The Coxon Fund (1894)

By Henry James

This early work by Henry James was originally published in 1894 and we are now republishing it with a brand new introductory biography. Henry James was born in New York City in 1843. One of thirteen children, James had an unorthodox early education, switching between schools, private tutors and private reading.. James published his first story, 'A Tragedy of Error', in the Continental Monthly in 1864, when he was twenty years old. In 1876, he emigrated to London, where he remained for the vast majority of the rest of his life, becoming a British citizen in 1915. From this point on, he was a hugely prolific author, eventually producing twenty novels and more than a hundred short stories and novellas, as well as literary criticism, plays and travelogues. Amongst James's most famous works are The Europeans (1878), Daisy Miller (1878), Washington Square (1880), The Bostonians (1886), and one of the most famous ghost stories of all time, The Turn of the Screw (1898). We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Apr 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781473365735

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.

Book preview

THE COXON FUND

BY

HENRY JAMES

Copyright © 2013 Read Books Ltd.

This book is copyright and may not be

reproduced or copied in any way without

the express permission of the publisher in writing

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents

Henry James

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

Henry James

Henry James was born in New York City in 1843. One of thirteen children, James had an unorthodox early education, switching between schools, private tutors and private reading. In 1855, the James family embarked on a three year-long trip to Geneva, London, and Paris; an experience that greatly influenced his decision, some years later, to emigrate to Europe. Having returned to America, and having met prominent authors and thinkers such as Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, James turned seriously to writing.

James published his first story, ‘A Tragedy of Error’, in the Continental Monthly in 1864, when he was twenty years old. In 1876, he emigrated to London, where he remained for the vast majority of the rest of his life, becoming a British citizen in 1915. From this point on, he was a hugely prolific author, eventually producing twenty novels and more than a hundred short stories and novellas, as well as literary criticism, plays and travelogues. Amongst James’s most famous works are The Europeans (1878), Daisy Miller (1878), Washington Square (1880), The Bostonians (1886), and one of the most famous ghost stories of all time, The Turn of the Screw (1898). James’ personal favourite, of all his works, was the 1903 novel The Ambassadors. He is regarded by modern-day critics as one of the key figures of 19th-century literary realism, and one of the greatest American authors of all-time.

James’ autobiography appeared in three volumes between 1914 and 1917. He died following a stroke in February of 1916, aged 72.

CHAPTER I

They’ve got him for life! I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the, amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences.

They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a state about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden.

Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: Everything! She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignes. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but

Reviews for The Coxon Fund (1894)

[g026r · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The physical thing: there's one thing I can say about Melville House's "Art of the Novella" series, and that's that they have a striking trade dress. (Reminiscent, in many ways, of Faber and Faber's frequently minimalist design.)As to the content: first off, it's Henry James being funny. It's not really something you'd expect from the man best known for "The Turn of the Screw", but it's the truth. Sadly, however, Victorian-era English-language literature has never really been my thing. As such, the humour mostly falls flat with me, and I'm left wondering what someone without the Victorian's stylistic choices could have done with it.

[edwinbcn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Less anthologized and less well known is Henry James's novella The Coxon Fund. The story is rather boring and most of the time it isn't very clear where the story is going. This can be explained by the fact that, oddly enough, the narrator does not seem to be really involved. It is as if the narrator is an agent who is standing outside the story. In fact, it is quite a jolt to realize that the narrator is probably Henry James. This first occurred to me in the off-hand comment the name-less narrator makes by comparing the speakers' scene in London with the speakers' circuit in Boston.Reading fiction we are often warned not to identify the first person narrator with the author, but in The Coxon Fund this seems inevitable. This is because the narrator describes scenes that are not relevant to the story, with personages (that aren't characters in the story either) that the author may have known, e.g. the MP is his railway carriage.The story itself is about two contestants for the fund, an endowment of a considerable sum. The narrator's reference to the scene in Boston seems to suggest that Frank Saltram is a fraud, although praise about his qualities and skill as a speaker seems to contradict this.While the narrator seems in independent observer, aloof from the action, one wonders whether James ever had a real interest or envy about such funds and endowments for upcoming and promising talented artists.

[stillatim · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

An odd choice for Melville House to drag out of irrelevance: James has oodles of novella length short stories that they could have made available. The Coxon Fund might be good for teaching, I guess. It would allow Professor (e.g.) Evans to yammer on about the relationship between money and the life of the mind, or to disquisite on the difficulty of working out whether someone is an authentic genius or a fraud. Unfortunately, James was never as good at first person narratives, and he runs into extra difficulties here, since he chose to make the narrator so stupid. One could interpret the book differently of course, by saying that the narrator isn't stupid, and Saltram really is a genius philosopher, but he certainly doesn't strike me as such. It seems clear from the start that he's a sophist, and the narrator is too dull to realize as much. But that limits James himself to the dull narrator. This is kind of like saying to Lebron James, yes, King, you can play basketball... but you can only take shots from half-court. You can't dribble or pass. And you can't play defense. Henry James being the Lebron James of the novel, more or less.

All of which would be fine if the prose was as charming as his earlier work or as rewardingly difficult as Late James. But it's not.