Wings of the Dove: A Norton Critical Edition / Edition 2

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Overview

The text of this 1902 novel is again that of the fully corrected and annotated reprint of the New York Edition (1909), together with James’s preface and the two frontispieces he commissioned for the New York Edition of The Wings of the Dove.
The "Textual Appendix" includes notes on the novel’s textual history and lists all substantive revisions that James made to the novel, both in 1902 and in1909. "The Author and the Novel," introduced by editorial commentary and new to the Second Edition, includes selections from James’s notebooks, letters, travel books, and autobiographical writings, which illuminate his conception and assessment of The Wings of the Dove. "Criticism" reflects the lively interpretive and theoretical writing that The Wings of the Dove has enjoyed since the previous edition was published in 1978. Eleven essays are included, seven of them new to the Second Edition, including Anthony J. Mazzella’s piece on film adaptation. A Chronology and Selected Bibliography are also included.

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What People Are Saying

Gore Vidal
James did nothing like an Englishman - or an American. He was a great fact in himself, a new world, a terra incognita that he would devote all his days to mapping for the rest of us... James was the master of the novel in English in a way that no one had ever been before; or had ever been since.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780393978810
  • Publisher: Norton, W. W. & Company, Inc.
  • Publication date: 8/28/2002
  • Series: Norton Critical Editions Series
  • Edition description: Second Edition
  • Edition number: 2
  • Pages: 640
  • Sales rank: 819,215
  • Product dimensions: 5.10 (w) x 8.40 (h) x 1.30 (d)

Meet the Author

J. Donald Crowley was Professor Emeritus of English at the University of Missouri. He was historical editor of The Centenary Edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Tales and Sketches and editor of Hawthorne: The Critical Heritage and of the Oxford World Classics Robinson Crusoe.

Richard A. Hocks is Professor Emeritus of English and Catherine Paine Middlebush Chair of Humanities at the University of Missouri. He is the author of Henry James and Pragmatistic Thought, Henry James: A Study of the Short Fiction, and The Ambassadors: Consciousness, Culture, Poetry. A National Book Award nominee, he served as President of the Henry James Society during the novelist’s sesquicentennial year.

Biography

Henry James (1843-1916), born in New York City, was the son of noted religious philosopher Henry James, Sr., and brother of eminent psychologist and philosopher William James. He spent his early life in America and studied in Geneva, London and Paris during his adolescence to gain the worldly experience so prized by his father. He lived in Newport, went briefly to Harvard Law School, and in 1864 began to contribute both criticism and tales to magazines. In 1869, and then in 1872-74, he paid visits to Europe and began his first novel, Roderick Hudson. Late in 1875 he settled in Paris, where he met Turgenev, Flaubert, and Zola, and wrote The American (1877). In December 1876 he moved to London, where two years later he achieved international fame with Daisy Miller. Other famous works include Washington Square (1880), The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Princess Casamassima (1886), The Aspern Papers (1888), The Turn of the Screw (1898), and three large novels of the new century, The Wings of the Dove (1902), The Ambassadors (1903) and The Golden Bowl (1904). In 1905 he revisited the United States and wrote The American Scene (1907). During his career, he also wrote many works of criticism and travel. Although old and ailing, he threw himself into war work in 1914, and in 1915, a few months before his death, he became a British subject. In 1916 King George V conferred the Order of Merit on him. He died in London in February 1916.

Author biography courtesy of Penguin Group (USA).

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    1. Date of Birth:
      April 15, 1843
    2. Place of Birth:
      New York, New York
    1. Date of Death:
      February 28, 1916
    2. Place of Death:
      London, England
    1. Education:
      Attended school in France and Switzerland; Harvard Law School, 1862-63

Read an Excerpt

SHE WAITED, Kate Croy, for her father to come in, but he kept her unconscionably, and there were moments at which she showed herself, in the glass over the mantel, a face positively pale with the irritation that had brought her to the point of going away without sight of him. It was at this point, however, that she remained; changing her place, moving from the shabby sofa to the armchair upholstered in a glazed cloth that gave at once--she had tried it--the sense of the slippery and of the sticky. She had looked at the sallow prints on the walls and at the lonely magazine, a year old, that combined, with a small lamp in coloured glass and a knitted white centre-piece wanting in freshness, to enhance the effect of the purplish cloth on the principal table; she had above all, from time to time, taken a brief stand on the small balcony to which the pair of long windows gave access. The vulgar little street, in this view, offered scant relief from the vulgar little room; its main office was to suggest to her that the narrow black housefronts, adjusted to a standard that would have been low even for backs, constituted quite the publicity implied by such privacies. One felt them in the room exactly as one felt the room&mdashthe hundred like it, or worse&mdashin the street. Each time she turned in again, each time, in her impatience, she gave him up, it was to sound to a deeper depth, while she tasted the faint, flat emanation of things, the failure of fortune and of honour. If she continued to wait it was really, in a manner, that she might not add the shame of fear, of individual, personal collapse, to all the other shames. To feel the street, to feel the room, to feel the table-cloth andthe centre-piece and the lamp, gave her a small, salutary sense, at least, of neither shirking nor lying. This whole vision was the worst thing yet--as including, in particular, the interview for which she had prepared herself; and for what had she come but for the worst? She tried to be sad, so as not to be angry; but it made her angry that she couldn't be sad. And yet where was misery, misery too beaten for blame and chalk-marked by fate like a 'lot' at a common auction, if not in these merciless signs of mere mean, stale feelings?

Her father's life, her sister's, her own, that of her two lost brothers--the whole history of their house had the effect of some fine florid, voluminous phrase, say even a musical, that dropped first into words, into notes, without sense, and then, hanging unfinished, into no words, no notes at all. Why should a set of people have been put in motion, on such a scale and with such an air of being equipped for a profitable journey, only to break down without an accident, to stretch themselves in the wayside dust without a reason? The answer to these questions was not in Chirk Street, but the questions themselves bristled there, and the girl's repeated pause before the mirror and the chimney-place might have represented her nearest approach to an escape from them. Was it not in fact the partial escape from this 'worst' in which she was steeped to be able to make herself out again as agreeable to see? She stared into the tarnished glass too hard indeed to be staring at her beauty alone. She readjusted the poise of her black, closely-feathered hat; retouched, beneath it, the thick fall of her dusky hair; kept her eyes, aslant, no less on her beautiful averted than on her beautiful presented oval. She was dressed altogether in black, which gave an even tone, by contrast, to her clear face and made her hair more harmoniously dark. Outside, on the balcony, her eyes showed as blue; within, at the mirror, they showed almost as black. She was handsome, but the degree of it was not sustained by items and aids; a circumstance moreover playing its part at almost any time in the impression she produced. The impression was one that remained, but as regards the sources of it no sum in addition would have made up the total. She had stature without height, grace without motion, presence without mass. Slender and simple, frequently soundless, she was somehow always in the line of the eye--she counted singularly for its pleasure. More 'dressed,' often, with fewer accessories, than other women, or less dressed, should occasion require, with more, she probably could not have given the key to these felicities. They were mysteries of which her friends were conscious--those friends whose general explanation was to say that she was clever, whether or no it were taken by the world as the cause or as the effect of her charm. If she saw more things than her fine face in the dull glass of her father's lodgings, she might have seen that, after all, she was not herself a fact in the collapse. She didn't judge herself cheap, she didn't make for misery. Personally, at least, she was not chalk-marked for the auction. She hadn't given up yet, and the broken sentence, if she was the last word, would end with a sort of meaning. There was a minute during which, though her eyes were fixed, she quite visibly lost herself in the thought of the way she might still pull things round had she only been a man. It was the name, above all, she would take in hand--the precious name she so liked and that, in spite of the harm her wretched father had done it, was not yet past praying for. She loved it in fact the more tenderly for that bleeding wound. But what could a penniless girl do with it but let it go?

When her father at last appeared she became, as usual, instantly aware of the futility of any effort to hold him to anything. He had written her that he was ill, too ill to leave his room, and that he must see her without delay; and if this had been, as was probable, the sketch of a design, he was indifferent even to the moderate finish required for deception. He had clearly wanted, for perversities that he called reasons, to see her, just as she herself had sharpened for a talk; but she now again felt, in the inevitability of the freedom he used with her, all the old ache, her poor mother's very own, that he couldn't touch you ever so lightly without setting up. No relation with him could be so short or so superficial as not to be somehow to your hurt; and this, in the strangest way in the world, not because he desired it to be--feeling often, as he surely must, the profit for him of its not being--but because there was never a mistake for you that he could leave unmade or a conviction of his impossibility in you that he could approach you without strengthening. He might have awaited her on the sofa in his sitting-room, or might have stayed in bed and received her in that situation. She was glad to be spared the sight of such penetralia, but it would have reminded her a little less that there was no truth in him. This was the weariness of every fresh meeting; he dealt out lies as he might the cards from the greasy old pack for the game of diplomacy to which you were to sit down with him. The inconvenience--as always happens in such cases--was not that you minded what was false, but that you missed what was true. He might be ill, and it might suit you to know it, but no contact with him, for this, could ever be straight enough. Just so he even might die, but Kate fairly wondered on what evidence of his own she would some day have to believe it.

He had not at present come down from his room, which she knew to be above the one they were in: he had already been out of the house, though he would either, should she challenge him, deny it or present it as a proof of his extremity. She had, however, by this time, quite ceased to challenge him; not only, face to face with him, vain irritation dropped, but he breathed upon the tragic consciousness in such a way that after a moment nothing of it was left. The difficulty was not less that he breathed in the same way upon the comic: she almost believed that with this latter she might still have found a foothold for clinging to him. He had ceased to be amusing--he was really too inhuman. His perfect look, which had floated him so long, was practically perfect still; but one had long since for every occasion taken it for granted. Nothing could have better shown than the actual how right one had been. He looked exactly as much as usual--all pink and silver as to skin and hair, all straitness and starch as to figure and dress--the man in the world least connected with anything unpleasant. He was so particularly the English gentleman and the fortunate, settled, normal person. Seen at a foreign table d'ôte, he suggested but one thing: 'In what perfection England produces them!' He had kind, safe eyes, and a voice which, for all its clean fulness, told, in a manner, the happy history of its having never had once to raise itself. Life had met him so, half-way, and had turned round so to walk with him, placing a hand in his arm and fondly leaving him to choose the pace. Those who knew him a little said, 'How he does dress!'--those who knew him better said, 'How does he?' The one stray gleam of comedy just now in his daughter's eyes was the funny feeling he momentarily made her have of being herself 'looked up' by him in sordid lodgings. For a minute after he came in it was as if the place were her own and he the visitor with susceptibilities. He gave you funny feelings, he had indescribable arts, that quite turned the tables: that had been always how he came to see her mother so long as her mother would see him. He came from places they had often not known about, but he patronised Lexham Gardens. Kate's only actual expression of impatience, however, was 'I'm glad you're so much better!'
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Table of Contents

Preface
Preface to the New York Edition (1909) 3
The Wings of the Dove 21
Textual Appendix 409
Editors' Critical Commentary 445
Henry James: From His Notebooks 460
Henry James: From His Letters 467
To William Dean Howells (September 12, 1902) 467
To Mrs. Cadwalader Jones (October 23, 1902) 468
To H. G. Wells (November 15, 1902) 469
To William Dean Howells (December 11, 1902) 470
To Mrs. G. W. Prothero (September 14, 1913) 471
To Mrs. William James (March 29, 1914) 472
To Mrs. Richard W. Gilder (September 2, 1914) 472
From William James (Fall 1902) 473
To William James (Fall 1902) 474
Henry James: From His Preface to The Ambassadors 474
Henry James: From Italian Hours 475
St. Mark's 475
The Venetian People 475
Relation of Art to Life in Venice 476
The Vast Mausoleum with a Turnstile at the Door 476
The Resident Palaces of Venice 477
The Poetry of Misfortune 478
Three Venetian Sisters 479
Henry James: From Notes of a Son and Brother 480
The Character of Minnie Temple 480
Memories of Cultural Innocence 482
Minnie as Heroine 482
The Death of Minnie Temple 484
Henry James: From "Is There a Life After Death?" 487
Mr. Henry James's Later Work 497
Dreams of the Soul in Action 501
The Lesson of Spiritual Beauty 505
From The Expense of Vision 514
The Abyss of Language in The Wings of the Dove 525
"A Circle of Petticoats": The Feminization of Merton Densher 535
Henry James, British Aestheticism, and Commodity Culture 548
Henry James and the Phenomenal Reader: Consciousness and the Variation of Style in The Wings of the Dove 562
Henry James Made Carnal: Wings of the Dove 578
"This web of subtle complexities": The Hossein Amini-Iain Softley Film Adaptation of The Wings of the Dove 581
The Wings of Henry James 613
Henry James: A Chronology 621
Selected Bibliography 623
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