‘The Portrait of a Lady’ by Henry James

A few weeks ago I read and thoroughly delighted in Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence. On the back jacket of my copy of that novel - also a Vintage Classics edition, incidentally - The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James came highly recommended as further reading for fans of Wharton. So, sufficiently intrigued, I picked up the novel last Monday and almost immediately set about reading it. 

What I love most about The Portrait of a Lady and about mid to late nineteenth century literature in general is that wonderful escapist quality which makes itself known as soon as you sit down to enjoy a work of the era. This landmark novel is no different in this regard; immediately I was pulled in by James' full and lush description of Gardencourt, the Touchett family's sprawling Berkshire pile. Furthermore, the difference between the dialogue of today's literature and that of this novel's time (which, for the record, is the early 1880s) is staggering. Many times during my week spent reading The Portrait of a Lady did I find myself wishing that 21st century folk would converse in this most eloquent and fluid manner, almost as though every conversation were one big long epic poem. I feel this is as close as I will ever get to travelling back in time to the 1800s, and this is something that one simply cannot disapprove of. 

The Portrait of a Lady is a touch on the long side at 608 pages, particularly in light of the fact that relatively happens save for the odd marriage and the occasional death - though of course like many works of the period the story is in the details. As a woman who is fiercely protective of her independence, even going so far as to reject not one but two marriage proposals, heroine Isabel Archer will have been a revolutionary notion in her creator's time. She is an infinitely agreeable protagonist, and it took me but a handful of pages to warm to her. I do not wish to give too much away with regards to the plot, for although relatively little happens there is a notable twist towards the end, but it is difficult not to feel sympathy for Isabel as life leads her down an unexpected though arguably unenlightening path.

I can only find one true fault with The Portrait of a Lady, and even then it is more the fault of whoever was responsible for writing the short blurb: 'the charming Gilbert Osmond.' Er...charming? Did I perhaps miss something? In comparison to the noble Lord Warburton, the kindly Mr Bantling, and of course the lovely, ailing Ralph Touchett, Gilbert Osmond did not strike me as charming at all, more underwhelming in fact. Then again, that old 'what does she see in him?' chestnut is not at all rare. In fact I fear I may have been responsible for another one in the form of my first novel. Whoops.

Overall it is important not to let such trivial inconsistencies get in the way of a wonderful read, and though I must admit that I favour the succinct beauty of The Age of Innocence, this novel by Henry James has all the clear characteristics of a classic.

This piece was originally published on alisonlaurabell.tumblr.com in November 2011.