The Reef Review

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(More customer reviews)The Reef by Edith Wharton, with an introduction by Louis Auchincloss. Recommended.
In his introduction to The Reef, Louis Auchincloss notes that modern readers may not appreciate a moral climate in which a woman opposes her stepson's engagement to a girl who has had an affair with the man the woman is about to marry. The Reef, however, is as concerned with morality as with class.
On his way to France to see his beloved, the widowed Anna Leath, George Darrow receives a telegram telling him not to come "till thirtieth" due to "unexpected obstacle." As time passes and he doesn't receive an explanation for the delay, he experiences growing feelings of disappointment and humiliation. At one point, he imagines the umbrellas and elbows of his fellow travelers saying, "She doesn't want you, doesn't want you, doesn't want you."
As he waits undetermined as to whether to go back to London or to press forward, he encounters Sophy Viner, a recently unemployed servant of a woman whose dinners he once attended. She is on her way to Paris to look up old friends and to pursue a theatrical career. Darrow, who feels sorry for himself and the loss he thinks he is about to suffer, finds himself manipulating Sophy into staying with him to attend the theatre and finally into a short liaison. He is unaware that she has fallen in love with him and his kindness in her hour of uncertainty.
A year later, Anna Leath eagerly anticipates Darrow's arrival, for they are to be married and begin an overseas stint as part of his diplomatic career. She is also excited because her stepson, Owen Leath, wants to do something that they know will upset his aristocratic, old-fashioned grandmother; he wants to marry Anna's daughter's governess, who is none other than Sophy Viner.
Darrow and Sophy's secret is safe with one another, yet Darrow is faced by the uncomfortable fact that the ignorant Anna wants him to support Owen's choice of a woman he knows to be unsuitable but whom he pities. He tries to convince Sophy that Owen is not right for her. "You'd rather I didn't marry any friend of yours," she says "not as a question, but as a mere dispassionate statement of fact." Darrow's lack of feeling and poor conduct make Sophy an undesirable wife for Owen. She is a painful reminder that both of them have broken social conventions.
Auchincloss calls Sophy a "fallen woman" in the context of the times, but this is too simplistic. The real issue with Sophy, both before and after Anna finds out about her relationship with Darrow, is her class and lack of social background. After all, in The House of Mirth, extramarital liaisons are commonplace, understood, and accepted if they are discreet and do not upset the social balance. Within the correct parameters, such affairs become a comfortable topic of gossip and speculation.
Once Anna has finally divined that there has been something between Darrow and Sophy beyond the casual acquaintance previously admitted, he acknowledges it by saying simply, "She has given me up." This does not refer to Sophy's feelings, but to her expectations. Sophy has learned that, in the world she inhabits, the Darrows seek temporary solace from the Sophys, but permanence and stability from the Annas.
The issue that Anna keeps returning to is not that Darrow has deeper feelings for Sophy, but that Sophy has been there before, whether it is to the theatre with Darrow or in Darrow's arms--. True, the liaison happened while he was on his way to Anna and she is bothered by that, but it does not dwell so much in her thoughts as that the kiss he places on her neck has also landed on Sophy's-and that Sophy has been even more intimate with him than she has. Anna asks Darrow, "Do such things happen to men often?" (phrased passively, as though Darrow had been the pursued rather than the pursuer). "I don't know what happens to other men. Such a thing never happened to me . . ." The "thing" here is not the physical aspect of the relationship. Even the "fine" Anna knows that he has indulged because one of his relationships, with a mutual acquaintance named Kitty, drove her away from him in their youth. The fact is that this relationship is outside their social sphere and reflects a lack of discretion that may make him an unsuitable husband and stepparent.
Sophy, with her finely tuned perceptions, her delicacy, her generosity, and her genuine feelings (Darrow assures Anna that she is no adventuress, which Anna wants her to be), does not deserve her fate. She goes off to India to return to the service of Mrs. Murrett. In one of the weaknesses of The Reef, Anna's encounter with Sophy's fat, frowsy, common sister and her equally common lover, Jimmy Brance, puts the noble Sophy in her proper place for both Anna and the reader.
The Reef is in shallower waters than The House of Mirth or The Age of Innocence, and its structure is weakened by a forced reliance on dialogue. A large part of the final third consists of various characters talking to Anna in her room, coming and going what may as well be a revolving door. Sophy's fate further weakens the drama. Yet, who but Wharton could write, "Her frugal silence mocked his prodigality of hopes and fears"? Such elegant prose and insights alone distinguish The Reef.
(As an aside, it would be interesting if, in the same fashion Jean Rhys gave Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre "a life," a writer were to do the same for Sophy, whose viewpoint is never shown.)
Diane L. Schirf, 7 July 2003.

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"I put most of myself into that opus," Edith Wharton said of The Reef, possibly her most autobiographical novel. Published in 1912, it was, Bernard Berenson told Henry Adams, "better than any previous work excepting Ethan Frome." A challenge to the moral climate of the day, The Reef follows the fancies of George Darrow, a young diplomat en route from London to France, intent on proposing to the widowed Anna Leath. Unsettled by Anna's reticence, Darrow drifts into an affair with Sophy Viner, a charmingly naive and impecunious young woman whose relations with Darrow and Anna's family threaten his prospects for success. For its dramatic construction and acute insight into social mores and the multifaceted problem of sexuality, The Reef stands as one of Edith Wharton's most daring works of fiction.

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Daisy Miller & Other Stories (Wadsworth Collection) Review

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(More customer reviews)... have nothing over Henry James! Whatever his many biographers discover about his mundane corporeal existence, James's novels reveal him best, as an inveterate observer - his own words! - a chronic emotional voyeur, always in and never of society, a one-way looking glass. It made him the great writer he was, though one wouldn't want to BE him. "Well," as God said to Satan, "keeping watch on humans is a dirty job, but somebody has to do it."
The four long stories in this Oxford Clssic edition were not originally published together. "Daisy Miller" appeared in 1878, "Pandora" in 1884, "Patagonia" in 1888. The fourth piece, "Four Meetings", was one of James's first, written before 1877. They are a natural assembly, nevertheless, effectively versions of the same story.
DAISY MILLER
"They're very ignorant -- very innocent only, and utterly uncivilized. Depend on it they're not 'bad.'"
"They're hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a questions for the metaphysicians. They're bad enough to blush for, at any rate; and for this short life that's quite enough."
Winterbourne, the first speaker above, is an American of twenty-seven who has lived most of his life in Europe, specifically in Geneva, where he is either a career student or simply an ornamental male presence, depending on the reporter. If 'earning a living' is of any concern to him, it plays no part in his demeanor in this narrative. Mrs. Costello is his wealthy aunt (a dowager?), who 'commands' his proper familial attentions at various resorts and in Rome several weeks a year. She is the very voice of propriety and discretion -- a snooty old biddy, if you will -- while he is a dilettante, a poseur, a prig, a veritable Henry James in short. "They" are the Millers - mother, daughter, and son - sent to inspect Europe and report back on its cultural progress by their filthy rich pater familias Cyrus Miller, of Schenectady, New York. Winterbourne first meets Daisy Miller while visiting his Aunt at Vevey, in Switzerland. He is entranced both by her beauty and by her bizarre ignorance of and/or indifference to the social codes of the Old World. Winterbourne and his Aunt are ludicrous snobs and ditherers; it's important to grasp that they are objects of satire as thoroughly as the Millers, the prototypical "ugly Americans" of touristic prominence all over Europe then and now. In fact, everyone in this novella comes in for a share of deliciously condescending satire, most pointedly James himself in the guise of Winterbourne. That's one of the redeeming qualities of Henry James, his ability to perceive and portray his own uselessness as a mere onlooker at life.
"Daisy Miller" is a gem, an 80-page masterpiece of snarky ambivalence. When I read it first, long ago in college, I probably took Winterbourne seriously; after all, the tale is told from his point of view. But taking himself or his fictional avatars seriously was a fault Henry James never committed. A longer exposure to James's self-observation, such as his later novels require, can challenge a reader's patience; there's only so much most of us want to care for such meticulous ambiguity. But "Daisy Miller" and "Pandora" are eminently enjoyable.
For a man and writer whose sexuality was so peculiarly repressed, James has made his irrepressible American girl Daisy Miller quite a luscious minx. Poor Winterbourne, stiff and epicene, can't keep his eyes off her. In the end, however, his fascination amounts merely to a kind of obsessive observation, and that's the core of the story, the voyeurism which underlies Henry James's literary genius. Nevertheless, Daisy is a brilliant 'study' of the American personality that Europeans have, then and now, found utterly appalling, naive and gauche ... and insidiously alluring.
PANDORA
Written six years after Daisy Miller, "Pandora" is a tongue-in-ear sequel, or perhaps a da capo aria. The characters have different names and play their roles with different outcomes, but James plainly intended the second story to complement the first. In fact, the earlier story is explicitly referenced as `a fiction to read to prepare for America.' "Pandora" begins on a ship crossing from Europe to New York. A young German diplomat, en route to a posting in Washington DC, assumes Winterbourne'James's role as "observer". There's a good deal of fun to be had with putting a precise Teutonic prig in James's skin, and James exploits all of it. The "Daisy" slot in the cast goes to "Pandora", less visually delectable perhaps but a good deal more personally functional. Pandora is on her way to becoming "the new woman," that is, the woman who conquers society merely by force of personality and physical charm, without the advantages of breeding. Our German observer is even less able to communicate his `interest' to Pandora than Winterborne was to Daisy; the most he can do is cogitate about the risk he runs, through his observation, of actually becoming susceptible. The reader will have no reason to fear for him in that manner.
PATAGONIA...
... is also a shipboard tale, with many of the same elements of social misconstruction as the two oolder stories. In it, however, the "observer" is also the first-person narrator, an older and more desexualized James, not so much fascinated by the "new woman" character as by his own obsession with observation. He's a gossip and a meddler, and comes to rue both roles. can we assert that Henry James modeled the famous Uncertainty Principle of physics in social intercourse? The end-game of every character in this and other Jamesian plots is disrupted by the impact of being observed.
Henry James straddled the world of 19th C class consciousness and 20th C class unconsciousness marvelously. Simultaneously the most conservative and the most prophetic of novelists, his women characters are easily the most persuasive and the most intriguing in all American literature. I have the feeling that James would not be at all surprised by the manners of social behavior in the USA in 2010. Daisy and Pandora were halfway here. Neither would he be any more comfortable in our `rec rooms' than he was in the drawing rooms of his own era. Really, I'm afraid he'd find us rather disappointing to observe.

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With an Introduction and Notes by Pat Righelato, University of Reading Daisy Miller is one of Henry James's most attractive heroines: she represents youth and frivolity. As a tourist in Italy, her American freedom and freshness of spirit come up against the corruption and hypocrisy of European manners. From its first publication, readers on both sides of the Atlantic have quarrelled about her, defending or attacking the liberties that Daisy takes and the conventions that she ignores. All three tales in this collection, Daisy Miller, An International Episode and Lady Barbarina, express James's most notable subject, 'the international theme', the encounters, romantic and cultural, between Americans and Europeans. His heroes and heroines approach each other on unfamiliar ground with new freedoms, yet find themselves unexpectedly hampered by old constraints. In An International Episode, an English lord visiting Newport, Rhode Island, falls in love with an American girl, but their relationship becomes more complicated when she travels to London. In the light-hearted comedy Lady Barbarina, a rich young American seeks an English aristocratic bride. The unusual outcomes of these three tales pose a number of social questions about marriage and the traditional roles of men and women. Is an international marriage symbolic of the highest cultural fusion of values or is it an old style raid and capture? Is marriage to remain the feminine destination?

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Henry James: The Imagination of Genius, A Biography Review

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(More customer reviews)I've read a considerable number of Fred Kaplan's articles,
and am impressed by his insightful writing. I always come
away with the sense that here is not only a thoughtful
writer, but also a good guy. So I bought his biographies of
Dickens and Henry James, and read James first.
It took me until page 387 to finally get hold of what was
the matter with this biography. If I'm on, it's very
simple. Kaplan doesn't like James. He doesn't like the
man. He doesn't even seem to like James's works
particularly, or certainly as much as a Professor of English
would be expected to like them. Or if he does, he's hiding
it pretty well. Only occasionally does one see any real
appreciation of James's works. There is relatively little
positive discussion of the luminous language, the
intertwined subtleties, the profundity of empathy and
insight, the remarkable evocation of time and place.
James's various stories, and even the great novels, are
dealt with largely in terms of how much money James made
from each, or which of his family or friends are
characterized there.
But the problem isn't one of weak or wrong-headed literary
criticism. It seems, rather, to be one of personal
antipathy. That is pretty odd, to say the least, since it
is difficult to imagine someone deciding to write a major
work on a major figure without at least a reasonable degree
of admiration and personal regard for the man. Here,
instead, there is a strange undercurrent of resentment that
colors and shapes the slant, the emphasis, the
interpretations of a range of James's experiences and
choices. It isn't the resentment of envy for the genius of
James's work. It doesn't seem to be about the work at all.
Rather, it seems to be about the way James chose to
live his life. There's no room here to carefully document
it, but I think a reader can readily see it by watching for
quotations from a letter or note of James, and then looking
for Kaplan's tiny, very slightly jarring negative spin, each
tiny distortion piled on top of the last until, after a few
hundred pages or so, what's going on becomes clearer.
I had read Toibin's graceful novel on James, which made me
want to read next a scholarly biography that told more about
the life of this gentle, refined man whose beauty of
language reveals, with brilliant precision, what is actually
happening beneath the surfaces. I wanted to be able to see
more clearly what James saw. Kaplan's book isn't that
biography. I'm reading the classic work by Leon Edel, and
things are much better now.
I hope Kaplan likes Dickens.

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Emma Lazarus (Jewish Encounters) Review

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(More customer reviews)With the words of the title of this review, Esther Schor introduces the reader to Emma Lazarus (1849 -1887)in her newly-published biography of this late-nineteenth Century American poet, essayist, novelist, critic, and social activist for newly-arrived immigrants. Schor is Professor of English at Princeton University, a poet in her own right, and the editor of the Cambridge Companion to Mary Shelley. Her biography of Emma Lazarus is part of a series of books called "Jewish Encounters" edited by Jonathan Rosen and "devoted to the promotion of Jewish literature, culture, and ideas."
Emma Lazarus is known to most readers only as the author of the sonnet "The New Colossus" which ultimately achieved iconic status with its inscription on the Statue of Liberty. But there is much more to Emma Lazarus than this great poem, as Schor convincingly demonstrates.Schor writes in an accessible, colloquial style that shows great affection and understanding for Lazarus. Although Schor's book includes a substantial amount of analysis of Lazarus's literary work, the focus of the book lies in bringing Emma Lazarus herself to life. Schor's biography, while not constituting the last word on Emma Lazarus, fulfills its goal of showing why Lazarus is worth knowing. Even with this book, and other studies of Emma Lazarus, she remains a complex and elusive figure.
Lazarus was born to an assimilated family of wealthy New York Jews who had lived in the United States for at least four generations. Lazarus received an outstanding private education and became known as a prodigy when her first volume of poems, written between the ages of 14 and 16 was published by her father. As a young woman, Emma Lazarus attracted the attention of Ralph Waldo Emerson and had a complicated relationship with him, as Schor discusses at length. Lazarus visited Emerson in Concord twice near the end of his life and became friends with his daughter Ellen. Lazarus was a highly connected woman with friends, male and female, among the most culturally and politically influential people in the United States.
Lazarus made impressive contributions to poetry besides "The New Colossus" and wrote influential essays and reviews as well. Her best work, such as "The New Colossus" deals with her vision of America and with the place of Judaism in the United States. In fact her work tends to fuse together these two subects. As Schor suggests, Emma Lazarus became the first of what would become a long series of Jewish-American writers who would try to express what they deemed to be the ideals of Judaism in secular and literary rather than in traditionally religious terms. Schor argues that Lazarus's work shows an interpenetration of American and Jewish ideals, with America providing freedom, liberty, and economic and cultural opportunity, while Jewish ideals expanded upon concepts of social justice and ethics within the American framework.
Schor argues that there was a Jewish undercurrent to Lazarus's works from its earliest stages, beginning with her poem "In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport." Lazarus translated Heine and medieval Jewish poets, and, in 1881 published a volume of poetry titled "Songs of a Semite" which expanded upon Jewish themes. She wrote influential essays which exposed anti-semitism and the Russian Pogroms and considered the meaning of Judaism in American. She worked actively for the well-being of Jewish immigrants to the United States and was among the first to champion the idea of a homeland for Jews in what was then Palestine to escape the ravages of European anti-semitism.
Lazarus remained secular throughout her life, and her own religious convictions can, I think best be described as a sort of nebulous theism. She described herself as an "outsider" to both Judaism and Christianity and, as Schor points out, anticipated the choices and the ambiguities that many American Jews struggle with today in considering their own relationship to Judaism. The complexities of Lazarus's views of Judaism are well-illustrated in a poem she wrote late in her life, "By the Waters of Babylon", the first prose-poem to be written in English. Schor gives a good analysis of this poem, and of many others.
As Schor emphasizes, Lazarus was a paradoxical figure in that she never lost her aristocratic, bearing as a member of America's privileged class and yet worked tirelessly for the health, education and culture of the new immigrants and, with her poem on the Statue of Liberty, redefined the meaning of this national symbol before it was even constructed. For all her activism, Lazarus never quite lost her basic conservatism -- a paradoxical combination that I continue to find fascinating. Emma Lazarus also remains difficult as a person, behind the ambiguities of her friendships with men and women and her Victorian reserve. Lazarus never married. She wrote, but did not publish, a remarkably suggestive sonnet, titled "Assurance" which for many readers, offers insight into Lazarus's own sexuality.
Emma Lazarus has been an inspiration to me for her vision of the United States and for her commitment to an ethical, active Judaism with a deeply secular cast. Schor's book will introduce the reader to an American writer who deserves increased recognition. Schor's book also includes an excellent sampling of Lazarus's poetry. Readers who would like to read more of Emma Lazarus may be interested in the selection of her poetry titled "Emma Lazarus" edited by John Hollander in the American Poets Project series of the Library of America.

Robin Friedman


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The Minister's Wooing (Harriet Beecher Stowe's New England Novels) Review

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(More customer reviews)The Minister's Wooing is the first of Harriet Beecher Stowe's three great novels of New England religion, that weave scenes and folklore of New England life with the debates and religious agonies that led her from her father's Edwardsian revivalist Calvinism to evangelical Episcopalianism. Of the three, The Minister's Wooing is the most satisfying as a story, although Oldtown Folks and Poganuc People give a fuller panorama of old New England life. (David Hackett Fischer used them extensively in his social history of the American colonies, Albion's Seed.) Mrs. Stowe improved her style greatly after Uncle Tom's Cabin which, while powerful as a moral indictment of slavery, is rather poorly written in many passages.

In her New England novels, Mrs. Stowe looks back on her childhood world in Puritan New England, justifying both her desertion of some of its most tightly-held tenets and the high honor she continued to pay to its legacy. To claim that she satirizes Calvinism is a grotesque misreading, sadly typical of most introductions to her novels which desire to place her as a forbearer of secular feminism and social radicalism, rather than let her be what in fact she was, an evangelical, a Republican, and an ardent advocate of the Christianization of American society.

The Minister's Wooing is set around 1798-1800 in Newport, Rhode Island, at a time just after the American Revolution. Real historical characters in the novel include Samuel Hopkins and Aaron Burr, Jr., leading pupil and grandson, respectively, of the great theologian Jonathan Edwards. While the author freely changes events in these characters' lives (Hopkins, for example, had been a foe of slavery and the slave-trade since 1776, long before the novel's time), her interpretation of these characters, both of whom she had met growing up, is insightful.

Mrs. Stowe contrasts the culturally spare and logocentric world of early New England with the visual opulence which she inhabited in genteel America of the mid-nineteenth century. How to relate the insular New England Christianity of her childhood to the Christianity of Raphael, and the great cathedrals of Europe she visited as an adult? This theme is introduced both in her narrative voice (St. Augustine's Enchiridion of Faith, Love, and Hope is cited without name at the novel's turning point) and in the character of Mme de Frontignac, a French aristocratic woman in an unhappy marriage. She introduces the New England matrons to the feminine beauty of France yet finds balm for her wounds in the severe virtues of Protestant New England. Clothe the chaste Protestant New England spirit in a elegant French Catholic gentility, Mrs. Stowe seems to be saying.

The theological groundwork is made more explicit in Oldtown Folks, but briefly, Mrs. Stowe believed that Jonathan Edwards, with his impossibly high standards for Christian life and his revivalist focus on a dramatic conversion experience, knocked the motherly old Puritan consensus exemplified by Cotton Mather's Magnalia Christi Americana off kilter and created almost unbearable tensions in many New Englanders. Who can be saved? What was the use of anything in a world where only an infinitesimal number could escape hell? How can we bear the thought of loving God who seems to condemn so many of our own flesh and blood to eternal damnation? Wrestling with these questions paradoxically gave the Yankees energy as they burst their cocoon, trading in China, fighting the Revolution, and allying with France. Some, like Aaron Burr, Jr., responded by embracing the skepticism of the philosophes. Others like James Marvyn's mother slowly expire, tormented by antinomies they can't resolve and unable to find the Gospel of Christ's love in the mazes of predestination. Some, like the deliciously nasty Simeon Brown, use the logical intricacies of Calvinist theology to cover up their utterly unconverted heart.

Mrs. Stowe's own answer is given in part by the exemplary character of Mary Scudder (whose role is taken by Harry Percival in Oldtown Folks), and in part by the Gospel wisdom of the black slave Candace. Mrs. Stowe's answer seems contradictory: in Mary Scudder she says children raised in a truly Christian society (as New England was and America must be) are born not depraved but naturally Christian and saved. In Candace, however, she points to the harder but more believable good news that Christ died for and loves even real sinners. Tragically Mrs. Stowe, like New England theologians generally, ingnored Holy Baptism as God's objective Gospel sign showing His good will toward the little children. Thus she ironically sought comfort and assurance through the image of Mary Scudder in the same impossible ideal of purely holy living that in Jonathan Edwards' hands had begun the madness.

Finally, Mrs. Stowe recasts the theological question of grace and nature into a meditation on the relation between familial (romantic, filial, and parental) love and love of God. Despite her sympathies with Catholicism, Mrs. Stowe firmly sets aside the monastic ideal that sees family love as in competition with love of God. Instead she sees the former as the true stepping stone to the latter. God planted in our hearts this bond of love to our families, even for those who we fear are rejecting Him, because it is this human love that leads us to Him. For Mrs. Stowe, the Christian home is truly God's school of character; desecration of that school is veritable blasphemy.

If all this sounds rather too thoughtful and theological, this is, as Mrs. Stowe states, the problem with old New England. It was born and conceived in theology and a novel true to that ethos must itself be thoughtful and theological. There is humor here, sudden plot turns, pathos, shrewd observation of character, and lovely description of North American nature, but the heart of the novel is a theology of love, divine and human.

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Mary Scudder lives with her widowed mother and their boarder, Dr. Hopkins, a Calvinist minister who is dedicated to helping the slaves arriving at Newport. Mary admires Hopkins but is in love with the passionate and sceptical James Marvyn who, hungry for adventure, sets sail for exotic destinations.--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

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