Robert Silverberg - The Martian Invasion Journals of Henry James

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The Martian Invasion Journals of Henry

James

By Robert Silverberg

Editor's Note:

Of all the treasures contained in the coffin-shaped wooden sea-chest at Harvard's Widener Library in

which those of Henry James's notebooks and journals that survived his death were preserved and in the

associated James archive at Harvard, only James's account of his bizarre encounter with the Martian

invaders in the summer of l900 has gone unpublished until now. The rest of the material the box contained

--the diaries and datebooks, the notes for unfinished novels, the variant drafts of his late plays, and so

forth--has long since been made available to James scholars, first in the form of selections under the

editorship of F.O. Matthiessen and Kenneth B. Murdock (The Notebooks of Henry James,Oxford

University Press, l947), and then a generation later in the magisterial full text edited by Leon Edel and

Lyall H. Powers (The Complete Notebooks of Henry James,Oxford University Press, 1987.)

Despite the superb latter volume's assertions, in its title and subtitle, of being "complete," "authoritative,"

and "definitive," one brief text was indeed omitted from it, which was, of course, the invasion journal.

Edel and Powers are in no way to be faulted for this, since they could not have been aware of the

existence of the Martian papers, which had (apparently accidentally) been sequestered long ago among a

group of documents at Harvard associated with the life of James's sister Alice (1848-1892) and had

either gone unnoticed by the biographers of Alice James or else, since the diary had obviously been

composed some years after her death, had been dismissed by them as irrelevant to their research. It may

also be that they found the little notebook simply illegible, for James had suffered severely from writer's

cramp from the winter of l896-97 onward; his handwriting by l900 had become quite erratic, and many

of the (largely pencilled) entries in the Martian notebook are extremely challenging even to a reader

experienced in Henry James's hand, set down as they were in great haste under intensely strange

circumstances.

The text is contained in a pocket diary book, four and a half inches by six, bound in a green leatherette

cover. It appears that James used such books, in those years, in which to jot notes that he would later

transcribe into his permanent notebook(Houghton Journal VI, 26 October l896 to l0 February l909) ;

but this is the only one of its kind that has survived. The first entry is undated, but can be specifically

identified as belonging to mid-May of l900 by its references to James's visit to London in that month. At

that time James made his home at Lamb House in the pleasant Sussex town of Rye, about seventy miles

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southeast of London. After an absence of nearly two years he had made a brief trip to the capital in

March, l900, at which time, he wrote, he was greeted by his friends "almost as if I had returned from

African or Asian exile." After seventeen days he went home to Lamb House, but he returned to London

in May, having suddenly shaven off, a few days before, the beard that he had worn since the l860s,

because it had begun to turn white and offended his vanity. (James was then 57.) From internal evidence,

then, we can date the first entry in the Martian journals to the period between May 15 and May 25,

1900.

[Undated] Stepped clean-shaven from the train at Charing Cross. Felt clean and light and eerily young: I

could have been forty. A miraculous transformation, so simply achieved! Alas, the sad truth of it is that it

will always be I, never any younger even without the beard; but this is a good way to greet the new

century nevertheless.

Called on Helena De Kay. Gratifying surprise and expressions of pleasure over my rejuvenated

physiognomy. Clemens is there, that is, "Mark Twain." He has aged greatly in the three years since our

last meeting. "The twentieth century is a stranger to me," he sadly declares. His health is bad: has been to

Sweden for a cure. Not clear what ails him, physically, at least. He is a dark and troubled soul in any

case. His best work is behind him and plainly he knows it. I pray whatever God there be that that is not

to be my fate.

To the club in the evening. Tomorrow a full day, the galleries, the booksellers, the customary dismaying

conference with the publishers. (The war in South Africa is depressing all trade, publishing particularly

badly hit, though I should think people would read more novels at a time of such tension.) Luncheon and

dinner engagements, of course, the usual hosts, no doubt the usual guests. And so on and on the next day

and the next and the next. I yearn already for little restful, red-roofed, uncomplicated Rye.

June 7, LH[Lamb House, Rye]: Home again at long last. London tires me: that is the truth of things. I

have lost the habit of it,je crois . How I yearned, all the while I was there, for cabless days and

dinnerless nights! And of course there is work to do.The Sacred Fount is now finished and ready to go

to the agent. A fine flight into the high fantastic, I think--fanciful, fantastic, but very close and sustained.

Writing in the first person makes me uneasy--it lends itself so readily to garrulity, to a fluidity of

self-revelation--but there is no questioning that such a structure was essential to this tale.

What is to be next? There is of course the great Project, the fine and major thing, which perhaps I mean

to callThe Ambassadors . Am I ready to begin it? It will call for the most supreme effort, though I think

the reward will be commensurate. A masterpiece, dare I say? I might do well to set down one more

sketch of it before commencing. But not immediately. There is powerful temptation to be dilatory: I find a

note here from Wells, who suggests that I bicycle over to Sandgate and indulge in a bit of conversation

with him. Indeed it has been a while, and I am terribly fond of him. Wells first, yes, and some serious

thought about my ambassadors after that.

June 14, Sandgate. I am at Wells's this fine bright Thursday, very warm even for June. The bicycle ride

in such heat across Romney Marsh to this grand new villa of his on the Kentish coast left me quite wilted,

but Wells's robust hospitality has quickly restored me.

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What a vigorous man Wells is! Not that you would know it to look at him; his health is much improved

since his great sickly time two years ago, but he is nonetheless such a flimsy little wisp of a man, with

those short legs, that high squeaky voice, his somewhat absurd moustaches. And yet the mind of the man

burns like a sun within that frail body! The energy comes forth in that stream of books, the marvelous

fantastic tales, the time-machine story and the one about Dr. Moreau's bestial monsters and the one that I

think is my favorite, the pitiful narrative of the invisible man. Now he wants to write the story of a journey

to the Moon, among innumerable other projects, all of which he will probably fulfill. But of course there is

much more to Wells than these outlandish if amusing fables: his recent book,Love and Mr. Lewisham ,

is not at all a scientific romance but rather quite the searching analysis of matters of love and power. Even

so Wells is not just a novelist (amere novelist, I came close to saying!); he is a seer, a prophet, he

genuinely wishes to transform the world according to his great plan for it. I doubt very much that he will

have the chance, but I wish him well. It is a trifle exhausting to listen to him go on and on about the new

century and the miracles that it will bring, but it is enthralling as well. And of course behind his scientific

optimism lurks a dark vision, quite contradictory, of the inherent nature of mankind. He is a fascinating

man, a raw, elemental force. I wish he paid more attention to matters of literary style; but, then, he wishes

that I would payless . I dare say each of us is both right and wrong about the other.

We spoke sadly of our poor friend and neighbor, Crane [Stephen Crane, the American novelist],

whose untimely death last week we both lament. His short life was chaotic and his disregard for his own

health was virtually criminal; butThe Red Badge of Courage , I believe, will surely long outlive him. I

wonder what other magnificent works were still in him when he died.

We talk of paying calls the next day on some of our other literary friends who live nearby, Conrad,

perhaps, or young Hueffer, or even Kipling up at Burwash. What a den of novelists these few counties

possess!

A fine dinner and splendid talk afterward.

Early to bed for me; Wells, I suppose, will stay awake far into the night, writing, writing, writing.

June 14, Spade House, Sandgate. In mid-morning after a generous late breakfast Wells is just at the

point of composing a note to Conrad proposing an impromptu visit--Conrad is still despondently toiling

at his interminableLord Jim and no doubt would welcome an interruption, Wells says--when a young

fellow whom Wells knows comes riding up, all out of breath, with news that a falling star has been seen

crossing the skies in the night, rushing high overhead, inscribing a line of flame visible from Winchester

eastward, and that--no doubt as a consequence of that event--something strange has dropped from the

heavens and landed in Wells's old town of Woking, over Surrey way. It is a tangible thunderbolt, a

meteor, some kind of shaft flung by the hand of Zeus, at any rate.

So,instanter , all is up with our visit to Conrad. Wells's scientific curiosity takes full hold of him. He must

go to Woking this very moment to inspect this gift of the gods; and, willy-nilly, I am to accompany him.

"You must come, youmust! " he cries, voice disappearing upward into an octave extraordinary even for

him. I ask him why, and he will only say that there will be revelations of an earthshaking kind, of planetary

dimensions. "To what are you fantastically alluding?" I demand, but he will only smile enigmatically. And,

shortly afterward, off we go.

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OMNIInternet TheMartianInvasionJournalsofHenryJamesByRobertSilverbergEditor'sNote:Ofallthetreasurescontainedinthecoffin-shapedwoodensea-chestatHarvard'sWidenerLibraryinwhichthoseofHenryJames'snotebooksandjournalsthatsurvivedhisdeathwerepreservedandintheassociatedJamesarchiveatHarvard,onlyJames's...

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