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1296 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1890
"I've imperilled my immortal soul, or at least I've bemuddled my intelligence, by all the things I don't care for that I've tried to do, and all the things I detest that I've tried to be, and all the things I never can be that I've tried to look as if I were--all the appearances and imitations, the pretences and hypocrisies in which I've steeped myself to the eyes; and at the end of it (it serves me right!) my reward is simply to learn that I'm still not half humbug enough!"
If the idiom of this speech were contemporary American English, you'd be likely to guess that it was the confession of a gay man trapped in the closet. It's actually spoken by Nick Dormer in Henry James's novel The Tragic Muse, and though Nick is bemoaning a life led hypocritically, it's not because he's a furtively homosexual man: He's a furtively artistic man who gave up his art (painting) to pursue, quite successfully, a career in politics. The reversal of that decision is just one of the threads--not even the strongest--that you can trace through this story of Paris and London in the late 1880s (the novel appeared as a serial in the Atlantic Monthly from 1889 - 1890).
Though painstaking description of contemporary life is considered the stock in trade of realist novels, the received opinion about James is that, regardless of his categorization among the great realists, his novels pay scant attention to realities so trivial as time and place. Not so. Novels like The Sacred Fount and The Golden Bowl, in which James can make you feel as though you’re alone in the nameless void with a bodiless voice, are a decade and more in the future (these are the books that made him a darling of modernist critics and a precursor of writers like Beckett). But The Tragic Muse, like the other novels he wrote at this stage of his career, expertly deploys the conventions of 19th-century realism, as in this delightful description of Paris in the summer:The official, and most other worlds withdrew from Paris, and the Place de la Concorde, a larger, whiter desert than ever, became, by a reversal of custom, explorable with safety. The Champs Elysees were dusty and rural, with little creaking booths and exhibitions which made a noise like grasshoppers; the Arc de Triomphe threw its cool, sharp shadow for a mile; the Palais de l’Industrie glittered in the light of the long days; the cabmen, in their red waistcoats, dozed in their boxes….
Not only does James give us cabbies in red waistcoats and walks through Paris of GPS precision; we also get a sharply observed look behind the scenes at the London theater world as he chronicles the career of Miriam Rooth, the lady in the title. Miriam and Nick are the budding artists whose lives we follow, and James shows us what they did for Art, and how Art plucks one out of obscurity and trains on her the spotlight of public acclaim while it leads the other from a brilliant public career into the obscurity of a tiny, quiet painter’s studio.
James’s taste in painting can seem laughable today, and his insight into Nick’s craft and practice is rather generalized; but as for the theater, he knew what he was talking about. He wrote many plays and tried hard, again and again, to get them on the stage and keep them there. His characterization of Miriam clearly benefits from his observation of and friendship with theater people (he and the actress Fanny Kemble were close friends). In a book that boasts several brilliantly drawn women, Miriam is the one upon whom James lavishes the most attention. We don’t get inside her head, but Miriam is the center of the book. She’s beautiful, she’s ambitious, she’s smart, she’s honest, she’s frank, she’s free. James lets her steal every scene she’s in.
The book may go on some chapters too long, but page by page you’re less aware of long-windedness than of wonders of wit and intelligence, great dialogue, compelling scenes, and psychological and social acuity. Those who think of James as “polite,” as “nice,” mistake the fastidiousness of his style for Victorian propriety. He casts a cold, experienced eye on the people of "heartless London." There are two mothers in this book who will set your teeth on edge, if not make your hair stand on end. There is “imperative” Julia Dallow, rich and beautiful, as ambitious as Miriam Rooth, but the field of whose ambition, British politics, prevents her from entering the lists herself (she tries to make Nick her champion).
And finally there is Gabriel Nash. In all five volumes of his great biography of James, the only thing Leon Edel cares to mention about The Tragic Muse is what everybody else also mentions: The character of Gabriel Nash is supposedly modeled on Oscar Wilde. That might be something if Gabriel Nash were more than a peripheral character, important and entertaining though he be. But so much in the book is important and entertaining, why put him in the novel’s tagline? As if the novel could only stand up with the help of Oscar's fame. Nash is indeed an Aesthete with a capital A, and if he doesn’t frighten the horses, he certainly frightens Nick’s mother and sisters, who fear he’s somehow polluting their beloved son and brother. Nash makes a splash early in the book with his habit of “premeditated paradox,” and James creates for him an Oscarish monologue on the pitiful claim the theater can make to be called an art. Don’t come to this novel hoping for a roman a clef, never mind the key to Oscar’s bedroom. The Tragic Muse was written when Wilde’s star was rising and the love that dare not speak its name still mum. But to end where I started, doesn’t Nick’s farewell to Nash sound a lot like the amicable breakup of two gay men?
"Vous allez me lacher, I see it coming; and who can blame you?--for I’ve ceased to be in the least spectacular. I had my little hour; it was a great deal, for some people don’t even have that. I’ve given you your curious case and I’ve been generous; I made the drama last for you as long as I could. You’ll ‘slope,’ my dear fellow--you’ll quietly slope; and it will be all right and inevitable, though I shall miss you greatly at first....You rescued me; you converted me…"