4.5/5 stars

A tricky book to rate, and more thoughts coming soon... likely lengthy thoughts.

Despite how this novel is considered a "minor" James, I think it's a pivotal one, one that shows his shift from failing at writing for the stage, to the more dense circumlocutions of his "major" work that would soon follow.

If this were written by any other author, this would be a solid 5 stars, hands down. But James—my dear, dear James—is not in fine form here: consider this novel a practice drill, an experiment working toward The Awkward Age, and then all the major work (especially the three major works) to follow.

To bash The Other House is absurd, even among Jamesians. It might well be the best starting point for those new to his work: it has his trademark dialogue complete with double entendres, ambiguity, and a host of liaisons and interlocutions that baffle the reader as much as the characters themselves.

More to come, so "like" at your peril. ( )

This Henry James is one of the oddest novels I’ve ever read. The six main characters, three women and three men, all well-educated, well-spoken members of the English upper class, sip their tea, converse in the most highly polished civilized manor, but how civilized are they, really? On one level, this is a novel of manners, the six characters interacting as if they were members of a string sextet playing in a minor key, say Tchaikovsky’s String sextet in D minor; on another level, James’ work can be viewed as the shocking consequences of life reduced to its selfish surface, that is, having no authentic aesthetic dimension, questionable morals and an abysmal lack of any trace of spiritual depth.

But perhaps I am being too harsh, since, when it comes to drama performed on stage, what has more power than raw passion – no refined aesthetics; no taking moral high ground; no deep reflection on the transcendental – just a massive dose of unchecked primal fury translated into direct action, the spirit of ancient Medea rearing her murderous, frenzied head? And please don’t be fooled by James’ arched, baroque description and dialogue I alluded to above – this is a novel of dark passion; the last one hundred pages contain some of the most disturbing and shocking scenes I’ve ever encountered.

I mention drama and the stage for a good reason: Henry James initially conceived of this story as a play and later reworked his material into The Other House as a novel. Incidentally, James spent a number of years attempting without success to be a first-rate playwright. Sorry, Henry, the muse can be fickle – you were a great novelist and teller of tales but far from an Ibsen. Perhaps that can be a lesson for us all – when it comes to artistic expression and creativity, we might want to think hard before we venture too far from our literary strengths.

Critics at the time of publication chimed in, calling the novel “distinctly unpleasant,” and “inhuman,” and even “the one altogether evil book that James ever wrote.” Later, Edmund Wilson had a one word pronouncement: “Dreadful.” Yet, there is something compelling about this novel in three parts, so much akin to a play’s three acts, that really makes it worth the read, and it is a short novel -- this New York Review Book (NYRB) edition is three hundred pages of large font and wide margins – a more usual print size would come in at under two hundred pages; a novel that can be read in a few sittings.

Lastly, I would be derelict if I didn’t include a couple examples from the novel itself. Here are a few lines from the opening pages, where the narrator tells us what an older woman, Mrs. Beever, a mother, wishes for her son Paul: “She was a woman indeed of many purposes; another of which was that on leaving Oxford the boy should travel and inform himself: she belonged to the age that regarded a foreign tour not as a hasty dip, but as a deliberate plunge. Still another had for its main feature that on his final return he should marry the nicest girl she knew: that too would be a deliberate plunge, a plunge that would besprinkle his mother.” Sense a tincture of a mother’s selfishness?

And here is Rose Armiger with Dennis, a man who arrives on the scene early to propose marriage to her: “Rose manifested no further sense of this occasion than to go straight on with her idea. She placed her arm with frank friendship on his shoulder. It drew him closer, and he recovered his grasp of her free hand. With his want of stature and presence, his upward look at her, his small, smooth head, his seasoned sallowness and simple eyes, he might at this instant have struck a spectator as a figure actually younger and slighter than the ample, accomplished girl whose gesture protected and even a little patronized him. But in her vision of him she none the less clearly found full warrant for saying, instead of something he expected, something she wished and had her reasons for wishing, even if they represented but the gain of a minute of time.” Now why does Rose Armiger want more time? You will have to take the readerly plunge into this Henry James black sheep to find out for yourself.


Illustration based on the novel ( )

Un drame immonde (et plusieurs tortures psychologiques) cachés par trop de circonvolutions... ( )

FINAL REVIEW

This Henry James is one of the oddest novels I’ve ever read. The six main characters, three women and three men, all well-educated, well-spoken members of the English upper class, sip their tea, converse in the most highly polished civilized manor, but how civilized are they, really? On one level, this is a novel of manners, the six characters interacting as if they were members of a string sextet playing in a minor key, say Tchaikovsky’s string sextet in D minor; on another level, James’ work can be viewed as the shocking consequences of life reduced to its selfish surface, that is, having no authentic aesthetic dimension, questionable morals and an abysmal lack of any measure of spiritual depth.

But perhaps I am being too harsh, since, when it comes to drama performed on stage, what has more power than raw passion – no refined aesthetics; no taking moral high ground; no deep reflection on the transcendental – just a massive dose of unchecked primal fury translated into direct action, the spirit of ancient Medea rearing her murderous, frenzied head? And please don’t be fooled by James’ arched, baroque description and dialogue I alluded to above – this is a novel of dark passion; the last 100 pages contain some of the most disturbing and shocking scenes I’ve ever encountered.

I mention drama and the stage for a good reason: Henry James initially conceived of this story as a play and later reworked his material into “The Other House”. Incidentally, James spent a number of years attempting without success to be a first-rate playwright. Sorry, Henry, the muse can be fickle – you were a great novelist and teller of tales but far from an Ibsen. Perhaps that can be a lesson for us all – when it comes to artistic expression and creativity, we might want to think hard before we venture too far from our literary strengths.

Critics at the time chimed in, calling the novel “distinctly unpleasant,” and “inhuman,” and even “the one altogether evil book that James ever wrote.” Later, Edmund Wilson had a one word pronouncement: “Dreadful.” Yet, there is something compelling about this novel in three parts, so much akin to a play’s three acts, that really makes it worth the read, and it is a short novel -- this New York Review Book (NYRB) edition is 300 pages of large font and wide margins – a more usual print size could come in at under 200 pages.

Lastly, I would be derelict if I didn’t include a couple examples from the novel itself. Here are a few lines from the opening pages, where the narrator tells us what an older woman, Mrs. Beever, a mother, wishes for her son Paul: “She was a woman indeed of many purposes; another of which was that on leaving Oxford the boy should travel and inform himself: she belonged to the age that regarded a foreign tour not as a hasty dip, but as a deliberate plunge. Still another had for its main feature that on his final return he should marry the nicest girl she knew: that too would be a deliberate plunge, a plunge that would besprinkle his mother.” Sense a tincture of a mother’s selfishness?

And here is Rose Armiger with Dennis, a man who arrives on the scene early to propose marriage to her: “Rose manifested no further sense of this occasion than to go straight on with her idea. She placed her arm with frank friendship on his shoulder. It drew him closer, and he recovered his grasp of her free hand. With his want of stature and presence, his upward look at her, his small, smooth head, his seasoned sallowness and simple eyes, he might at this instant have struck a spectator as a figure actually younger and slighter than the ample, accomplished girl whose gesture protected and even a little patronized him. But in her vision of him she none the less clearly found full warrant for saying, instead of something he expected, something she wished and had her reasons for wishing, even if they represented but the gain of a minute of time.” Now, why does Rose Armiger want more time? You will have to take the readerly plunge into this Henry James black sheep to find out.

Worst James I've read? Certainly. I recognize that there are reasons for that: this was meant to be a play, and he's much better at understated moral turmoil than understated murderous rage. And if you're interested in James' career you'll want to read this at some point. But in itself? It reads like a bad play, in the worst possible way. The stage can never be empty, there can never be time between conversations, nobody ever seems to do anything other than talk to each other. The film trailer for this book would be: "IN A WORLD, where every time you mention somebody's name they mysteriously appear and the person you were originally talking to says "And here she is" or "Speak of the devil" or "Tell her yourself" or something excruciatingly similar, a group of people calmly talk about love, life, and [plot spoiler]...



...the murder of a small child, and, for no apparent reason, cover up this awful crime. At your local cinema, now!"

The dialogue is great, but if you want great dialogue, just read Ivy Compton Burnett. The construction is clunky and terrifically awkward. I think Henry left some great stuff out of his New York edition, but he left this out for good reason. If you want to read something from this period, go read Poynton. If nothing else, reading this made me think, you know? I should go re-read Poynton. ( )