go with her, all the same.. Do everything that's proper; I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't know me ; bat when you do you will discover what a worship I have for propriety.'—' You are not con- ventional ?' said Isabel, very gravely.—' I like the way you utter that word ! No, I am not conventional : I am convention itself. You don't understand that ?' And Osmond paused a moment, smiling. ' I should like to explain it.' Then, with a sudden, quick, bright naturalness,—' Do come back again !' he cried. There are so many things we might talk about.'
It would be difficult, we think, to surpass the delicacy and subtlety of that painting, so far as regards Mr. Osmond. 'rite sudden brightness of manner, the artistic deference, the studied frankness, the tone of pure disinterestedness, are all such as a man of this kind, with a sincere love for the refined externals of life, and no heart behind it, would be able to assume, without feel- ing his assumption in the least degree hypocritical or false. Now, let us see him as he receives and discountenances the lover of his daughter, whom he desires to reserve for a much wealthier match :-
" Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his [Osmond's] attention ; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without changing his attitude. How d'ye do ? My wife's somewhere about.'—' Never fear ; I shall find her,' said Rosier, cheerfully. Osmond stood looking at him ; he had never before felt the keenness of this gentleman's eyes. Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like it,' Rosier said to himself. He hid hoped Madame Merle would be there ; but she was not within sight ; per- haps she was in one of the other rooms, or would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond ; ho had a fancy that he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly resentful, and where politeness was concerned he had an inveterate wish to be in the right. He looked round him, smiling, and then, in a moment he said—' I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte to-day.' Osmond answered nothing at first ; but presently, while ho warmed his boot- sole, don't care a fig for Capo di Monte !' he returned. I hope you are not losing your interest ?'—' In old pots and plates ? Yes, I am losing my interest.' Rosier for a moment forgot the delicacy of his position. 'You are not thinking of parting with a—a piece or two F'—' No, I am not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier,' said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor. 'Ali, you want to keep, but not to add,' Rosier remarked, brightly. Exactly. I have nothing that I wish to match.' "
That gives sufficient indication of Mr. Osmond's two man- ners, the refined, reverential manner, by which he wins favour with Isabel ; and the curt, contemptuous manner, with which lie expresses his scorn for what he regards as beneath him, when lie has no object to gain by concealing it. In scene after scene this character is developed, and always with some fresh touch of fastidious insolence or intense though petty pride, which makes of it a wonderful, and yet most repulsive, artistic achievement. As a set-off against this disagreeable picture is that of Ralph Touchett, the humorous, Anglo-American invalid,—who throughout the book is dying slowly of consumption,—and who shuffles about with his hands in his pockets and a shrewd eye always fixed on the life about him, eliciting all its characteristic features, in love with Isabel himself, though without ever thinking of sacrificing her, and indeed generously forgetting his own future in the desire to
add to his cousin Isabel's happiness. Ralph Touchett is a very powerful picture, and a fine pendant to that of Osmond, the delicately-enamelled idolator of his own tastes and dignity, for whom Ralph's improvident generosity to his cousin unfortunately set a trap, by endowing her with wealth to which she had no claim, and which proves to her a pure misfortune. Such are the two leading characters of the book,—as powerfully drawn as Isabel's is feebly and faintly drawn,—companion pictures of niggardness of soul, on the one side, and magnanimity, of an unpretending type, on the other. Besides these, there are, as we have said, plenty of side-figures, many of them exhibiting Mr. Henry James's best insight and highest humour. As regards the latter quality, the relations of Henrietta Stackpole and Captain Bantling are painted with a finer humour than anything we remember in our author's work,
But the cloven foot of Mr. Henry James's agnosticism,—as artist no less than as thinker,—is shown at the close of his tale, with even more nakedness than he has ever shown it yet. That be always likes to end his tales with a failure of anything like the old poetic justice, we all know. That perplexing relations should ravel themselves, rather than unravel themselves, and end, so far as there is an end- ing at all, in something worse than they began in, is one of Mr. Henry James's canons of art. The tendency of life, he holds, is to result in a general failure of the moral and spiritual hopes it raises. If you let your story land itself in a wreck, or fade away into a blank and pallid apathy,—that is
true art to this author. But never before has he closed a novel by setting up quite so cynical a sign-post into the abyss, as he sets up at the close of this book. He ends his Portrait of a Lady, if we do not wholly misinterpret the rather covert, not to say almost cowardly, hints of his last page, by calmly indi- cating that this ideal lady of his, whose belief in purity has done so much to alienate her from her husband, in that it had made him smart under her contempt for his estimates of the world, saw a " straight path" to a liaison with her rejected lover. And worse still, it is apparently intended that this is the course sanctioned both by her high-minded friend, Miss Stackpole, and by the -dying cousin whose misfortune it had been to endow her with wealth that proved fatal to her happiness. The close of The Portrait of a Lady throws a strange light on the results to be expected from pure agnosticism in its relation to Art. Mr. Henry James long ago rejected the idea that real life is intel- ligible and significant, even so far as this—that the artistic pre- sentation of it ought to satisfy the mind and heart, as the greater dramatists and novelists have always endeavoured to satisfy -the mind and heart. But he has never till now ventured to indi- cate that the natural end of a noble nature, after it has wrecked itself by a great mistake, is ignoble surrender to selfish passion. Yet it is quite true that pure agnosticism is most likely to lead hither. Isabel is painted as trusting to nothing to keep her right in life but vague, generous aspirations, without compass and without clue ; and for such a one, it is natural enough that, at the last pinch, all morality should seem nothing but con- vention, and the " straight path " a mere descent to selfish indulgence. We can hardly speak too highly of the skill and genius shown in many parts of The Portrait of a Lady. We can hardly speak too depreciatingly of the painting of that portrait itself, or of the moral collapse into which the original of the portrait is made to fall. After all, even if it had been provided that Isabel should have attained her ideal, the result we certainly -expected, we should not have cared much for a young lady made up of such extremely vague aspirations. As it is, we are filled with wonder that agnostic Art should have got so far as to place a great blot in the centre of a carefully-painted picture, without seeing that agnostic Art has, as Art, committed suicide in so
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