Henry James
Henry James (1843-1916) was an American author of novels, short stories, plays, and non-fiction. He spent most of his life in Europe, and much of his work regards the interactions and complexities between American and European characters. Among his works in this vein are The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Bostonians (1886), and The Ambassadors (1903). Through his influence, James ushered in the era of American realism in literature. In his lifetime he wrote 12 plays, 112 short stories, 20 novels, and many travel and critical works. He was nominated three times for the Noble Prize in Literature.
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Reviews for The Lesson of the Master
39 ratings6 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How much must one sacrifice for one's art? An interesting twist in the end.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This short novel charmed me. A nice change of pace. It's sensibilities are quite dated but what should one expect for 1888? What it has to say about writers and their creations is probably timeless. James likes to use twenty words where two might do but I suppose that is part of the charm. I think the older author (The Master) really plays a trick on the younger author in the story, but perhaps his advice was sincere to some extent. The younger author was naïve and too much into hero worship to realize he was being played. I think that is all I need to say.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5"So, MFA class, what did you think of this?"
"Well, I don't like how he starts it. I mean, we don't really get to know Paul Overt very much, right, and those first few sentences are just so confusing. I mean, who is this guy? Why should I care about him?"
"This strikes me as a bit, I don't know, it's kind of sexist. Like, why can't you have Miss Fancourt take control of her own destiny, because she seems right now like she's just waiting for someone to propose to her."
"You shouldn't write about writers, I think."
"Also, it's like, the lesson of the master seems to be that women get in the way of artistic genius. Is it meant to be homoerotic? I just can't relate to someone who doesn't care about sex. But then, it's also kind of sexist, as if women are just getting in the way of good writing. Unless good writing is a metaphor for gay sex? Is that what you're after?"
And so on; I've had bad experiences with MFA fiction over the last couple of weeks, and this is a glorious breath of pre-Hemingwayan competence, subtlety, and ambiguity. Also, great length for an afternoon's read.
And since I am not Henry James, I should say the lesson of the master really is completely ambiguous. Those who favor a simplistic interpretation of it are interpreting themselves, not the text. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A very funny story indeed.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A young writer, Paul Overt, befriends St. George, a famous master whose later work, while popular, is less artistically strong. Enmeshed in their social dance are St. George’s wife, who it becomes apparent directs the master’s artistic and business life, and Marian Fancourt, a young intellectual beauty who captures Paul’s heart. Revolving around themes of marriage and its effects on the artistic life (anyone care to guess?), The Lesson is a dense, rich novella full of twists and turns. There is a bit of humor here. Particuarlly St. George’s response to Paul’s question of whether the artist is a man - ”I mostly think not.”What the master wishes for the student: “The sense of having done the best – the sense which is the real life of the artist and the absence of which is his death, of having drawn from his intellectual instrument the finest music that nature had hidden in it, of having played it as it should be played.”
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A young writer, Paul Overt, befriends St. George, a famous master whose later work, while popular, is less artistically strong. Enmeshed in their social dance are St. George’s wife, who it becomes apparent directs the master’s artistic and business life, and Marian Fancourt, a young intellectual beauty who captures Paul’s heart. Revolving around themes of marriage and its effects on the artistic life (anyone care to guess?), The Lesson is a dense, rich novella full of twists and turns. There is a bit of humor here. Particuarlly St. George’s response to Paul’s question of whether the artist is a man - ”I mostly think not.”What the master wishes for the student: “The sense of having done the best – the sense which is the real life of the artist and the absence of which is his death, of having drawn from his intellectual instrument the finest music that nature had hidden in it, of having played it as it should be played.”
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The Lesson of the Master - Henry James
The Lesson of the Master, by Henry James
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Title: The Lesson of the Master
Author: Henry James
Release Date: May 13, 2005 [eBook #898]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LESSON OF THE MASTER***
Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
THE LESSON OF THE MASTER
by Henry James
CHAPTER I
He had been told the ladies were at church, but this was corrected by what he saw from the top of the steps—they descended from a great height in two arms, with a circular sweep of the most charming effect—at the threshold of the door which, from the long bright gallery, overlooked the immense lawn. Three gentlemen, on the grass, at a distance, sat under the great trees, while the fourth figure showed a crimson dress that told as a bit of colour
amid the fresh rich green. The servant had so far accompanied Paul Overt as to introduce him to this view, after asking him if he wished first to go to his room. The young man declined that privilege, conscious of no disrepair from so short and easy a journey and always liking to take at once a general perceptive possession of a new scene. He stood there a little with his eyes on the group and on the admirable picture, the wide grounds of an old country-house near London—that only made it better—on a splendid Sunday in June. "But that lady, who’s she?" he said to the servant before the man left him.
I think she’s Mrs. St. George, sir.
Mrs. St. George, the wife of the distinguished—
Then Paul Overt checked himself, doubting if a footman would know.
Yes, sir—probably, sir,
said his guide, who appeared to wish to intimate that a person staying at Summersoft would naturally be, if only by alliance, distinguished. His tone, however, made poor Overt himself feel for the moment scantly so.
And the gentlemen?
Overt went on.
Well, sir, one of them’s General Fancourt.
Ah yes, I know; thank you.
General Fancourt was distinguished, there was no doubt of that, for something he had done, or perhaps even hadn’t done—the young man couldn’t remember which—some years before in India. The servant went away, leaving the glass doors open into the gallery, and Paul Overt remained at the head of the wide double staircase, saying to himself that the place was sweet and promised a pleasant visit, while he leaned on the balustrade of fine old ironwork which, like all the other details, was of the same period as the house. It all went together and spoke in one voice—a rich English voice of the early part of the eighteenth century. It might have been church-time on a summer’s day in the reign of Queen Anne; the stillness was too perfect to be modern, the nearness counted so as distance, and there was something so fresh and sound in the originality of the large smooth house, the expanse of beautiful brickwork that showed for pink rather than red and that had been kept clear of messy creepers by the law under which a woman with a rare complexion disdains a veil. When Paul Overt became aware that the people under the trees had noticed him he turned back through the open doors into the great gallery which was the pride of the place. It marched across from end to end and seemed—with its bright colours, its high panelled windows, its faded flowered chintzes, its quickly-recognised portraits and pictures, the blue-and-white china of its cabinets and the attenuated festoons and rosettes of its ceiling—a cheerful upholstered avenue into the other century.
Our friend was slightly nervous; that went with his character as a student of fine prose, went with the artist’s general disposition to vibrate; and there was a particular thrill in the idea that Henry St. George might be a member of the party. For the young aspirant he had remained a high literary figure, in spite of the lower range of production to which he had fallen after his first three great successes, the comparative absence of quality in his later work. There had been moments when Paul Overt almost shed tears for this; but now that he was near him—he had never met him—he was conscious only of the fine original source and of his own immense debt. After he had taken a turn or two up and down the gallery he came out again and descended the steps. He was but slenderly supplied with a certain social boldness—it was really a weakness in him—so that, conscious of a want of acquaintance with the four persons in the distance, he gave way to motions recommended by their not committing him to a positive approach. There was a fine English awkwardness in this—he felt that too as he sauntered vaguely and obliquely across the lawn, taking an independent line. Fortunately there was an equally fine English directness in the way one of the gentlemen presently rose and made as if to stalk
him, though with an air of conciliation and reassurance. To this demonstration Paul Overt instantly responded, even if the gentleman were not his host. He was tall, straight and elderly and had, like the great house itself, a pink smiling face, and into the bargain a white moustache. Our young man met him halfway while he laughed and said: Er—Lady Watermouth told us you were coming; she asked me just to look after you.
Paul Overt thanked him, liking him on the spot, and turned round with him to walk toward the others. They’ve all gone to church—all except us,
the stranger continued as they went; we’re just sitting here—it’s so jolly.
Overt pronounced it jolly indeed: it was such a lovely place. He mentioned that he was having the charming impression for the first time.
Ah you’ve not been here before?
said his companion. "It’s a nice little place—not much to do, you know. Overt wondered what he wanted to
do"—he felt that he himself was doing so much. By the time they came to where the others sat he had recognised his initiator for a military man and—such was the turn of Overt’s imagination—had found him thus still more sympathetic. He would naturally have a need for action, for deeds at variance with the pacific pastoral scene. He was evidently so good-natured, however, that he accepted the inglorious hour for what it was worth. Paul Overt shared it with him and with his companions for the next twenty minutes; the latter looked at him and he looked at them without knowing much who they were, while the talk went on without much telling him even what it meant. It seemed indeed to mean nothing in particular; it wandered, with casual pointless pauses and short terrestrial flights, amid names of persons and places—names which, for our friend, had no great power of evocation. It was all sociable and slow, as was right and natural of a warm Sunday morning.
His first attention was given to the question, privately considered, of whether one of the two younger men would be Henry St. George. He knew many of his distinguished contemporaries by their photographs, but had never, as happened, seen a portrait of the great misguided novelist. One of the gentlemen was unimaginable—he was too young; and the other scarcely looked clever enough, with such mild undiscriminating eyes. If those eyes were St. George’s the problem, presented by the ill-matched parts of his genius would be still more difficult of solution. Besides, the deportment of their proprietor was not, as regards the lady in the red dress, such as could be natural, toward the wife of his bosom, even to a writer accused by several critics of sacrificing too much to manner. Lastly Paul Overt had a vague sense that if