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There is no further for it to go, for it now covers the whole story.Henry James was the first writer of fiction, I judge, to use all thepossibilities of the method with intention and thoroughness, and thefull extent of the opportunity which is thus revealed is very great.The range of method is permanently enlarged; it is proved, once forall, that the craft of fiction has larger resources than might havebeen suspected before. A novelist in these days is handling aninstrument, it may be said, the capacity of which has been veryelaborately tested; and though in any particular case there may begood reason why its dramatic effects should not be exhausted--thesubject may need none or few of them--yet it must be supposed that thenovelist is aware of the faculties that he refuses. There are kinds ofvirtuosity in any art which affect the whole of its future; paintingcan never be the same again after some painter has used line andcolour in a manner that his predecessors had not fully developed,music makes a new demand of all musicians when one of them has onceincreased its language. And the language of the novel, extended to thepoint which it has reached, gives a possible scope to a novelistwhich he is evidently bound to take into account.
It is a scope so wide and so little explored hitherto that the novelmay now be starting upon a fresh life, after the tremendous career ithas had already. The discovery of the degree to which it may beenhanced dramatically--this may be a point of departure from which itwill set out with vigour renewed; perhaps it has done so by this time.Anyhow it is clear that an immense variety of possible modulations,mixtures, harmonies of method, yet untried, are open to it if itchooses to avail itself; and I should imagine that to a novelist ofto-day, entering the field at this late hour, the thought might be astimulating one. There is still so much to be done, after a couple ofcenturies of novel-writing without a pause; there are unheard-ofexperiments to be made. A novel such as The Ambassadors may give nomore than a hint of the rich and profound effects waiting to beachieved by the laying of method upon method, and criticism maypresently be called on to analyse the delicate process much moreclosely than I now attempt; it is to be hoped so indeed. Meanwhile itis useful to linger over a book that suggests these possibilities, andto mark the direction in which they seem to point.
The purpose of the novelist's ingenuity is always the same; it is togive to his subject the highest relief by which it is capable ofprofiting. And the less dramatic, strictly speaking, the subject maybe--the less it is able, that is to say, to express itself in actionand in action only--the more it is needful to heighten its flat,pictorial, descriptive surface by the arts of drama. It is not managedby peppering the surface with animated dialogue, by making thecharacters break into talk when they really have nothing to contributeto the subject; the end of this is only to cheapen and discredit theirtalk when at length it is absolutely required. The dramatic rule isapplied more fundamentally; it animates the actual elements of thepicture, the description, and makes a drama of these. I have noted howin The Ambassadors the picture of Strether's mind is transformed intoan enacted play, even where his story, for chapters at a time, is bareof action in the literal sense. The result, no doubt, is that his mindemerges from the book with force and authority, its presence is_felt_. And now I would track the same method and measure the resultin another book, The Wings of the Dove, where the value of this kindof dramatization is perhaps still more clearly to be seen. Again weare dealing with a subject that in the plain meaning of the word isentirely undramatic.
Milly, the Dove, during all that part of the book in which her mindlies open--in the chapters which give her vision of the man and thegirl, Densher and Kate, not theirs of her--is hoarding in silence twofacts of profoundest import to herself; one is her love for Densher,the other the mortal disease with which she is stricken. It is ofthese two facts that Kate proposes to take advantage, and there isnothing weak or vague about Kate's design. She and Densher arepenniless, Milly is rich, but they can afford to bide their time andMilly cannot; let them do so, therefore, let Densher accept hisopportunity, and let him presently return to Kate, well endowed by thegenerosity of an exquisite young wife, dead in her prime. That is howMilly's condition is to be turned to account by a remarkablyclear-headed young woman; but Milly herself is still unaware of anyconfederation between her two friends, and she silently broods overthe struggle in her mind--her desire for life, her knowledge of herprecarious hold on life. The chapters I speak of are to give the senseof this conflict, to show unmistakably the pair of facts upon whichKate's project is founded. Milly has nothing to _do_ in the story, butshe has to _be_ with great intensity, for it is on what she is thatthe story turns. Of that in a moment, however; in these chapters,which are the central chapters of the book, Milly's consciousness isto the fore, the deep agitation within her is the concern of themoment.
Once more it is the superficial play of thought that is put before us.The light stir and vibration of Milly's sensibility from hour to houris all we actually see; for the most part it is very light, very easyand airy, as she moves with her odd poetry and grace and freedom. Shecomes from New York, it will be remembered, a "pale angular princess,"loaded with millions, and all alone in the world save for her smallcompanion, Mrs. Stringham. She is a rare and innocent creature,receptive and perceptive, thrown into the middle of a situation inwhich she sees everything, excepting only the scheme by which it isproposed to make use of her. Of that she knows nothing as yet; hertroubles are purely her own, and gradually, it is hard to say where orhow, we discover what they are. They are much too deeply buried in hermind to appear casually upon the surface at any time; but now andthen, in the drama of her meditation, there is a strange look or apause or a sudden hasty motion which is unexplained, which isportentous, which betrays everything. Presently her great hidden factshave passed into the possession of the reader _whole_, so tospeak--not broken into detail, bit by bit, not pieced togetherdescriptively, but so implied and suggested that at some moment orother they spring up complete and solid in the reader's attention.Exactly how and where did it happen? Turning back, looking over thepages again, I can mark the very point, perhaps, at which the thingwas liberated and I became possessed of it; I can see the word thatfinally gave it to me. But at the time it may easily have passedunnoticed; the enlightening word did not seem peculiarly emphatic asit was uttered, it was not announced with any particular circumstance;and yet, presently--there was the piece of knowledge that I had notpossessed before.
Not to walk straight up to the fact and put it into phrases, but to_surround_ the fact, and so to detach it inviolate--such is HenryJames's manner of dramatizing it. Soon after Milly's first appearancethere are some pages that illustrate his procedure very clearly, orvery clearly, I should say, when the clue has been picked up andretraced. There is an hour in which Milly gazes open-eyed upon herprospect, measuring its promises and threats, gathering herself forthe effort they demand. She sits on a high Italian mountain-ledge,with a blue plain spread out beneath her like the kingdoms of theworld; and there she looks at her future with rapt absorption, lost toall other thought. Her mind, if we saw it, would tell us everythingthen at least; she searches its deepest depth, it is evident. And thatis the very reason why her mind should not be exposed in that hour;the troubling shapes that lurk in it are not to be described, they areto make their presence known of their own accord. Instead of intrudingupon Milly's lonely rumination, therefore, the author elects to leaveher, to join company with her friend in the background, and in thatmost crucial session to reveal nothing of Milly but the glimpse thather friend catches of her in passing.
The glimpse, so rendered, _tells_ nothing. But in Milly's attitude,while she sits enthroned above the world, there is a certainexpression, deep and strange, not to be missed, though who shall sayexactly what it implies? Is it hope, is it despair? At any rate theclear picture of her remains, and a little later, when her mind isvisible again, the memory of her up there on the mountain hasquickened the eye of the onlooker. The images in her mind are not atall portentous now; she is among he
r friends, she is harvestingimpressions; there is not a word of anything dark or distressing orill-omened. But still, but still--we have seen Milly when she believedherself unseen, and it is certain that there is more in her mind thannow appears, and though she seems so full of the new excitement ofmaking friends with Kate Croy there must be some preoccupationbeneath; and then, in a flash, _these_ are the troubles that engageher in solitude, that have ached in her mind, and yet there has neverbeen a single direct allusion to them. Skirting round and round them,giving one brief sight of her in eloquent circumstances, thendisplaying the all but untroubled surface of her thought on this sideand that, the author has encompassed the struggle that is proceedingwithin her, and has lifted it bodily into the understanding of thereader.
The profit which the story gains from this treatment is easilyrecognized. Solidity, weight, a third dimension, is given to theimpression of Milly's unhappy case. Mere emphasis, a simpleunderlining of plain words, could never produce the same effect. Whatis needed is some method which will enable an onlooker to see roundthe object, to left and right, as far as possible, just as with twoeyes, stereoscopically, we shape and solidify the flat impression of asphere. By such a method the image will be so raised out of itssetting that the stream of vision will wash it on either side, leavingno doubt of its substantial form. And so, dealing with the case ofMilly, Henry James proceeds to cut behind it, lavishing his care onany but its chief and most memorable aspect. That may wait; meanwhilethe momentary flutter of her nerves and fancies is closely noted,wherever her life touches the lives about her, or the few of them thatare part of her story. The play draws a steady curve around thesubject in the midst; more and more of this outer rim of herconsciousness moves into sight. She is seen in the company of thedifferent people who affect her nearly, but in all their intercoursethe real burden of her story is veiled under the trembling, waveringdelicacy of her immediate thought. Her manner of living and thinkingand feeling in the moment is thus revealed in a wide sweep, and atlast the process is complete; her case is set free, stands out, andcasts its shadow.
These difficulties, these hopes and fears that have been buried insilence, are all included in the sphere of experience which the authorhas rounded; and by leaving them where they lie he has given us asense of their substance, of the space they occupy, which we could nothave acquired from a straight, square account of them. Milly desiredto live, she had every reason in the world for so desiring, and sheknew, vaguely at first, then with certainty, that she had no life tohope for; it is a deep agitation which is never at rest. It is farout of sight; but its influence spreads in every direction, and hereand there it must touch the surface, even one upon which appearancesare maintained so valiantly. And if the surface (which is all we know)is thus high above the depths, and yet there are instants when it isjust perceptibly disturbed by things unseen, is it not proved, as itcould be proved in no other way, how active and forcible they must be?By no picture of them but by an enactment of their remotestmanifestations--that is how their strength, their bulk, their range ina harassed existence is represented. Such is the object gained by themethod of dramatization, applied in this way (as with Strether) to thestory of a mind. Milly's case, which seemed to be as pictorial, aslittle dramatic, as could be--since it is all a condition and asituation to be portrayed, not an action--has been turned into drama,the advantages of drama have been annexed on its behalf. There is noaction, properly speaking, and yet the story of her troubles has acteditself before our eyes, as we followed the transient expression of hermood.
And now look at a single scene, later on, when the issue of Milly'ssituation has at last been precipitated. Look, for example, at thescene in which good Susan Stringham, her faithful companion, visitsDensher in his Venetian lodging, on an evening of wild autumn rain, tomake a last and great appeal to him. An appeal for what? Milly, in herpalace hard by, lies stricken, she has "turned her face to the wall."The vision of hope which had supported her is at an end, not by reasonof her mere mortal illness, but because of some other blow which hasfallen. Susan knows what it is, and Densher is to learn. Till latelyMilly was living in ignorance of the plot woven about her, themasterly design to make use of her in order that Densher and Kate Croymay come together in the end. The design was Kate's from the first;Densher has been much less resolute, but Kate was prepared to see itthrough. Conceal from Milly that an old engagement holds between hertwo friends, persuade her that neither has any interest in the other,and all will go well. Milly, believing in Densher's candour, will fallinto the plot and enjoy her brief happiness. It cannot be more thanbrief, for Milly is certainly doomed. But when she dies, and Densheris free for Kate again, who will be the worse for the fraud? Millywill have had what she wants, her two friends will have helpedthemselves in helping her. So Kate argues plausibly; but it alldepends on keeping poor exquisite Milly safely in the dark. If sheshould discover that Kate and Densher are in league to profit by her,it would be a sharper stroke than the discovery of her malady. And bythis autumn evening, when Susan Stringham appears before Densher,Milly _has_ discovered--has learned that she has been tricked, haslost her desire of life, has turned her face to the wall.
Susan appears, big with the motive that has brought her. This visitof hers is an appeal to Densher, so much is clear in all her looks andtones. There is only one way to save Milly, to restore to Milly, notindeed her life, but her desire of it. Densher has it in his power tomake her wish to live again, and that is all that he or any one elsecould achieve for her. The thought is between him and the good womanas they talk; the dialogue, with its allusions and broken phrases,slowly shapes itself to the form of the suppressed appeal. It hangs inthe air, almost visibly, before it is uttered at all; and by that timea word is enough, one stroke, and the nature of the appeal and all itsimplications are in view. The scene has embodied it; the cheerlesslittle room and the falling light and Densher's uneasy movements andSusan's flushed, rain-splashed earnestness have all contributed; thebroken phrases, without touching it, have travelled about it andrevealed its contour. Densher might tell Milly that she is wrong,might convince her that he and Kate have not beguiled and misled heras she supposes; Densher, in other words, might mislead her again, andMrs. Stringham entreats him to do so. That is why she has come, andsuch is the image which has been gradually created, and which at lastis actual and palpable in the scene. It has not appeared as astatement or an announcement; Susan's appeal and Densher's tormentedresponse to it are _felt_, establishing their presence as matterswhich the reader has lived with for the time. They have emerged outof the surface of the scene into form and relief.
And finally the subject of the whole book is rendered in the same way.The subject is not in Milly herself, but in her effect upon therelation existing between Densher and Kate. At the beginning of thebook these two are closely allied, and by the end their understandinghas been crossed by something that has changed it for ever. Milly hascome and gone, nothing is afterwards the same. Their scheme has beensuccessful, for Milly in dying has bequeathed a fortune to Densher.But also she has bequeathed the memory of her last signal to them,which was one that neither could foresee and which the man at any ratecould never forget. For Densher had _not_ practised that finaldisloyalty which was begged of him, and Milly had died in fullknowledge of their design, and yet she had forgiven, dove-like to theend, and her forgiveness stands between them. Kate recognizes it inthe word on which the book closes--"We shall never be again as wewere." Whether they accept the situation, whether they try to patch uptheir old alliance--these questions are no affair of the story. WithKate's word the story is finished; the first fineness of theirassociation is lost, nothing will restore it. Milly has made thechange by being what she was, too rare an essence for vulgar uses.Those who wanted the intelligence to understand her must pay theirpenalty; at least they are intelligent enough to see it.
It is once more the picture of a moral, emotional revolution, the kindof subject that seems to demand a narrator. The story is so little amatter of
action that when the revolution is complete there is nothingmore to be said. Its result in action is indifferent; the man and thewoman may marry or part, the subject is unaffected either way. Theprogress of the tale lies in the consciousness of the people in it,and somebody is needed, it might have been supposed, to tell us how itall came to pass. Not the author, perhaps, or any of the characters inperson; but at least it must be told, at any given juncture, fromsomebody's point of view, composing and reflecting the story of anexperience. But in The Wings of the Dove there is next to no narrativeat all, strictly speaking. Who is there that narrates? The author alittle, it is true, for the people have to be described, placed,brought on the scene to begin with. But afterwards? Densher, Kate,Milly, Susan Stringham, each in turn _seems_ to take up the story andto provide the point of view, and where it is absolutely needful theyreally do so; they give the mirror for the visible scene about them,Alpine heights, London streets, Venetian palaces. But that isincidental; of the progress of the tale they offer no account. They_act_ it, and not only in their spoken words, but also and much morein the silent drama that is perpetually going forward within them.They do not describe and review and recapitulate this drama, nor doesthe author. It is played before us, we see its actual movement.
The effect is found here and there in all well-made fiction, ofcourse. The undercutting, as I call it, of a flat impression is seenwherever a turn of events is carefully prepared and deliberatelyapproached. But I do not know that anywhere, except in the laternovels of Henry James, a pictorial subject is thus handed over in itsentirety to the method of drama, so that the intervention of a seeingeye and a recording hand, between the reader and the subject, ispractically avoided altogether. I take it as evident that unless thepresence of a seer and a recorder is made a value in itself,contributing definitely to the effect of the subject, he is betterdispensed with and put out of the way; where other things are equal adirect view of the matter in hand is the best. But it has been madeclear in the foregoing pages, I hope, that the uses of a narrator aremany and various; other things are _not_ equal where the subject asksfor no more than to be reflected and pictured. In that case thenarrator, standing in front of the story, is in a position to make themost of it, all that can be made; and so he represents the greatprinciple of economy, and is a value in himself, and does contributeto the effect. Many a story, from the large panoramic chronicle to thesmall and single impression, postulates the story-teller, thepicture-maker, and by that method gives its best. Speaking in personor reported obliquely, the narrator serves his turn. But where thereis no positive reason for him there is a reason, equally positive, fora different method, one that assigns the point of view to the readerhimself. An undramatic subject, we find, can be treated dramatically,so that the different method is at hand.
The story that is concerned, even entirely concerned, with the impactof experience upon a mind (Strether's, say) can be enhanced to thepitch of drama, because thought has its tell-tale gestures and itsspeaking looks, just as much as an actor on the stage. Make use ofthese looks and gestures, express the story through them, leave themto enact it--and you have a story which in its manner is effectuallydrama. Method upon method, the vision _of_ a vision, the process ofthinking and feeling and seeing exposed objectively to the view of thereader--it is an ingenious art; criticism seems to have paid it lessattention than it deserves. But criticism has been hindered, perhaps,by the fact that these books of Henry James's, in which the art iswritten large, are so odd and so personal and so peculiar in all theiraspects. When the whole volume is full of a strongly-markedidiosyncrasy, quite unlike that of anyone else, it is difficult todistinguish between this, which is solely the author's, and his methodof treating a story, which is a general question, discussible apart.And thus it happens that the novelist who carried his research intothe theory of the art further than any other--the only real _scholar_in the art--is the novelist whose methods are most likely to beoverlooked or mistaken, regarded as simply a part of his own originalquiddity. It should be possible to isolate them, to separate them inthought from the temperament by which they were coloured; they belongto the craft, which belongs to no man in particular. They still waitto be fully assimilated into the criticism of fiction; there is muchmore in them, no doubt, than the few points that I touch on here. ButI pass on to one or two of the rest.
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