The American

History of Collins

In 1819, millworker William Collins from Glasgow, Scotland, set up a company for printing and publishing pamphlets, sermons, hymn books and prayer books. That company was Collins and was to mark the birth of HarperCollins Publishers as we know it today. The long tradition of Collins dictionary publishing can be traced back to the first dictionary William published in 1824, Greek and English Lexicon. Indeed, from 1840 onwards, he began to produce illustrated dictionaries and even obtained a licence to print and publish the Bible.

Soon after, William published the first Collins novel, Ready Reckoner; however, it was the time of the Long Depression, where harvests were poor, prices were high, potato crops had failed and violence was erupting in Europe. As a result, many factories across the country were forced to close down and William chose to retire in 1846, partly due to the hardships he was facing.

Aged 30, William’s son, William II took over the business. A keen humanitarian with a warm heart and a generous spirit, William II was truly ‘Victorian’ in his outlook. He introduced new, up-to-date steam presses and published affordable editions of Shakespeare’s works and The Pilgrim’s Progress, making them available to the masses for the first time. A new demand for educational books meant that success came with the publication of travel books, scientific books, encyclopaedias and dictionaries. This demand to be educated led to the later publication of atlases and Collins also held the monopoly on scripture writing at the time.

In the 1860s Collins began to expand and diversify and the idea of ‘books for the millions’ was developed. Affordable editions of classical literature were published and in 1903 Collins introduced 10 titles in their Collins Handy Illustrated Pocket Novels. These proved so popular that a few years later this had increased to an output of 50 volumes, selling nearly half a million in their year of publication. In the same year, The Everyman’s Library was also instituted, with the idea of publishing an affordable library of the most important classical works, biographies, religious and philosophical treatments, plays, poems, travel and adventure. This series eclipsed all competition at the time and the introduction of paperback books in the 1950s helped to open that market and marked a high point in the industry.

HarperCollins is and has always been a champion of the classics and the current Collins Classics series follows in this tradition – publishing classical literature that is affordable and available to all. Beautifully packaged, highly collectible and intended to be reread and enjoyed at every opportunity.

Life & Times

About the Author

American Henry James was born and raised in New York City in 1843. His father was a prominent social theorist and intellectual who frequently traveled across Europe, and Henry and his brother William often accompanied him on these trips. Henry was exposed to this European society from a young age, and his fascination with the decadence and sophistication of Europe in comparison to the shiny optimism and sincerity of American is apparent in many of his works. Early on in his writing career, James moved to Europe and even became a British citizen in 1915 because he disagreed with America’s decision not to become involved with the First World War.

His novels The American, The Europeans, and Daisy Miller were all written with a mind to psychological realism, but it was not until the 1880s that he wrote The Portrait of a Lady, often considered his greatest novel. Critics sometimes voiced the opinion that James’s work was uneventful, or too slow-paced, but others delighted in his style of writing, which they cited as being elegant, concise, and fluid.

Despite James’s obvious delight in observing and noting the interaction of humans in society, he was a shy and socially removed individual who did not keep many close friends. He was never married and very open about his decision to choose a life of celibacy. He was a prolific writer and produced over 100 books in 40 years of writing, including some of his most well-known works, The Turn of the Screw and The Wings of the Dove.

The Portrait of a Lady

Generally considered Henry James’s finest piece of writing, The Portrait of a Lady was first written in the 1880s. A great lover of observing human behavior in society, James centers the novel on the conflict between American individualism and European custom, following the lives of American characters living in Europe. The young Isabel Archer is confident, independent, and well-read and is regarded in her home town of Albany, New York as too intimidating a woman for eligible men to pursue. Shortly after the death of her father, her American aunt Mrs. Touchett comes to invite Isabel to accompany her back to Europe. Isabel jumps at the chance and is soon turning down offers of marriage from British suitor Mr. Warburton and spurning the affections of her cousin Ralph in favor of maintaining her independence.

When Mr. Touchett’s health declines and he eventually dies, he leaves half his wealth to Isabel, rendering her a woman of independent means. Madame Merle befriends Isabel, her interest in their friendship piqued by Isabel’s inheritance, and accompanies Mrs. Touchett and Isabel to Florence. Madame Merle introduces her friend to Gilbert Osmond, building him up as a fine man of taste and devoted to the arts, despite the fact that he has no social standing or wealth of his own. Little does Isabel know that Madame Merle is romantically involved with Osmond and has plans to access Isabel’s fortune by persuading her to marry him. Isabel does marry him, despite the disapproval of those around her, and moves to live with him and his daughter Pansy in Rome. As Isabel and Osmond grow to detest each other more and more every day, Isabel attempts to save Pansy from marrying the wrong man, infuriating Osmond in the process because his daughter has rejected a wealthy suitor.

When Isabel hears that Ralph is ill, Osmond demands that she stay in Rome and not visit her cousin. After wrestling with the duty she feels toward her husband and her adherence to social propriety, she eventually decides to go to Ralph in England. She is even more resolved to do so when she finds out, to her horror, that Pansy is actually Madame Merle’s daughter. When Ralph dies, Isabel has to decide whether to honor her duty to her husband and return to Rome, even though the independent part of her tells her to flee and never return. Ultimately, Isabel feels the stronger pull of societal duty, the promise she made to her stepdaughter, and the weight of her marriage commitment to Osmond, and returns to Rome.

The American

An enduring concern among internationally minded Americans is the stereotypical image of “the American” held by the rest of the world, especially Europe, perceived to be a disapproving cultural and social parent. Henry James was aware that the French writer Alexandre Dumas had portrayed an American as uncivilized and disreputable in his play L’Étrangère (The Foreigner) in 1876, so he wanted to redress this point of view in his novel The American (1877).

The central character of the novel is a wealthy American who travels to France in the aftermath of the American Civil War, to experience the historical and cultural depth of Europe. In essence, James was exploring the juxtaposition of a civilized American reacting to the social environment and traditions he encounters on his travels. Put simply, James portrayed a New World mind contrasted against those of the Old World. The fundamental point being that Americans were free from the complexities and preposterousness of etiquette that exist in high-society Europe, such etiquette a fragile structure that existed only because the components had remained unchanged for countless generations. To counteract the perception that Americans were unrefined in thoughts and behavior, James portrays his character as thoughtful and intellectually searching. However, he inevitably comes across as rather gauche and pretentious to European sensibilities because he is naïve of their ways. His attempts to learn to be cultivated and sophisticated are at odds with those around him who supposedly already are.

The story works because James manages to exploit the comic value from this humorous interplay, as the American struggles to deal with the bound behaviors of the Europeans, which makes them seem somewhere between eccentric and insane. The overriding insight is that behavioural “normality” is a subjective judgment, based on one’s level of familiarity with the world view of others. It is largely a case of never the twain shall meet, which is why people tend to simplify matters by inventing stereotypes. It becomes easier for the mind to comprehend if all members of a culture are superimposed by a single personality.

Of course, in life this occurs mutually, so that all cultures stereotype other cultures. The rub with James, however, is that America is perceived as an adolescent nation, so that it is faced with either delinquently ignoring those who still belong to its parent cultures or perpetually seeking approval from them. Interestingly, this idea still persists to some degree almost 150 years on: Americans are still stereotyped as loud and unsubtle by many Europeans, and Europeans are still stereotyped as staid and superior by many Americans.

CONTENTS

Title Page

History of Collins

Life & Times

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Classic Literature: Words and Phrases adapted from the Collins English Dictionary

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was reclining at his ease on the great circular divan which at that period occupied the centre of the Salon Carre, in the Museum of the Louvre. This commodious ottoman has since been removed, to the extreme regret of all weak-kneed lovers of the fine arts, but the gentleman in question had taken serene possession of its softest spot, and, with his head thrown back and his legs outstretched, was staring at Murillo’s beautiful moon-borne Madonna in profound enjoyment of his posture. He had removed his hat, and flung down beside him a little red guide-book and an opera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking, and he repeatedly passed his handkerchief over his forehead, with a somewhat wearied gesture. And yet he was evidently not a man to whom fatigue was familiar; long, lean, and muscular, he suggested the sort of vigor that is commonly known as “toughness.” But his exertions on this particular day had been of an unwonted sort, and he had performed great physical feats which left him less jaded than his tranquil stroll through the Louvre. He had looked out all the pictures to which an asterisk was affixed in those formidable pages of fine print in his Badeker; his attention had been strained and his eyes dazzled, and he had sat down with an aesthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all the pictures, but at all the copies that were going forward around them, in the hands of those innumerable young women in irreproachable toilets who devote themselves, in France, to the propagation of masterpieces, and if the truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much more than the original. His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he was a shrewd and capable fellow, and in truth he had often sat up all night over a bristling bundle of accounts, and heard the cock crow without a yawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic, and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his life, with a vague self-mistrust.

An observer with anything of an eye for national types would have had no difficulty in determining the local origin of this undeveloped connoisseur, and indeed such an observer might have felt a certain humorous relish of the almost ideal completeness with which he filled out the national mould. The gentleman on the divan was a powerful specimen of an American. But he was not only a fine American; he was in the first place, physically, a fine man. He appeared to possess that kind of health and strength which, when found in perfection, are the most impressive—the physical capital which the owner does nothing to “keep up.” If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without knowing it. If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot, he walked, but he had never known himself to “exercise.” He had no theory with regard to cold bathing or the use of Indian clubs; he was neither an oarsman, a rifleman, nor a fencer—he had never had time for these amusements—and he was quite unaware that the saddle is recommended for certain forms of indigestion. He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had supped the night before his visit to the Louvre at the Cafe Anglais—some one had told him it was an experience not to be omitted—and

he had slept none the less the sleep of the just. His usual attitude and carriage were of a rather relaxed and lounging kind, but when under a special inspiration, he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier on parade. He never smoked. He had been assured—such things are said—that cigars were excellent for the health, and he was quite capable of believing it; but he knew as little about tobacco as about homeopathy. He had a very well-formed head, with a shapely, symmetrical balance of the frontal and the occipital development, and a good deal of straight, rather dry brown hair. His complexion was brown, and his nose had a bold well-marked arch. His eye was of a clear, cold gray, and save for a rather abundant mustache he was clean-shaved. He had the flat jaw and sinewy neck which are frequent in the American type; but the traces of national origin are a matter of expression even more than of feature, and it was in this respect that our friend’s countenance was supremely eloquent. The discriminating observer we have been supposing might, however, perfectly have measured its expressiveness, and yet have been at a loss to describe it. It had that typical vagueness which is not vacuity, that blankness which is not simplicity, that look of being committed to nothing in particular, of standing in an attitude of general hospitality to the chances of life, of being very much at one’s own disposal so characteristic of many American faces. It was our friend’s eye that chiefly told his story; an eye in which innocence and experience were singularly blended. It was full of contradictory suggestions, and though it was by no means the glowing orb of a hero of romance, you could find in it almost anything you looked for. Frigid and yet friendly, frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous, positive yet skeptical, confident yet shy, extremely intelligent and extremely good-humored, there was something vaguely defiant in its concessions, and something profoundly reassuring in its reserve. The cut of this gentleman’s mustache, with the two premature wrinkles in the cheek above it, and the fashion of his garments, in which an exposed shirt-front and a cerulean cravat played perhaps an obtrusive part, completed the conditions of his identity. We have approached him, perhaps, at a not especially favorable moment; he is by no means sitting for his portrait. But listless as he lounges there, rather baffled on the aesthetic question, and guilty of the damning fault (as we have lately discovered it to be) of confounding the merit of the artist with that of his work (for he admires the squinting Madonna of the young lady with the boyish coiffure, because he thinks the young lady herself uncommonly taking), he is a sufficiently promising acquaintance. Decision, salubrity, jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within his call; he is evidently a practical man, but the idea in his case, has undefined and mysterious boundaries, which invite the imagination to bestir itself on his behalf.

As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every now and then a responsive glance toward her admirer. The cultivation of the fine arts appeared to necessitate, to her mind, a great deal of byplay, a great standing off with folded arms and head drooping from side to side, stroking of a dimpled chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowning and patting of the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wandering hair-pins. These performances were accompanied by a restless glance, which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman we have described. At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat, and approached the young lady. He placed himself before her picture and looked at it for some moments, during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of his inspection. Then, addressing her with the single word which constituted the strength of his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in a manner which appeared to him to illuminate his meaning, “Combien?” he abruptly demanded.

The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders, put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands.

“How much?” said our friend, in English. “Combien?”

“Monsieur wishes to buy it?” asked the young lady in French.

“Very pretty, splendide. Combien?” repeated the American.

“It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It’s a very beautiful subject,” said the young lady.

“The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it. Combien? Write it here.” And he took a pencil from his pocket and showed her the fly-leaf of his guide-book. She stood looking at him and scratching her chin with the pencil. “Is it not for sale?” he asked. And as she still stood reflecting, and looking at him with an eye which, in spite of her desire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story, betrayed an almost touching incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her. She simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she might go. “I haven’t made a mistake—pas insulte, no?” her interlocutor continued. “Don’t you understand a little English?”

The young lady’s aptitude for playing a part at short notice was remarkable. She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eye and asked him if he spoke no French. Then, “Donnez!” she said briefly, and took the open guide-book. In the upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced a number, in a minute and extremely neat hand. Then she handed back the book and took up her palette again.

Our friend read the number: “2,000 francs.” He said nothing for a time, but stood looking at the picture, while the copyist began actively to dabble with her paint. “For a copy, isn’t that a good deal?” he asked at last. “Pas beaucoup?”

The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from head to foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right answer. “Yes, it’s a good deal. But my copy has remarkable qualities, it is worth nothing less.”

The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but I have said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it. He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman’s phrase, and it gratified him to think that she was so honest. Beauty, talent, virtue; she combined everything! “But you must finish it,” he said. “FINISH, you know;” and he pointed to the unpainted hand of the figure.

“Oh, it shall be finished in perfection; in the perfection of perfections!” cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she deposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna’s cheek.

But the American frowned. “Ah, too red, too red!” he rejoined. “Her complexion,” pointing to the Murillo, “is—more delicate.”

“Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sevres biscuit. I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art. And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address?”

“My address? Oh yes!” And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-book and wrote something upon it. Then hesitating a moment he said, “If I don’t like it when it it’s finished, you know, I shall not be obliged to take it.”

The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself. “Oh, I am very sure that monsieur is not capricious,” she said with a roguish smile.

“Capricious?” And at this monsieur began to laugh. “Oh no, I’m not capricious. I am very faithful. I am very constant. Comprenez?”

“Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly. It’s a rare virtue. To recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day; next week—as soon as it is dry. I will take the card of monsieur.” And she took it and read his name: “Christopher Newman.” Then she tried to repeat it aloud, and laughed at her bad accent. “Your English names are so droll!”

“Droll?” said Mr. Newman, laughing too. “Did you ever hear of Christopher Columbus?”

“Bien sur! He invented America; a very great man. And is he your patron?”

“My patron?”

“Your patron-saint, in the calendar.”

“Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him.”

“Monsieur is American?”

“Don’t you see it?” monsieur inquired.

“And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?” and she explained her phrase with a gesture.

“Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures—beaucoup, beaucoup,” said Christopher Newman.

“The honor is not less for me,” the young lady answered, “for I am sure monsieur has a great deal of taste.”

“But you must give me your card,” Newman said; “your card, you know.”

The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said, “My father will wait upon you.”

But this time Mr. Newman’s powers of divination were at fault. “Your card, your address,” he simply repeated.

“My address?” said mademoiselle. Then with a little shrug, “Happily for you, you are an American! It is the first time I ever gave my card to a gentleman.” And, taking from her pocket a rather greasy porte-monnaie, she extracted from it a small glazed visiting card, and presented the latter to her patron. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes, “Mlle. Noemie Nioche.” But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to him were equally droll.

“And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home,” said Mademoiselle Noemie. “He speaks English. He will arrange with you.” And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up, peering over his spectacles at Newman.

M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung his little meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressive than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in the barber’s window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His scant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who had “had losses” and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it had frightened him, and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, for fear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman was saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors.