Something like a romance

Yes sir, that Henry James sure knew how to tangle a sentence. Consequently, What Maisie Knew took me this long to finish. (When you read that sentence, Gentle Reader, be absolutely sure to stretch your arms wide, wide open when you come to "this long.") So very many concepts reduced so often to identification merely as "it," so many poor, woebegone persons reduced to repeated pronouns!

Beyond the sometimes impenetrably tangled style, we also find that the story we've received is not the story we were promised. The divorce of Maisie's parents is not really the central plotline of the novel. 'Tis true that they divorce, but that's a done deal in the first two pages; nor does the rest of the novel deal, at least not primarily, with their post-divorce strife as it filters through Maisie's perceptions. The actual story is what happens to Maisie and her new step-parents (each of the divorcees rapidly remarries): the step-parents prove to be much better people than the divorcees and gradually, in defending Maisie's interests and in gathering allies for her against her selfish parents, proceed to fall in love with each other. Really, it's something more like a romance, merely inverted because of the alteration in point of view.

Looking at What Maisie Knew as a romance throws into relief the incongruous ironies of the novel's ending. (Here be spoilers.) By the end, both of the parents have, not altogether plausibly, put aside any claim on their daughter and are each separately making plans to leave England: her father to America, her mother to South Africa. Each of her step-parents are therefore free of their obligations to their respective partners and their romance can blossom. But at this point, Maisie's third ally, her governess Mrs Wix, pronounces judgment upon the irregularity of the development of their romance. In the end, it is with Mrs Wix that Maisie ends up to be raised, not the happy united couple. It's an ending interesting to me, I suppose, in its tacit acknowledgement of the overall weirdness of the storyline.

I don't think I'd recommend the novel very vigorously, though. Aside from the challenges of the style (or perhaps because of them), I never felt the characters to be particularly compelling. The dialogue, I felt, also left something to be desired. I continue, in short, to not be inspired to any genuine affection for Henry James.

My next selection is Daniel Keyes's Flowers for Algernon.