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    The Golden Bowl by Henry James: Adapted by Joseph Cowley
    The Golden Bowl by Henry James: Adapted by Joseph Cowley
    The Golden Bowl by Henry James: Adapted by Joseph Cowley
    Ebook303 pages4 hours

    The Golden Bowl by Henry James: Adapted by Joseph Cowley

    By Henry James and Joseph Cowley

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    Henry James was born in the United States, in New York City, on April 15, 1843 and is considered an American writer, though he spent most of his life in England and, a year before his death in London on February 28 1916, became a British citizen. He is regarded as one of the key literary figures of the 19th century, writing mainly narrative fiction. He influenced many other writers, most notably Edith Wharton.
    James was the son of Henry James, Sr., a well-known intellectual of his day, and the brother of the philosopher and psychologist William James. Henry is known especially for the novels in which he portrays Americans encountering Europe and Europeans. His style of writing, often verbose and indirect, especially in his later years, can make him difficult to read. Often, too, he often writes from the point of view of characters within a tale, exploring issues related to consciousness and perception.
    James contributed significantly to literary criticism, especially in his later years when his works were republished with extensive introductions by James. He insisted that writers be allowed the greatest freedom in their writing, and that narrative fiction be true to life, giving readers a view of life that is recognizable. He felt that the only way to judge whether a novel or story is good or bad is by whether the author is good or bad.
    His imaginative use of point of view, interior monologue, and narrators who were not necessarily reliable, brought depth and interest to his fiction. The Golden Bowl (1904), his most difficult book, was influenced by his play-writing experience, the story told mostly through dialogue.
    James was a prolific writer. In addition to fiction he published articles, books of travel, autobiography, biography, criticism, and plays. Among his masterpieces are Daisy Miller (1879, The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Bostonians (1886), What Maisie Knew (1897), The Wings of the Dove (1902), and The Ambassadors (1903). His best known novellas are Washington Square (1881), and The Turn of the Screw (1898).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateJul 23, 2013
    ISBN9781481777322
    The Golden Bowl by Henry James: Adapted by Joseph Cowley
    Author

    Henry James

    Henry James (1843–1916) was an American writer, highly regarded as one of the key proponents of literary realism, as well as for his contributions to literary criticism. His writing centres on the clash and overlap between Europe and America, and The Portrait of a Lady is regarded as his most notable work.

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      Book preview

      The Golden Bowl by Henry James - Henry James

      The Golden Bowl

      by

      Henry James

      (Adapted by Joseph Cowley)

      Classics Condensed by Cowley

      US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

      AuthorHouse™ LLC

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.authorhouse.com

      Phone: 1-800-839-8640

      © 2013 by Joseph Cowley. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 07/22/2013

      ISBN: 978-1-4817-7731-5 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4817-7732-2 (e)

      This book meets the specifications for ESL students reading at Level 4 of the Ladder series.

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      CONTENTS

      Book First

      The Prince

      Part First

      I

      II

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      Part Second

      VII

      VIII

      IX

      X

      XI

      XII

      XIII

      Part Third

      XIV

      XV

      XVI

      XVII

      XVIII

      XIX

      XX

      XXI

      XXII

      XXIII

      XXIV

      Book Second

      The Princess

      Part Fourth

      XXV

      XXVI

      XXVII

      XXVIII

      XXIX

      XXX

      XXXI

      XXXII

      XXXIII

      XXXIV

      Part Fifth

      XXXV

      XXXVI

      XXVII

      XXXVIII

      XXXIX

      Part Sixth

      XL

      XLI

      XLII

      001.jpg

      For Bernice Friedson

      Book First

      The Prince

      Part First

      I

      The Prince liked London. If one wished, as a Roman, to recover a little the sense of Rome, the place to go was London Bridge, or Hyde Park Corner. But today he wandered into Bond Street and stopped before a window in which were silver and gold objects.

      He showed no regularity of attention—not even when women passed him wearing huge hats trailing ribbons, or sat in passing carriages, their umbrellas tipped at odd angles. He was restless; the last idea he would have had was chasing after them.

      He had been chasing a woman for six months as never before, and what made him restless now was the sense of having been right. Capture had crowned the chase. For shortly before, at three o’clock, his fate was done. It was already as if he was married; the date had been fixed; and he was to dine at half-past eight with the young lady and her father.

      He thought in English. Mr. Verver, his father-in-law-to-be, had a command of it that put the Prince in a poor position in any discussion. He also told the daughter what most touched him about her father: I think he’s a REAL gentleman. He’s simply the best man I’ve ever met.

      Well, dear, why shouldn’t he be? the girl replied.

      His ‘form,’ he said, might have made one doubt.

      Father’s form? It strikes me he hasn’t got any.

      He hasn’t got mine—he hasn’t even got yours.

      Thank you for ‘even’! the girl laughed.

      He has his own. It’s where it has brought him out.

      It’s his goodness that has brought him out!

      Ah, darling, goodness, I think, never brought anyone out. When it’s real, it rather keeps people in. No, it’s his WAY.

      Do you think it would be good for you? she asked.

      I don’t feel, my dear, that anything much can now either hurt or help me. But it’s when your father talks American that he is most alive, so I must develop it. He’s a result of his tone. My liking is FOR the tone—which has made him possible.

      You’ll hear enough of it before you’re done with us.

      What do you mean by my having ‘done’ with you?

      Why, found out about us all there is to find.

      He took it as a joke.

      To begin with, he said, I know enough never to be surprised. It’s you who really know nothing. I come in two parts. One is the history of my family. The other is the personal, of which you know nothing.

      Luckily, my dear, the girl said, for what then would become of the occupation of my future?

      How CLEAR she looked, in her prettiness, as she said it.

      The happiest periods of history are without any history.

      I’m not afraid of history! Call it the bad part, if you like. What made me think of you? It wasn’t you. It was the history behind you. Where, without your history, would you have been?

      I might have been better off as far as money goes, he returned. Then he added, You Americans are so romantic.

      Of course. It’s what makes everything so nice for us.

      Everything?

      Well, everything that’s nice. The beautiful world—and everything in it. I mean we see so much.

      You see too much—that may sometimes make difficulties. When you don’t, he added, see too little.

      He had seen how foolish the romantic attitude could be, but there seemed nothing foolish in theirs—nothing but pleasures. Their enjoyment was a tribute to others without being a loss to themselves. The odd thing was, her father was as bad as herself.

      Oh, he’s better, the girl said. That is, he’s worse. He’s romantic about things he cares for. His whole life is romantic.

      You mean his idea for his native place?

      Yes—the collection, and the Museum he wishes to build, of which he thinks more than anything in the world. It’s the work of his life and the reason for everything he does.

      Has it been his reason for letting me have you?

      In a way, she said. You’re part of his collection. You can only be got over here, and there are not too many of you. You’re an object of beauty. You’re what they call a ‘bit of museum.’

      I have the great sign, he risked, that I cost a lot.

      I haven’t the least idea, she said, what you cost.

      He loved her way of saying it.

      Wouldn’t you find out if it came to parting with me? My value would in that case be figured out.

      She looked at him with her charming eyes and said, Yes, if you mean that I’d pay rather than lose you.

      Would you send me to the museum for safety?

      Well, we may have to come to it.

      I’ll go anywhere you want.

      It will be only if we have to. There are things, she went on, that father hides away. Our treasures are buried all over—except the small pieces. Those we take with us to make the places we hire more pleasant.

      I like the class, he laughed, in which you put me! I’ll be one of the little pieces you take out at hotels or houses like this. It’s nice not to be so big as to be buried.

      Oh, you shall not be buried, my dear, till you’re dead. Unless you call it being buried to go to American City.

      Before I’m declared dead, I’d like to see where I’m to be buried, he said. Then added, changing the subject, I hope there’s one thing you believe about me.

      He sounded grave, but she took it with gayness.

      Don’t fix me down to ‘one’! I believe things enough about you to have a few left if most go broke. I’ve seen to THAT.

      He knew enough not to seem needy. He didn’t think he was, though it was part of his family history. What was his desire to marry but the desire for a new history? If what had come to him wouldn’t do, he must MAKE it different. But it would take Mr. Verver’s millions. There was nothing else to make it with.

      His memory had simply to block out the past—much as in front of him as he walked, the shutter of a shop closing rattled down at the turn of a crank. There, all about him, was the power of the rich. Well, he was OF them now. His papers were in order, everything settled. Meanwhile he had a few hours to kill.

      He thought of Mrs. Assingham, and decided to see her. HER youth and beauty were more or less of the past, but to find her at home would ease him. Thanking her, and timing the act as he was, would cure him of all that was the matter with him.

      She stood for the way he was going—the force that set it in motion. She had MADE his marriage. Meeting him in Rome, and liking him, she marked him for her young friend Maggie. But her interest in Maggie would have meant little without her interest in HIM. On what did that rest? How could he repay her? The Prince’s idea of repaying women was to make love to them. But he hadn’t, as he believed, made love to Mrs. Assingham.

      What he couldn’t understand was the confidence they had in him. It seemed odd, their assuming value in him, as if he were an old coin. He felt secure with that idea. He was to be a possession, yet not to be reduced to the parts of which he was made. What would this mean but that he was never to be tried or tested?

      This was the question not answered. Even Mrs. Assingham, in spite of her joking, took him seriously. All he could say was he had done nothing so far to break any charm. But what would happen if he were to ask her what it was they expected of him?

      Oh, it’s what we expect you to be! she might say.

      Would it break the spell if he said he had no idea what that was? He took himself seriously, but it wasn’t a question of what he thought. In time they would want to test him. And he wasn’t the man to figure that out. He felt better as his cab stopped in Cadogan Place, for Mrs. Assingham might have the answer.

      II

      They’re not good days, he said to Mrs. Assingham after telling her the news—the papers signed an hour ago.

      Do you mean you’re afraid? she asked.

      Terribly afraid. I’ve now but to wait for it to come. I’ve really got nothing, yet everything to lose.

      The way she laughed was unpleasant.

      Being married, said Mrs. Assingham is what you call ‘it’? I admit it’s a fearful thing; but, for heaven’s sake, if that’s what you’re thinking, don’t run away from it.

      To run away would be to run away from you, the Prince replied; and you know how much I depend on you. You MUST lead me.

      How can you be sure where I should take you?

      You’ve brought me safely so far. You can’t desert me now.

      She showed again how funny she thought him.

      My dear Prince. What in the world can I possibly do more? Bob and I have wandered far, but the time has come for us at last to draw in.

      You talk about rest, the young man protested. It’s too selfish! When you’re just starting me on my adventure?

      Not adventure, she said. You’ve had yours, I’ve had mine. We should neither of us begin again. I’ve been conducting you to rest. You’re almost IN port—the port of the Golden Isles.

      I know where I AM, he said. It’s why I came to thank you. If today is the end of the beginning, I feel how little there would have been without you.

      Well, said Mrs. Assingham, smiling, they were easy. Everything went of itself. So everything still goes.

      The Prince quickly agreed.

      Oh, beautifully! But you had the idea.

      Ah, Prince, so had you! I had only—when I thought it was time—to speak for you.

      "That is quite true. But you’re leaving me, all the same.

      And he looked about the pretty room.

      I shall keep this spot in sight. Say what you will, I shall need you. I’m not going to give you up for anybody.

      If you’re afraid—which of course you’re not—are you trying to make me afraid?

      He answered her with a question.

      You say you ‘liked’ it, making my engagement possible. It’s beautiful that you did. But WHY did you like it?

      I scarce know what to say to that, she said. If you haven’t found out yourself, what meaning can anything I say have for you? Do you know how perfect the creature is whom I’ve put you into possession?

      Every minute. That’s why I’m asking. It wasn’t only a matter of your handing me over—it was a matter of your handing her to me. You thought all the good of that woman, yet you helped me at her risk.

      Are you trying to frighten me? she asked again.

      You don’t understand how humble I am, he said. That’s how I’ve been feeling today. And you won’t take me seriously.

      Oh, you deep old Italians! was all she said.

      There you are, he said—it’s what I wanted you to say. That’s the responsible note.

      Yes, she went on—if you’re ‘humble’ you MUST be dangerous. She paused. I don’t want to lose sight of you.

      Thank you—it’s what I needed. I’m sure the more you’re with me the more I shall understand. I do pretty well with what I SEE. But I’ve got to see it first. And I don’t mind being shown—in fact I like it. That’s what I want, your eyes. Through THEM I wish to look—even if they show me what I may not like.

      What on earth are you talking about? she asked.

      My fear of being wrong WITHOUT knowing it. That’s what I trust you for—to tell me when I am. With you people it’s a sense. We haven’t got it. Therefore—!

      I should be interested to see some sense you don’t possess.

      Dear Mrs. Assingham, he said. I’ve something that in Rome passes for it. But it’s no more like yours than the stairs in an old castle are to an elevator. Our sense is slow and steep, with so many steps missing, that it’s shorter to come down again.

      Trusting, she smiled, to get up some other way?

      Yes—or not to have to get up at all.

      Machiavelli! she exclaimed.

      I should be so wise. However, if you really believed I have his evil way of thinking you wouldn’t say it. But it’s all right, he ended with gayness. I shall always have you to come to.

      On this, she asked him if he would have more tea. All she would give him, he said; and made her laugh with his idea that the tea of the English was somehow their morality, made with boiling water in a little pot, so that the more of it one drank the more moral one becomes.

      He had been with her twenty minutes; but stayed longer to prove how grateful he was. He stayed in spite of the restlessness that brought him. She had not soothed him, and there was a moment when the cause of her failure showed.

      She was not at ease. Something had come up.

      I don’t think you’re treating me right, he said. You’ve something on your mind you don’t tell me.

      Am I obliged to tell you everything?

      It isn’t a question of everything; it’s a question of anything that may concern me. You shouldn’t keep it back. You know I like to be careful, making no mistake that may injure HER.

      ‘Her’? Mrs. Assingham asked.

      Her and him. Either Maggie or her father.

      I do have something on my mind, Mrs. Assingham said. Something has happened for which I hadn’t been prepared. But it isn’t anything that properly concerns you.

      What do you mean by ‘properly’? he asked. I see much in it—the way people put a thing when they put it wrong. What has happened?

      Oh, I shall be delighted to tell you if you’ll take your share of it. Charlotte Stant is in London. She has been here.

      He was surprised.

      Miss Stant? Oh really? She has arrived from America?

      She appears to have arrived this noon. She dropped in after lunch and was here for more than an hour.

      You think I’ve a share in it? What IS my share?

      Any share you like—the one you seemed eager to take.

      I didn’t know then what the matter was, he said.

      You didn’t think it could be so bad?

      Do you call it bad?

      Only, she smiled, because that’s the way it seems to YOU.

      But you allowed you were upset.

      To the extent of not having looked for her. Anymore, she said, than I judge Maggie to have done.

      No—quite right, the Prince agreed. Maggie hasn’t looked for her. But I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see her.

      That, certainly, she said gravely.

      She’ll be filled with joy. Has Miss Stant gone to her?

      She has gone back to her hotel to bring her things here. I can’t have her, she said alone at a hotel.

      So she’s coming now?

      I expect her any moment. If you wait you’ll see her.

      Oh, he declared—charming!

      The word sounded accidental, whereas he wished to be firm. That’s how he next tried to show himself.

      If it wasn’t for what’s going on these next days, Maggie would certainly want to have her. In fact, isn’t that what she has come for?

      Mrs. Assingham only looked at him.

      What she has come for! she laughed. Why, for your wedding.

      Mine?

      Maggie’s—it’s the same thing. It’s ‘for’ your great event. And then, said Mrs. Assingham, she’s so lonely.

      Has she given you that as a reason?

      I scarcely remember—she gave me so many. She abounds, poor dear, in reasons. But there’s one I always remember.

      And which is that?

      That she has no home—none whatever. She’s very alone.

      And also has no great means.

      Very small ones. It’s not a reason for running to and fro.

      Quite the opposite. She doesn’t like her country.

      Hers, my dear man? It’s little enough ‘hers.’

      I say hers, the Prince said, as I might say mine. I quite feel as if the great place already more or less belongs to ME.

      That’s your good fortune. You own—or soon WILL—so much of it. Charlotte owns nothing, she says, but two trunks.

      He had always been able to return a light response.

      Has she come with designs upon me?

      Then, as if this were too grave, he sounded a different note.

      Is she also pretty?

      She’s a person, I think, whose looks are subject to being admired. It’s in the way she affects you. One admires her if she happens not to affect you. So, one criticizes her if she does.

      Ah, that’s not fair! said the Prince.

      To find fault with her? There you are! You’re answered.

      I only meant there are better things to be done with Miss Stant than to find fault with her. Once you begin THAT—!

      I quite agree it’s better to keep out of it as long as one can, she returned. But when one MUST do it—

      Yes? he asked as she paused.

      Then know what you mean.

      Perhaps, he smiled, I don’t know what I mean.

      Well, it’s what, just now, you should know.

      Mrs. Assingham made no more of this. Instead, she said, I quite understand, given her friendship with Maggie, she should want to be present. She acted without thinking—but generously.

      She has acted beautifully, said the Prince.

      I say ‘generously’ because I mean she hasn’t counted the cost. She’ll have it to count now. But that doesn’t matter.

      You’ll look after her.

      I’ll look after her.

      So it’s all right.

      It’s all right, said Mrs. Assingham.

      Then why are you troubled?

      I’m not—any more than you.

      Oh, well, I’M not! he sang out.

      My first impulse is to behave as if I feared difficulties. But I don’t fear them—I really like them.

      But, he said, if we’re not in the presence of a difficulty.

      A handsome, odd girl staying with one is a difficulty.

      And will she stay very long?

      His friend gave a laugh.

      How in the world can I know? I’ve scarcely asked.

      Ah yes. You can’t.

      Do you think you could?

      I?

      Get her to say how long she’ll stay?

      I daresay, if you were to give me the chance.

      Here it is, she said; for she heard a cab stop at her door.

      She’s back.

      III

      The Prince thought it over as they waited. A handsome, odd girl staying with her would make things difficult for Fanny. But on the good side were the long relations of the two young women.

      She can come, you know, at any time, to US.

      Mrs. Assingham took it up with a look beyond laughter.

      You’d like her for your honey-moon?

      You must keep her for that. But why not after?

      She looked at him a minute; then, at the sound of a voice in the corridor, said, Why not? You’re splendid!

      Charlotte Stant was let in.

      Prepared for not finding Fanny alone, she looked at her with brightness, knowing the Prince was there. It let the Prince take her in better than if she had faced him. What he saw was a tall, charming girl who had the look of her situation. He knew of the young lady’s strength of mind. Her presence in the world was so like his own. Connection was instantly established.

      While she faced Mrs. Assingham, he saw again her thick hair, her slim arms. He knew her narrow hands, her long fingers, her special beauty. When she turned to him it was to recognize with her eyes what he

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