The Portrait of a Lady was, like Roderick Hudson, begun in Florence, during three months spent there in the spring of 1879. Like Roderick and like The American, it had been designed for publication in The Atlantic Monthly, where it began to appear in 1880. It differed from its two predecessors, however, in finding a course also open to it, from month to month, in Macmillan's Magazine; which was to be for me one of the last occasions of simultaneous 'serialization' in the two countries that the changing conditions of literary intercourse between England and the United States had up to then left unaltered. It is a long novel, and I was long writing it; I remember being again much occupied with it, the following year, during a stay of several weeks made in Venice. I had rooms on Riva Schiavoni, at the top of the house near the passage leading off to San Zaccaria; the waterside life, the wondrous lagoon spread before me, and the ceaseless human chatter of Venice came in at my windows, to which I seem to myself to have been constantly driven, in the fruitless fidget of composition, as if to see whether, out in the blue channel, the ship of some right suggestion, of some better phrase, of the next happy twist of my subject, the next true touch for my canvas, mightn't come into sight. But I recall vividly enough that the response most elicited, in general, to these restless appeals was the rather grim admonition that romantic and historic sites, such as the land of Italy abounds in, offer the artist a questionable aid to concentration when they themselves are not to be the subject of it. They are too rich in their own life and too charged with their own meanings merely to help him out with a lame phrase; they draw him away from his small question to their own greater ones; so that, after a time he feels, while thus yearning towards them in his difficulty, as if he were asking an army of glorious veterans to help him arrest a peddler who has given him the wrong change.
There are pages of the book which, in the reading over, have seemed to make me see again the bristling curve of the wide Riva, the large colour-spots of the balconied houses and the repeated undulation of the little hunch-backed bridges, marked by the rise and drop again, with the wave, of foreshortened clicking pedestrians. The Venetian footfall and the Venetian cry - all talk there, wherever uttered, having the pitch of a call across the water - come in once more at the window, renewing one's old impression of the