THE AMERICAN
Originally a yearlong serialization in the Atlantic Monthly, James’s third novel, The American (1877), is unmistakably Jamesian. Written in Paris by the 34-year-old expatriate–who was living a hand-to-mouth existence and trying to gain entree into the beau monde–the novel reflects James’s frustration. It contrasts a robustly self-made and curiously innocent Californian with various corrupt and snobbish aristos. Yet from among them, Christopher Newman, our American in Paris, hopes to choose a wife.
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Very much on the make (an American phrase James would have savored), Newman–whose name tells all–is smugly certain that his homeland is “the greatest country in the world,” that Americans “could put all Europe in their breeches pocket,” and that “Europe was made for him, and not he for Europe.” As if to confirm his confidence, he’s told, “You are the great Western Barbarian stepping forth in his innocence and might, gazing a while at this poor effete Old World and then swooping down on it.” Buoyant with dollars and the courage of his ignorance, this ugly American feels “there must be a beautiful woman perched on the pile, like a statue on a monument.” His wife is to be “the best article in the market.”
James was well aware that by refusing to allow the marriage he was bound to disappoint his readers. But he knew that Newman and Claire “would have been an impossible couple” (among other things, they would never have agreed on a place to live). There is also a deeper reason Newman doesn’t marry; according to James scholar Leon Edel, James’s homosexuality ruled out the possibility of marriage and he “found it genuinely difficult to offer it to his heroes.” It is, after all, Newman’s isolation that defines him as much as anything.
The supporting players rightly refused to indulge in old-world versus new-world stereotypes. Funereal in watered silk, Christine St. John was icily evil as the haughty matriarch, a truly diabolical dominatrix; she would rather have her face crack than reveal an emotion. As self-important Urbain, Mark Richard somehow managed to sneer with his whole body, a feat Urbain no doubt can do in his sleep. As the young minx of a marquise, Franette Liebow played her saucy, flirtatious soubrette with Gallic wit, and Lou Anne Hamilton was effectively mysterious as the secret-stowing servant Mrs. Bread. The chief disappointment was Steve Abrahamson’s too vigorous, insufficiently haunted Valentin. On top of muffing his lines on opening night, Abrahamson, with his broad portrayal, cheated Valentin of his vulnerability and any sense of his doomed resistance to the Bellegardes’ iron respectability. Valentin’s death scene felt especially insincere.
