On 26 January 1895, still in the grip of the disconsolate mood engendered by the crashing first-night failure of Guy Domville three weeks before, Henry James made the following entry in his Notebooks:The idea of the poor man, the artist, the man of letters, who all his life is trying— if only to get a living—to do something vulgar, to take the measure of the huge, flat foot of the public: isn t there a little story in it, possibly, if one can animate it with action; a little story that might perhaps be a mate to The Death of the Lion? It is suggested to me really by all the little backward memories of one s own frustrated ambition—in particular by its having Just come back to me how, already 20 years ago, when I was in Paris writing letters to the N. Y. Tribune, Whitelaw Reid wrote to me to ask me virtually that—to make em baser and paltrier, to make them as vulgar as he [sic] could, to make them, as he called it, more ‘personal.’ Twenty years ago, and so it has ever been, till the other night, Jan. 5th, the premiere of Guy Domville. Trace the history of a charming little talent, charming artistic nature, that has been exactly the martyr and victim of that ineffectual effort, that long, vain study to take the measure abovementioned, to ‘meet’ the vulgar need, to violate his intrinsic conditions, to make, as it were, a sow's ear out of a silk purse. He tries and he tries and he does what he thinks his coarsest and crudest. It's all of no use—it's always ‘too subtle,’ always too fine—never, never, vulgar enough. I had to write to Whitelaw Reid that the sort of thing I had already tried hard to do for the Tribune was the very worst I could do. I lost my place—my letters weren't wanted.
Making Love Public: The Paradoxes of Intimacy in Henry James’s The Wings of the Dove