THE ART OF FICTION IN THE STORIES OF HENRY JAMES
A Thesis
Presented to the faculty of the Department of English
California State University, Sacramento
Submitted in partial satisfaction of
the requirements for the degree of
MASTER OF ARTS
in
English
(Literature)
by
Jessica Lynn Cuckovich
FALL
2013
© 2013
Jessica Lynn Cuckovich
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ii
THE ART OF FICTION IN THE STORIES OF HENRY JAMES
A Thesis
by
Jessica Lynn Cuckovich
Approved by:
__________________________________, Committee Chair
Professor Nancy Sweet, Ph.D.
__________________________________, Second Reader
Professor David Toise, Ph.D.
____________________________
Date
iii
Student: Jessica Lynn Cuckovich
I certify that this student has met the requirements for format contained in the University format
manual, and that this thesis is suitable for shelving in the Library and credit is to be awarded for
the thesis.
__________________________, Department Chair ___________________
Professor David Toise, Ph.D.
Date
Department of English
iv
Abstract
of
THE ART OF FICTION IN THE STORIES OF HENRY JAMES
by
Jessica Lynn Cuckovich
This thesis explores the ways in which Henry James’s short stories, “The Figure
in the Carpet,” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” reiterate his artistic theory as he expresses
it in “The Art of Fiction.” In the critical essay, James guides novelists to resist the
adherence to narrative formula, positing that this limits their abilities to relay the
complexities of experience. By creating fictional characters who exist according to their
expectations of an inherent order in art, and therefore life, James similarly addresses this
topic in his short stories. In both the essay and the stories, James shows that the
alternative to the subscription to formula is a disruption of subjectivity that allows for the
recognition of the significance of lived experience.
__________________________, Committee Chair
Professor Nancy Sweet, Ph.D.
__________________________
Date
v
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my first reader, Dr. Nancy Sweet. Thank you for all you have taught me about
literature, and specifically, for pushing me to learn so much more about Henry James.
To my second reader, Dr. David Toise. Thank you for your time, guidance, and
reassurance.
To Gary Slossberg. I hate to admit that you are the best. I definitely could not have done
this without you.
Thank you to Peter for forcing me to sometimes have fun. Much appreciation to my
fellow Teaching Associates in the past two years, who are all brilliant and caring and
have made my experience at CSUS. And, to Dr. Amy Heckathorn, thank you for
everything that you have taught me about teaching and writing.
Thank you to my sisters for being my best friends, but mostly, for having your kids, who
are the best things that have ever happened to our family. Thanks to my mom for
genuinely caring about everything I do. And, thanks to my dad. For everything.
vi
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................. vi
Chapter
1. THE ART OF FICTION AND THE STORIES OF HENRY JAMES…………….…….. 1
2. THE ART OF FICTION IN “THE FIGURE IN THE CARPET” .................................... 18
3. THE ART OF FICTION IN “THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE” ...................................... 35
4. LOVE AND THE ART OF FICTION .............................................................................. 54
Epilogue ................................................................................................................................. 70
Works Cited ............................................................................................................................ 75
Works Consulted..................................................................................................................... 78
vii
1
Chapter 1: The Art of Fiction and the Stories of Henry James
Borrowing the title from Walter Besant’s lecture in which he outlined the
techniques necessary to create successful fiction, Henry James encourages the
expectation that his essay, “The Art of Fiction,” will also feature guidelines on how to
write. Instead, with his 1884 publication, James contradicts the notion that the artist
should follow any definitive rules. Besant’s “laws” guide the writer to focus primarily on
“‘story,’” which, he asserts, should be shaped from the specifics of one’s own life and
include a distinct “‘conscious moral purpose’” (474). While seeming to recognize the
“inspiring” nature of such guidelines, James actually undermines each of them and
suggests that novelists rely on their “spider-web” of experience to guide their artistic
expression (468). For James, this expression can take on a “myriad of forms,”
representative of those found in lived experience (468). James advocates a surrender of
moral obligation for novelists, critiquing those who write with “purpose” by suggesting
that the inclusion of an overarching moral within a novel excludes essential elements of
life and “corrupts” not only the novelist’s portrayal of reality, but distorts the reader’s
interpretation of existence (474).
In his “The Art of Fiction,” then, the distinction James makes is between the artist
and the popular novelist, who simply adheres to predetermined rules. The divergence
between James’s theory and Besant’s demonstrates James’s departure from the nineteenth
century genre of romance and his alignment with theorists who promote the advancement
of literary artistry.
2
When we examine James’s response to Besant in relation to his own fiction, we
see how his theory both reflects and affects his work as a writer. In particular, two of his
notable short stories, “The Figure in the Carpet” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” seem to
reiterate many of the ideas he established in the essay. The protagonists represent the
mental distortion that occurs when individuals anticipate the existence of an inherent
order in art and, therefore, life. In these texts, James reinforces the ideas he developed in
“The Art of Fiction.” In both their form and content, the stories emphasize the necessity
of an artistic evolution, in which modern novelists depart from the nineteenth century
conventions of romance and create out of their conscious awareness of life in order to
illuminate the complexities of human experience.
At the time he published “The Art of Fiction,” James had established himself as a
reputable artist with such texts as Daisy Miller and The Portrait of a Lady. David H.
Richter contextualizes James’s work within the history of critical theory in his collection,
The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. He explains, “these
[early] works seem to mark a transition between the social chronicle of the nineteenth
century and the twentieth-century of psychological realism” (462). We can understand
that James was representing his characters’ consciousnesses, rather than only concerning
himself with “chronicling” their social interactions. Despite its title, Daisy Miller
actually explores Winterbourne’s limited perceptions and self-obsessed ruminations.
And, with a similarly deceptive title, we see much more than a sketch of Isabel Archer in
The Portrait of a Lady. James concentrates on his character’s inner conflict, as she
3
struggles to adhere to her societal obligations. We see through the character development
in these early texts what James later articulates in both his critical theory and prefaces.
James explains his focus on crafting his characters, by writing in the 1907 Preface
to The Portrait of a Lady that his intent was to convey, “a sense of the creatures
themselves, the complications they would be most likely to produce and feel” (43). He
then quotes the “beautiful genius” Ivan Turngenieff, who wrote, “‘To arrive at these
things is to arrive at my story…The result is that I’m often accused of not having “story”
enough. I seem to myself to have as much as I need—to show my people’” (43). This,
James writes, provided him inspiration for his own writing.
One such critic who might have questioned the quantity of “story” that
Turngenieff produced was Walter Besant, who emphasized the importance of story in his
lecture. James quotes him as urging the novelist that, “ ‘the most important thing of all is
the story…the story is everything’ ” (468). We can assume that Besant likely defined
“story” in the traditional manner, meaning the aspects which constitute the plot.
However, in James’s Preface to The Portrait of a Lady, he addresses the contrast between
plot and character, agreeing with Turngenieff that it is the latter which comprises the
story, when he writes, “I couldn’t emulate the imaginative writer so constituted as to see
his fable first and make out its agents afterwards…I could think so little of any situation
that didn’t depend for its interest on the nature of the persons situated, and thereby on
their way of taking it” (44). James argues that there is no story without the characters
that interpret it. Thus, his “stories” are defined by their characters’ consciousnesses. In
4
fact, the title The Portrait of a Lady even prefigures James’s extended metaphor in “The
Art of Fiction.” He shows that the novelist who portrays a complex representation of
character consciousness is similar to the painter who provokes his audience to see beyond
the figure on the canvas.
Steven Donadio connects this preoccupation James had with portraying his
characters’ psyches to Friedrich Nietzsche’s theory of transcendentalism in his book,
Nietzsche, James and the Artistic Will. Donadio defines both James and Nietzsche as
“Emersonian” and explains that James’s characters “are not defined and evaluated
according to what they do, or even what they say: they tell us who they are through what
they see” (106). He compares this to Nietzsche’s view of “perspectivism,” which he
summarizes as his belief that “to maintain one’s individual identity and remain free one
must resist enslavement by another man’s conception of the world” (178). We recall that
the Transcendentalist movement was initiated by Emerson’s 1836 essay “Nature,” in
which he presents the question: “What is truth? and of the affections,--What is good?”
(46). He continues, “by yielding itself passive to the educated Will…Build, therefore
your own world. As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will
unfold its great proportions” (46). We understand that Emerson advocates resistance
against the conformity to social expectations, equating these rules with passivity and a
loss of potential. Thus, we can understand Donadio’s connection of this theory with
Nietzsche and James. It seems that James’s characters in “The Figure in the Carpet” and
“The Beast in the Jungle” subscribe to such ideas as the ability to locate a definitive
5
“truth.” But, rather than seeking this truth within their conscious experience of life, they
anticipate its structure based on their expectations of “romance.” They each await vast
revelations that will result in their ultimate contentment. This structure very closely
parallels the typical plots of nineteenth century romance novels. David H. Richter
summarizes these plots by explaining, “the British public was used to retreating into
three-volume narratives that guaranteed adventure and escape, a love story with a happy
ending, and poetic justice for all” (463). These romance novels, then, can be classified
by their adherence to a generic form. They are defined by melodrama, and often take
place in exotic settings and include fantastical situations that culminate in love, marriage,
and a satisfying conclusion. By describing characters who conflate this literary model
with their realities, James shows how this type of literature can corrupt society’s
perceptions and erode their capabilities to achieve anything of worth in life.
The misperceptions of these characters closely mirror the vision that Walter
Besant held toward fiction writing. His attempt to define the “laws” of fiction so
conflicted with James’s own belief regarding the art form that it seems he named his
essay after Besant’s theory in order to directly “resist his conception” of the formulaic
literary world. Mark Spilka compares James’s text to Besant’s in his essay, “Henry
James and Walter Besant: The Art of Fiction Controversy.” He notes that James seems to
“endorse” Besant in his statement that “There is something very encouraging in his
having put into form certain of his ideas on the mystery of storytelling…It is a proof of
life and curiosity” (464). But, Spilka continues his analysis by concluding that James
6
ultimately exploits this “proof” in order to gain an audience for his own agenda. In fact,
James does appear to use Besant’s lecture as merely a launch point that allows him to
explicate his own, vastly different ideas about fiction. Besant claims that the art of
fiction can be taught according to rules, which would guide the novelist to perpetuate the
idea of the existence of an inherent order in life. James challenges this contention in own
essay and with his fiction.
Within “The Art of Fiction,” James assesses each of Walter Besant’s “laws,” but
fixes much of his attention on Besant’s idea that the “novelist must write from his
experience” (468). According to James, novelists’ experiences do create their stories. He
writes of experience, calling it, “the condition of feeling life in general so completely that
you are well on your way to knowing any particular corner of it” (468). And, this, he
asserts, constitutes one’s capacity to write realism effectively. We can understand that
James stresses the importance of expanding one’s consciousness to encompass more than
just individual perception. When novelists develop a sense of their surroundings without
placing structured expectations upon them, they possess the capacity to “see” the more
specific aspects of life, even without firsthand experience of them. Again, we can
understand the “Emersonian” nature of James’s idea. Emerson writes, “There is a
property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts,
that is, the poet” (5). With this, he suggests that the artist’s perception encompasses more
than that of the unconscious observer. When one hones his ability to “see” beyond that
which he expects, he gains the capacity to experience his surroundings more completely,
7
according to Emerson. He writes, “all mean egotism vanishes. I become the transparent
eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all” (6). We see the clear parallel between this more
inclusive definition of experience and James’s. Both writers claim that artists must
surrender their established perceptions of self-importance and open themselves to a
keener sense of their surroundings in order to locate the story or the “miraculous” nature
(Emerson 45) of existence. We can connect this theory to our understanding of the
protagonists in “The Figure in the Carpet” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” who attempt to
decipher the “particulars” of their lives without first developing a more inclusive
sensibility. In these depictions, James reinforces the point he makes in his essay.
Obsessed with locating and finding meaning in only “startling incidents,” they miss the
significance of experience.
However, the way that the writer merges his perceptions with his imagination is
through his recognition of what “experience” actually encompasses. It is in his definition
of this that James deviates from Besant’s theory. He quotes Besant as writing, “‘a young
lady brought up in a quiet country village should avoid descriptions of garrison life,’”
suggesting that a writer write only exactly what she knows (468). James describes this
assertion as a “tantalizing notion” (469). But, he proceeds to challenge Besant’s point by
considering the concept of experience more carefully. James writes:
Experience is never limited, and it is never complete; it is an immense
sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web of the finest silken threads
suspended in the chamber of consciousness, and catching every airborne
8
particle in its tissue. It is the very atmosphere of the mind; and when the
mind is imaginative—much more than when it happens to be that of a man
of genius—it takes to itself the faintest hints of life, it converts the very
pulses of the air into revelations. (468)
The spider-web metaphor that James articulates expands the conception of experience,
conflating interpretation and imagination in the process. Thus, he disputes Besant’s
claim, stating, “The young lady living in the village has only to be a damsel on whom
nothing is lost to make it quite unfair (as it seems to me) to declare to her that she shall
have nothing to say about the military” (468). So, James suggests that a convergence of
objective observation and subjective imagination constitutes the terms of “experience”
that contribute to an artist’s creation.
As we explore this aspect of James’s theory, we can further the comparison
Donadio makes between James and Nietzsche. There are clear parallels between
Nietzsche’s text, “The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music,” and James’s “The Art
of Fiction,” namely that both restructure the tenets of Romanticism perpetuated by
William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge, who contend that the emotional reaction of
the poet guides artistic production, but the “common” (307) experience must be
examined through this subjective interpretation.1 Nietzsche and James build from this
William Wordsworth describes the creative process as the individual recollection of “spontaneous
feelings,” asserting that in order to write successfully, the poet must maintain a “faint perception of beauty
and dignity” (309). This position, also held by Coleridge, indicates that the poet’s subjectivity guides his
portrayal of common experience.
1
9
notion by also suggesting that artists must embody a dual consciousness when they
create.
For Nietzsche, this duality is represented by the Apollonian and Dionysian
principles. Nietzsche, writing in 1872, explains that the essence of art is the “spirit of
music,” represented by the chaotic, life-renewing Dionysus. Nietzsche equates the god
Apollo with “principium individuationis,” or the “principle of individuation,” which he
compares to a rowboat upon which, even in the midst of an “immense, raging sea…the
individual sits tranquilly” (440). The word choice seemingly alludes to Wordsworth’s
assertion that the poet’s “spontaneous feelings” must be “recollected in tranquility” (316).
Further, the principle of individuation is one that separates the “self” from the “other,” a
necessary distinction for the Romanticist notion that the individual poet uses his
subjectivity to relay the experience of the “rustic Englishman” (Richter 305) Nietzsche
then describes subjectivity as a “mere figment.” This depiction speaks of the idea that
subjectivity cannot exist outside of the bias that accounts for previously established ideas
and expectations. However, he does not attempt to negate or undermine this Apollonian
subjectivity. Rather, he associates it with “delight, wisdom, and beauty,” but is careful to
recognize these attributes as “illusion” (440). Nietzsche recognizes the Dionysian and
Apollonian principles as inseparable for the artist. For, the “form” to which the
Apollonian adheres is created out of a need to order chaos. Likewise, the “tranquil”
original form must be shattered by the Dionysian so the “individual forgets himself
10
completely” and can experience a rapturous “intoxication” as a result of the disruption’s
initial “terror and awe” (440) and, thus, create his artistic expression.
James also refers to the necessity for the artist to rely on a balance between two
perceptions, very similar to those that Nietzsche describes. For James, this balance is
between a keen observation of the outside world and a subjective interpretation of it.
James’s discussion of the artist’s process parallels Nietzsche’s. The novelist’s “spiderweb” of experience has the capacity to catch a vast amount of “chaotic” images, which
causes him to transform his seemingly formulaic surroundings into art. Therefore, much
like we do with Nietzsche’s theory, we understand that James complicates the Romantic
ideal in suggesting that the artist retain aspects of his subjective sensibility while
incorporating an objectivity that allows for the imaginative interpretation of reality. This
could result in the exploration of a vast amount of subjects.
We can see James’s intention to blend, not only creative approaches, but literary
genres in the Preface of the 1907 edition of The American, in which he writes “By what
art or mystery, what craft of selection, omission or commission, does a given picture of
life appear to us to surround its theme, its figures and images, with the air of romance
while another picture close beside it may affect us as steeping the whole matter in the
element of reality?” (17). Here, we see that James does not criticize the incorporation of
some features of the romance narrative in literature. He even refers to The American as
belonging to this genre. However, he suggests that aspects of the romance genre should
reveal themselves along with “elements of reality,” just as they do in human experience.
11
Therefore, while his novel contains a love story, it does not correspond with a happy
ending, just as love does not always lead to contentment in reality.
James does caution against one traditional aspect of romance in both The
American and “The Art of Fiction,” which is insertion of a purposeful moral in fiction.
While he does not suggest that we deny the importance of ethics, he defines “morality” in
literature as the intentional exclusion of realistic, often crucial, aspects of life. He writes
that “there is a traditional difference between what people know and what they agree to
admit that they know, that which they see and that which they speak of, that which they
feel to be a part of life and that which they allow to enter into literature” (474). He, then,
admonishes this supposed morality by calling it, instead, “diffidence.” He asserts that the
“absence of discussion is not a symptom of moral passion,” distinguishing that “the
essence of moral energy is to survey the entire field” (474). This, filtered only by “the
quality of mind of the producer,” creates “the deepest work of art,” according to James
(475). Here, we understand that the artist cannot wholly rely on subjectivity or a
complete lack of it, but must find a balance of both in order to produce “quality” work,
unencumbered by an obligation to literary “morality.”
He continues by suggesting a correlation between moral purpose in fiction and
corruption, writing, “To what degree a purpose in a work of art is a source of corruption,
I shall not attempt to inquire” (474), baiting his reader to take up this inquisition. James
articulates the potential for corruption in The American with his portrayal of Mrs. Bread,
The Bellegardes’ maid, who spreads gossip and is seemingly consumed by her romantic
12
notions regarding love. Despite James’s insistence that the novel belongs in the romance
genre, he also critiques its conventions by suggesting, through his character’s obsession
with romance and scandal, that once a society becomes accustomed to the perpetuation of
romantic fiction, the public consciousness can become clouded by the expectation
inherent in its structure.
It seems, that by adding the Preface to The American in 1907, James provokes his
reader to consider his intentional obliteration of binaries. In his analysis of James’s New
York Edition prefaces, The Prefaces of Henry James: Framing the Modern Reader, John
H. Pearson considers that James, aware that “his life and its work were coming to an end”
(1), was attempting to provide insight on his theoretical intentions with his texts. One
such intention was to “create a modern reader, one who is conscious of authorial
performance and who judges it according to aesthetic principles, rather than the social,
political, or moral standards frequently applied to fiction during the previous century in
England and America” (13). We can see James’s continued concern with distancing
himself from moral purpose and his preoccupation with allowing his reader to see the
fluidity of his art.
In accordance with this, Pearson claims that, with the prefaces, James was
attempting to distinguish his writings as “texts,” rather than “works” in the sense that
Roland Barthes defines the distinction, summarizing, “The work is a fragment of a
substance, occupying a part of the space of books, the text is a methodological field”
(Pearson 13). Thus, he posits that “work” connotes the unchangeable, fixed meaning of a
13
book, while “text” implies pliability. The reader can interpret and consistently alter the
meaning of literature. Pearson claims that James’s intention with these prefaces was to
“transform the work into text,” writing, that “the prefaces describe James’s method and
the prefaced narratives illustrate this method” (14). In the Preface of The American, then,
James’s claim that the novel is a romance encourages an expectation that does not
necessarily comply with our readerly expectations. In the novel, he portrays the romance
in terms of realism, defying the conventions of romance in order to exemplify the
textuality of his writing and its ability to blur the boundaries of genre in an attempt to
accurately represent experience.
This echoes James’s defiance of categorization as he states it in “The Art of
Fiction.” As he takes on the issue of literary genres, he writes:
The novel and the romance, the novel of incident and that of character—
these clumsy separations appear to me to have been made by critics and
readers for their own convenience, and to help them out of some of their
occasional queer predicaments, but have little reality or interest for the
producer from whose point of view it is of course that we are attempting to
consider the art of fiction. (470)
When we contextualize the Preface of The American considering this insight, it seems
that James sets up the anticipation of romance within the novel to challenge the reader’s
expectation, making it less “convenient” for his audience by placing them in the middle
of a “predicament,” which they must defy their traditional classifications to reconcile.
14
James forces us to cease seeing the novel as a “work,” and begin interpreting it as a
“text.”
As a part of this consideration of genre, James also includes a discussion of
character vs. incident. He writes, “There is an old-fashioned distinction between the
novel of characters and the novel of incident” (470). He questions this perception by
asking, “What is character but determination of incident? What is incident but the
illustration of character?” (470). If we recall the Preface to The Portrait of a Lady in
which James discusses character, we see that the ideas he attached to this text were
actually developed in “The Art of Fiction.” The Preface returns to James’s insistence that
story is based on the exploration of character.
It seems, then, that in 1907, with his inclusion of the prefaces to his texts, James
had decided to reiterate the theory he established early in his career with “The Art of
Fiction” by exemplifying how he utilized this theory within his own creative writing. His
discussion of morality, character development, and genre can be found fifteen years
earlier in his critical text. If, as John H. Pearson asserts, the prefaces were added in an
attempt to clarify his artistic purpose prior to his death, it is, no doubt, important, that we
continue to explore how they affect the textuality of the texts. Further, given their
connection to “The Art of Fiction,” James must have had a desire to continue to reemphasize this theory and show how critical it had been to his artistry. Leon Edel
discusses the connection these prefaces had to “The Art of Fiction” in his exploration of
them in The Prefaces of Henry James. Edel explains, “And, when, finally, he was able to
15
look back on his own work, in his prefaces, he demonstrated conclusively that he had
proceeded in a straight line, had, to put it generally and broadly, practiced what he had
preached” (39), in reference to what he had “preached” in the critical essay.
If the communication of this theory was so crucial to James, it makes sense that it
may connect to each of his texts, perhaps in differing ways than just informing how he
approached his craft. It appears that the elements of “The Art of Fiction” also occur in
the plot development of two of his most notable short stories. Though James may not
have been concerned with moral purpose, these stories indicate that he did have an
intention to articulate a certain point. It is seemingly the same point that he makes in the
critical text. For, there are two notable characters who pointedly do not “proceed in a
straight line” and, instead, ruminate over their expectations, constantly looking outside of
their experiences for the type of thrilling experience or heroic fate that will lead to a sense
of justice and happiness.
Both “The Figure in the Carpet,” and “The Beast in the Jungle” emphasize the
importance of narrative consciousness over this formulaic construction through more than
simply James’s execution of his own craft. Rather, the characters and storyline mirror
“The Art of Fiction,” and caution the reader against reliance on, and even appreciation of,
formula in literature.
In James’s 1896 short story, “The Figure in the Carpet,” the narrator fails to locate
the true meaning in novelist Hugh Vereker’s fiction, causing him to desperately
deliberate about the “little trick” (481) that Vereker claims has guided his entire body of
16
work. This ultimately leaves the narrator in an incessant state of obsession, as he
continually searches for what he has missed in his analysis.
Written seven years after this publication, James’s “The Beast in the Jungle,”
explores the same type of obsessive quest. In this text, the narrator follows John
Marcher’s perpetual anxiety as he awaits an ambiguous climactic confrontation in his
life. We understand this character as one entirely consumed by his subjectivity.
Therefore, rather than possessing the capacity to acknowledge and accept true
“disruption,” from the adoption of a more inclusive perspective, which Nietzsche
associates with “delight,” Marcher operates only according to his subjective expectations,
causing him inaction. His “illumination” comes in the realization that his constant
expectancy has, ironically, projected his focus “outside his life,” thereby depriving him of
any pure experience within it, and rendering his life “void” (339).
The plights of both the unnamed critic and John Marcher parallel James’s critique
of prescribed artistic creation in “The Art of Fiction.” Written later in James’s career,
during a time when James, again, was turning much of his attention to issues of artistry in
fiction, the texts reiterate many of the ideas he developed regarding creative fiction. In
James’s portrayal of the critic, he satirizes literary criticism in which there exists a preoccupation with plot development and a lack of awareness of the detail in the craft, while
in James’s portrayal of Marcher, he critiques the novelist who relies on predetermined
structure and lacks a sense of narrative consciousness. We see that each protagonist
17
develops an increasingly distorted sense of reality due to his expectation of pre-fabricated
order in existence and art.
The following chapters will further substantiate this claim and demonstrate that
by juxtaposing the protagonists with both their artistic and emotional superiors, James
communicates the same philosophy in these stories as that in “The Art of Fiction.” He
portrays aware experience as the only means to the recognition and appreciation of the
stories available in and created out of everyday life, while revealing the danger in the
literary perpetuation of grandiose, formulaic ideas.
18
Chapter 2: The Art of Fiction in “The Figure in the Carpet”
Henry James’s “The Figure in the Carpet” depicts an unnamed literary critic who
attempts to locate the supposed “secret” in novelist Hugh Vereker’s work. The
protagonist adheres to structured expectations in his quest for meaning in literature, but
his identity becomes destabilized by the concept that there may be more to Vereker’s text
than simply the story. In James’s portrayal of how his previously established perceptions
fail the critic, he illuminates the very same principles as those he outlines in “The Art of
Fiction.” He demonstrates how the adherence to strict narrative formula leads to a
distorted mentality and loss of creativity, while the recognition of meaning beyond this
structure illuminates the “light” and “life” that is the novel itself (490, 496).
The story begins as the critic receives an assignment to review renowned novelist
Hugh Vereker’s latest novel. The critic, eager for the opportunity to depart from his
usual “dealings…with the ladies and minor poets” (477), fills the assignment to the
acclaim of his literary social circle. However, at a dinner party in which the critic meets
the author, Vereker rebuffs the review, explaining that it, along with every review of his
work, has failed to locate his true meaning, which he refers to as “’an exquisite scheme’”
that “’stretches from book to book.’” The critic likens this structure to a “’figure in the
carpet,’” and after hearing of it, begins his search for the “buried treasure” in each of the
novelist’s texts (481, 483).
He involves a second and more successful critic, George Corvick, in the quest.
Corvick subsequently divulges “the secret” to his intended, Gwendolyn Erme, who is also
19
an author of fiction. The critic becomes jealous of the search upon which Corvick and
Erme embark to find “the figure,” seeing their union as a type of advantage in the
“game.” And, in fact, on a trip to India, Corvick does claim to discover Vereker’s
“intention,” which he supposedly reveals to Gwendolyn after they are married.
Following Corvick’s sudden death on the couple’s honeymoon, the critic seeks
information about “the figure in the carpet” from Gwendolyn. However, she adamantly
refuses to tell him anything. The final attempt made by the critic is his appeal to
Gwendolyn’s second husband, Drayton Deane, many years later. Deane claims no
knowledge of the secret, and the critic, baffled by this, finds satisfaction in telling him of
its existence. The story ends with the critic’s reference to his role as the author of this
story, but no revelation regarding “the secret” in Hugh Vereker’s work.
With this story, James directly provokes his reader to consider the creation and
interpretation of literary fiction. It seems imperative that he contextualizes the narrator’s
quest as one that occurs within literary criticism, unlike the plights of many of his other
characters. In doing this, James prompts the reader to challenge widely accepted or
praised critical interpretations. In The Prefaces of Henry James, Leon Edel addresses
James’s own frustration with the critical misinterpretation of his work. He writes,
“criticism spoke of his books, but ignored their form, ignored what to James was allimportant” (16). He continues, writing that James was, “throwing his light just where it
seemed to him it would reveal the most—but, no one seemed to care, and only a few
showed themselves genuinely capable of understanding what it was all about” (16).
20
Given this supposed frustration, it seems appropriate that James focuses much of
this story on the distinction between artistic and critical production. He creates an
apparent binary between these forms of writing from the opening chapter, in which
Vereker declares that his latest reviewer “’doesn’t see anything’” (480) despite the
positive impression Lady Jane and her dinner guests have about the critic’s interpretation
of his work. Vereker clarifies his critique, adding, “’nobody does,’” and references the
review as “’charming’” albeit “’the usual twaddle’” (480). In James’s depiction of his
novelist’s illusive meaning, he seems to privilege the artist, while pointing to the faults of
those who have attempted and failed to locate this meaning. The dinner guests, who
moments earlier had praised the review, now turn to the author for “real” substance.
While the critic becomes increasingly flustered by Vereker’s revelation, Vereker’s
composed demeanor enforces his authority. In the author’s revelation that “nobody,” has
understood his work (echoed “cheerfully” by Miss Poyle), we see James’s critique of
literary criticism and those who invest in it. This line implies a flaw in the traditional
interpretation of text. And, with Miss Poyle’s refrain, he suggests there exists a general
complacency to this ignorance.
We can assume that the critic and the other dinner guests have developed certain
interpretive expectations as a result of repeatedly reading structured romantic texts, such
as those which were popular in British and American literature at the time of this story’s
publication. Specifically, the critic seems to anticipate a specific revelation in the text
that will correspond with some sense of “poetic justice” (Richter 463). In “The Art of
21
Fiction,” James refers to texts that perpetuate such notions as defined by the “absence of
discussion” (474), which he proposes is due to the novelists’ timidity to approach
subjects that were considered “thorny,” or inappropriate for publication. He contradicts
Walter Besant’s idea that this censorship provided the literature “purpose” and moral
admirability, by, instead, arguing that true morality relies upon the inclusion of realism.
We understand that James equates a novelist’s limited portrayal of reality with a
distortion of it. And, those, like the critic, who become repeatedly exposed to this limited
reality, become corrupted by their inability to recognize the more complex nature of
texts, and even life itself.
The introduction of the binary between criticism and artistry causes the critic, and
James’s reader, a distinct sense of unease. The critic admittedly becomes “ruffled” at
Vereker’s “placid” words about his work, at first taking offense to the author’s
“conceited” claims (480). But, this seems to point to the critic’s underlying knowledge of
his own inadequacy. He considers that he, too, had often recognized the lack of ability of
others to “see” the intricacies of text, but “had somehow taken the thought for a proof on
[his] own part of a tremendous eye” (480). However, he equates Vereker’s “revelation”
with “pain,” indicating that his assessment of his own ability has been compromised by
the conversation. Both the critic’s confidence and his public acclaim indicate his
possession of some professional capability, which causes the reader to question the
validity of, not only widely accepted critical interpretations of literature, but also our own
22
perceptions. As James explores the critic’s reaction, we, too become acutely aware of
our own qualification as part of the “nobody” to whom Vereker refers.
The sense that our perceptions might somehow be tremendously flawed creates
existential anxiety. If we can no longer establish meaning based on our usual
conventions, all truth becomes unstable. In his essay, “A Secret in Spite of Itself:
Recursive Meaning in Henry James’s ‘The Figure in the Carpet,’” Stephan Mussil
contends that the story reveals that “a literary text can only be explained sufficiently in
terms of textual elements themselves, not in terms of referential objects or external
contexts” (795). Mussil suggests that James shows how the essential elements of texts
may be overlooked when one applies a particular theoretical lens to a reading. If we
follow James’s claim in “The Art of Fiction” that the genre boundaries assigned to texts
are nothing but “clumsy separations…made by critics and readers for their own
convenience, and to help them out of their occasional queer predicaments” (470), it
seems likely that, with this story, he discourages the accessibility of reading according to
a particular critical approach, as Mussil suggests. Without the theoretical context that
most critics rely upon to find concrete answers in literary works, the “work” then
becomes “Text.” Roland Barthes explains the distinction by describing a “work” as
“caught up in a process of filtration…a determination of the work by the world” (880),
whereas a “Text” is to be “approached” and “experienced.” Barthes qualifies “Text” as
“not a co-existence of meanings but a passage, an overcrossing; thus it answers not to an
interpretation, even a liberal one, but to an explosion, a dissemination” (879). The idea of
23
“Text” calls into question the inherent validity of any one theoretical lens, or “external
context.” Mussil’s assessment, then, is similar to John H. Pearson’s idea that James’s
prefaces aim to transform the reader’s sense of his writings from being stable works to
more pliable texts.
This way of interpreting meaning would cause a disruption of the order to which
the critic in “The Figure in the Carpet” is apparently accustomed. He writes of his
frustration with his experience reading Vereker’s work once he must alter his approach to
it, considering, “I had always liked him; and now what occurred was that my new
intelligence and vain preoccupation damaged my liking. I not only failed to run a general
intention to earth, I found myself missing the subordinate intentions I had formerly
enjoyed. His books didn’t even remain the charming things they had been for me” (484).
We understand, then, that, in attempting to locate the metaphorical “figure in the carpet”
in Vereker’s work, the critic is forced to alter his perception and, thus re-define his
identity as a reader and critic. James shows that the modern reader must move beyond
passively “enjoying” texts for their “charming” qualities. He suggests that a new, more
active approach to interpreting texts must take place in order for any “new intelligence”
to emerge. The critic’s obsessive quest to find something more within the texts becomes
connected with his feelings of self-worth and the value of existence itself. We note, of
course, that the critic remains unnamed throughout the story, perhaps indicating a lack of
selfhood. The implications of “selflessness” shift throughout the story, however. He
24
evolves from being incapable of locating his true self and gains the capability to
relinquish his former ideal of selfhood.
We recall Emerson’s assertion that egotism inhibits one from “see[ing] all” (6).
And, it seems that the critic’s inability to surrender his ego throughout the story prevents
him from finding the author’s “light” (490). He writes of the search as “humiliating,” the
consequence of which the book become a source of “annoyance” (484) rather than
enlightenment. His agitation at the apparent failure of his critical capabilities makes him
question whether or not “the buried treasure was a bad joke” intended by Vereker to
“make a fool of [him]” (484). His preoccupation with his own role in the search
dissuades him from continuing it. He deduces that if he cannot locate the meaning, it
may not even be there. However, his compulsive return to the search indicates his worry
that the figure does exist and his assessment of his own worth depends on his discovery
of it. It may be this exact existential anxiety that James highlights as such a crucial part
of the artistic process. We can further understand this as we examine the characters who
seem to surpass the narrator in their quest for the “truth” in Vereker’s text.
Leon Edel addresses “The Art of Fiction” by stating that the pervasive statement
of this text is that the novel “is life itself” (39). We can see that James connects his
characters’ ability to engage in life with their supposed epiphanies about the texts. As the
critic, George Corvick, and Gwendolyn Erme begin their search, James highlights the
difference in their approaches. The critic grows increasingly secluded, as he admits
irritation at the couple’s shared fascination with the project. He writes of his “envy of
25
Corvick’s possession of a friend who had some light to mingle with his own,”
juxtaposing this joint effort with his own by continuing “I was out in the cold
while…they followed the chase for which I myself had sounded the horn” (486). We see
that the search brings the couple closer, whereas it secludes and embitters the critic. This
has further significance when we connect the portrayals to James’s theory regarding
experience and consciousness. We recall that, in the “Art of Fiction,” James advocates
the acquisition of a more inclusive perspective. He stresses that one can unleash his
capacity to perceive more keenly when he recognizes the importance of “feeling life in
general so completely,” which will lead to a more precise knowledge of its intricacies, or
“particular corner[s]” (381). In the representation of love between Corvick and
Gwendolyn, we understand that they have moved beyond the boundaries of mere selfconcern. In fact, even the search for meaning becomes secondary to their connection,
which we see as the narrator considers, “They would scarce have got so wound up if they
hadn’t been in love: poor Vereker’s meaning gave them endless occasion to put their
young heads together” (487). In contrast to the critic, who grows increasingly obsessed
with locating meaning, the couple uses the quest as a catalyst for the growth of their
relationship. Their individual endeavors for success become secondary. Thus, their
perspectives have shifted and expanded due to their concern for one another. This allows
them to “feel life” more completely, which ultimately leads to Corvick’s supposed
discovery.
26
James seems to echo the philosophies of Emerson and Nietzsche with his
description of how a change in consciousness connects to capabilities of the artist. When
Gwendolyn tells the critic that Corvick has figured out Vereker’s “general intention”
(490) while working in India, the critic expresses his surprise at the timing, musing,
“fancy finding our goddess in the temple of Vishnu!“(490). However, as Gwendolyn’s
account of the discovery continues, we understand that the foreign influence was exactly
the “chaos” that was necessary to facilitate the artistic clarity. Gwendolyn explains that
the “’figure in the carpet came out…like a tigress in the jungle2…when he wasn’t
thinking’” (490). Emerson’s theory that to “see all,” one must become “nothing”
connotes a loss of personal ego and a connection to oneness of humanity and nature. In
Gwendolyn’s description of Corvick’s ceasing thought in order to see Vereker’s work
more clearly, we can understand that James points to a similar phenomenon. It is when
he relinquishes his conscious attempt to find the one purpose of Vereker’s work that his
true consciousness expands. The loss of thought can be associated with a loss of selfawareness, which puts him in state in which he can become more aware of the intricacies
around him.
Further, as Gwendolyn reveals that the couple had planned his trip to India for
this very epiphany, her reasoning parallels Nietzsche’s description of the Dionysian
disruption that facilitates the artist’s transformation. She explains, “’We knew the change
would do it—that the difference of thought, of scene, would give the needed touch, the
This prefigures the similarities between this text and “The Beast in the Jungle,” which will be addressed
in Chapters Three and Four.
2
27
magic shake…The elements were all in his mind, and in the secousse of a new and
intense experience they just struck light’” (490). Here, James writes of what Nietzsche
would explain as the merging of the Apollonian and Dionysian principles. Nietzsche
associates structure and logic with Apollo and the riotous unexpected with Dionysus in
his discussion of how the combination of the two sensibilities facilitates artistic
expression. We understand that the illusion of the order and form to which Corvick had
once based his observations has been disrupted by the “intoxication” of a vastly new
experience. The “elements” that are “all in his mind,” represent the Apollonian
sensibility. However, it is only when the individual becomes “intoxicated” by the
Dionysian sensibility, which causes a loss of subjectivity and structured thought, that the
“light” of these elements can be revealed. We see that James highlights the shift in
consciousness as the most crucial aspect of artistry. He does not tell us what Corvick has
discovered, but how he has discovered it. James focuses his reader on the importance of
conscious experience in connection with art, just as he does in “The Art of Fiction.”
Further, this depiction echoes the reasoning behind James’s own reverence for
Matthew Arnold, one of the cultural and literary critics whom James did admire. William
Veeder writes of the reasoning behind this admiration in his essay, “Image as Argument:
Henry James and the Style of Criticism.” He interprets James’s statement that Arnold
“‘illuminates so many of the obscure problems presented by English life to the gaze of an
alien’” (James qtd. In Veeder 13), by clarifying “What this means is that the true critic
has enough distance upon his culture to recognize eccentricities and limitations that other
28
countrymen remain unconscious or enamored of” (173). This reasoning parallels
Gwendolyn and Corvick’s reasoning for planning his trip to India. The distance from the
normalcy of viewing life and literature within a structured context provides the shift in
perspective that facilitates Corvick’s ability to see beyond his expectations.
James continues to emphasize the importance of this “disruption” as he juxtaposes
Corvick’s epiphany with the critic’s frustration. The critic describes his approach to
deciphering meaning as a “game,” writing “literature was a game of skill, and skill meant
courage, and courage meant honour, and honour meant passion, meant life” (489). Here,
we see that the critic views the ability to interpret text as a game, which implicitly
connects it, not only to individuality, but a separation from and, perhaps, even animosity
towards others. In a game in which one exhibits skill, he is consumed with the self and
the quest for honor. We see that the critic equates honor with life, meaning he values
how he is perceived above all else. This contrasts the Nietzschian model of the artist’s
sensibility. In showing the stark difference between the critic’s approach and Corvick’s
enlightenment, James reveals his alignment with Nietzsche’s theory and undermines the
importance of mere subjectivity.
The critic is completely consumed with his subjectivity, which James underscores
throughout the text. The entire story explores the critic’s own perspective, which is
convoluted with his preoccupation over his proximity to the apparent “truth.” He writes
of his distress over Corvick and Gwendolyn’s search for “the figure,” saying, “I felt
humiliated at seeing other persons deeply beguiled by an experiment that had brought me
29
only chagrin” (486). It seems that the critic becomes so obsessed with Vereker’s meaning
because he comes to equate it with his sense of self. If victory in the “game” of literary
criticism becomes equated with “life,” the critic’s sense of self becomes even more
diminished as he “loses” the game to Corvick and Gwendolyn. This becomes further
apparent after Corvick’s death, when the critic’s perspective becomes so corrupted that
he looks over the significance of this death in a similar manner that he misses the
significance of the text. Instead of reflecting on the death of his friend, he obsesses over
the death of his potential knowledge, as Corvick was supposed to have revealed the
“figure” to the critic. He begins to ponder, “Was the figure in the carpet traceable or
describable only for husbands and wives,” confessing that this consideration causes him
to “wonder if [he] should marry Mrs. Corvick to get what [he] wanted” (495). Here, we
see that the critic’s ego has caused him to overlook love, which is one of the most
important elements of life. This moment seems the height of the critic’s self-obsession.
He considers Gwendolyn and, even marriage itself, a “move” in his game.
Gwendolyn’s reaction to the critic’s repeated inquiries about Corvick’s epiphany
highlight the erosion of the critic’s perspective. Although we are unsure if Gwendolyn
truly possesses the “secret,” she refuses to relinquish it to him. She states, “’It’s my
LIFE!’” Here, it seems that she speaks less of any concrete “secret” and more of her
marriage and the love she shared within it. We contrast this with the “game” that
constitutes the critic’s life. With this interaction, James, again points to the flaw of living
according to one’s ego. He establishes “life” as unobtainable for those, like the critic,
30
who do this. This scene also establishes a sense of romance in the text. We recall
James’s assertion that the “air of romance” within a work must be combined with “the
element of reality” (14). This blending of genres echoes Nietzsche’s theory and
establishes James’s intention to write according to a broader sense of experience than any
one genre allows.
We see that it is not just the “story,” but the text itself that seems to defy readerly
expectations in an attempt to place focus on the character’s consciousnesses rather than
follow a conventional story. The “truth” of this story lies in our examination of the
critic’s thoughts, rather than any specific event. We return to Stephen Mussil’s essay in
which he writes that, “given the variety of approaches in literary studies, we should…add
provisionally the condition of uniqueness” (779). This proposal points to the limitations
of adhering to a specific theoretical lens. Mussil suggests that approaching a work with a
predetermined type of reading in mind may result in overlooking what distinct features
actually constitute the text. Mussil asserts that, with ”The Figure in the Carpet,” James
cautions against the reliance on established rules for interpreting fiction. He shows that
the novelist cannot and should not be characterized according to predetermined
expectations, but must be read from a conscious perspective. We can see this as a
reinforcement of the importance of active, interpretive reading and writing, rather than
obedience to the conventions of genre, which echoes James’s contention in “The Art of
Fiction.”
31
The reader must consider elements outside of plot in order to understand that the
critic finally does reach an epiphany that transforms him into an artist. Although we
never see the critic reach any kind of enlightenment, we should consider the fact that
James writes this story using the first person perspective. This is somewhat rare in
James’s writing and, no doubt, is used to “shed light” on a particular aspect of the text
beyond plot. We recognize that the critic is the author of the text, which complicates the
apparent binaries between critical and artistic production. The critic has turned his life
into text, meaning that his perspective as a writer has changed. Rather than searching for
answers in someone else’s work, he seeks to create text out of his conscious experience.
The fact that he can create a story out of an exploration of this experience indicates a
drastic shift in his perspective, ego, and definition of life. If victory in the game of
literary interpretation was once equated with life itself for him, then surely the recorded
admittance of his failure at this means he has altered this qualification.
Early in the text, as he speaks to Vereker for the first time, the critic addresses his
current state, writing, “I am as much in the dark as ever, though I’ve grown used in a
sense to my obtuseness; at that moment, however, Vereker’s happy accent made me
appear to myself, and probably to him, a rare dunce” (481). We realize here that the
critic has not reached a conclusion about Vereker’s text. He admits to us early on that the
search both he and his reader embark upon will not end in the discovery that we expect.
This means that the critic, as an artist, seeks to reveal a greater truth than his story would
32
suggest. If he is now content to be “in the dark” in his critical interpretations, we must
ask what it is that he hopes to shed light on in his telling of this story.
It seems that he writes to relay the experience itself. His qualification of the
importance of his observations has drastically shifted. He places the importance on the
experience of the search, and not the revelation that we expect it to produce. Rather than
giving his reader an “answer” to what they seek in the text, which likely is also a
discovery of Vereker’s “general intention,” he instead provides us with the same quest as
he embarked upon. The fact that he never gives us a concrete answer about Vereker’s
work disrupts our literary expectations of satisfaction with a conclusion. This causes us
the same anxiety it caused the critic. Vittoria Intonti addresses this abrupt ending in her
essay “The Figure in the Carpet as an Allegory of Reading,” writing, “The quest does not
come to an end because the secret is not disclosed and the quest goes on in the reader’s
mind and in the subsequent critical debate” (160). It is this very unrest that the narrator
intends his reader to feel. However, rather than hoping to spark obsessive rumination, as
it does for the critic, we can interpret this as a test from James to recall Corvick’s
epiphany, and cease thinking in such traditional terms about our interpretations.
It seems that the critic’s intention is to suggest that the only “truth” in life and text
is the experience of it. After he hears of Corvick’s discovery, the critic shifts tense and
writes of his present state, saying, “Pen in hand, this way, I live the time over, and it
brings back the oddest sense of my having been, both for months and in spite of myself, a
kind of coerced spectator. All my life I had taken refuge in my eyes, which the
33
procession of events appeared to have committed itself to keep astare” (494). His
discovery, then, is that his perceptions were limited when he attempted to “see” with just
his eyes. This discovery comes when he “live[s] the time over” by writing of it. This
transforms him from existing as a spectator to living consciously aware of experience.
This makes him an artist, rather than a critic who is only reliant on his skill and
expectation.
We understand that the critic no longer relies only on himself to find truth, but
locates it in his sense of his surroundings. Life, then, is defined by experience and not
merely the honor he once sought. This is reinforced by the fact that the narrator never
names himself. Whereas this might initially seem like a choice of James’s in an attempt
to further accentuate the critic’s loss of perspective and life due to his obsession, when
we consider that the critic is also narrator, this seems to highlight the shift in his
consciousness. No longer concerned with individual glory, the critic, who has
transformed into an artist, relinquishes his ego in order to “see all” (Emerson 6).
Encompassed in this character, then, is both James’s critique of literary criticism
and his advice to the author as he describes it in “The Art of Fiction.” The focus of the
text becomes the critic’s transformation. James provokes his reader to recognize the
faults in the critic’s approach and what it is that leads to his redemption and resurrection
as an artist. By making his life into art, James’s narrator shows how a shift in perspective
and a disruption of senses can lead to the recognition of “story” in any occurrence. James
offers his reader a similar challenge as he does the artist in “The Art of Fiction.” He
34
suggests that one must resist passivity in life and art in order to reveal the truth and light
that comes from active experience.
35
Chapter 3: The Art of Fiction in “The Beast in the Jungle”
Similar to the critic’s quest in “The Figure in the Carpet,” James’s protagonist in
“The Beast in the Jungle” searches for meaning based on his generic expectations of
“adventure and escape,” that will lead to some sense of “poetic justice” (Richter 463).
For John Marcher, the search takes places within his own life, as he convinces himself
that an ambiguous future occurrence will determine the course of his existence. While he
awaits this event, he ignores his actual experiences, most importantly his relationship
with his friend, May, in whom he confides throughout his life, but never acknowledges
beyond her role in the search for his fate. Only when Marcher alters his narcissistic
perspective does he recognize that his focus has distracted him from the truth of his
experiences and the life present in each moment. Therefore, John Marcher attempts to
imitate the romantic formula, and in James’s exploration of the character’s “failure”
(323) and ultimate epiphany, he advocates the importance of a literary revolution.
The story opens at Weatherend, a mansion in which guests have gathered for a
luncheon and tour of the grounds. The narrator focuses on John Marcher, who is
distinguished by his preoccupation with the “poetry” of the artifacts in the manor, rather
than a desire to purchase them. While at Weatherend, Marcher encounters May Bartram,
whom he feels he has previously met, but cannot quite place, leaving him to suggest a
series of cities and acquaintances they might have shared, all of which are glamorous, and
none of which are accurate. May recalls a few details of their introduction, and just
before they separate, reminds him of a secret he divulged to her years ago. Marcher, who
36
initially fails to recall the secret, provokes her to describe it. After a lengthy cryptic
discussion of it, she finally says, “’You said you had had from your earliest time, as the
deepest thing within you, the sense of being kept for something rare and strange, possibly
prodigious and terrible, that was sooner or later to happen to you, that you had in your
bones the foreboding and the conviction of, and that would perhaps overwhelm you’”
(309).
Following this revelation, the characters agree that they will both “watch for”
(311) this occurrence together, and they establish a friendship. This relationship
continues over the years and, although the two often discuss Marcher’s fate, which they
coin, “The Beast in the Jungle,” Marcher also consciously practices being “unselfish,”
and reminds himself that May has “a life of her own” (312, 313). However, when May
becomes fatally ill, they begin a feverish discussion of “The Beast” that consumes their
last two visits. Just before her death, May claims that she knows what “The Beast” is and
knows that it has already come, but claims she is “too ill” to further articulate its features
to Marcher (328).
When May dies, Marcher contemplates his “unidentified past” which he equates
with a “lost consciousness” (335), and mourns the loss of the future he had spent his life
anticipating. After a year of travel, during which he notes his lack of excitement over his
proximity to “past glories” that once would have thrilled him, he returns to May’s grave.
While observing a grief-stricken man beside him, Marcher realizes that he is “the one
37
man to whom nothing on earth was to have happened” (339), and he could have, instead,
lived if he had loved May as she loved him.
Due to the ambiguous nature of Marcher’s quest, his relationship with May, and
his revelation, many interpretations of this story have developed. However, most critics
agree that the story is an exploration of the singular consciousness of John Marcher. This
diluted consciousness fails to provide him with a clear enough perspective to achieve
anything in his life. We can recall Steven Donadio’s assertion that James’s characters
“tell us who they are through what they see” (106).3 He relates this to Nietzsche’s
equation of “freedom” with one’s ability to “resist enslavement by another man’s
conception of the world” (178). If we examine John Marcher according to his
perspective, or, “what he sees,” we understand that he lives “enslaved” by the concept
that his life will reach its pinnacle when a climactic event, which he likens to “a beast
springing from the jungle,” defines him. Obsessed with this notion, he cannot perceive
the intrigue of his own existence.
The portrayal of such a corrupted perspective connects to Emerson’s theory in
Nature, and seems to reveal James’s subscription to certain Transcendentalist
fundamentals. In Emerson’s discussion of man’s tendency to overlook the elements of
nature presented to him daily, he writes, “To speak truly, few adult persons can see
nature. Most persons do not see the sun” (6). He refers to the lack of appreciation that
we exhibit as we become accustomed to certain aspects of life. Emerson urges readers to
3
Chapter Two explores how the critic’s perceptions of both text and his own life guide the narrative.
38
actively observe their surroundings in order to recognize the divinity within them. He
argues that it is the poet who must fully experience nature in order to reveal truth to his
reader. James points to a very similar concept in both “The Art of Fiction,” and “The
Beast in the Jungle.” He suggests that when one places meaning in only the most
“startling” incidents, he misses the profound importance of his experience and the “spider
web” of truths that are within it. John Marcher becomes so obsessed with imagined
potential, that he cannot “see” any aspect of his existence in the present.
Several critics have connected this story to James’s theories regarding fiction
writing. Megan Quigley, for instance, in her essay “Beastly Vagueness in Charles
Sanders Pierce and Henry James,” maintains that James wrote “The Beast in the Jungle”
as a reaction to his acquaintance, Pierce, who saw vagueness in writing as “merely an
excuse for inarticulacy” (364). Quigley notes that James, conversely, declared his own
fervent “‘confidence in the positive saving virtue of vagueness’” and called for modern
fiction’s “reinstatement of the vague” (364). Quigley sees “The Beast in the Jungle” as
advocating James’s call for vagueness in art.
Similarly, Rachel Ihara writes of James’s growing frustration with the “serial
literary market” of the nineteenth century, deducing that this likely resulted in his lack of
concern with “making it easy for his reader” (193). She sees the increasingly disjointed
literary style of his later works, like “The Beast in the Jungle,” as his struggle to maintain
“literary craftsmanship” in a market that was inundated with overtly formulaic writing.
39
“The Art of Fiction,” then, articulates his theory concretely, while his fictional works,
according to Ihara, express the same theory with their form.
Considering James’s preoccupation with issues of artistry, in both “The Art of
Fiction” and his prefaces, it seems that he may communicate similar theory in his fiction,
as Ihara and Quigley suggest. If we examine the primary focus in “The Art of Fiction”
we see that James was not chiefly frustrated with the consumers of generic, structured
fiction. Rather, he writes of his concern with the “producer, from whose point of view it
is of course that we are attempting to consider the art of fiction” (468). Therefore, if we
consider point of view in “The Beast in the Jungle,” we can read John Marcher as a
metaphor for the type of novelist with whom James is frustrated. There is a parallel in
Marcher’s logic and that of the novelistic approach that relies on figuring a narrative
around “extraordinary or startling incidents,” a feature of the romance novels popular in
British and American fiction at the time (470).
For evidence of this parallel, we can look to the story's opening, in which a group
of visitors tours the lavish Weatherend, a mansion that James describes as housing
"treasures of the arts" (303). This description encourages the reader to consider the
notion of artistic evolution. As Marcher wanders the rooms of "poetry and history" apart
from the group in order to "feel in a proper relation" with these ancient pieces, the reader
notices Marcher's preoccupation with the artifacts. He attempts to connect with the past
notions of artistry, finding a romantic sense in being in proximity to antique art, and
valuing it over his observation of the people and events that exist in his present. James’s
40
placement of these "fine things" that Marcher adores in a museum setting calls into
question their relevance in modern society.
Here, James seems to suggest that the past ideals of artistry are no longer
accessible. The narrator writes of the visitors of Weatherend who "dream of [their]
acquisition" by deeming the thought "wild" (303). Society now differs from that of the
previous era, in which these lofty pieces of art were more common. Marcher’s quest to
relate to the pieces, then, seems even more problematic. While the other guests qualify
the art as commodity, thus separating it from themselves, Marcher wishes to embody the
artifacts, indicating that he is unconcerned with the present and unrealistic in his sense of
his own importance. We see that Marcher attempts to keep an outdated art form alive.
We can read Marcher’s obsession with this as a reflection of James's own call for a shift
in artistic production. By using this scene to establish a character whom he depicts as
increasingly ridiculous throughout the story, we can ascertain James’s advocacy of the
genre of realism over the romantic or gothic novels of the nineteenth century, which are
defined by the magnitude of the events that occur within them. Marcher’s desire to
connect with this art foreshadows the manner in which he constructs his life around the
dramatic “Beast” incident, just as an author of romance would construct his narrative
around a spectacular occurrence.
We note the similarity between Marcher’s distracted existence and the type of
vision that Walter Besant held toward fiction writing. Besant insists that the author
should approach the construction of the story with a distinct sense of the incidents that
41
will define it. James, however, challenges this by questioning what it is that constitutes
such “incidents.” He writes, “It is an incident for a woman to stand up with her hand
resting on a table and look out at you in a certain way; or if it be not an incident I think it
will be hard to say what is” (470). He suggests that when authors only place importance
on the “extraordinary or startling incidents,” they ignore the potential stories that could be
detected in less dramatic, but just as compelling situations: what Emerson refers to as the
“miraculous in the common” (45). John Marcher, then, seems to represent the type of
author whom James admonishes in his essay. As Marcher constructs the narrative of his
life, he ruminates over the magnitude of its incidents, rather than noticing the potential in
its details.
The fact that John Marcher uses the “Beast” metaphor further connects this
character to James’s theory regarding the terms of incident. Marcher elaborates this
description, telling May that the “Beast” will be:
[Something] to wait for---to have to meet, to face, to see suddenly break
out in my life; possibly destroying all further consciousness, possibly
annihilating me; possibly, on the other hand, only altering everything,
striking at the root of all my world and leaving me to the consequences,
however they shape themselves (309)4.
The image of a beast confronting Marcher, either to destroy or irrevocably change his
existence, seems the epitome of a “startling incident,” that would constitute the climax of
The “secret” of Hugh Vereker’s work is, likewise, described as a “tigress in the jungle,” indicating a
connection with the nature of each protagonist’s quest. This will be addressed further in Chapter Three.
4
42
a novel with a traditional “story.” Similar to the premise of “The Figure in the Carpet,”
then, this story sets its reader up to anticipate a startling revelation that will shape
Marcher’s story. And, if we, like Marcher, simply await the introduction of the Beast, we
miss the story that the narrator presents.
The distinction between the narrator and his subject in this story also strongly
parallels this discussion of “incident” that he presents in “The Art of Fiction.” James
writes, “I do not pretend to estimate the degree of interest proceeding from [certain
incidents], for this will depend on the skill of the painter” (470). With this, he refers to
the aptitude of the author, whom he likens to a painter throughout the text, as the most
critical aspect of the story. He exemplifies this assessment with his “portraits” in “The
Beast in the Jungle.” The omniscient narrator of this text displays an abundance of skill
in drawing a story from a pronouncedly uneventful life. The narrator’s observations
entice the reader, rather than the grandiose nature of the events he portrays. He colors
each scene in a manner in which the audience can perceive every detail. For example, he
depicts the people in the opening scene at Weatherend as, “people to be observed, singly
or in couples, bending toward objects in out-of-the-way corners with their hands on their
knees and their heads nodding quite as with the emphasis of an excited sense of smell”
(303). Here, James, literally, shows his capacity to “know a particular corner [of life].”
We can see these people because of the narrator’s ability to observe and portray them.
John Marcher, however, embodies an antithetical nature to the voice that depicts
him. As Marcher awaits the metaphorical “beast” image that he imagines will constitute
43
the “real climax” of his existence (313), we see him miss the actual value and potential of
his experiences, particularly those with May. The narrator notes Marcher’s distracted
tendency when he and May meet at Weatherend, saying, “he would have liked to invent
something, get her to make-believe with him that some passage of a romantic or critical
kind had originally occurred” (304). He further defines Marcher’s romantic ideal, as he
specifies, “Marcher said to himself that he ought to have rendered her some service—
saved her from a capsized boat in the Bay, or at least recovered her dressing-bag, filched
from her cab, in the streets of Naples, by a lazzarone with a stiletto” (306). He qualifies
that, had one of these imagined scenarios occurred that, “then they would be in
possession of something” (306). The narrator’s free indirect discourse allows the reader
into Marcher’s thoughts, which continuously distract him from consciousness of his
reality. The narrator portrays his fixation with imagined drama as comically overt, and
his obsession with it as the only true “something” prevents him from truly seeing
anything.
This results in his delusion. He is constantly imagining a past or future, rather
than noticing anything in his life experiences. For example, he recollects his life in a
more ideal manner than it actually occurred. The narrator refers to his vague recognition
of May’s face as “troubling him rather pleasantly…as the sequel of something of which
he had lost the beginning” (304). That he connects the meeting to a “sequel,” highlights
the tendency of Marcher to imagine his life as “make believe,” much like a fictional
story. Further, as he speaks to May, he recalls his initial meeting with her at the Palace of
44
Caesars, while she corrects him by reminding him that they actually met at Pompeii. We
see that Marcher is shaping his life according to a completely imagined romanticized
ideal, as represented by his “remembrance” of the royal palace. In actuality, however, the
small details, symbolized by his failure to remember the ruins of Pompeii, are lost to
Marcher. Marcher loses the potential to see his reality through his obsession with idea.
This idea seems structured around his expectations of romance, which was perpetuated
by the prominent novels in the nineteenth century.
In his essay “James’s ‘The Beast in the Jungle,’” Raymond Benoit notices this
consistent mention of Marcher’s thoughts, and concludes that the entire story was created
to juxtapose the states of knowing and being. Benoit writes that Marcher places “thinking
over what the reality is,” and classifies the character as one who “degrades appearance
and exalts idea” (30). Benoit seems to point to the fact that Marcher’s fantasies override
his acknowledgement of actual existence. We see this as Marcher searches for a story in
his meeting with May, reaching for romance where none truly exists, rather than noticing
the reality of his surroundings. This obsession with “idea” opposes the narrator’s
awareness of “appearance,” which “paints a picture” out of his acute observation of the
ordinary at Weatherend. Marcher’s preoccupation lies in the magnitude of events, which
prohibits him from experiencing truth in the moment and “feeling life in general,” as
James advises the author to do in “The Art of Fiction” (474). Marcher even confesses to
May that his life has been consumed by “thinking,” as he speaks to her shortly before her
death. He says, “’I feel now as if I had scarce done anything else. I appear to myself to
45
have spent my life in thinking of nothing but dreadful things’” (325). Marcher’s
admittance that he has spent his life “thinking,” rather than existing, supports Benoit’s
reading and exemplifies how this relates to the character’s flawed subjectivity.
In the statement that his life has consisted of “nothing” but thinking about his
“dreadful” future, we understand that the friendship between Marcher and May has been
dictated by Marcher’s egotism.. Even his conscious effort to “remember that [May] had a
life of her own, with things that might happen to her” (312) reflects his extreme sense of
self-importance. That he must remind himself of such an evident idea shows that he is
completely consumed with thoughts of his own life. Similarly, he praises himself for
making her a present on her birthday, touting it as “proof…that he hadn’t sunk into real
selfishness” (316). Again, that he considers this very basic aspect of friendship somehow
significant shows that he is only concerned with his own existence and perceptions of
himself. This becomes more apparent when May develops a fatal illness and prepares to
die. During their final visits, Marcher worries about his own life. Rather than
acknowledging the present moment, Marcher is preoccupied with his “Beast.” He
attempts to consider May, but only in relation to his own quest, worrying, “What if she
should die before knowing, before seeing--?” in reference to her “seeing” the “Beast”
(321). James underscores that Marcher’s concern is only with himself and his imagined
future, removing him from experience and leaving him consumed with thought and ego.
Much like the narrator of “The Figure in the Carpet,” Marcher exhibits such an
obsession with his own quest that even death becomes merely a potential barrier to his
46
own acquisition of knowledge.5 When May reveals that she knows what constitutes the
“Beast,” but refuses to tell him, Marcher accuses, “’if having this [belief], you give me no
more light on it, you abandon me’” (326). And, when May says that she is “’too ill’” to
tell him the “’truth,’” the narrator describes Marcher’s reaction “It sprang up sharp to
him, and almost to the lips, the fear she might die without giving him light” (328). James
uses these depictions to exemplify how corroded Marcher’s perceptions have become.
He sees her refusal to provide him with knowledge about his own life as her abandoning
him, while overlooking the much larger tragedy of her impending death.
James further emphasizes Marcher’s romantic delusions by playing with the
conventions of tragedy in this scene. He oscillates between poignant prose and comedic
dialogue. We sense the gravity of the situation as the narrator introduces the setting,
writing, “He had gone in late to see her, but evening hadn’t settled and she was presented
to him in that long fresh light of waning April days which affects us often with a sadness
sharper than the greyest hours of autumn” (323). And, when Marcher sees May ill for the
first time, the narrator describes, “she communicated with him as across some gulf or
from some island of rest that she had already reached and it made him feel strangely
abandoned” (324). Again, the narrative itself contrasts the perceptions of the characters,
who are still involved in such a trivial and convoluted discussion that it strikes the reader
as absurd. While May is clearly dying, Marcher launches into a discussion of his own
potential “suffering,” beginning their conversation by asking her, “’What do you regard
5
The critic views George Corvick’s death as a loss of his own potential knowledge.
47
as the very worst that at this time of day can happen to me?’” (324). Their dialogue then
spirals into comedic wordplay and a series of misunderstandings, with Marcher asking
May, for instance, if she thinks his fate will be “’more monstrous than all of the
monstrosities we’ve named?’” (326). Not only does this scene, then, show James’s own
ability to challenge genre structure, it points to the flaw in romantic sensibility and the
romance genre. If we see Marcher as a representation of the flawed novelist, we
understand that he continues pushing for his prescribed narrative structure, despite the
clear story unraveling in his existence. Further, in his overt display of ego, James
exemplifies the ridiculousness of assigning so much importance to one’s own self.
Similar to the critic, then, Marcher requires a disruption from this all-consuming
subjectivity. James underscores that Marcher’s perspective requires a shift, rather than
any outside event. After May suggests that the “Beast” has already presented itself to
Marcher, he experiences a crisis of consciousness. The narrator writes, “so absent…was
any question of anything to still to come. He was to live entirely with the other question,
that of his unidentified past, that of having to see his fortune muffled and masked” (334).
Marcher has spent the majority of his life looking toward the event and, faced with the
fear that it has already occurred, he decides to spend the rest of his life examining his
past. The narrator assesses this, writing, “The torment of this vision became then his
occupation; he couldn’t perhaps have consented to live but for the possibility of
guessing” (334). We note the option that Marcher overlooks. He refuses to live in the
present experience of his life and still focuses on the ambiguous Beast.
48
James continues to explore Marcher’s consciousness as he writes that Marcher
strives “to win back by an effort of thought the lost stuff of consciousness,” continuing,
“He declared to himself at moments that he would either win it back or have done with
consciousness forever” (334). We understand that Marcher places so much importance
on the “Beast” that he would rather capture his remembrance of the past than continue to
exist in the present. Several lines later, James categorizes the importance of Marcher’s
obsession, writing, “The lost stuff of consciousness became thus for him as a strayed or
stolen child to an unappeasable father” (335). Again, we understand that Marcher lives to
recall the past in the same way he once lived to anticipate the future. In either case, he
misses the experience of his present. James emphasizes this flaw with his repetition of
the word “consciousness” throughout this passage. It is not an actual event that Marcher
has missed, but the conscious experience of any event.
Much like the critic in “The Figure in the Carpet,” Marcher’s shift in
consciousness begins when he immerses himself in the foreign. Marcher visits Asia for a
year, “spending himself on scenes of romantic interest” (335). However, unlike the
wonder that the artifacts at Weatherend spark in him in the story’s opening, the ancient
beauty of these scenes only highlights his own lack of distinction. The narrator writes,
“the things he saw couldn’t help being common when he had become common to look at
them. He was simply now one of them himself—he was in the dust, without a peg for the
sense of difference” (335). We understand that Marcher, once convinced he was destined
for something exceptional, begins to accept his status as “common.” His exposure to the
49
“past glories” in Asia now only illuminates his own ordinary existence. While this
seems, initially, to cause him distress, it ultimately leads to a similar epiphany as the
critic experiences: a disruption of a purely subjective existence that leads to the
recognition of the truth of “common” experience.
This finally occurs for Marcher in the final scene in which Marcher visits May’s
grave. James writes that, “in his finally so simplified world this garden of death gave
him the few square feet of earth on which he could still most live. If was as if, being
nothing anywhere else for any one, nothing for even himself, he were just everything
here” (336). We understand that when Marcher finally stops placing imagined ideals
upon himself and others, he can finally exist in the moment and begin to live.
When looking at an unnamed man in the graveyard, who mourns his wife,
Marcher experiences a “perception so sharp that nothing else in the picture comparatively
lived…nothing but the deep ravage of the features he showed” (338). The narrator writes
of the epiphany Marcher comes to due to this:
He had seen outside his life, not learned it within…It had not come to him,
the knowledge, on the wings of experience; it had brushed him, jostled
him, upset him, with the disrespect of chance, the insolence of accident.
Now that the illumination had begun, however, it blazed to the zenith, and
what he presently stood there gazing at was the sounded void of his life
(339).
50
Marcher’s “blazing illumination,” then, comes from, not an outward event, but a shift in
his own outlook. He gains the ability to paint a picture of the moment, just as Henry
James encourages the novelist to do, and just as his narrator does throughout the story.
James pointedly writes that Marcher was “conscious of his neighbor” (337).
Marcher knows nothing of the man’s life story, but is struck by the “features he showed”
(338), in just the one moment in which he sees him. And, after that brief moment, the
narrator notes the impact of this, seemingly minor, experience on Marcher, saying, “the
stranger passed, but the raw glare of his grief remained” (338). This shows that Marcher
has finally ceased his obsession with searching for a great event, placed value on the truth
of the moment, and gained perspective from it, as a result.
This scene embodies Henry James’s theory of novel writing in “The Art of
Fiction,” and actually mirrors the brief story of the English novelist that he relays in the
essay. James writes that the novelist gained her inspiration to compose one of her
successful works simply by noticing a group of children at a table. James notes, “the
glimpse made a picture; it lasted only a moment, but that moment was experience” (469).
In much the same way, James writes of Marcher knowing very little of his neighbor, but
painting a picture by experiencing his observation of a moment, which, in turn, allows
him to finally see the entire missing narrative of his own life.
Interestingly, as the character’s revelation continues, the narrator directly
expresses Marcher’s experience by incorporating allusions to literature. He says, “the
sight that had just met his eyes named to him, as in letters of quick flame, something he
51
had utterly, insanely missed” (338). The simile of the fiery letters spelling out that which
Marcher has missed suggests the illuminating ability words possess when they are
utilized and recognized consciously. We can see a parallel between this scene and the
story's opening. At Weatherend, Marcher had been absorbed by his quest for a
connection with the poetry and artistic artifacts. However, he, instead, finds a true
connection to the symbolic "letters" of his sudden consciousness of the present moment
in the graveyard. Although Weatherend represents Marcher's ideal of artistry, he
experiences a genuine epiphany in an unexpected place by becoming aware of his
surroundings.
James continues to describe Marcher's revelation in literary terms as Marcher
reflects on his “void” life. James writes, “he turned in his dismay, and, turning, he had
before him in sharper incision than ever, the open page of his story” (339). He proceeds
with the novel metaphor as he depicts the “passage of his neighbor”(339). Again, James
explains John Marcher’s life in terms of a written story that he had overlooked, or
“turned” past, until this particular “passage.” The double meaning of this word focuses
the reader, not only on the passing of the man, but the actual written passage of the event
within the story.
If we examine James's language here, we can understand John Marcher’s life as a
metaphorical piece of literature and Marcher, himself, as the faulty narrator. Marcher
represents the novelist who concerns himself with plot structure, symbolized by his
search for the one, defining event of his existence, which will "alter everything" (309).
52
Because he allows this to guide his life story, he ends up “utterly” and “insanely” missing
the most important feature of his story, as represented by May.
Marcher realizes that he has overlooked his relationship with May while at the
graveyard. James writes, “The name on the table smote him as the passage of his
neighbor had done, and what it said to him, full in the face, was that she was what he had
missed” (339). We understand that Marcher has missed the value of his friendship with
May, who provided him unconditional love throughout his life. His realization continues,
“she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her…but in the chill of
his egotism” (339). Again, James reinforces that Marcher’s ego has prevented him from
experiencing life and recognizing the love within it.
In “The Art of Fiction,” James explicitly cautions the novelist “try to be one of the
people on whom nothing is lost!” (469). Using Marcher as a metaphor for a novelist on
whom everything is “lost,” James, similarly, enforces this instruction. The narrator notes
that Marcher “figured his life” around his anticipation of “whether the crouching beast
were destined to slay him or be slain” (313). The irony of this assessment lies in
Marcher’s profound recognition at the graveyard that his distraction with the beast has
actually “slain” his consciousness. Therefore, he loses his life’s story by attempting to
find it.
James qualifies this conclusion in the final pages, as he writes that Marcher “had
been the man of his time, the man, to whom nothing on earth was to have happened”
(339). Here, the narrative confronts the reader with the idea that “The Beast in the
53
Jungle” was created out of essentially “nothing.” The intrigue, then, has been created
from perspective and narrative voice, without reliance on “incident” at all.
“The Beast in the Jungle” conveys Henry James’s theory that, despite the amount
of effort a novelist exerts to find a story, he will find “nothing in the world” of value
without conscious observation. James effectively relays this truth with his figurative
depiction of Marcher’s journey to “illumination.” Further, James’s own prose literally
displays the narrative artistry in composing from a conscious perspective. We can
connect this story to James’s “Nietzschian” approach to art. James associates Marcher’s
obsession for individual distinction with his pronounced lack of productivity, and shows
that his epiphany occurs when his subjectivity becomes disrupted by the unexpected.
Therefore, this text communicates the same philosophy as that in “The Art of Fiction.” It
reflects Henry James’s theory that when one is restricted by his search for a formulaic
story, he loses his ability to effectively create, whereas when he experiences life from a
conscious perspective, he unleashes his capacity to find a compelling story in any
incident.
54
Chapter 4: Love and The Art of Fiction
In both “The Figure in the Carpet” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” we must more
closely consider the prominent role of the female characters who seemingly possess the
“secrets” that elude the protagonists. Due to the apparent lack of sexual interest on the
part of these men towards the women, many critics have seen these stories as reflections
of homosexual anxieties common in society during the early twentieth century. Others
have read the disparity between the female and male characters as an expression of the
distress James had about tragic relationships in his own life. In either reading, May
Bartram and Gwendolyn Erme both embody what their male counterparts fail to see.
Despite the conflicting interpretations of these relationships, they are each ultimately lost
opportunities to recognize and experience human connection. In many ways, then, these
stories might be considered “love stories.” But, by presenting love outside of the context
of romance, James emphasizes the vital elements of life that the genre ignores. As
characters who cannot see beyond the romantic narrative structure, which venerates
adventure and associates marriage with ultimate contentment, John Marcher and the
unnamed critic miss their potential to experience love. With these portrayals, then, James
challenges romantic literary depictions, just as he does in “The Art of Fiction.” He
suggests that the structure simplifies and, therefore, minimalizes the complexity of
human desire and connection.
The specifics of John Marcher and May Bartram’s relationship have been the
subject of a great deal of critical evaluation. In his biography of James, Leon Edel
55
focuses primarily on this relationship in his discussion of the story, relating it to James's
own profound and, ultimately tragic relationship with Constance Fenimore Woolson.6
Edel views "The Beast in the Jungle" as a personal catharsis for James, who had trouble
grasping the mystery surrounding her death and his relationship with her. Edel sees
James's story as an attempt to convey the "gloom in his soul" over having devoted
himself to the heroines he wrote, rather than Woolson, whom he never properly
acknowledged. Edel contends that, with this story, James relays the truth that "one could
only love when one ceased to love oneself" (560).
Conversely, Eve Sedgwick views May and Marcher's relationship as one based
upon May's desire to aid Marcher in defining and acknowledging his homosexual
"secret," or the panic he experiences due to his refusal to accept his potential to have
homosexual inclinations. Sedgwick equates Marcher's experience to a life lived "in the
closet." She, consequently, views May's acknowledgment of his homosexual panic and
subsequent involvement with him as her attempt to free him from it by nurturing his
natural inclinations. However, Sedgwick notes the narcissism in Marcher that prevents
this from occurring, as he cannot "perceive or value her as a person beyond her
complicity in his view of his own predicament" (509).
Carolyn Tate complicates Sedgwick’s reading by offering textual evidence that
May recognizes Marcher’s homosexual panic because she, too, experiences it. In her
6
Woolson, a fellow novelist and close friend of James’s, seemingly committed suicide by jumping from
her second-story bedroom window in 1894. Although there was apparent speculation about the nature of
their relationship, Edel concludes that James was incapable of “too close a friendship or flirtation with the
opposite sex” (346) due to his preoccupation with his craft.
56
essay “Rethinking May Bartram in ‘The Beast in the Jungle,’” Tate offers, “Bartram’s
knowledge comes from experience. She understands Marcher so well and can so clearly
articulate the difficulty of his position because she feels something akin to it” (23). She
concludes, “It is possible, and perhaps even necessary to begin reading ‘The Beast in the
Jungle’ as offering alternatives in the form of friendship and companionship that
circumvent homosexual policing” (28).
Despite the contradictions in these readings, each identifies May as the symbol of
what Marcher fails to see. May represents the story of Marcher’s life that he never
acknowledges during her life due to his preoccupation with exactly what she attempts to
define for him. For Sedgwick and Tate, this is an acceptance of his humanity outside of
socially accepted gender expectations, and for Edel, this is a loving relationship outside
of obsessive self-love. In Sedgwick’s assertion, then, Marcher glorifies the imposed
configuration of sexual normativity over the exploration of his true self. From Edel’s
perspective, Marcher remains “safe” in the only love he can control himself. And, in
Tate’s reading, Marcher fails to recognize the companionship of a friend who desires
nothing more from him than mutual acceptance. We see that, in each of these theories,
Marcher chooses adherence to idealistic expectations over exploration of his genuine
perspective. He fails to see the potential in this relationship due to his romantic
preoccupation with notions of self-importance. According to all of these critical
interpretations, Marcher remains isolated from any connection with May in favor of
maintaining a comfortable, yet false sense of control over his fate.
57
We can relate this to James’s discussion of the problematic nature of censorship
in “The Art of Fiction.” We recall his assessment of the romance genre, in which he
writes that, “there is a traditional difference between what people know and what they
agree to admit that they know, that which they see and that which they speak of, that
which they feel to be a part of life and that which they allow to enter into literature”
(474). He suggests that this type of intentional omission may be equated with
“corruption,” rather than “morality” (475). In his portrayal of John Marcher, we see how
this corruption might manifest. His perspective filters the truth of the life unfolding
around him. He constantly looks outside of experience for an event that seems more
significant. We see this from the story’s opening, in which he longs for a connection to
the “poetry” (303) of the artifacts at Weatherend, rather than interacting with the people
around him. In “The Poet,” Emerson warns that this type of admiration of “form” is
reserved for “amateurs” who are often “selfish and sensual” (386). These qualities define
Marcher. He fetishizes the pieces of art, seemingly believing them to be spiritual relics,
and thinks they can lead him to a poignant revelation. But they simply cause him to miss
interaction with humanity, which has the capacity to lead him to a true epiphany.
We can understand that his distraction from experience and focus on grandeur
interferes with his ability to “know, feel, and see” love outside of narrative structure. We
see this when May proposes that Marcher’s “’expectation’” might be that “’of falling in
love’” during their initial meeting. (309). Marcher briefly considers the possibility,
saying, “’what’s in store for me may be no more than that,’” before dismissing the idea
58
by claiming to have already been in love and found it underwhelming. He determines,
“‘It was agreeable, it was delightful, it was miserable…But, it wasn’t strange. It wasn’t
what my affair’s to be’” (310). May grasps the insinuation responding, “‘You want
something all to yourself—something that nobody else knows or has known’” (310).
Marcher concedes by admitting that this is the nature of his destiny. In this interaction,
we see that Marcher qualifies love as unworthy of his distinct fate. He rejects May’s
suggestion because he values “strangeness” over his actual experience and personal
distinction over shared connection. We understand that he views himself as a romantic
hero, destined for intense “adventure” before settling into a more “agreeable” state, which
leaves him unable to recognize the significance of his potential relationship with May,
even though she alludes to it during their first meeting.
This could be because he attempts to repress potentially difficult or disturbing
aspects of life, just as the romantic writer would exclude them from texts. Both
Sedgwick and Tate point to the exceedingly controversial nature of homosexuality in the
early twentieth century, citing this as a significant reason that the characters cannot
articulate or even recognize their desires. Tate writes, “The ‘nameless’ designation of
desire between women defines it as an absence similar though not identical to
Sedgwick’s analysis of Christian discourse about male homosexuality” (21). She refers
to the “troubled sexuality” within the text as a result of the “discursive denial” of
homosexual desire in society. A prominent aspect of society’s “denial” would be the lack
of discussion of homosexuality within popular novels. Given the fact that James
59
criticizes his contemporaries for neglecting to include “thorny” (475) aspects of life in
literature, though, it seems unlikely that he would refuse to directly approach this theme
if this was his purpose in the text. Rather, the absence of any mention of Marcher’s
sexuality seems to connect to the character’s flawed subjectivity. Marcher describes love
as “agreeable, delightful and miserable.” But, none of these account for the desire or
compassion that are aspects of real love. The description reads like the trivialized version
of love as it is presented in generic texts. With his portrayal of the delusional Marcher,
who cannot recognize either love or desire, James argues that a more complex
exploration of topics must be approached in literature or the consumer will experience
anxiety and confusion when confronted with them in life. This anxiety can lead to the
incapability to extrapolate meaning from experience. For Marcher, who can be read as
both a consumer of nineteenth century romance novels, and the creator of his life’s
narrative, this causes inaction and an inability to recognize of any true sense of himself.
His lack of any sexual desire points to his complete lack of awareness of the experience
of life.
Sedgwick sees the story as built around this theme of “absence,” citing the most
prominent absence to be that of Marcher’s “prescribed heterosexual desire” (504) for
May. However, she notes that Marcher’s “future secret…includes, though it is not
necessarily limited to, the possibility of something homosexual” (507). She argues that
May attempts to nurture his acceptance of any sexual desire, which she views as inhibited
by his fear of accepting the possibility of homosexual inclinations. Sedgwick examines
60
Marcher’s epiphany that, “She was what he had missed…The escape would have been to
love her; then, then he would have lived” (339). She explains that this means he “should
have desired her” (504), but his anxiety prevented it. If Sedgwick concedes that this
anxiety ultimately reflects more about the character’s unwillingness to accept the
unexpected, we understand that he prefers to believe that he can manipulate his existence,
rather than allow his structured world to become disrupted by acknowledging the
unexpected, as represented by May. If James uses this story to reflect the delusion
perpetuated by strict romance novels, we can interpret Marcher as distracted from
recognizing himself outside of the character he imagines himself to be, which is one who
expects a “strange” adventure in order to experience poetic justice. Marcher is entangled
in literary form and unable to exist consciously as a result.
However, we must consider that, in fact, it might have been May, not Marcher,
who prescribes him the direction for his “story.” James insinuates the potential that May
invents the concept of “the Beast.” In the opening scene, we recall that May first
introduces the reader, and possibly Marcher, to the notion that he harbors a secret. And,
it is she, not Marcher, who articulates its nature. The narrator highlights Marcher’s
concern that their encounter at Weatherend will not produce an extraordinary revelation,
writing, “He was really almost reaching out in imagination…for something that would
do, and saying to himself that if it didn’t come, this new incident would simply and rather
awkwardly close” (307). Just when Marcher feels he is “failing” to locate this revelation
in their meeting, he reflects, “she herself decided to take up the case and, as it were, save
61
the situation” (307), in reference to May’s disclosure of the existence of a secret between
them. It seems possible, then, that May, yearning to make a connection with Marcher,
contrives an excuse to remain in contact with him. When we consider that it takes
considerable time for her to only vaguely define this secret (after being directly asked to
do so by Marcher7), the suspicion of her deception increases. Marcher, drawn to both the
romance of the scenario and the potentially “heroic” (318) nature of the quest, may feign
remembrance of the secret to provide his life’s narrative with some semblance of
direction. The conception of “the Beast,” then, is motivated by a desire for
companionship, while Marcher’s fixation with it is sparked from his quest for a “story.”
This further highlights his comedic misinterpretation of life and his inability to
experience the unexpected. Again, James exposes the divergence between life and the
romance genre.
Because we see Marcher’s fascination with the spectacular from this opening
scene, we can understand that he refuses to recognize May because her presence in his
life is decidedly “unspectacular,” which is highlighted by his disappointment that they
shared more bland memories than he had hoped. Therefore, Marcher does not see the
potential May holds to affect and alter his imagined narrative. Marcher’s obsession with
the “plot” of his life restricts him from seeing the true potential for intrigue in his
existence.
7
Marcher, who goes along with the suggestion that he did tell her a secret years prior, requests that May
define it, asking “‘What, exactly, was the account I gave---?’” (309).
62
Had he recognized May in his life, Marcher maintains that “then he would have
lived” (339). With this epiphany, James again critiques the conventions of genre by
showing how the traditional romantic structure conflicts with reality, and, more
specifically, love. We understand that Marcher “would have lived” if he had seen the
significant impact that any human connection could have had on his life. May exhibits
unconditional concern for Marcher and enthusiasm for his quest. This type of selfless
devotion defines love, rather than romance. Therefore, even if, as Sedgwick suggests,
Marcher is disinterested in heterosexual desire, he still had the potential to experience a
loving connection with May that might have ultimately revealed a crucial feature of his
essential self.
The two characters, then, juxtapose one another, with Marcher embodying the
delusion of romance and May exhibiting the essence of love. During Marcher’s epiphany
at the grave, James writes, “She had lived—who could say now with what passion?—
since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her…but in the
chill of his egotism and the light of her use” (339). Therefore, while May dies in the
story, it is Marcher who realizes that never actually lived because he structured his
existence around an imagined, subjective ideal, rather than recognizing and appreciating
genuine love from May. Thus, we can understand that the story addresses the theme of
“absence,” but we can also understand it through its depiction of “presence,” as
Marcher’s ultimate awareness of the present moment leads to his ability to relinquish his
delusion and reach a greater understanding of love and life.
63
Like John Marcher, the critic in “The Figure in the Carpet” fails to see
Gwendolyn Erme beyond her potential to help him in his quest for meaning within
Vereker’s texts. Gwendolyn’s character evolves a great deal throughout the story,
however. And, when we examine her complex role in the critic’s search, we understand
that she, like May, embodies love. Over the course of the story, Gwendolyn’s fixation
with romance8 transforms into a profound recognition of the substance in human
connection. This character, then, contrasts with the critic, who is unable to recognize life
outside of Vereker’s texts. Like Marcher, the critic’s preoccupation with romance
surpasses his ability to recognize love. This text, then, also reflects James’s intention to
complicate the romantic genre and distinguish popular fiction from realism and artistry.
Vittoria Intonti addresses the sexual implications of “The Figure in the Carpet,”
in “‘The Figure in the Carpet’ as an Allegory of Reading’” as she considers the critic’s
inability to “penetrate the text” due to his “emotional sterility” (163). She considers his
“critical impotence” may be, at least partially due to “the confusions he makes between
the love of literature and the love of human beings” (162). Similar to Sedgwick’s reading
of Marcher, Intonti theorizes that this “may be the result of his nourishing hidden,
repressed, or inexpressible feelings or desires in his unconscious” (162). I would offer
that it is because of his love of conventional literature that he cannot understand or even
perceive the love of human beings and his repression is a symptom of his literary
obsession.
8
We see the character’s fascination with romantic scenarios both in the value she assigns to marriage and
in the narrator’s implication regarding the trivial nature of her early novels (45).
64
The “love of human beings” to which Intonti refers seems a specific reference to
Gwendolyn and Corvick. Throughout the text, the critic exhibits pointed fascination with
the couple in which he, almost comically, misperceives their connection. We recall the
critic’s preoccupation with Gwendolyn and Corvick’s relationship, as he expresses
concern that their search for meaning in Vereker’s work may be secondary to their
relationship. He writes, “They would scarce have got so wound up if they hadn’t been in
love” (487). Here, he seems judgmental of their priorities, suggesting that he views his
search as somehow more noble. In actuality, however, it is his priorities that are flawed.
He values fiction more than life. For James, however, the two should be inextricably
linked. Therefore, we see the critic’s perspective become increasingly fruitless, while
Gwendolyn’s and Corvick’s become more meaningful. With this depiction, James
cautions against placing too much faith in fiction and none in the experience of life.
However, James is not criticizing all fiction, but the type that limits one’s
perception of life. James associates the critic with “cheap journalese” and offers that his
“dealings were mainly with the ladies and the minor poets” (477) prior to receiving
Vereker’s novel. These references suggest that the critic’s experience has been with the
romantic genre. His exposure, then, would repeatedly have been to works defined by
their “absence of discussion” of certain “thorny” topics (474). We understand that James
presents his reader with an idea of the type of corruption that can occur due to this genre,
just as he does in “The Art of Fiction.” It seems likely that the critic’s lack of
understanding of life and love could be due to his repeated readings of romantic fiction.
65
Therefore, when he attempts to find greater meaning in Vereker’s texts, he is still trapped
by his expectation of genre.
For, the critic, much like Marcher, consistently occupies himself with romance
and fails to recognize the “miraculous” nature of lived experience. While love might be
depicted in a spectacular manner in the literature to which the critic is accustomed, it is
actually “life” itself, just as May describes it to him. We recall that Gwendolyn refuses to
reveal Corvick’s discovery following his death. This prompts the critic to wonder, “Was
it Gwendolyn’s idea…to liberate this animal only on the basis of the renewal of such a
relation? Was the figure traceable only for husbands and wives—for lovers supremely
united?” (495). We see that the critic begins to associate the “secret” with love, although
his confusion over what love is prevents his revelation from going any further. James
highlights his conflation of love and romance when the critic asks himself if he “should
marry Mrs. Corvick to get what [he] wanted” (495). In a romance novel, marriage
signifies contentment and conclusion. James reinforces that this type of portrayal
perpetuates delusion and prevents the reader from recognizing real love.
We see the distinct parallels between this story and “The Beast in the Jungle,”
even in the imagery used to refer to the “secret” each protagonist attempts to uncover.
Both female characters guard a metaphoric “animal”9 which becomes increasingly
equated with love. The scene in which the critic confronts Gwendolyn mirrors the one in
which May refuses to tell Marcher about his “beast” prior to her death. In “The Figure in
We can refer back to the description of Vereker’s secret as a “tigress in the jungle” (490) referenced in
Chapter Two.
9
66
the Carpet,” James also leads us to see that Gwendolyn refers to something beyond what
the critic understands. Although she claims to know Vereker’s “trick,” James sets us up
to question her transparency. Gwendolyn has already lied to the critic earlier in the story
about her engagement to Corvick. The critic reflects, “I was troubled by the disparity of
the two accounts; but after a little I felt Corvick’s to be the one I least doubted” (492).
This prompts us to see Gwendolyn as somewhat untrustworthy and, thus, when she
refuses to tell the critic Corvick’s “secret,” we must question if she knows it at all.
Gwendolyn, like May Bartram, is potentially lying about possessing knowledge of any
one “secret” and, instead, commenting on the importance of love. Her emotion suggests
that she, instead, speaks of her “life” with Corvick and not a concrete discovery about
Vereker’s text. This suspicion becomes heightened when she tells the critic he has
“insulted him.” The critic questions, “do you mean Vereker?” to which Gwendolyn
exclaims, “I mean the Dead!” (496).
If, then, Gwendolyn speaks of her love as her “life,” and not literature, we
understand the she has made a distinction between fiction and life, choosing life as the
more important. Through her experience marrying and then tragically and unexpectedly
losing her husband, she is forced to recognize that real love exists outside of the romantic
delusion of a “love story with a happy ending” (Richter 463). As a result of this
revelation, she becomes a more successful novelist. The critic praises her later novel,
calling it “a tissue tolerably intricate” and stating that, “it was a carpet with a figure of its
own” (496). This depiction exemplifies James’s theory that one must become conscious
67
of existence, and not preoccupied by romantic form, in order to create superior art. It
also connects to Emerson’s assertion that “he who is in love is wise and becoming wiser”
(1). He explains that when one is in love, “he is never self-possessed,” and goes on to
associate “self-possession” with “death.” One in love, according to Emerson, “sees
newly every time he looks at the object beloved” (1). In James’s portrayal of
Gwendolyn’s artistic evolution following her relationship with Corvick, he makes a very
similar point about the potential for an expansion of perspective when one experiences
real love and can distinguish it from romance.
Further, we must consider that the critic also becomes an artist and constructs this
narrative from an enlightened perspective. Therefore, he underscores the aspects of it
that he finds most crucial. By chronicling Gwendolyn’s initial preoccupation with
marriage and the failure of this to provide ultimate contentment, we understand that the
critic uses her character to highlight how the romantic formula conflicts with our
understanding of life. His own work, then, also becomes “a figure with a carpet all its
own.” By juxtaposing his own romantic subjectivity with Gwendolyn’s revelation about
love, the critic exposes the how the complex reality of existence conflicts with depictions
in much of literature. Like John Marcher, the critic recognizes that he failed to see love
due to his preoccupation with the excitement of romance.
Both May Bartram and Gwendolyn Erme are crucial in aiding our understanding
of the protagonists with whom they interact. Rather than including simplistic, onedimensional portrayals of romantically inclined heroines, James presents these characters
68
as representations of real love, which cannot be confined by any definitive form. The
male characters’ inability to understand them shows that they have lost any recognition of
or potential for this love due to their respective obsessions. With these depictions, then,
James challenges the conventions of romance and encourages his readers to see the
potential corruption of strict genre boundaries. James uses these portrayals to show that
basing our expectations on romantic form, rather than lived experience, prevents us from
connecting with one another, which could lead to a true artistic disruption.
Both characters’ ultimate revelations about love are facilitated by a disruption of
subjectivity. Both Edel and Sedgwick point to the narcissistic self-love that prevents
Marcher’s love of others. And, Vittoria Intonti notes the “‘romantic’ disproportion
between the artist’s subjectivity and the world” which she connects to the critic’s “search
for form,” equating this with his “delusion” (157). If the alternative to this type of
thought is love for both characters, we again see the Neitzschian principles at work in the
texts. James uses his characters to show that a disruption of subjectivity and the
acceptance of foreign influences results in one’s capacity to experience a connection with
others, which facilitates artistic revelation. The characters can only “become wiser”
(Emerson 1) through their recognition of the actual experience of love, not its romantic
connotations.
With these unconventional love stories, James challenges his reader to look at text
in a new way. If we, like Marcher and the critic, wait for the revelation of meaning at his
stories’ end, we miss the life within their details and fail to acknowledge the love that the
69
female characters represent. In reshaping the traditional romance and showing the
miracle of the very common nature of love, James disrupts our sensibilities as readers and
leads us to the epiphany that the ordinary has the capacity to become extraordinary if we
restructure our expectations and conceptions of experience.
70
Epilogue:
By examining Henry James’s artistic theory in conjunction with both “The Figure
in the Carpet” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” we can see the varied ways in which James
reiterates his theory in his practice. The stories themselves depart from the structure of
the nineteenth-century romance genre by deviating from the conventional three-part
narrative of “adventure and escape, a love story with a happy ending, and poetic justice
for all.” But, beyond this, James creates characters who configure their existences
according to their expectation of a similar formula in life. In exposing the characters’
failures and ultimate epiphanies, James critiques the nature of what he sees as a
problematic model of creative fiction By exploring these characters’ corrupted
perspectives, James calls more modern approach to fiction writing that accounts for the
vastness of human experience, which, in turn, will encourage readers to be more
conscious in their own lives.
It is clear that James relies on his readers’ expectations of genre in order to
question the validity of popular conceptions. In “The Art of Fiction,” James associates
his work with Walter Besant’s in order to provide a vastly opposing angle on the topic of
fiction writing. By feigning an appreciation of Besant’s laws and then feigning profound
confusion over their definition, James points to the absurdity of following a manual in
order to create. He, instead, suggests that artists develop a type of sensory awakening, in
which they hone the ability to locate the story in each moment of lived experience. But,
he even challenges the conception of experience itself, as he agrees with Besant that it is
71
crucial to write from experience, and then proceeds to provide a new and far more
encompassing definition of what constitutes this experience. Further, while he seems to
value subjectivity, he encourages the reader to reconsider the concept of selfhood. He
advocates the development of a more “inclusive” (472) perspective, in which the
separation between self and other is less defined. We understand that James suggests that
the novelist evolve from being an entertainer of the masses and become a catalyst for
heightened consciousness.
In “The Figure in the Carpet” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” James also prepares
his readers to anticipate features of the nineteenth century novel. His characters embark
on substantial quests, which, in the romance genre, would culminate in equally
substantial discoveries and ultimate contentment. However, in reading these stories, we
are, in many ways, actually re-reading James’s artistic theory. By mocking the
characters’ expectations, he defies ours and challenges us to search beyond the
protagonists’ respective searches for meaning within his texts. When we view the
characters by understanding their connection to the romance formula, we can more fully
understand James’s critique of it. While in “The Art of Fiction,” he claims not to
question the potential for “corruption” within the romantic narrative structure, in these
stories he defines the nature of this corruption and its repercussions. By highlighting the
delusion of each character’s perceived self-importance, James illuminates the potential to
miss crucial aspects of experience when one is consumed by his subjectivity.
72
“The Figure in the Carpet” directly challenges our perceptions of literature. As
the critic searches for enlightenment within the structure of Hugh Vereker’s novels, he
loses his sense of self worth. While this destabilization initially causes him to experience
an identity crisis, it ultimately facilitates his artistic growth as the author of his life’s
narrative. In relaying his story as a spectator of his life would, the critic highlights what
he missed in his quest for distinction in his field. Through the critic’s portrayal of
Gwendolyn, he reveals that “life” is dependent on human connection. Thus, the critic’s
own narrative reveals that in order to achieve any type of understanding of genuine life,
love, and therefore, art, one must relinquish his faith in mere subjectivity and open his
perceptions to the unexpected. This transforms him from critic into artist. James, then,
points to the importance of recognizing the human condition in order to create.
Similarly, “The Beast in the Jungle” explores the problematic nature of the quest
for heroic distinction. John Marcher binds himself to such a specific definition of what
his life will be that he fails to notice what his life already is. In striving to embody
romance, Marcher loses his sense of reality and potential for love. His epiphany that he
never truly “lived” comes to him when he relinquishes the illusion that his life will unfold
as romance narrative would, and focuses his attention on the present experience of life.
With this story, James takes up the suggestion he presents in “The Art of Fiction”
regarding the potential for “corruption” within a genre that excludes the often “strange
and irregular rhythm of life” (472) and determines that certain “incidents” are inherently
more significant than others. John Marcher’s life exemplifies this corruption, as his
73
entire existence is consumed by his fixation with becoming someone more significant
than himself.
In “The Art of Fiction,” James writes that the novel will possess “no intensity at
all, and therefore no value, unless there is freedom to feel and say.” He continues, “The
tracing of a line to be followed, of a form to be filled out, is a limitation of that freedom
and a suppression of the very thing we are most curious about” (467). In both “The
Figure in the Carpet” and “The Beast in the Jungle,” James distinguishes his protagonists
by their complete lack of freedom. Each exists according to a distinct, romantic form,
attempting to trace an established line, rather than traverse his own distinct path. This
entrapment causes their lives to lack both intensity and value. In these depictions, then,
we understand how problematic the expectation of “adventure and escape, a love story
with a happy ending, and poetic justice for all” can become.
However, James does place some merit in artistic structure, writing, “The form, it
seems to me, is to be appreciated after the fact: then the author’s choice has been made,
his standard has been indicated; then we can follow lines and directions and compare
tones and resemblances” (467). Given his permission, we can look over James’s work,
following the lines that seem to indicate an acute resemblance between his theory and
these two short stories.
And, we can understand that James directs us to the realization that by examining
romance, we can reach an epiphany about conscious experience. James juxtaposes
romantic formula with artistry by striving to capture reality in his fiction, but presenting
74
characters who equally strive to embody formulaic fiction. In doing this, he highlights
the disparity between romance and lived experience. Therefore, rather than presenting
elements of “Nature” in order to illuminate the divinity in the “common,” James presents
the epitome of the Romantic poets’ idea of “corruption” to make a similar point about the
importance of conscious existence. In creating these stories, then, James revolutionizes
literary formula by conveying a subject who is the antithesis of his own ideal and exists
in a genre from which his creator has broken free. Henry James shows us that between
the boundaries of romance and reality, of incident and consciousness, and of self and
other, is the essence of experience and the art of fiction.
75
Works Cited
Benoit, Raymond. “James’s ‘The Beast in the Jungle.’” Explicator 63.1 (2004): 29-32.
MLA International Bibliography. Web. 30 December 2012.
Donadio, Stephen. Nietzsche, Henry James, and the Artistic Will. New York: Oxford
University Press, 1978. Print.
Edel, Leon. Henry James: A Life. New York: Harper & Row, 1985. Print.
---. The Prefaces of Henry James. Paris: Jouve, 1931. Print.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Nature.” Emerson on Transcendentalism: Milestones of
Thought. Ed. Edward L. Ericson. New York: The Ungar Publishing Company,
1986. 3-47. Print.
---. "The Method of Nature." emersoncentral.com. 03 Sep 2009. Web. 23 Nov 2013.
---. “The Poet.” The Critical Edition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. Ed.
David H. Richter. 3rd Edition. Boston & New York: Bedford/ St. Martin’s, 2007.
385-396. Print.
Ihara, Rachel. “Rather Rude Jolts.” The Henry James Review 31.2 (2010): 188-206.
MLA International Bibliography. Web. 10 December 2012.
Intonti, Vittoria. “‘The Figure in the Carpet’ as an Allegory of Reading.” Henry James
and the Aesthetic Movement. Ed. David Garret Izzo and Daniel T. O’Hara.
London: McFarland and Company, Inc. 157-166. Print.
James, Henry. The American. New York: Penguin Books, 1986. Print.
76
---. “The Art of Fiction.” The Critical Edition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends.
Ed. David H. Richter. 3rd Edition. Boston & New York: Bedford/ St. Martin’s,
2007. 464-475. Print.
---. The Art of the Novel: Critical Prefaces. Introduction by R.P. Blackmur. New York:
Scribner, 1934. 20-39. Print.
---. “The Beast in the Jungle.” Tales of Henry James: A Norton Critical Edition. Cristof
Wegelin and Henry B. Wondham, eds. 2nd ed. NY: W.W. Norton & Company,
Inc., 2003. 303-340. Print.
---. “The Figure in the Carpet.” The Norton Anthology: American Literature, Volume C.
Arnold Krupat and Jeanne Campbell Reeseman, eds. 7th ed. NY: W.W. Norton
and Company, 2007. 476-501. Print.
Mussil, Stephan. “A Secret in Spite of Itself: Recursive Meaning in Henry James’s ‘The
Figure in the Carpet.’” New Literary History 39.4 (2008): 769-99. MLA
International Bibliography. Web. 20 January 2013.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. “The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music.” The Critical
Edition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. Ed. David H. Richter. 3rd
Edition. Boston & New York: Bedford/ St. Martin’s, 2007. 439-452. Print.
Pearson, John H. The Prefaces of Henry James: Framing the Modern Reader.
University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997. Print.
77
Quigley, Megan M. “Beastly Vagueness in Charles Sanders Pierce and Henry James.”
Philosophy and Literature 31.2 (2007): 362-377. MLA International
Bibliography. Web. 21 November 2012.
Richter, David H. “Henry James.” The Critical Edition: Classic Texts and Contemporary
Trends. Ed. David H. Richter. 3rd Edition. Boston & New York: Bedford/ St.
Martin’s, 2007. 462-463. Print.
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. “The Beast in the Closet.” Tales of Henry James: A Norton
Critical Edition. Cristof Wegelin and Henry B. Wondham, eds. 2nd ed. NY:
W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2003. 503-514. Print.
Spilka, Mark. “Henry James and Walter Besant: ‘The Art of Fiction’ Controversy.”
NOVEL: A Forum on Ficiton 6.2 (1973): 101-119. MLA International
Bibliography. Web. 20 January 2013.
Tate, Carolyn. “Interrogating the Legibility of Queer Female Subjectivity: Rethinking
May Bartram’s ‘Bracketed’ Character in ‘The Beast in the Jungle.” The Henry
James Review 33.1 (2012): 17-29. MLA International Bibliography. Web. 10
October 2013.
Veeder, William. “Image as Argument: Henry James and the Style of Criticism.” Henry
James Review 6 (1985): 172-81. Print.
Wordsworth, William. “Preface to Lyrical Ballads.” The Critical Edition: Classic Texts
and Contemporary Trends. Ed. David H. Richter. 3rd Edition. Boston & New
York: Bedford/ St. Martin’s, 2007. 306-318. Print.
78
Works Consulted
Richter, David H. “Samuel Taylor Coleridge.” The Critical Edition: Classic Texts and
Contemporary Trends. Ed. David H. Richter. 3rd Edition. Boston & New York:
Bedford/ St. Martin’s, 2007. 319-321. Print.
James, Henry. “Daisy Miller.” The Norton Anthology: American Literature, Volume C.
Arnold Krupat and Jeanne Campbell Reeseman, eds. 7th ed. NY: W.W. Norton
and Company, 2007. 391-429. Print.
---. The Portrait of a Lady. New York: Penguin Books, 1984. Print.