Victoria Hammerling Rosenberg

The Sheltering Wings of the Narrative in The Wings of the Dove

Kate's naming Milly "a dove" is the climactic end to her lecture warning Milly against the London society that has hailed the young American heiress as its latest catch (v.19, 283). Her performance, gaining momentum with her constant pacing, gives vivid shape to Kate's own frustration at being in so opposite a position from Milly, at being, that is, so "hideously relative" to the demands of others (v.19, 281). The panther, as Milly momentarily imagines Kate, stays her pounce, however, and instead accords her prey a near courtly homage. In turn, Milly, proving the very aptness of Kate's name for her, transforms its expression of her vulnerability into her most powerful defense. It is surprising, then, that the title of the novel, The Wings of the Dove, does not focus on the dove; rather its emphasis is solely upon its wings. And certainly Milly takes flight. Each setting becomes her perch, her final wingspread loosening the silver covering her wings, the gold on her feathers. Nonetheless, Milly's wings provide her no escape from her stalkers. It is the narrative itself that shelters Milly, that grants her the "healing and uplifting passion" Lord Mark so decidedly does not (v. 20, 157), the passion Sir Luke advises as panacea. Not simply by manipulating plot, the narrative works to draw Milly and Densher closer, excluding Kate. Three methods accomplish this end: one, the technique, common in the first two books, of interjecting a subtle but jarring word that disturbs the charm of Kate and Densher's relationship; second, a mirroring effect which plays upon an echoing in the actions and thoughts of Milly and Densher; and third, the image pattern which couples the metaphor of dove with that of the sea and its complement, the abyss.

Throughout both Book One and Book Two, even as the reader responds to Kate's predicament and is, moreover, inspired to do so by the narrator's concentration on Kate, there is, at the same time, a corresponding deflection of sympathy for her, almost a pull toward suspicion, on the part of the narrative itself. No explicit warnings to the reader to suspect Kate are issued, but the reader’s ease of trust is disturbed or, at any rate, jarred, by the narrator’s intrusion of a word or a phrase that suggests an intent contrary to the rest of the sentence or passage. For example, Kate's thought -- "for what had she come but for the worst?" (v. 19, 4) -- as she waits for her father, is puzzling in its lack of explanation. The question is raised one long paragraph before we are told that Lionel had summoned her to his sick-room. The "worst," then, cannot be that she feared his dying for that possibility has not yet been voiced; and though the narrator soon after guesses, as Kate stares into the mirror, "Wasn't it in fact the partial escape from the `worst' in which she was steeped to be able to make herself out again as agreeable to see?" (v. 19, 4-5), neither the dreariness of the rooms nor their reflection of Lionel's poverty of character count as the bleakest outcome. Only when "the interview to which she had braced herself" (v. 19, 4) at last takes place does the worst emerge; the mirror is the clue or, more precisely, her frequent gazing into it. Kate watches herself as she waits for her father in the novel's first sentence, as she paces back and forth ("the girl's repeated pause before the mirror" (v. 19, 4)), seeking from the mirror the re-assurance that she would not be brought down by her father's collapse; gazing into it again as she rises to leave. But when she takes up her parasol, picking at its frill, as her father raises the fact of her aunt's intent to marry her to privilege, both the parasol and the mirror become set props in a piece of theatre. And accordingly, the opening phrase, "She waited, Kate Croy" (v. 19, 3), can infer, by its displacement of her name, not only her family's disregard of her integrity but also her own deferral of self[1] -- that is, it is she who has put herself on hold waiting for the opportunity that will permit her the fullest choice. The "worst," then, would be the failure of that opportunity to materialize. Perhaps for this reason the narrator comments that "Outside, on the balcony her eyes showed as blue; within, at the mirror, they showed almost as black" (v. 19, 5). The phrase, "at the mirror," cuts the suggestion that the opaqueness of her eyes is due simply to the dinginess of her father's rooms. Rather, the inference is that Kate is not only guarding herself in anticipation of the interview but, most telling, she is allowing herself no definition.

Waiting for her father, Kate has the "small salutary sense at least of neither shirking nor lying" (v. 19, 4). But the "small" is revealing. For, in fact, Kate does both. The shirking is, if not pronounced, at least all but spelt out, in her father's address, Chirk Street; her willingness to live with him is dependent upon her turning away from specific knowledge of his dishonour.[2] The lying is not so deliberate; it is more in the information she withholds or deals out in their tense play for the upper-hand. Thus she claims that it is her aunt's conditional guardianship that "has wound" her "up" (v. 19, 14) and indeed it is that, but not, as she would at that moment have it, Maud's stipulation that she renounce her father; not for eight more pages do we, with Lionel, guess that the condition relevant to Kate's stratagem is that she give up Densher (v. 19, 22). The same opportunism mars the generosity that so irks her father, setting her, presumably, so distant from him: she tells him unequivocally that she gives up to her sister half of her yearly income (v. 19, 13); yet five pages later, in answer to his question about her inheritance, she declares, "I haven't `settled' anything" (v. 19, 18).

That is not to say that the narrative's hints of distrust corrode Kate's charm or lessen the reader's sympathy for her desperation; to produce too great a gulf would spoil her worth as both Milly's opponent and Densher's lover. But the influence of these hints permeates the context. Thus the interview between Kate and Lionel must precede the declaration of love between Kate and Densher, precede not so much to describe her situation as to stain the beauty of the scene between the lovers. Accordingly, in the very description of the garden setting in which Kate and Densher become "an affianced couple," the narrative, even while describing the expansiveness of the scene, interjects subtle details that hint of constriction. For example, the statement, "They were in the open air," is followed by the phrase, "in an alley of the Gardens," and the remainder of the sentence, "the great space, which seemed to arch just then higher and spread wider for them," is completed by "threw them back into deep concentration" (v. 19, 95). Consequently, the impression of the sky spreading wings over the lovers is effectively off-set by suggestions of narrowness; but more damning yet, the power of the verb "threw back" suggests a rejection by, rather than the embrace of, the open space. Moreover, the "deep concentration," while referring to the couple's pre-occupation with one another, nonetheless reinforces the connotation the alley implies, of restriction.

Once Milly enters the novel, the narrative changes tactics, as though her presence were itself a counter to Kate's. Kate's own actions and comments begin to serve the narrative purpose more, perhaps, than they serve her own. For example, her declaration that she is open and truthful with Densher only -- "I exist in you. Not in others" -- evokes in him "the sharp sting of fear" and the plea, "Don't fail me. It would kill me" (v. 20, 62), a plea that reminds the reader that Milly's life is in the balance. Thus, although Milly is obviously not present, the fact of her fragility is, much as later, when Kate and Densher, at the Piazza San Marco, escape Maud and Susan, the crowds around them recede to their ears, leaving only the sound of "the flutter of doves," begetting "in the heart of each a fear" (v. 20, 193). But it is in the doubling -- the unwitting repetition of act or thought -- between Milly and Densher that the narrative more explicitly allies the two, thereby displacing Kate. In fact, their affinity is hinted at even before the two meet, when, early on in the introduction of each into the novel, both Merton and Milly share a metaphor: Merton is described by the narrator as being in a state of transition out of which "the elements, the metals more or less precious," will take their "final stamp" (v. 19, 49); and Milly as "a mine of something precious," needing "working," but certain, at least in Mrs. Stringham's mind, of yielding "a treasure" (v. 19, 126). The narrator emphasizes that Milly's walk through Regent's Park is unknowingly retraced by Merton as he chafes under the subterfuge necessary in his meetings with Kate; indeed the narrator goes so far as to suggest Densher might have sat in Milly's very bench and that, for both, "in this position ... various troubled fancies folded their wings" (v. 20, 12), fancies which end with Densher’s glimpse into Kate’s use of the dove – his realization that Kate has taken up "his little New York friend" (v. 20, 10) exactly to convenience his and Kate's meetings. Moreover, within his very repetition of Milly's walk, Densher echoes a metaphor she too had used -- her sense of being enclosed in parentheses, which begin with Lord Mark's declaration of her London success and close with his presenting her at Matchem (v. 19, 210): "His full parenthesis was closed," Densher thinks of the short professional success of his American reports (v. 20, 11). But if the narrative is fostering an alliance between Milly and Densher, despite it being one they are both unaware of, it is, at the same time, disparaging Kate, Densher and Milly's triangular relationship even as it is being plotted. For the fact that Milly's walk followed her second visit to Sir Luke, and with it, her certainty that her illness has "doomed" her (v. 19, 236), hints at a fatal weakness in Densher's thoughts as he retraces her walk -- or, more precisely, since his guess is accurate, in his realization of Kate's intended use of Milly as their facilitator.

The doubling between Merton and Milly spans Books Two through Six, precisely that period beginning with his actual entry into the novel and ending with Milly's move to Venice - with one omission, Book Three, which is Milly and Susan's alone. The twinnings can be quickly listed: of course there is the blatant merge of Milly's perception with Densher's as she watches Kate and, in repeated and sudden, inexplicable instances sees her through Densher's eyes. But more discreet examples multiply -- Milly and Merton both feel a startling instance of fear at recognizing the perfidy society condones, even demands -- Milly in her first conversation with Lord Mark (v. 19, 158), Merton as he observes Kate's performance as Maud's social trophy (v. 20, 35); both, deciding to continue their own involvement in a fearful situation, use the image of turning a corner -- Milly as she determines on a policy of passivity in dealing with the society lauding her (v. 19, 158), Merton as he not only pays a visit alone to Milly but accompanies her on a drive (v. 20, 89 and 96);[3] both weigh their case in "scales" -- Merton as he recognizes how little he can, according to Maud's standards, offer Kate (v. 19, 63), Milly as she contemplates her relationship with Sir Luke (v. 19, 236); both use the identical words (“just as I am”) as they offer themselves, Milly to Sir Luke's scrutiny (v. 19, 239), Merton to Kate (v. 20, 19); both share the sense that Kate is an actress in a play and both pity her for it -- Milly as she notices Kate at Maud's dinner-party (v. 19, 148), Merton as he follows, with growing sickness, Kate's performance for Maud (v. 20, 35); both define Milly as one who has survived a catastrophe -- Milly tells Sir Luke she is the "survivor of a general wreck” (v. 19, 241) and Densher tells Kate, as they discuss Milly's illness, that Milly "affects" him "as a creature saved from a shipwreck" (v. 20, 53).

Tellingly, there is little or no doubling between Kate and Merton, or, in fact, between Kate and any other character,[4] as though the narrative were allowing her no enlargement, no extension of herself. Indeed, she echoes only herself and each instance of that is to her detriment. For example, as Merton tries to convince her to come to his rooms, his eyes move over "the great presence" of Saint Mark's, while she "twiddled her parasol" (v. 20, 201) -- not only does the juxtaposition diminish her in comparison to Densher, but her action itself recalls the other time she played with her parasol, during her meeting with Lionel when each tried to best the other. But it is when Kate leaves Venice, giving Densher uncluttered access to Milly, that repetition turns ominous. For the freedom she permits him recalls her parting admonition, "Ah do what you like!" (v. 19, 74), as he was about to face Maud at Lancaster Gate -- her admonition that, according to the narrator, sounded for Merton "like the crack of a great whip in the blue air (v. 19, 75).

Milly's final setting, Venice, the city of water, provides the narrative its ultimate means of intertwining the fates of Milly and Merton, to the absolute exclusion of Kate; doing so by combining the seemingly disparate images of the dove, the sea, and the abyss that have dominated the novel. The key to the interconnecting images lies in the names of the three characters. Thus Kate's birth name, Croy, suggests the declension "croyant," of the verb "croire," to believe, and it is precisely that which she asks of Densher -- "Dear man ... only believe in me and it will be beautiful," she pleads as she first conceives the idea that they make use of Milly (v. 20, 19). The belief inherent in her name, however, has long been shattered, the name having suffered, through Lionel's dishonour, "that bleeding wound" she deplored in the first chapter (v. 19, 6). In contrast, Milly's birthname contains within it the verb "heal."[5] Certainly it is that aspect of her character Densher is so aware of in Venice, as she welcomes her dinner guests. The "beatific mildness" he feels her to "diffuse in wide warm waves" is, at least in his metaphor, her natural element: "He moved about in it and it made no plash; he floated, he noiselessly swam in it, and they were all together ... like fishes in a crystal pool" (v. 20, 213). The "crystal" is unintentionally jarring for it suggests the fragility inherent in her delicacy; but, more striking perhaps, is the soundlessness he describes, as though the imagined water were another form of air. Moreover, Milly is at once the dispenser of and the receptacle for the waves of mildness. It would seem, then, that Milly, in her palatial dovecote, fulfils the image not so much of the dove of the Psalms, yearning for rest, but rather the dove that Noah sends over the waters to search for land. In fact, she describes the palace to herself as "the ark of her deluge" (v. 20, 143). And indeed it is the deadly endpoint of her glib declaration to Susan when they first try to guess the nature of Kate's feelings for Densher: "I want abysses" (v. 19, 186). Milly cannot heal the fatal accuracy of Lord Mark's marksmanship, but she can determine her own ending: "She would never, never leave it [the ark] -- she would engage to that; would ask nothing more than to sit tight in it and float on and on” (v. 20, 143). Kate may or may not reject her peace offering of wealth, Densher certainly does, but the dove, whose element throughout the novel has been air, finds final haven in water. Merton's name declares that it will be he who will offer Milly her ultimate element -- the first syllable of Merton is "mer," the sea. His memory of her provides her with what her palatial rooms could not: the "romance" of "never going down, or remaining aloft in the divine dustless air, where she could hear but the plash of the water against stone" (v. 20, 147). His memory, then, is both the ark housing the dove and the sea upon which it floats. Enclosed in metaphor, existing only in memory, the dove is flightless, but in that indissoluble meld of image and memory, dove and sea, the narrative achieves its consummation.

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[1] It could be that, by the very deferral of Kate's name in the opening phrase, the narrative is making clear its intention to displace her.

[2] Three times, once in her thoughts (v. 19, 11), twice in her remarks (v. 19, 12 and 15), she states that she does not

know him or what he has done.

[3] Susan Shepherd Stringham joins in this metaphor as she watches, in her mind, Milly turning corners in puzzling over

Marion Condrip's request to pump Kate for information about her feelings for Densher (v. 19, 201).

[4] The one, most probably the only, doubling between Kate and Milly occurs when Milly determines, during her

conversation with Lord Mark at Maud's dinner-party, that, to survive in London society, she will need "neither to seek nor

to shirk” (v. 19, 146) -- a reminder to the reader of Kate's assertion, while waiting for her father, of "neither shirking nor

lying." The duplication is not to the credit of either Milly or Kate; both shirk knowledge -- Kate, turning away from illness;

Milly, from the fact she repeatedly senses: that Kate is a danger to her. (See, for example, her first reaction to Kate, at

Maud's dinner, that she is unable to "reduce to order" Miss Croy's "incalculable movements (v. 19, 148 and 149); her

instinct, moments later, that London society has, at its depths, a "complicated," a "possibly sinister motive" (v. 19, 154); her

impression, soon after, that Kate and Lord Mark are "somehow together in what they represented" (v. 19, 159); her sense,

at the start itself of their friendship, that Kate had "some secret, some smothered trouble" (v. 19, 172) and that "the girl had

somebody else ... as yet unnamed to content," a somebody most probably an "eminent male interest" (v. 19, 1730; her

shocked realization at Kate's scorn for Susan that "the handsome girl" was "the least bit brutal" -- a realization Milly

immediately qualifies as not "brutally brutal" (v. 19, 181 and 182); her "clear cold wave" of understanding that "her new

friend's" confidences on measure "as small, as smallest" beside the quantity she withholds (v. 19, 187), so that she, Milly,

becomes "conscious of being here on the edge of a great darkness" (v. 19, 190) -- a consciousness she immediately blames

herself for; her feeling that in lying to Kate about Sir Luke's reassurances she has "done something for her [own] safety" (v.

19, 275); her unspoken response to Maud’s comment that she and Kate could conquer the world, that her share would be

“to supply,” Kate’s “to take” (v. 19, 275); her attempt to be amused "so as not ... to be fairly frightened" by Kate's warnings

to her of the nature of London society (v. 19, 282). Interestingly, these instances of Milly's forebodings all appear in the

novel's first volume, as though the second volume, as its extension, were occupied with proving their accuracy.)

[5] The difference between the abilities of each -- Milly's to heal, Kate's to convince -- is sensed by Merton even as he is least aware of it: reluctantly accompanying Milly in her carriage, he feels their New York acquaintance to be a connection "already their own," one "covering them in together as if it had been a rug of softest silk" (v. 20, 186); in comparison, the material Kate offers is flawed: he remembers Kate's attitude during their meeting at Christmas as "a softness ... as of the quality of fine velvet, meant to fold thick, but stretched a little thin" (v. 20, 394).