I mentioned in the first post on this blog that I really didn’t have a handle on Isabel Archer Osmond, did not really understand if she was a victim of Gilbert Osmond or they were a matched set of egos intent on marital domination. I have read many essays and critiques of “The Portrait of a Lady” offering both observations.
For the most part, I think Mr. James was sympathetic to Isabel and writes she’d been “made a convenience of” by two conniving sophisticates she was no match for. Then I remember something that Ralph Touchett said to himself on the first day Isabel arrived at Gardencourt: She does not take suggestion. By this one sentence I can make Isabel my own character: She wants her own way. I get that. All of my life I have heard things like, “You do not take instruction well. You are stubborn. You are intent on things your own way,” and lately, “Why don’t you ever listen to what I say, do what I suggest?”
I understand Isabel better. She may have been a victim, but she waltzed into her marriage after her dearest friends and family members advised against it. Her friends know she’s miserable but she won’t admit it; she is too proud and too embarrassed. Only to Ralph who is dying will she confess her error. I respect her reticence but in the sixth chapter of my sequel to TPOAL, I have Mrs. Touchett tell her “no one appreciates or respects a martyr, Isabel, don’t carry that too far.”
In my sequel, Isabel most definitely knows she was/is headstrong. Her husband may be obnoxious, he may even be psychotic but she’s consciously aware that her own assumptions were based on a faulty premise composed in her own mind. I think that is why she went back to him. She does not see herself as a victim, she’d rather see herself as a foolhardy young woman prepared to live with her choice. Isabel is very big on choice. She does not want to get out of jail free.
And this is precisely the reason her husband objects to her: that streak of Emersonian morality and her belief in free-will annoy him. He is not bothered by any such philosophical concepts himself. His will dictates for his aggrandizement; tinged with only a mild irony. As Dostoevsky said in his story “The Gambler,” there is nothing so dangerous as sophistication.
22 November 2010
20 November 2010
Isabel's New Beginning
I wrote a couple different openings for my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady." I lost the notebook with the first one but didn't mind because I knew I could do better. Earlier this week I found the missing notebook and decided to post the original first chapter. I'm sticking with the second version: this one sounds a little Danielle Steel(ish), not that I'm knocking her, I've enjoyed quite a few of her books. But she's no Henry James.
ISABEL RETURNS
Isabel Osmond returning to Italy on a wet, wintry day, after traveling through the night in a car that could have been warmer, could have moved faster, could have been more resplendent in any number of ways, but were largely unnoticed, her thoughts elsewhere. Mrs. Osmond was returning home after a month in England, her return to the Palazzo Roccanera would correspond to the anniversary of her marriage, five year to the day, her marriage she now knew a sham. She needed no reminder; had thought of nothing else for the past month since learning things she should have discerned, might have learned, but was obtuse, a word her husband used in reprimanding her, when he wanted to show his disdain for her simple equations. She marveled at her gullibility, but nevertheless, married she was and that is where her journey would set her down.
Her beloved cousin Ralph was now buried and for him she would grieve. She also learned what he’d done for her. And he understood how his gift had harmed her, indeed, knew it all along. She could only blush for shame at her naiveté, that she, Isabel Archer was so intelligent, so moral, so high-minded she need not heed the warning of those most concerned for her welfare. No, she will have the distinction of having deliberately planned a life--a union that was to fall so short of her measurements. That the man, Gilbert Osmond married her for her money, was not the worst thing in the world, it’s often done, but her husband was set up by his former mistress to marry a fortune.
How low Isabel felt riding the train through the night over a cold distant Europe who did not play fair, did not give Isabel Archer her due but took from her much more than money: She would never again possess her innocence or her trustful nature but perhaps at the age of twenty-seven it was just as well. Look where it had gotten her?
Isabel telegraphed her impending arrival to her husband who made no response. Isabel scarcely knew what would be awaiting her return. Her husband did not take disobedience lightly, and Isabel had greatly vexed her him by traveling to England to see her cousin as he lay dying. Isabel wrote of Ralph’s death but received not a word from the Palazzo Roccanera. Osmond felt Isabel made her choice and now she would live with it--he would be certain, could be depended upon to sink the blade of his rancor into her psyche.
Osmond married her for her money and now disliked entirely what or who was Isabel herself in inverse proportion to how much he cherished his newly acquired power. That he couldn’t control his wife was a bitter pill, but she knew his secret now, his wretched sister had betrayed him, and he knew not where this knowledge would lead. His wife knew that he, the great idealist, independent, detached from those shabby motives that drive other men, had in fact done something so shallow as to seek monetary gain for himself, he who had for years denounced all that came with position, possession and power, succumbed to the disorderly base action of marrying a woman who not only controlled the purse strings but would if Osmond wasn’t careful, control him, a thought too bilious to countenance.
“Dreadful woman!” he spat. She exasperated him. He had no patience with her ideas and most especially her friends. Now that her odious cousin actually had the decency to expire after threatening it for years, Osmond would be put in the position of feigning sympathy or forgiveness, neither of which he had the least stomach for. He would neither forget nor forgive his wife. She must pay and be made to kneel, only this would suffice.
Osmond had an idea just how much she would pay: he had discovered an early sixteenth-century altarpiece that he believed was painted by Giotto and would soon be put on the market if he didn’t come up with the required sum, costly of course, but for which his estranged wife would gladly disburse hard currency to win his favor. Gilbert could be merciless and his wife would not be allowed in from the cold until the altarpiece was prominently displayed in the main salon of the Palazzo Roccanera.
Isabel arrived in Rome with the early dawn and quickly found a carriage to take her to the Palazzo Roccanera. She braced herself for what would take place. Her husband’s anger was a formidable challenge and after a month, she knew not how they would greet each other. She could never quite tell what form his animosity would take. It could roil on the surface of his personality or simmer on a back burner ready to scorch at the slightest change of temperament. She was cold and tired and needed to rest before facing her husband.
But Mrs. Osmond had learned the truth and that truth would free her. How she would use her new freedom would be subject to many variables not the least of which was her stepdaughter’s wishes. She had returned to save Pansy. It would be one way to redeem her shattered self-image. Her life, she felt, was a shambles. She entered her rooms and fell into her ornately carved bed murmuring, “Oh, to sleep once again, to have again what I have lost...”
After a night a heavy dreaming, she awoke to find the sun streaming into her room. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Oh yes, she thought, here, and she found she was glad to be home, back in Rome. Her maid entered and asked if she would like breakfast in bed. “No, I must dress and see my husband. Please send a note letting him know I’m back and will see him in one hour,” she ordered. She then prepared to steady her nerves because no matter what transpired between them, she would not be taking the compliant road ever again. That would be the obdurate beginning of Isabel’s next chapter--it was a start. Then she would seek out her stepdaughter and begin anew.
ISABEL RETURNS
Isabel Osmond returning to Italy on a wet, wintry day, after traveling through the night in a car that could have been warmer, could have moved faster, could have been more resplendent in any number of ways, but were largely unnoticed, her thoughts elsewhere. Mrs. Osmond was returning home after a month in England, her return to the Palazzo Roccanera would correspond to the anniversary of her marriage, five year to the day, her marriage she now knew a sham. She needed no reminder; had thought of nothing else for the past month since learning things she should have discerned, might have learned, but was obtuse, a word her husband used in reprimanding her, when he wanted to show his disdain for her simple equations. She marveled at her gullibility, but nevertheless, married she was and that is where her journey would set her down.
Her beloved cousin Ralph was now buried and for him she would grieve. She also learned what he’d done for her. And he understood how his gift had harmed her, indeed, knew it all along. She could only blush for shame at her naiveté, that she, Isabel Archer was so intelligent, so moral, so high-minded she need not heed the warning of those most concerned for her welfare. No, she will have the distinction of having deliberately planned a life--a union that was to fall so short of her measurements. That the man, Gilbert Osmond married her for her money, was not the worst thing in the world, it’s often done, but her husband was set up by his former mistress to marry a fortune.
How low Isabel felt riding the train through the night over a cold distant Europe who did not play fair, did not give Isabel Archer her due but took from her much more than money: She would never again possess her innocence or her trustful nature but perhaps at the age of twenty-seven it was just as well. Look where it had gotten her?
Isabel telegraphed her impending arrival to her husband who made no response. Isabel scarcely knew what would be awaiting her return. Her husband did not take disobedience lightly, and Isabel had greatly vexed her him by traveling to England to see her cousin as he lay dying. Isabel wrote of Ralph’s death but received not a word from the Palazzo Roccanera. Osmond felt Isabel made her choice and now she would live with it--he would be certain, could be depended upon to sink the blade of his rancor into her psyche.
Osmond married her for her money and now disliked entirely what or who was Isabel herself in inverse proportion to how much he cherished his newly acquired power. That he couldn’t control his wife was a bitter pill, but she knew his secret now, his wretched sister had betrayed him, and he knew not where this knowledge would lead. His wife knew that he, the great idealist, independent, detached from those shabby motives that drive other men, had in fact done something so shallow as to seek monetary gain for himself, he who had for years denounced all that came with position, possession and power, succumbed to the disorderly base action of marrying a woman who not only controlled the purse strings but would if Osmond wasn’t careful, control him, a thought too bilious to countenance.
“Dreadful woman!” he spat. She exasperated him. He had no patience with her ideas and most especially her friends. Now that her odious cousin actually had the decency to expire after threatening it for years, Osmond would be put in the position of feigning sympathy or forgiveness, neither of which he had the least stomach for. He would neither forget nor forgive his wife. She must pay and be made to kneel, only this would suffice.
Osmond had an idea just how much she would pay: he had discovered an early sixteenth-century altarpiece that he believed was painted by Giotto and would soon be put on the market if he didn’t come up with the required sum, costly of course, but for which his estranged wife would gladly disburse hard currency to win his favor. Gilbert could be merciless and his wife would not be allowed in from the cold until the altarpiece was prominently displayed in the main salon of the Palazzo Roccanera.
Isabel arrived in Rome with the early dawn and quickly found a carriage to take her to the Palazzo Roccanera. She braced herself for what would take place. Her husband’s anger was a formidable challenge and after a month, she knew not how they would greet each other. She could never quite tell what form his animosity would take. It could roil on the surface of his personality or simmer on a back burner ready to scorch at the slightest change of temperament. She was cold and tired and needed to rest before facing her husband.
But Mrs. Osmond had learned the truth and that truth would free her. How she would use her new freedom would be subject to many variables not the least of which was her stepdaughter’s wishes. She had returned to save Pansy. It would be one way to redeem her shattered self-image. Her life, she felt, was a shambles. She entered her rooms and fell into her ornately carved bed murmuring, “Oh, to sleep once again, to have again what I have lost...”
After a night a heavy dreaming, she awoke to find the sun streaming into her room. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Oh yes, she thought, here, and she found she was glad to be home, back in Rome. Her maid entered and asked if she would like breakfast in bed. “No, I must dress and see my husband. Please send a note letting him know I’m back and will see him in one hour,” she ordered. She then prepared to steady her nerves because no matter what transpired between them, she would not be taking the compliant road ever again. That would be the obdurate beginning of Isabel’s next chapter--it was a start. Then she would seek out her stepdaughter and begin anew.
12 November 2010
Oh, The Games People Play
There are many ways “The Portrait of a Lady” can be said to be a modern novel despite its verbiage. Henry James is considered the bridge between the nineteenth-century novel and the twentieth. His immediate influence was Nathanial Hawthorne but he wished to do something different, more modern, which to him meant psychological; more conscious, less circumstantial.
After an odious discussion with her husband about Lord Warburton's intentions toward Pansy Isabel ruminates on how she came to marry Gilbert Osmond; her sincerity, her initial adoration, her wish to bestow on such a gentleman, "the best in Europe," money she felt not rightly hers but that she could use for the enhancement of someone so fine. She traces the path of her own blindness and her husband’s disenchantment with her.
Poor Isabel did what so many women today do; they play dumb when they aren’t, play games, mask their true identity, diminish their own needs and desires. They're told you have to have to hide your temperament, pretend the things they say are worthy of The Sermon on the Mount and disguise any and all irritation until the poor chap is locked in. Later, all hell breaks loose when everything he does from being five minutes late, to not picking up his socks, to forgetting what she considers important dates can send her into a fit of explosive aggression that threatens to burn the house down or firebomb the car. It’s quite common, this sort of dissimulation still today.
Isabel had it right when she said it was her own fault for playing down her true spirit and playing up his. She concedes her own folly. I admire her for this acknowledgment, for not absolving herself from the tragedy that is her marriage. By refusing to be the victim, by viewing her own gullibility as not something that was acted upon but something that led her to her own choice, however regrettable, she empowers her future. This is the way HJ managed to write a contemporary novel in the nineteenth century.
In my sequel to TPOAL, Isabel does not play games, but is forthright. She has learned the truth and the truth has set her free. Osmond is still up to his old tricks but he too wearies of contradiction and mistrust. Nevertheless, thinking he has won the round, proceeds without caution. Oh, the games people play.
After an odious discussion with her husband about Lord Warburton's intentions toward Pansy Isabel ruminates on how she came to marry Gilbert Osmond; her sincerity, her initial adoration, her wish to bestow on such a gentleman, "the best in Europe," money she felt not rightly hers but that she could use for the enhancement of someone so fine. She traces the path of her own blindness and her husband’s disenchantment with her.
There were times when she almost pitied him; for if she had not deceived him in intention she understood how completely she must have done so in fact. She had effaced herself when he first knew her; she had made herself small, pretending there was less of her than there really was.
He said to her one day that she had too many ideas and that she must get rid of them…He really meant it…he would have liked her to have nothing of her own but her pretty appearance. She had known she had too many ideas; she had more even than he had supposed, many more than she had expressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she had been hypocritical; she had liked him so much. She had too many ideas for herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with some one else. One couldn’t pluck them up by the roots, though of course one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had not been this, however, his objecting to her opinions; this had been nothing. She had no opinions--none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he had meant had been the whole thing--her character, the way she felt, the way she judged. This was what she had kept in reserve; this was what he had not known until he had found himself--with the door closed behind, as it were--set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at life he took as a personal offense.
Poor Isabel did what so many women today do; they play dumb when they aren’t, play games, mask their true identity, diminish their own needs and desires. They're told you have to have to hide your temperament, pretend the things they say are worthy of The Sermon on the Mount and disguise any and all irritation until the poor chap is locked in. Later, all hell breaks loose when everything he does from being five minutes late, to not picking up his socks, to forgetting what she considers important dates can send her into a fit of explosive aggression that threatens to burn the house down or firebomb the car. It’s quite common, this sort of dissimulation still today.
Isabel had it right when she said it was her own fault for playing down her true spirit and playing up his. She concedes her own folly. I admire her for this acknowledgment, for not absolving herself from the tragedy that is her marriage. By refusing to be the victim, by viewing her own gullibility as not something that was acted upon but something that led her to her own choice, however regrettable, she empowers her future. This is the way HJ managed to write a contemporary novel in the nineteenth century.
In my sequel to TPOAL, Isabel does not play games, but is forthright. She has learned the truth and the truth has set her free. Osmond is still up to his old tricks but he too wearies of contradiction and mistrust. Nevertheless, thinking he has won the round, proceeds without caution. Oh, the games people play.
03 November 2010
Isabel Needs to Lighten Up
I’ve been reading Diane Johnson’s amusing novels of contemporary expatriate life in France. One blurb on the back cover from the San Francisco Chronicle describes Johnson as a cross between Henry James and Jane Austen. I can’t go quite so far with the hyperbole but she does have something in common with both: showing the cultural divide between Americans and Europeans as with James and the wry humor of Austen so it’s not too much of a stretch. For today, they entertain and Johnson earns my approval and recommendation for what it’s worth.
Her books have me thinking: wouldn’t my sequel to “The Portrait of a Lady” be ever so much better if I could give a dash of humor to Isabel Osmond and take away her victim status with wit and verve? Slay the humorless Osmond with sarcasm or irony, route Madame Merle’s serious dignity with mishap--a pie in the face, say, or tripping into a pile of manure getting out of her carriage? How about Pansy sneaking out on a date with a charming clown like Daisy Miller did in HJ’s story of the same name? And have the Countess Gemini brought up on charges of indecency after being seen topless in the Trevi Fountain? Everyone could sleep with everyone without a second thought. Osmond could be a closet homosexual which would account for his disdain for his wife’s charms who falls for Caspar Goodwood. Or he could be killed, run over by a donkey cart. It could be uproarious indeed, especially after I bring Mr. James McNeill Whistler into the story which, by the way, is in progress.
Unfortunately, the nineteenth century does not lend itself to such high jinks. If I am to use humor, and I do sincerely hope to, it will have to have the subtle wit of Mr. James who would never countenance slapstick or flagrant sexuality. Much too dignified. And women were to be protected from the coarseness of sexual innuendo unless they were of a certain breed and that would not be considered funny at all in decent society.
No, this was a more proper time and I hesitate to mess with it or the story will not ring true at all. But that doesn’t preclude me from delving into Austen’s copybook and taking a more lighthearted approach to Isabel’s situation than James has heretofore. It’s time for our heroine to take herself and her life less seriously and I’m sure she feels the same way. She was a sprightly girl after all, full of good humor and jest upon arriving in Europe. Are we really going to let a couple of conniving Eurotrash artistes ruin Isabel’s life? Her cousin Ralph was droll, her aunt Touchett wry and even Osmond, with his deadly seriousness, lobs a good line now and again at his sister. I feel a lot of rewriting coming on. I’m boring myself with the victim’s tale. And that is where Mr. Whistler will come in; that man knew how to deflect misfortune and turn it into a lark. He’s just the man to lighten Isabel’s heart. And just the artist.
Her books have me thinking: wouldn’t my sequel to “The Portrait of a Lady” be ever so much better if I could give a dash of humor to Isabel Osmond and take away her victim status with wit and verve? Slay the humorless Osmond with sarcasm or irony, route Madame Merle’s serious dignity with mishap--a pie in the face, say, or tripping into a pile of manure getting out of her carriage? How about Pansy sneaking out on a date with a charming clown like Daisy Miller did in HJ’s story of the same name? And have the Countess Gemini brought up on charges of indecency after being seen topless in the Trevi Fountain? Everyone could sleep with everyone without a second thought. Osmond could be a closet homosexual which would account for his disdain for his wife’s charms who falls for Caspar Goodwood. Or he could be killed, run over by a donkey cart. It could be uproarious indeed, especially after I bring Mr. James McNeill Whistler into the story which, by the way, is in progress.
Unfortunately, the nineteenth century does not lend itself to such high jinks. If I am to use humor, and I do sincerely hope to, it will have to have the subtle wit of Mr. James who would never countenance slapstick or flagrant sexuality. Much too dignified. And women were to be protected from the coarseness of sexual innuendo unless they were of a certain breed and that would not be considered funny at all in decent society.
No, this was a more proper time and I hesitate to mess with it or the story will not ring true at all. But that doesn’t preclude me from delving into Austen’s copybook and taking a more lighthearted approach to Isabel’s situation than James has heretofore. It’s time for our heroine to take herself and her life less seriously and I’m sure she feels the same way. She was a sprightly girl after all, full of good humor and jest upon arriving in Europe. Are we really going to let a couple of conniving Eurotrash artistes ruin Isabel’s life? Her cousin Ralph was droll, her aunt Touchett wry and even Osmond, with his deadly seriousness, lobs a good line now and again at his sister. I feel a lot of rewriting coming on. I’m boring myself with the victim’s tale. And that is where Mr. Whistler will come in; that man knew how to deflect misfortune and turn it into a lark. He’s just the man to lighten Isabel’s heart. And just the artist.
01 November 2010
The Countess Gemini: Lightweight or Powerhouse?
I haven’t brought the Countess Gemini back into my sequel to “The Portrait of a Lady” yet except for a look back on the day Osmond found out of his sister’s betrayal and banished her from the Palazzo Roccanera forever. They had words and then she was gone. I’ve been waiting to reintroduce her as she is the one capricious female character in the novel. She is the story’s lightweight; lives for society, fashion, gossip and love affairs. Isabel, a high-minded American with an intellectual bent, pays little attention to her and Madame Merle would love to write her off but the countess knows too much of that lady’s history with her brother to be cavalier regarding her.
In TPOAL, the Countess Gemini is married to an Italian count who is “odious.” We don’t know much about him other than that he is a "very bad husband" and controls his wife by withholding money. She is not exactly a puritan herself and lives the exact sort of life Henrietta Stackpole warned Isabel against; shady characters in a corrupt society leading fraudulent lives with low morals and no earthly purpose. It seems our heroine landed herself smack dab in the midst of this milieu in the Old World and everyone is worried about her throughout James’s tale.
Although Isabel gives the countess short shrift, it is the countess who finally fills her in on the details of her husband’s past with Madame Merle and Pansy’s maternity. The countess said she was bored with her not knowing. She was sick of Osmond walking all over this innocent American who had too much integrity, too much desire to please. The countess didn’t exactly do any one any favors but since Osmond’s use of the higher ground was in her opinion, a sham, she’d finally had enough of her brother. She didn’t admire naiveté in a grown woman (Isabel) and wanted to see Osmond taken down a bit. She likes Isabel even though, as she says, Isabel doesn’t much care for her. She doesn’t owe any loyalty to Madame Merle so she spilled the beans. For one of the TPOAL's minor characters, she plays a huge role in the end.
Now I’m going to bring her back in the sequel as a woman who has left her husband, has no money and nowhere to go. Henrietta will take up her cause. Good old Henrietta, one of the book’s more capable characters. I feel the only way I can help all these women is to have them go into business or find useful work. That’s the American spirit, the modern way.
But she’ll have to carry her weight in this story. I’ve too many characters floating around not really contributing much to the plot. Actually, there isn’t a plot. I’m building chapter by chapter and to be truthful, not much is happening so far. I’m just resurrecting HJ's characters while not exactly doing much with them. I’d introduce new characters but I’m afraid I’ll go to far afield and not be able to find my way back. I knew writing a sequel to this long, nuanced novel would not be a cakewalk. I have thoughts of putting it aside as James himself did. He left it to incubate for about four or five years. But I’m into it for fifteen chapters so onward and upward and all that.
In TPOAL, the Countess Gemini is married to an Italian count who is “odious.” We don’t know much about him other than that he is a "very bad husband" and controls his wife by withholding money. She is not exactly a puritan herself and lives the exact sort of life Henrietta Stackpole warned Isabel against; shady characters in a corrupt society leading fraudulent lives with low morals and no earthly purpose. It seems our heroine landed herself smack dab in the midst of this milieu in the Old World and everyone is worried about her throughout James’s tale.
Although Isabel gives the countess short shrift, it is the countess who finally fills her in on the details of her husband’s past with Madame Merle and Pansy’s maternity. The countess said she was bored with her not knowing. She was sick of Osmond walking all over this innocent American who had too much integrity, too much desire to please. The countess didn’t exactly do any one any favors but since Osmond’s use of the higher ground was in her opinion, a sham, she’d finally had enough of her brother. She didn’t admire naiveté in a grown woman (Isabel) and wanted to see Osmond taken down a bit. She likes Isabel even though, as she says, Isabel doesn’t much care for her. She doesn’t owe any loyalty to Madame Merle so she spilled the beans. For one of the TPOAL's minor characters, she plays a huge role in the end.
Now I’m going to bring her back in the sequel as a woman who has left her husband, has no money and nowhere to go. Henrietta will take up her cause. Good old Henrietta, one of the book’s more capable characters. I feel the only way I can help all these women is to have them go into business or find useful work. That’s the American spirit, the modern way.
But she’ll have to carry her weight in this story. I’ve too many characters floating around not really contributing much to the plot. Actually, there isn’t a plot. I’m building chapter by chapter and to be truthful, not much is happening so far. I’m just resurrecting HJ's characters while not exactly doing much with them. I’d introduce new characters but I’m afraid I’ll go to far afield and not be able to find my way back. I knew writing a sequel to this long, nuanced novel would not be a cakewalk. I have thoughts of putting it aside as James himself did. He left it to incubate for about four or five years. But I’m into it for fifteen chapters so onward and upward and all that.
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