Henry James, The Ambassadors. Penguin Classics, 2003. First published in 1903 in 12 instalments in The North American Review, then in book form the same year.
This is not going to be a review of Henry James’s The Ambassadors – one of his notoriously ‘difficult’ late novels. It’s more an account of my experience of it. On reading it for the first time I found it such heavy going; I would read a page or two and find I’d taken in almost nothing of what was written. The style was so convoluted, there was so little happening – most of the text consists of highly civilised people having long conversations in which the characters’ meaning was almost never clearly or overtly stated.
When I’d finished the novel I reread (for the first time in many years) FR Leavis’s essay, ‘The Late James’, in The Great Tradition (1948) – a crucial influence on post-war English literary criticism that was being superseded by the ‘new criticism’ when I started my undergraduate studies in literature in the early seventies. Here’s a sample of his response to this novel.
The energy demanded for its reading, he begins, is ‘disproportionate to the issues…presented.’ As in the other late James novels, his technique had come ‘to exhibit an unhealthy vitality of undernourishment and etiolation…a tendency towards “overtreatment”…with its complexities and exhausting delicacies and its incapacity for directness’. He suggests that the ‘trouble with the late style is that it exacts so intensely and inveterately analytic an attention that no sufficient bodied response builds up’. The reader doesn’t feel in this late style ‘a rich and lively sensibility freely functioning.’
Yes, I thought, that echoes and vindicates my own difficulties (and what I presumed to be deficiencies) in reading The Ambassadors.
In Leavis’s The Common Pursuit (1952) he’s even harsher. ‘The Ambassadors still seems to me so feeble a piece of word-spinning that I should have been inclined to dismiss it as merely senile if James hadn’t himself provided an explanation in telling us that it had been conceived as a short story [which James was then led mistakenly into] fluffing out…to the bulk and pretensions of a major work…[it remains] wholly boring.’ [Those ellipses are all mine.]
Yet James, in his Preface to the New York edition of the collected fiction, reproduced in this Penguin Classics edition, proclaimed it his personal favourite, ‘frankly, quite the best, “all round”, of all my productions.’ What was I missing? And as I read Leavis again I thought, no, that’s too harsh; this novel needs further scrutiny.
I started dipping into the text again to gather some thoughts and remind myself of the novel’s elements. As I did so my response to what I was rereading was very different from the negativity first time round, an initial reaction that chimed very much with Leavis’s. Returning to it was like reading a different novel – and confirmed, perhaps, the spirit of a statement I recall from my student days along the lines of ‘literary criticism is a reasoned discussion of one’s response to a second reading of a text’ (not an exact quotation, and I can’t remember who came up with the original, but I think that’s a reasonable approximation to the essence of the thing.)
So I shall now attempt to explain what I learned from this very different second reading.
The plot of The Ambassadors isn’t in the least complicated, and it’s not a spoiler I hope to summarise it here. Lambert Strether is a refined, buttoned-up New Englander dispatched by his formidable fiancée Mrs Newsome (she’s a widow) as her ‘ambassador’ to Paris to bring home her son Chad (who’s in his late twenties); she fears he’s been lured into a seedy relationship with a bad woman, and needs to be taken back to his rightful place at the head of the family manufacturing business. What could be simpler?
But once in Paris, Strether falls under its spell, and begins to have doubts about his mission – and the narrow-minded attitudes that sent him on it. He finds Chad to be more distinguished, sympathetic and kind than he remembered him as a younger man in New England – he’s become a true gentleman. And the woman with whom Chad is indeed involved, Comtesse Marie de Vionnet, he thinks is ‘wonderful’; he’s charmed by the two of them, and by the city (and woman) that he believes have brought about this transformation and improvement in the young man. He believes what he’s told: that theirs is a ‘virtuous’ relationship. Only when he chances upon the ocular evidence that they are, in fact, in a sexual liaison – sees them as they really are – is he forced to acknowledge the reality.
But that’s when the shape of the novel further develops what EM Forster called, in Aspects of the Novel (first published in 1927), the symmetrical shape or ‘pattern’ of an ‘hour-glass’ – a process that had already started to take shape when Strether began to have misgivings about his mission. He decides not to follow Mrs Newsome’s instructions, and urges Chad to stay in Paris, and not to abandon Mme de Vionnet – with whom he seems at times almost in love himself. To his dismay, Chad announces that’s precisely what he intends to do; he’s going willingly back to New England and will happily throw himself into his mother’s staid world of commerce and polite society. Strether realises that his hopes of marriage to Chad’s mother are now neither feasible nor desirable.
As I said at the start, I hope that summary doesn’t spoil any potential new reader’s enjoyment of the novel. I’d contend that its plot is its least interesting feature. What is of importance, it seems to me, is the way, to use one of Leavis’s favourite critical terms, it’s ‘realised’: the way Strether’s capacity for discrimination undergoes a radical shift. Although he never truly ‘sees’ other people and situations with full understanding, he does undergo a kind of epiphany. His famous advice to Chad’s young friend Little Bilham to ‘live’, enjoy his youth and life to the full, not to make the mistakes he himself had made in letting life pass him by, joyless, takes on a new significance. Although it may be too late for Strether to find the ‘reparation’ he hoped for, he can at least now acknowledge where (and how, perhaps why) he went wrong, and starts to see the likes of Chad, Marie, and, more especially Mrs Newsome, for who they really are.
Now I find I’ve gone on so long I haven’t adduced any evidence from the text to illustrate how I came to my own reading epiphany in responding to this novel, and came to appreciate its subtlety and intelligence. Second time round I also found it remarkably witty, at times very humorous and funny. Yes, the style will always seem over-elaborate and requiring hard work from the reader, but I’d urge you to persevere, if you struggle with its often baffling, meandering syntax, to find the rewards of the ‘genius’, as even Leavis acknowledged, in James’s fiction. Not for nothing did he place Henry James prominently among his top three novelists in the great tradition of literature written in English. So I’m going to need at least a second post to try to show what it is in the text, the language and technique of James that caused the scales finally to fall from my eyes – in a way rather like they did for Strether.
This was fascinating, Simon. You’ve almost tempted me to read it! But reading you write about reading is probably more fun. Although I’m still tempted to track down a copy and see for myself.
But isn’t it funny how a book re-read after a decade or two can strike one so differently?
Absolutely, Paula. Probably we should make a habit of rereading stuff we read long ago. I know many of us respond in completely different ways to a second reading – but I don’t often have such a contrasting reaction straight after finishing a novel as I did with The Ambassadors. I think I just wasn’t in tune with what HJ was doing when I first read it.
It’s so funny. This is the post that I didn’t see day before yesterday, but now here it is. And I DON’T see the second post I made (and your reply to it). Weird.
Anyway. I’m pretty sure Daisy Miller was made into a movie, too (with Cybil Shepherd, IIRC). I have seen Gillian Anderson’s House of Mirth, and she was very good in it, but hard to watch the character self-sabotage. Good production. I’ve heard the Bleak House (not James, ha) she was in was excellent. I missed it when it first aired, and I need to hunt it down. I’ve seen Wings of the Dove (a long time ago…but I remember it as gorgeous), The Golden Bowl, and, of course, The Heiress, based on Washington Square. And The Age of Innocence.
Hope this message goes through!
Paula: she was very good in Bleak House. So many adaptations to look out for! Your message came through to me; maybe the WordPress platform is slow to show it to the sender.
Ah, what a treat, to read about one of my very favorite novels by James! I must admit I was a tad worried when you quoted Leavis, but fortunately as you so candidly admit, you’ve seen the light! The Ambassadors is a very, very great novel, albeit one that didn’t come easily to me. I only made it through on my third/fourth attempt, and several years after I’d read all the other ones. (I largely agree with your interpretation of the novel BTW)
In case you can’t tell, I’m a worshiper at the Shrine of Henry J. I’d only read Portrait of a Lady, which I found very dull, when I had the great gift of an undemanding job in an interesting city, and the luck to acquire, on sale, Leon Edel’s multi-volume literary biography of James (sadly dated, now I fear). I spent most of a glorious year, doing as little paid work as possible, reading Edel, then James himself. I made it through all the novels & many of the shorter works but — couldn’t do The Ambassadors! Over a decade later I made another attempt and, like you, had an epiphany — was THIS the same novel I’d previously struggled to read? Do you think it takes a certain amount of life experience to appreciate what James was doing? I must admit, when I had my own enlightenment, I was much closer to Strether’s age than to Chad’s!
Have you read any of the other late, great Henrys? I loved Wings of the Dove (got me hooked on Bronzino’s paintings!) and Golden Bowl, but despite my adoration I’m not dabbled much in James’ fiction for quite some time. In fact, the last time I attempted Bowl, I quickly set it aside for something easier & quicker.
On a side note: have you read Cynthia Ozick’s Foreign Bodies? It’s a sort of modern retelling of The Ambassadors, but switching things around a bit. I hated it.
Good to know I’m not the only one to struggle with a first reading of Ambassadors. I’m also an admirer of HJ, and posted frequently on his novels and short stories in the early days of this blog. I thought the Edel biography was illuminating and often dip into HJ’s published notebooks, where he often works up his germs of ideas for his fiction. I don’t know the Ozick you mention, on fact I don’t recall reading anything by her except I think a few short stories. As for the other late HJ novels: I’ve yet to read The Golden Bowl, and my old ex-library Penguin edition is falling apart, so I’ll have to resort to the library when I decide to take it on. You may well be right in surmising that one needs a certain amount of life experience to appreciate his later work; Leavis accuses HJ of not putting lived experience into these late works, that his reclusive, aesthetically focused life caused him to mistake super-refined civilised debate for the stuff that animates fiction. I don’t think he’s being fair there, and perhaps is guilty of his own usual caveat: don’t bring in external, biographical knowledge into your analysis of a novel.
I enjoyed reading this, thank you Simon, especially your attention to Leavis.
Aspects of the Novel was a set text for my undergraduate degree in English, and I know it has influenced my approach to thinking about books. I hadn’t realised it was so old!
I’m glad you liked the post, Lisa. It took a long time to work it up, as I tried to show: I was reluctant to post something too negative, and I’m glad this sent me back to rereading. I guess if you get off to the reading of a novel on the wrong foot, as it were, you don’t get back on track. Then something sort of clicks in the head, and you kind of ‘get it’. Not a very technical, lit-crit summary, I know, but hey. I was also surprised when I checked the publication details of my old, ex-library Pelican edition. As you no doubt know, the book is a compendium of his Clark lectures delivered at Cambridge that year. He perhaps over-emphasises his theories about the key elements (or aspects) that form the subject of each lecture, but they’re still very perceptive and useful for anyone who’s interested in how fiction works.
“Although he never truly ‘sees’ other people and situations with full understanding, he does undergo a kind of epiphany. ” Like the rest of us.
I discovered James in my twenties and thought – if I do a phd it might be James.
But what I actually did was two kids.
I still think of James with enormous fondness. It’s been so long since I read everything it’s all a bit of a blur. But I think you summed up James in that sentence above I pulled from your text. Looking forward to more James.
Betsy: so good to hear from you again. I enjoyed returning to thinking about HJ after a long pause away from his fiction. Yes, you’re quite right that we none of us ‘see’ clearly – though most of us like to think we do. I hope to post some more on this wonderful novel to try to flesh out these preliminary (personal) thoughts and observations.
I thought I’d left a comment yesterday, but I don’t see it. I hope I didn’t say anything offensive that had me censored!
I wanted to say that I’ve enjoyed several of the movies made from James’ novels, but hadn’t dipped my toe into any of his books. You’ve given me the inspiration to make the attempt.
I like to mix up my reading, and the last few books I’ve read have been on the light side. Time for a challenge.
Paula: sorry your comment yesterday didn’t appear – don’t know what happened there. Anyway, thanks for stopping by again. I heard a bit of an interview with Gillian Anderson on BBC Radion 4 today; she talked about her famous TV X Files role, then about The House of Mirth. I don’t think I’ve seen that one, and the director is Terence Davies, so I’d be pretty sure it’s good. In some ways I’d suggest his fiction doesn’t perhaps suit being dramatised (despite HJ’s longing to be known as a dramatist as well as a novelist; his dramas never caught on, much to his dismay) – there’s just so much subtlety and nuance in his meticulously crafted sentences. The ‘story’ isn’t always the most rewarding part of his fiction. But there are, having said that, some darn good stories in there, too. I must seek out those other film versions; I know I have one recorded from a TV screening. If you’ve not tried HJ before maybe start with one of the stronger earlier ones: Daisy Miller is a novella (and praised highly by Leavis, who as I showed is not a fan of the late work), and of course Portrait of a Lady is superb.
Oh, such an interesting post, Simon! I’ve only read a little James iirc (The Aspern Papers) and that was some time ago. I didn’t find it straightforward but suspect that was down to me rather than the book. But I find your point about a second reading very relevant; we definitely approach books different on a revisit, I feel, and I’m finding that with some of my re-reads. Will be interested in your further thoughts on this book.
There’s so much one wants to read for the first time, it’s hard to fit in second readings! But they are revealing.