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D aisy M iller:A Study

In Two Parts

T he Coxon Fund

T he D eath of the LionT he D iary of a M an of

Fifty

Sir Dominick FerrandEugene Pickering

by

Henry James



DISCLAIMER

Daisy Miller: A Study in Two Parts, The Coxon Fund, TheDeath of the Lion, The Diary of a Man of Fifty, SirDominick Ferrand, and Eugene Pickering by Henry James,is a publication of ECONaRCH Institute.

This Portable Document File is furnished freeand without any charge of any kind.Any person using this document file,for any purpose, and in any way does soat his or her own risk.Neither ECONARCH Institute, the Editor,nor anyone associated with ECONARCH Instituteassumes any responsibility for the material containedwithin the document or for the fileas an electronic transmission, in any way.

Daisy Miller: A Study in Two Parts, The Coxon Fund, TheDeath of the Lion, The Diary of a Man of Fifty, SirDominick Ferrand, and Eugene Pickering by by Henry James,ECONARCH Institute,Electronic Classics Literature: Henry James Series,the Editor, Indonesia is a Portable Document Fileproduced as part of an ongoing student publication projectto bring classics literature, in English,to free and easy access of those wishing

to make use of them.

Copyright © 2009 Rowland Classics



H enry James Im age cou rtesy W ikim edia C om m ons



ContentsConten tsConten tsConten tsContents

D aisy M iller ................................................................. 5

T he C oxon Fund ....................................................... 71

T he D eath of the Lion ............................................. 142

The Diary of a Man of Fifty.....................................192

Sir D ominick Ferrand .............................................. 229

Eugene Pickering ..................................................... 293



5

H enry Jam es

D aisy M iller:

A Study

In Two Parts

by

Henry James

PART I

AT T H E LITTLE T OW N O F VEVEY, in Switzerland, there is a particularly

comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for the enter-

tainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many

travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkably

blue lake—a lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. T he shore of

the lake presents an u nbroken array of establishments of this order,

of every category, from the “grand hotel” of the newest fashion,

with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags

flying from its roof, to the litt le Swiss pension of an elder day, with

its name inscribed in G erman-looking lettering upon a pink or yel-

low wall and an awkward sum merhou se in the angle of the garden.



6

O ne of th e hotels at Vevey, however, is famous, even classical, being

distinguished from many of its upstart neighbors by an air both of

luxury and of matu rity. In t his region, in the m onth of Jun e, Ameri-

can travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed, that

Vevey assumes at this period som e of the characteristics of an Ameri-

can watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vi-

sion, an echo, of N ewport and Saratoga. T here is a flitting h ither

and thither of “stylish” young girls, a rustling of muslin flounces, a

rattle of dance music in th e morning hours, a soun d of high-pitched

voices at all times. You receive an impression of these th ings at theexcellent inn of the “Trois C ouron nes” and are transpor ted in fancy

to t he O cean H ouse or to C on gress H all. But at th e “Trois

C ouronnes,” it must be added, there are other features that are much

at variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters, who look

like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden;

little Polish boys walking about held by the hand, with their gover-

nors; a view of the sun ny crest of the D ent du M idi and the pictur-esque towers of the Castle of Ch illon.

I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the d ifferences that

were uppermost in the mind of a youn g American, who, two or three

years ago, sat in the garden of the “Trois Couronnes,” looking about

him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It

was a beautiful sum mer morning, and in whatever fashion the youn g

American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming.

H e had com e from Geneva the day before by the litt le steamer, to see

his aunt, who was staying at the hotel—Geneva having been for a

long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache—his

aunt had almost always a headache—and now she was shut up in her

room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about.

H e was som e seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke

of him, they usually said that he was at G eneva “studying.” When his

enemies spoke of him, they said—but, after all, he had no enemies;

D ai sy M iller



7

H enry Jam es

he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I

should say is, simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they

affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was

that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there—a foreign

lady—a person older than himself. Very few Americans—indeed, I

think n one—h ad ever seen this lady, about whom there were some

singular stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the

little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a

boy, and he had afterward gone to college there—circumstances which

had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to him.

After kn ocking at his aunt’s door and learning that she was ind is-

posed, he had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come

in to his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was

drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a

little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an

attache. At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently asmall boy came walking along the path—an urchin of nine or ten.

T he child, who was diminutive for h is years, had an aged expression

of countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp litt le features. He was

dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his

poor little spindle-shanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. H e car-

ried in his hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point of which he th rust

into everything that he approached—the flowerbeds, the garden

benches, the trains of the ladies’ dresses. In front of Winterbourne he

paused, looking at him with a pair of bright , penetrating little eyes.

“Will you give me a lump of sugar?” he asked in a sharp, hard

little voice—a voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.

W interbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his

coffee service rested, and saw that several morsels of sugar remained.

“Yes, you may take one,” he answered; “but I don’t think sugar is

good for little boys.”



8

T his little boy stepped forward and carefully selected th ree of the

coveted fragments, two of which he buried in the pocket of his

knickerbockers, depositing the other as prom pt ly in another p lace.

H e poked h is alpenstock, lance-fashion , into W interbourne’s bench

and tried t o crack th e lum p of sugar with his teeth.

“Oh, blazes; it’s har-r-d!” he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjec-

tive in a peculiar mann er.

W interbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the

honor of claiming h im as a fellow countryman. “Take care you don’t

hur t your t eeth ,” he said, paternally.“I haven’t got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only

got seven teeth. My mother coun ted them last n ight , and on e came

out right afterward. She said she’d slap m e if any more came out . I

can’t help it. It’s this old Europe. It’s the climate that makes them

come out. In America they didn’t come out. It’s these hotels.”

W interbourne was much amused. “If you eat three lumps of sugar,

your m oth er will certainly slap you,” he said.“She’s got to give me some candy, then ,” rejoined h is youn g inter-

locutor. “I can’t get any candy here—any American candy. Ameri-

can candy’s the best candy.”

“And are American litt le boys the best litt le boys?” asked W inter-

bourne.

“I don’t know. I’m an American boy,” said the child.

“I see you are one of the best!” laughed W interbourne.

“Are you an American man?” pursued th is vivacious infant. And

then, on W interbourne’s affirmative reply— ”American m en are the

best,” h e declared.

H is companion thanked him for the compliment, and th e child,

who had now got astride of his alpenstock, stood looking about

him , while he attacked a second lum p of sugar. Winterbourne won-

dered if he h imself had been like th is in h is infancy, for he had been

brought to Europe at abou t th is age.

D aisy M iller



9

H enry Jam es

“H ere com es my sister!” cried the child in a mom ent . “She’s an

American girl.”

Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young

lady advancing. “American girls are the best girls,” he said cheer-

fully to h is youn g companion.

“My sister ain’t the best!” the child declared. “She’s always blow-

ing at me.”

“I imagine that is your fault, not h ers,” said W interbourne. T he

young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white

muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-col-ored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a

large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strik-

ingly, admirably pretty. “H ow pretty they are!” thought W inter-

bourne, straightening him self in his seat, as if he were prepared to

rise.

T he young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of

the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now con-verted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he

was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little.

“Randolph,” said the young lady, “what are you doing?”

“I’m going up the Alps,” replied Randolph. “This is the way!”

And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about

Winterbourne’s ears.

“T hat’s the way they com e down,” said W interbourne.

“H e’s an American man!” cried Randolph, in his litt le hard voice.

The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked

straight at her brother. “Well, I guess you had better be quiet,” she

simply observed.

It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner pre-

sented. H e got up and stepped slowly toward the youn g girl, th row-

ing away his cigarette. “This little boy and I have made acquain-

tance,” he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been per-



10

fectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young

unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions;

but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?—a

pretty American girl coming and stand ing in front of you in a gar-

den . This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne’s

observation, simply glanced at him; she th en turn ed her head and

looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite moun tains. H e

wond ered whether he had gone too far, but he decided th at he must

advance farther, rather th an retreat. While he was th inking of som e-

th ing else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again.“I should like to know where you got that pole,” she said.

“I bought it,” responded Randolph.

“You don’t mean to say you’re going to take it to Italy?”

“Yes, I am going to take it to Italy,” the child declared.

T he youn g girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed

out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the

prospect again. “Well, I guess you had bett er leave it somewhere,”she said after a moment.

“Are you going to Italy?” Winterbourne inqu ired in a ton e of great

respect.

T he youn g lady glanced at h im again. “Yes, sir,” she replied. And

she said noth ing more.

“Are you— a— going over the Simplon?” Winterbou rne pursued,

a little embarrassed.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s som e mountain. Randolph,

what m ountain are we going over?”

“Going where?” the child demanded.

“To Italy,” Winterbourne explained.

“I don’t know,” said Randolph. “I don’t wan t to go to Italy. I want

to go to America.”

“O h, Italy is a beautiful place!” rejoined the young man.

“Can you get candy there?” Randolph loudly inquired.

D aisy M iller



11

H enry Jam es

“I hope not,” said h is sister. “I guess you h ave had enough candy,

and mother th inks so too.”

“I haven’t had any for ever so long—for a hundred weeks!” cried

the boy, still jum ping about .

T he young lady inspected h er flounces and smoothed her ribbon s

again; and W interbou rne presently risked an observation upon the

beauty of the view. H e was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had

begun to perceive that she was not in the least em barrassed herself.

There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming com-

plexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If shelooked another way when h e spoke to h er, and seemed n ot particu-

larly to hear h im, th is was simp ly her habit, her mann er. Yet, as he

talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest

in the view, with which she appeared quite un acquainted, she gradu-

ally gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw

that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not,

however, what wou ld have been called an immodest glance, for th eyoung girl’s eyes were singularly honest an d fresh. They were won-

derfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, W interbourne had n ot seen for a

long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman’s various

features— her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. H e had a

great relish for feminine beauty; he was add icted to observing and

analyzing it; and as regards this young lady’s face he made several

observation s. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expres-

sive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne m entally

accused it—very forgivingly—of a want of finish. He thought it

very possible that Master Randolph’s sister was a coquette; he was

sure she had a spirit of her own ; but in h er bright, sweet, superficial

little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became

obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation . She told

him that they were going to Rome for the winter—she and her

mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a “real American”;



12

she shouldn’t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a Ger-

man—this was said after a little hesitation—especially when he

spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans

who spoke like Americans, but that he had n ot, so far as he remem -

bered, m et an American who spoke like a German. T hen he asked

her if she shou ld not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench

which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up

and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she

was from N ew York State— ”if you kn ow where th at is.” Winter-

bourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slip-pery brother and m aking him stand a few minu tes by his side.

“Tell me your n ame, my boy,” he said.

“Randolph C. Miller,” said the boy sharply. “And I’ll tell you her

name”; and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister.

“You had better wait till you are asked!” said this youn g lady calmly.

“I should like very much to kn ow your nam e,” said W interbourne.

“H er name is D aisy Miller!” cried the child. “But that isn’t herreal name; that isn’t h er nam e on her cards.”

“It’s a pity you haven’t got one of my cards!” said Miss Miller.

“H er real name is Annie P. M iller,” the boy went on.

“Ask him his name,” said his sister, indicating W interbourne.

But on th is poin t Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent ; he con-

tinued to supply information with regard to his own family. “My

father’s name is Ezra B. Miller,” he announced. “My father ain’t in

Europe; my father’s in a better place than Europe;.”

W interbourne imagined for a mom ent th at this was the m anner

in which the child had been t aught to in timate that M r. Miller had

been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph im-

mediately added, “M y father’s in Schenectady. H e’s got a b ig busi-

ness. My father’s rich, you bet!”

“Well!” ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking

at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child,

D aisy M iller



13

H enry Jam es

who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. “H e doesn’t

like Europe,” said the young girl. “H e wants to go back.”

“To Schenectady, you mean?”

“Yes; he wan ts to go right hom e. H e hasn’t got an y boys here.

T here is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they

won’t let him play.”

“And your brother hasn’t any teacher?” Winterbourne inquired.

“Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us.

T here was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady—

perhaps you know her—M rs. Sanders. I th ink she came from Bos-ton . She told h er of th is teacher, and we thought of getting him to

travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn’t want a teacher

traveling roun d with us. H e said he wouldn’t h ave lessons when he

was in the cars. And we are in the cars about half the time. There

was an En glish lady we met in the cars— I th ink h er nam e was M iss

Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I

didn’t give Ran dolph lesson s— give him ‘instruction ,’ she called it. Iguess he could give me more instru ction than I cou ld give him. H e’s

very smart .”

“Yes,” said Winterbourne; “he seems very smart.”

“Mother’s going to get a teacher for h im as soon as we get to Italy.

C an you get good teachers in Italy?”

“Very good, I should th ink,” said W interbourne.

“O r else she’s going to find some school. H e ought to learn som e

more. H e’s on ly nine. H e’s going to college.” And in th is way Miss

Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and

upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands,

ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with

her pretty eyes now resting up on those of W interbou rne, now wan-

dering over the garden , the people who passed by, and the beautiful

view. She talked to W interbourne as if she had kn own h im a long

tim e. H e found it very pleasant . It was many years since he had



14

heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this

un known young lady, who had com e and sat down beside him upon

a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charm-

ing, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly

moving. She h ad a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was

decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her move-

ments and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Eu-

rope, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which

they had stopped. “T hat English lady in the cars,” she said— ”Miss

Featherstone—asked me if we didn’t all live in hotels in America. Itold her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I

came to Eu rope. I have never seen so m any—it’s noth ing bu t h o-

tels.” But M iss Miller did n ot m ake this remark with a querulous

accent ; she appeared to be in the best h um or with everyth ing. She

declared that the hotels were very good , when once you got used to

their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disap-

poin ted— not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so muchabout it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had

been there ever so m any times. And then she had had ever so m any

dresses and th ings from Paris. W henever she put on a Paris dress she

felt as if she were in Europe.

“It was a kind of a wishing cap,” said Winterbourne.

“Yes,” said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; “it al-

ways made me wish I was here. But I needn’t have done that for

dresses. I am sure they send all the prett y ones to America; you see

the most frightful th ings here. T he only thing I don’t like,” she pro-

ceeded, “is the society. There isn’t any society; or, if there is, I don’t

know where it keeps itself. D o you? I suppose there is som e society

somewhere, bu t I haven’t seen anything of it. I’m very fon d of soci-

ety, and I have always had a great deal of it. I don’t mean only in

Schenectady, bu t in N ew York. I used to go to N ew York every

winter. In N ew York I had lots of society. Last win ter I h ad seven-

D aisy M iller



15

H enry Jam es

teen dinners given m e; and three of them were by gentlemen,” added

D aisy M il ler. “I have m ore fr iend s in N ew York t h an in

Schenectady—more gentleman friends; and more youn g lady friends

too,” she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant;

she was looking at W interbourne with all her prett iness in her lively

eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. “I have always

had,” she said, “a great deal of gentlemen’s society.”

Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed.

H e had never yet heard a youn g girl express herself in just this fash-

ion; never, at least, save in cases where to say such things seemed akind of demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And

yet was he to accuse Miss D aisy Miller of actual or potential inconduite,

as they said at G eneva? H e felt that he had lived at G eneva so long

that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the

American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to

appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so

pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming, but howdeucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State?

Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of

gentlemen’s society? O r was she also a designing, an audacious, an

unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in

this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller

looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all,

American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him

that, after all, they were not . H e was inclined to think M iss D aisy

Miller was a flirt— a pretty American flirt. H e had never, as yet, had

any relations with young ladies of this category. H e had known, here

in Europe, two or three women— persons older than Miss D aisy Miller,

and provided, for respectability’s sake, with husbands—who were great

coquettes—dangerous, terrible women, with whom one’s relations

were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a co-

quette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a



16

pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having

found the formula that applied to Miss D aisy Miller. H e leaned back

in h is seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming

nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions

and limitations of one’s intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It

presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn.

“H ave you been to that old castle?” asked th e young girl, poin ting

with h er parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de C hillon.

“Yes, formerly, m ore th an once,” said W interbourne. “You too, I

suppose, have seen it?”“No; we haven’t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. O f

course I mean to go there. I wouldn’t go away from here without

having seen that old castle.”

“It’s a very pretty excursion,” said Winterbourne, “and very easy

to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer.”

“You can go in th e cars,” said M iss Miller.

“Yes; you can go in the cars,” Winterbourne assented.“O ur courier says they take you right up to the castle,” the young

girl continued. “We were going last week, but my mother gave out .

She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn’t go.

Randolph wouldn’t go either; he says he doesn’t think much of old

castles. But I guess we’ll go this week, if we can get Randolph .”

“Your brother is not in terested in ancient m onum ents?” Winter-

bou rne inqu ired, smiling.

“H e says he don’t care much about old castles. H e’s only nine. H e

wants to stay at the hotel. Mother’s afraid to leave him alone, and

th e courier won’t stay with h im; so we haven’t been to m any places.

But it will be too bad if we don’t go up there.” And Miss Miller

pointed again at the Ch ateau de C hillon.

“I should think it might be arranged,” said Winterbourne.

“C ou ldn’t you get som e one to stay for th e afternoo n with

Randolph?”

D aisy M iller



17

H enry Jam es

Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, “I

wish you would stay with him!” she said.

W interbourne hesitated a moment. “I shou ld m uch rather go to

Chillon with you.”

“With me?” asked the youn g girl with the same placidity.

She didn’t rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would have

don e; and yet Winterbourne, conscious that he had been very bold,

thought it possible she was offended. “With your mother,” he an-

swered very respectfully.

But it seemed that both his audacity and his respect were lostupon Miss D aisy Miller. “I guess my mother won’t go, after all,” she

said. “She don’t like to ride round in the afternoon. But did you

really mean what you said just now—that you would like to go up

there?”

“Most earnestly,” W interbourne declared.

“Then we may arrange it. If mother will stay with Randolph, I

guess Eugenio will.”“Eugenio?” the young man inqu ired.

“Eugenio’s our courier. H e doesn’t like to stay with Ran dolph;

he’s the most fastidious man I ever saw. But he’s a splendid courier.

I guess he’ll stay at home with Randolph if mother does, and then

we can go to the castle.”

W interbou rne reflected for an instan t as lucidly as possible—”we”

could only mean M iss D aisy Miller and him self. T his program

seemed almost too agreeable for credence; he felt as if he ought to

kiss the young lady’s hand. Possibly he would have done so and

quite spoiled th e project, but at this moment another person , pre-

sumably Eugenio, appeared. A tall, handsome man, with superb

whiskers, wearing a velvet m orning coat and a brilliant watch chain,

approached M iss M iller, looking sharply at h er companion. “O h,

Eugenio!” said Miss Miller with the friendliest accent.

Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now



18

bowed gravely to t he youn g lady. “I have the hon or to inform ma-

demoiselle that luncheon is upon the table.”

Miss Miller slowly rose. “See here, Eugenio!” she said; “I’m going

to that old castle, anyway.”

“To the C hateau de Chillon , mademoiselle?” the courier inquired.

“Mademoiselle has made arrangements?” he added in a tone which

struck W interbourne as very impertinent.

Eugenio’s tone apparent ly th rew, even to M iss Miller’s own appre-

hension, a slightly iron ical light u pon the young girl’s situation . She

tu rned to W interbourne, blushing a little—a very little. “You won’tback out?” she said.

“I shall not be happy t ill we go!” he protested.

“And you are staying in this hotel?” she went on. “And you are

really an American?”

T he courier stood looking at W interbourne offensively. The youn g

man, at least, thought his manner of looking an offense to Miss

M iller; it conveyed an imputation that she “picked up” acquaintan-ces. “I shall have the hon or of presenting to you a person who will

tell you all about m e,” he said, smiling and referring to h is aun t.

“O h, well, we’ll go som e day,” said M iss Miller. And she gave him

a smile and turned away. She put up her parasol and walked back to

the inn beside Eugenio. W interbourne stood looking after her; and

as she moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel,

said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess.

He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in

promising to present his aun t, M rs. Costello, to M iss D aisy Miller.

As soon as the form er lady had got better of her headache, he waited

upon her in her apartm ent; and , after the proper inqu iries in regard

to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an Ameri-

can family—a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy.

“And a courier?” said M rs. Costello. “Oh yes, I have observed them.

Seen them—heard them—and kept out of their way.” Mrs. Costello

D aisy M iller



19

H enry Jam es

was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who fre-

quently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick head-

aches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time.

She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking

white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of

her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was

now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at H amburg,

and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any

particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own ap-

pearance there. H er nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly tosee her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were

nearer to her. H e had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always

be attentive to one’s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many

years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approba-

tion by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which,

as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She

admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted withNew York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the

minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she

presented to him in many different lights, was, to W interbourne’s imagi-

nation, almost oppressively striking.

H e immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss D aisy M iller’s

place in th e social scale was low. “I am afraid you don’t approve of

them,” he said.

“T hey are very comm on,” M rs. C ostello declared. “T hey are the

sort of Americans that one does one’s du ty by not— not accept ing.”

“Ah, you don’t accept them?” said th e young man.

“I can’t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can’t.”

“T he young girl is very pretty,” said W interbourne in a mom ent.

“O f course she’s pretty. But she is very com mon .”

“I see what you mean, of course,” said Winterbourne after an-

other pause.



20

“She has that charming look that they all have,” his aun t resum ed.

“I can’t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in p erfection—

no, you don’t know how well she dresses. I can’t think where they

get their taste.”

“But, m y dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage.”

“She is a young lady,” said M rs. C ostello, “who has an int imacy

with her mamma’s courier.”

“An intim acy with the courier?” the young m an demanded.

“O h, the m oth er is just as bad! T hey treat th e courier like a famil-

iar friend—like a gentleman. I shouldn’t wonder if he dines withthem. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good man-

ners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. H e probably corresponds

to the young lady’s idea of a coun t. H e sits with them in the garden

in the evening. I th ink he smokes.”

Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they

helped him to m ake up his mind about M iss D aisy. Evidently she

was rather wild. “Well,” he said, “I am not a courier, and yet she wasvery charming to m e.”

“You had better have said at first,” said M rs. C ostello with dig-

nity, “that you h ad m ade her acquaintance.”

“We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit.”

“Tout bon nement ! And pray what did you say?”

“I said I shou ld take the liberty of int roducing her to m y adm i-

rable aunt .”

“I am much obliged to you.”

“It was to guarant ee my respectability,” said Winterbourne.

“And pray who is to guarantee hers?”

“Ah, you are cruel!” said the young man. “She’s a very nice young girl.”

“You don’t say that as if you believed it ,” M rs. Costello observed.

“She is completely uncultivated,” Winterbourne went on. “But

she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove

that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Ch ateau de Chillon .”

D aisy M iller



21

H enry Jam es

“You two are going off there together? I shou ld say it proved just

the contrary. H ow long had you kn own h er, may I ask, when this

interesting project was formed? You haven’t been twenty-four h ours

in th e house.”

“I have known her half an hour!” said W interbourne, smiling.

“D ear me!” cried M rs. C ostello. “What a dreadful girl!”

H er nephew was silent for some moments. “You really think, then,”

he began earnestly, and with a desire for tru stworthy information—

”you really th ink that— ” But h e paused again.

“Think what, sir?” said his aunt.“T hat she is the sort of youn g lady who expects a man, sooner or

later, to carry her off?”

“I haven’t the least idea what such young ladies expect a m an to

do. But I really think that you had better not meddle with little

American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have

lived too long out of the coun try. You will be sure to make som e

great m istake. You are too inn ocent .”“My dear aunt, I am not so inn ocent ,” said W interbourne, smil-

ing and curling h is mustache.

“You are guilty too, then!”

W interbourne continued to curl his mustache meditatively. “You

won’t let the poor girl know you then?” he asked at last.

“Is it literally true that she is going to the Chateau de Chillon

with you?”

“I th ink that she fully int ends it.”

“Then, my dear Frederick,” said Mrs. Costello, “I must decline

the hon or of her acquaintance. I am an old woman, bu t I am n ot

too old, thank H eaven, to be shocked!”

“But don’t they all do these things— the youn g girls in America?”

W interbourne inquired.

Mrs. Costello stared a moment. “I should like to see my grand-

daughters do them!” she declared grimly.



22

This seemed to throw some light upon the matter, for Winter-

bourne remembered to have heard that his pretty cousins in New

York were “tremendous flirts.” If, therefore, M iss D aisy Miller ex-

ceeded the liberal margin allowed to these young ladies, it was prob-

able that anything might be expected of her. Winterbourne was im-

patient to see her again, and he was vexed with himself that, by

instinct , he should not appreciate her justly.

Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he

should say to her about h is aun t’s refusal to becom e acquainted with

her; but he discovered, prompt ly enough, that with M iss D aisy Millerthere was no great need of walking on tiptoe. H e foun d h er that

evening in the garden, wandering about in the warm starlight like

an indolent sylph, and swinging to and fro the largest fan he had

ever beheld. It was ten o’clock. H e had d ined with his aun t, had

been sitting with her since dinner, and had just taken leave of her

till the morrow. Miss D aisy Miller seemed very glad to see him ; she

declared it was the longest evening she had ever passed.“H ave you been all alone?” he asked.

“I have been walking roun d with mother. But m other gets tired

walking round,” she answered.

“H as she gone to bed?”

“No; she doesn’t like to go to bed,” said the youn g girl. “She doesn’t

sleep—not three hours. She says she doesn’t know how she lives.

She’s dreadfully nervous. I guess she sleeps more than she thinks.

She’s gone som ewhere after Rand olph; she wants to try to get h im

to go to bed. He doesn’t like to go to bed.”

“Let us hope she will persuade him,” observed Winterbourne.

“She will talk to him all she can; but h e doesn’t like her to talk to

him,” said Miss Daisy, opening her fan. “She’s going to try to get

Eugenio to talk to him. But he isn’t afraid of Eugenio. Eugenio’s a

splendid courier, bu t he can’t m ake much impression on Rand olph!

I don’t believe he’ll go to bed before eleven.” It appeared that

D aisy M iller



23

H enry Jam es

Randolph’s vigil was in fact triumphantly prolonged, for Winter-

bourne strolled about with the young girl for some time without

meeting her mother. “I have been looking round for that lady you

want to introduce me to,” his companion resum ed. “She’s your aunt.”

Then, on Winterbourne’s admitting the fact and expressing some

curiosity as to how she had learned it, she said she had heard all

about M rs. C ostello from the chambermaid. She was very quiet and

very comme il faut ; she wore white puffs; she spoke to n o on e, and

she never dined at the table d’hote. Every two days she had a head-

ache. “I think that’s a lovely description, headache and all!” saidM iss D aisy, chattering along in her th in, gay voice. “I want to know

her ever so much. I kn ow just what YO UR aun t would be; I know

I should like her. She would be very exclusive. I like a lady to be

exclusive; I’m dying to be exclusive myself. Well, we are exclusive,

moth er and I. We don’t speak to everyone—or they don’t speak to

us. I suppose it’s about the same thing. Anyway, I shall be ever so

glad to kn ow your aun t.”W interbourne was embarrassed. “She would be m ost happ y,” he

said; “but I am afraid those headaches will interfere.”

The young girl looked at him through the dusk. “But I suppose

she doesn’t have a headache every day,” she said sympathetically.

Winterbourne was silent a moment. “She tells me she does,” he

answered at last, n ot knowing what to say.

M iss D aisy Miller stopped and stood looking at h im. H er pretti-

ness was still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing

her enormous fan. “She doesn’t want to know me!” she said sud-

denly. “W hy don’t you say so? You needn’t be afraid. I’m not afraid!”

And she gave a little laugh.

Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was

touched, shocked, mortified by it. “My dear young lady,” he pro-

tested, “she knows no one. It’s her wretched health .”

T he young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. “You needn’t



24

be afraid,” she repeated. “W hy should she want to know m e?” T hen

she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in

front of her was the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its

surface, and in the distance were dim ly seen mountain form s. D aisy

M iller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and t hen she gave

another little laugh. “Gracious! she IS exclusive!” she said. Winter-

bourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a

mom ent almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to

make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her.

H e had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable forconsolatory purposes. H e felt then, for the instant , qu ite ready to

sacrifice his aun t, con versationally; to admit th at she was a prou d,

rud e woman, and to declare that th ey needn’t m ind her. But before

he had t ime to comm it him self to th is perilous mixture of gallantry

and imp iety, th e young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclama-

tion in quite another tone. “Well, here’s Mother! I guess she hasn’t

got Randolph to go to bed.” The figure of a lady appeared at adistance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow

and wavering movement . Suddenly it seemed to pause.

“Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this

th ick dusk?” Winterbourne asked.

“Well!” cried M iss D aisy Miller with a laugh; “I guess I kn ow my

own moth er. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always

wearing my things.”

T he lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about

the spot at which she had checked her steps.

“I am afraid your mother doesn’t see you,” said Winterbourne.

“O r perhaps,” he added, th inking, with Miss Miller, the joke per-

missible— ”perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl.”

“O h, it’s a fearful old th ing!” th e young girl replied serenely. “I

told her she could wear it. She won’t come here because she sees

you.”

D aisy M iller



25

H enry Jam es

“Ah, then,” said Winterbourne, “I had better leave you.”

“O h, n o; come on!” urged M iss D aisy Miller.

“I’m afraid your mother doesn’t approve of my walking with you.”

Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. “It isn’t for me; it’s for

you— th at is, it’s for her . Well, I don’t know who it’s for! But mother

doesn’t like any of my gentlemen friends. She’s right down timid.

She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gent leman. But I do intro-

duce them—almost always. If I didn’t introduce my gentlemen

friends to M other,” the youn g girl added in h er little soft, flat m ono-

tone, “I shouldn’t think I was natural.”“To introduce me,” said Winterbourne, “you must know my

name.” And he proceeded to pronou nce it.

“O h, dear, I can’t say all th at!” said his com panion with a laugh .

But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they

drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned up on it,

looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. “Mother!”

said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder ladyturned roun d. “M r. Winterbourne,” said M iss D aisy Miller, intro-

ducing the young man very frankly and prettily. “Common,” she

was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to

W interbourn e that, with her commonness, she had a singularly deli-

cate grace.

Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering

eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a

certain am oun t of thin , m uch frizzled hair. Like her daughter, M rs.

Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous dia-

monds in her ears. So far as W interbourne could observe, she gave

him no greeting—she certainly was not looking at him . D aisy was

near her, pulling her shawl straight. “What are you doing, poking

roun d h ere?” this youn g lady inquired, but by no means with that

harshn ess of accent which her choice of words may imply.

“I don’t kn ow,” said her m oth er, tu rning toward the lake again.



26

“I shouldn’t think you’d want that shawl!” Daisy exclaimed.

“Well I do!” her m other answered with a little laugh.

“D id you get Randolph t o go to bed?” asked th e youn g girl.

“No; I couldn’t indu ce him,” said M rs. M iller very gently. “H e

wants to t alk to the waiter. H e likes to t alk to t hat waiter.”

I was telling Mr. Winterbourne,” the young girl went on ; and to

the young man’s ear her tone might have indicated that she had

been u ttering his name all her life.

“Oh, yes!” said Winterbourne; “I have the pleasure of knowing

your son .”Randolph’s mamm a was silent; she tu rned her attention to t he

lake. But at last she spoke. “Well, I don’t see how he lives!”

“Anyhow, it isn’t so bad as it was at Dover,” said Daisy Miller.

“And what occurred at D over?” Winterbourne asked.

“He wouldn’t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the

public parlor. H e wasn’t in bed at twelve o’clock: I know th at.”

“It was half-past twelve,” declared M rs. M iller with mild emph a-sis.

“D oes he sleep much during the day?” W interbourne demanded.

“I guess he doesn’t sleep m uch,” D aisy rejoined.

“I wish he would!” said her mother. “It seems as if he couldn’t.”

“I think he’s real tiresome,” Daisy pursued.

T hen, for some mom ents, there was silence. “Well, Daisy Miller,”

said the elder lady, presently, “I shouldn’t think you’d want to talk

against your own brother!”

“Well, he is tiresome, Mother,” said Daisy, quite without the as-

perity of a retort .

“H e’s on ly nine,” urged M rs. M iller.

“Well, he wouldn’t go to that castle,” said the young girl. “I’m

going there with M r. W interbourne.”

To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy’s mamma of-

fered n o respon se. W interbou rne took for granted that she deeply

D aisy M iller



27

H enry Jam es

disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that

she was a simple, easily managed person , and that a few deferent ial

pro testation s would t ake the edge from her displeasure. “Yes,” he

began; “your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being

her guide.”

Mrs. Miller’s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of

appealing air, to D aisy, who, h owever, strolled a few steps farth er,

gently humming to herself. “I presum e you will go in the cars,” said

her mother.

“Yes, or in the boat,” said Winterbourne.“Well, of course, I don’t know,” M rs. M iller rejoined. “I h ave never

been to that castle.”

“It is a pity you shouldn’t go,” said Winterbourne, beginning to

feel reassured as to her opp osition . And yet h e was quite prepared to

find that, as a matter of course, she m eant to accompany her daugh-

ter.

“We’ve been thinking ever so much about going,” she pursued;“but it seems as if we couldn’t. O f course Daisy—she wan ts to go

round. But there’s a lady here—I don’t know her name—she says

she shouldn’t think we’d want to go to see castles here; she should

th ink we’d wan t to wait t ill we got to Italy. It seems as if th ere would

be so many there,” continued M rs. M iller with an air of increasing

confidence. “O f course we on ly want to see the principal ones. We

visited several in England,” she presently added.

“Ah yes! in En gland th ere are beautiful castles,” said W int er-

bo urn e. “But C hillon here, is very well worth seeing.”

“Well, if Daisy feels up to it—” said Mrs. Miller, in a tone im-

pregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the ent erprise. “It seems

as if there was noth ing she wouldn’t undertake.”

“O h, I think she’ll enjoy it!” Winterbourne declared. And he de-

sired m ore and m ore to m ake it a certainty that he was to h ave the

privilege of a tete-a-tete with the youn g lady, who was still strolling



28

along in front of them, softly vocalizing. “You are not disposed,

madam,” he inquired, “to undertake it yourself?”

D aisy’s moth er looked at him an instant askance, and then walked

forward in silence. Then—”I guess she had better go alone,” she

said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that th is was a very

different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who

massed themselves in the forefron t of social intercourse in the dark

old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were inter-

rupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs.

M iller’s unprotected daughter.“Mr. Winterbourne!” mu rmured D aisy.

“Mademoiselle!” said the young man.

“D on’t you want to take me out in a boat?”

“At present?” he asked.

“O f course!” said D aisy.

“Well, Annie Miller!” exclaimed her mother.

“I beg you, madam, to let her go,” said Winterbourne ardently; forhe had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through th e sum -

mer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl.

“I shouldn’t think she’d want to,” said her moth er. “I should th ink

she’d rather go indoors.”

“I’m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me,” Daisy declared.

“H e’s so awfully devoted!”

“I will row you over to C hillon in the starlight.”

“I don’t believe it!” said D aisy.

“Well!” ejaculated t he elder lady again.

“You haven’t spoken to m e for half an hour,” her daughter went on .

“I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your

mother,” said W interbourne.

“Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!” D aisy repeated. T hey

had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Win-

terbourn e. H er face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were

D aisy M iller



29

H enry Jam es

gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. N o; it’s impossible

to be prettier than th at, thought W interbourne.

“T here are half a dozen boats moored at th at landing place,” he

said, p ointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to

the lake. “If you will do m e the hon or to accept m y arm, we will go

and select one of them.”

Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a

little, light laugh. “I like a gentleman to be formal!” she declared.

“I assure you it’s a form al offer.”

“I was bound I would m ake you say something,” D aisy went on.“You see, it’s not very difficult,” said W interbourne. “But I am

afraid you are chaffing m e.”

“I th ink not , sir,” remarked M rs. M iller very gently.

“D o, th en, let me give you a row,” he said to the young girl.

“It’s quite lovely, the way you say th at!” cried D aisy.

“It will be still more lovely to do it.”

“Yes, it would be lovely!” said Daisy. But she made no movement toaccompany him; she only stood there laughing.

“I should think you had better find out what time it is,” inter-

posed her mother.

“It is eleven o’clock, madam ,” said a voice, with a foreign accent,

out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, per-

ceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two

ladies. H e had apparently just approached.

“O h, Eugenio,” said D aisy, “I am going out in a boat!”

Eugenio bowed. “At eleven o’clock, m adem oiselle?”

“I am going with Mr. Winterbourne—this very minute.”

“D o tell her she can’t,” said M rs. M iller to the cou rier.

“I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle,”

Eugenio declared.

W interbourne wished to H eaven this pretty girl were not so fa-

miliar with her courier; bu t he said n oth ing.



30

“I suppose you don’t th ink it’s proper!” D aisy exclaimed. “Eugenio

doesn’t think anything’s proper.”

“I am at your service,” said Winterbourne.

“D oes mademoiselle propose to go alone?” asked Eu genio of M rs.

Miller.

“O h, n o; with this gent leman!” answered D aisy’s mamma.

The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne—the latter

thought he was smiling— and then, solemnly, with a bow, “As ma-

demoiselle pleases!” he said.

“O h, I hoped you would m ake a fuss!” said D aisy. “I don’t care togo now.”

“I myself shall make a fuss if you don’t go,” said Winterbourne.

“That’s all I want—a little fuss!” And the young girl began to

laugh again.

“M r. Rand olph has gone to bed!” the courier announced frigidly.

“O h, D aisy; now we can go!” said M rs. M iller.

D aisy turned away from W interbourne, looking at him, smilingand fanning herself. “Good night,” she said; “I hope you are disap-

poin ted, or d isgusted, or someth ing!”

H e looked at h er, taking the hand she offered him. “I am puzzled,”

he answered.

“Well, I hope it won’t keep you awake!” she said very smartly;

and , un der the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed

toward the house.

W interbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled.

H e lingered beside the lake for a quarter of an hour, turning over

the mystery of the young girl’s sudden familiarities and caprices.

But the only very definite conclusion he came to was that he should

enjoy deucedly “going off” with her som ewhere.

Two days afterward he went off with her to th e Castle of Ch illon.

H e waited for her in t he large hall of the hotel, where the couriers,

the servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring.

D aisy M iller



31

H enry Jam es

It was not t he place he should h ave chosen, bu t she had appointed

it. She came tripping downstairs, bu tton ing her long gloves, squeez-

ing her folded parasol against her pretty figure, dressed in the per-

fection of a soberly elegant traveling costume. Win terbourne was a

man of imagination and , as our ancestors used to say, sensibility; as

he looked at her dress and, on the great staircase, her little rapid,

confiding step, he felt as if there were something romantic going

forward. H e could have believed h e was going to elope with her. H e

passed ou t with her among all the idle people that were assembled

there; they were all looking at her very hard; she had begun to chat-ter as soon as she joined h im. W interbourne’s preference had been

that they should be conveyed to Chillon in a carriage; but she ex-

pressed a lively wish t o go in th e litt le steam er; she declared that she

had a passion for steamboats. T here was always such a lovely breeze

upon the water, and you saw such lots of people. The sail was not

long, but W interbourne’s companion found t ime to say a great m any

th ings. To the young man h imself their litt le excursion was so m uchof an escapade— an adventu re—that, even allowing for her habitual

sense of freedom , he had som e expectation of seeing her regard it in

the same way. But it must be confessed that, in this particular, he

was disappointed. D aisy Miller was extremely animated, she was in

charm ing spirits; but she was apparently not at all excited; she was

not flut tered; she avoided neither his eyes nor those of anyone else;

she blushed neither when she looked at him n or when she felt that

peop le were looking at her. People continued to look at her a great

deal, and Winterbourne took much satisfaction in his pretty

compan ion’s distinguished air. H e had been a little afraid that she

would t alk loud, laugh overmuch, and even, perhaps, desire to move

about the boat a good deal. But he quite forgot his fears; he sat

smiling, with his eyes upon her face, while, without moving from

her place, she delivered herself of a great n umber of original reflec-

tion s. It was the most charm ing garrulity he had ever heard. he had



32

assented to the idea that she was “common”; but was she so, after

all, or was he simp ly gett ing used to her com monness? H er conver-

sation was chiefly of what metaphysicians term the objective cast,

but every now and t hen it took a subjective turn .

“Wh at on earth are you so grave about?” she sud den ly dem anded,

fixing her agreeable eyes upon Winterbourne’s.

“Am I grave?” he asked. “I had an idea I was grinn ing from ear to

ear.”

“You look as if you were taking me to a funeral. If th at’s a grin,

your ears are very near together.”“Shou ld you like me to dance a hornpipe on the deck?”

“Pray do, and I’ll carry round you r hat. It will pay the expenses of

our journ ey.”

“I never was better pleased in my life,” murm ured W interbourne.

She looked at him a moment and th en burst into a little laugh. “I

like to make you say those things! You’re a queer mixture!”

In the castle, after they had landed, the sub jective element decid-edly prevailed. Daisy tripped about the vaulted chambers, rustled

her skirt s in the corkscrew staircases, flirted back with a pretty litt le

cry and a shudder from the edge of the oubliettes, and turned a

singularly well-shaped ear to everything that Winterbourne told her

abou t the p lace. But he saw that she cared very litt le for feudal an-

tiquities and that the dusky traditions of Ch illon m ade but a slight

impression upon her. T hey had th e good fortu ne to h ave been able

to walk about withou t oth er companionship than that of the custo-

dian; and Winterbourne arranged with this functionary that they

shou ld not be hurried— that they shou ld linger and pause wherever

they chose. The custodian interpreted the bargain generously—

W interbourne, on his side, had been generous— and ended by leav-

ing them quite to themselves. Miss Miller’s observations were not

remarkable for logical consistency; for anyth ing she wanted to say

she was sure to find a pretext. She found a great many pretexts in

D aisy M iller



33

H enry Jam es

the rugged embrasures of Chillon for asking Winterbou rne sudden

qu estion s about himself— his family, his previous history, his tastes,

his habits, his intentions—and for supplying information upon cor-

responding points in her own personality. O f her own tastes, habits,

and intentions Miss Miller was prepared to give the most definite,

and indeed the m ost favorable account.

“Well, I hope you know enough!” she said to her companion,

after he had told her th e history of the unhappy Bonivard. “I never

saw a man that kn ew so m uch!” The h istory of Bonivard h ad evi-

den tly, as they say, gone into one ear and out of the other. But D aisywent on to say that she wished Winterbourne would travel with

them and “go round” with th em; they might know something, in

that case. “D on’t you want to come and teach Randolph?” she asked.

W interbourn e said that noth ing could possibly please him so m uch,

but that he unfortu nately other occupations. “O ther occupations? I

don’t believe it!” said M iss Daisy. “W hat do you mean? You are not

in business.” T he young man adm itted that he was not in business;but he had engagements which, even within a day or two, would

force him to go back to G eneva. “O h, bother!” she said; “I don’t

believe it!” and she began to talk about something else. But a few

moments later, when he was pointing out to her the pretty design of

an an tique fireplace, she broke out irrelevant ly, “You don’t m ean to

say you are going back to Geneva?”

“It is a melancholy fact that I shall have to return to Geneva to-

morrow.”

“Well, M r. W interbourne,” said D aisy, “I think you’re horrid!”

“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things!” said Winterbourne—”just

at the last!”

“The last!” cried the young girl; “I call it the first. I have half a

mind to leave you here and go straight back to the hotel alone.”

And for the next t en m inutes she did nothing bu t call him horrid.

Poor W interbourne was fairly bewildered; no young lady had as yet



34

don e him th e honor to be so agitated by the annou ncement of his

movements. H is companion, after this, ceased to pay any attent ion

to the curiosities of Chillon or the beauties of the lake; she opened

fire upon the mysterious charmer in G eneva whom she appeared to

have instan tly taken it for granted th at he was hu rrying back to see.

H ow did M iss D aisy Miller know that t here was a charmer in

Geneva? W interbourne, who denied th e existence of such a person ,

was quite unable to discover, and he was divided between amaze-

ment at th e rapidity of her ind uction and amusement at t he frank-

ness of her persiflage. She seemed to h im, in all th is, an extraordi-nary mixture of innocence and crudity. “Does she never allow you

more th an th ree days at a t ime?” asked D aisy ironically. “D oesn’t

she give you a vacation in sum mer? T here’s no one so h ard worked

bu t t hey can get leave to go off som ewhere at th is season . I suppose,

if you stay another day, she’ll come after you in the boat. Do wait

over till Friday, and I will go down to t he landing to see her arrive!”

Winterbourne began to think he had been wrong to feel disappointedin the temper in which the young lady had embarked. If he had

missed th e personal accent , the personal accent was now making its

appearance. It soun ded very distinctly, at last, in her telling him she

would stop “teasing” him if he would prom ise her solemn ly to com e

down t o Rom e in the winter.

“T hat’s not a difficult promise to make,” said Winterbourne. “My

aunt has taken an apartment in Rome for the winter and has al-

ready asked m e to com e and see her.”

“I don’t want you to com e for your aun t,” said D aisy; “I want you

to com e for m e.” And this was the only allusion that the youn g man

was ever to hear her make to his invidious kinswom an. H e declared

that, at any rate, he would certainly come. After this D aisy stopped

teasing. W interbourne took a carriage, and they drove back to Vevey

in the dusk; the young girl was very quiet.

In th e evening Winterbourne mentioned t o M rs. Costello th at he

D aisy M iller



35

H enry Jam es

had spent the afternoon at C hillon with M iss D aisy Miller.

“T he Americans—of the courier?” asked th is lady.

“Ah, happily,” said Winterbourne, “the courier stayed at hom e.”

“She went with you all alone?”

“All alone.”

Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. “And that,”

she exclaimed, “is the youn g person whom you wanted m e to know!”



36

PART II

W INTERBOURNE, who had return ed to G eneva the day after his excur-

sion to C hillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. H is aunt

had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a

couple of letters from her. “T hose people you were so devoted to last

summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all,” she wrote.

“T hey seem to have made several acquaintances, but th e courier con-

tinues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very

intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about

in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbu liez’s—Paule Mere—and don’t come later than the 23rd.”

In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome,

would present ly have ascertained M rs. Miller’s address at the Ameri-

can banker’s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss D aisy.

“After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon

them,” he said to M rs. C ostello.

“If, after what happens—at Vevey and everywhere— you d esire tokeep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man

may know everyone. M en are welcom e to the privilege!”

“Pray what is it that happens— here, for instance?” Winterbourne

demanded.

“The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what hap-

pens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has

picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortun e hun ters, and

she takes them abou t to people’s houses. When she comes to a party

D aisy M iller



37

H enry Jam es

she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a

wonderful mustache.”

“And where is the mother?”

“I haven’t the least idea. They are very dreadful people.”

W interbourne m editated a mom ent. “T hey are very ignorant —

very innocent on ly. D epend up on it they are no t bad.”

“T hey are hopelessly vulgar,” said M rs. C ostello. “Whether or no

being hopelessly vulgar is being ‘bad’ is a question for the metaphy-

sicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this

short life that is quite enough.”T he news that D aisy Miller was surround ed by half a dozen won-

derful mustaches checked Winterbourne’s impulse to go straight-

way to see her. H e had, perhaps, not definitely flattered him self that

he had m ade an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, bu t he was

ann oyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an

image that had lately flitted in and out of his own m editations; the

image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman windowand asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive.

If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss

M iller of his claims to her con sideration , he went very soon to call

upon two or three other friends. O ne of these friends was an Ameri-

can lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had

placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished wom an,

and she lived in th e Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found h er in a

little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled

with south ern sunshine. H e had not been there ten m inutes when

the servant came in, announcing “Madame Mila!” T his ann oun ce-

ment was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller,

who stopped in the m iddle of the room and stood staring at W in-

terbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold;

and then, after a con siderable interval, M rs. M iller slowly advanced.

“I know you!” said Randolph.



38

“I’m sure you know a great m any th ings,” exclaimed Winterbourn e,

taking him by the hand. “H ow is your education com ing on?”

D aisy was exchanging greetings very prett ily with her hostess, bu t

when she heard Winterbourne’s voice she quickly tu rned her head.

“Well, I declare!” she said.

“I told you I should come, you know,” Winterbourne rejoined,

smiling.

“Well, I didn’t believe it,” said M iss D aisy.

“I am much obliged to you,” laughed the youn g man.

“You might have com e to see me!” said D aisy.“I arrived on ly yesterday.”

“I don’t believe tte that!” the young girl declared.

Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but

th is lady evaded his glance, and , seating herself, fixed h er eyes upon

her son . “We’ve got a b igger place than th is,” said Randolph . “It’s all

gold on the walls.”

Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. “I told you if I were to bringyou, you would say something!” she murmured.

“I told you !” Randolph exclaimed. “I tell you , sir!” he added jo-

cosely, giving Winterbourne a thum p on the knee. “It is bigger, too!”

Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess;

Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her

mother. “I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey,” he

said.

M rs. Miller now certainly looked at him— at his chin. “N ot very

well, sir,” she answered.

“She’s got the dyspepsia,” said Randolph . “I’ve got it too. Father’s

got it. I’ve got it m ost!”

T his ann ouncement , instead of embarrassing M rs. Miller, seemed

to relieve her. “I suffer from the liver,” she said. “I think it’s this

climate; it’s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter

season . I don’t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I

D aisy M iller



39

H enry Jam es

was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn’t found any one like Dr.

D avis, and I didn’t believe I should. O h, at Schenectady he stands

first; they think everyth ing of him . H e has so m uch to do, and yet

there was noth ing he wouldn’t do for me. H e said he never saw

anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I’m sure

there was nothing he wouldn’t t ry. H e was just going to try some-

thing new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Eu-

rope for herself. But I wrote to M r. M iller that it seems as if I couldn’t

get on without D r. D avis. At Schenectady he stands at t he very top;

and th ere’s a great d eal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep.”Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with D r. Davis’s

patient, during which D aisy chattered unremittingly to her own com-

panion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with

Rome. “Well, I must say I am disappointed,” she answered. “We had

heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard too much. But we

couldn’t help that. We had been led to expect something different.”

“Ah, wait a litt le, and you will become very fond of it,” said W in-terbourne.

“I hate it worse and worse every day!” cried Randolph.

“You are like the infant H ann ibal,” said W interbourne.

“No, I ain’t!” Randolph declared at a venture.

“You are not m uch like an infant,” said his mother. “But we have

seen places,” she resumed, “that I should put a long way before

Rom e.” And in reply to W interbourne’s interrogation, “T here’s

Zurich,” she concluded, “I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn’t

heard half so much about it.”

“The best place we’ve seen is the City of Richmond!” said

Randolph.

“H e means the ship,” his mother explained. “We crossed in that

ship. Randolph had a good t ime on the C ity of Richm ond .”

“It’s the best place I’ve seen,” the child repeated. “O nly it was

turned the wrong way.”



40

“Well, we’ve got to turn the right way som e time,” said M rs. M iller

with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daugh-

ter at least foun d some gratification in Rom e, and she declared th at

D aisy was qu ite carried away. “It’s on accoun t of the society— the

society’s splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great

num ber of acquaintances. O f course she goes roun d m ore than I

do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her

right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she

th inks there’s nothing like Rom e. O f course, it’s a great deal pleasanter

for a young lady if she knows plenty of gent lemen.”By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winter-

bourne. “I’ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!” the

young girl ann oun ced.

“And what is the evidence you have offered?” asked W interbourne,

rather ann oyed at M iss Miller’s want of appreciation of the zeal of an

admirer who on his way down to Rom e had stopped neither at Bolo-

gna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impa-tience. H e remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him

that American women— the pretty ones, and th is gave a largeness to

the axiom—were at on ce the most exacting in the world and the least

endowed with a sense of indebtedn ess.

“W hy, you were awfully mean at Vevey,” said D aisy. “You wou ldn’t

do anyth ing. You wouldn’t stay there when I asked you.”

“My dearest young lady,” cried Winterbourne, with eloquence,

“have I come all the way to Rom e to encoun ter your reproaches?”

“Just h ear him say that!” said D aisy to her hostess, giving a twist

to a bow on th is lady’s dress. “D id you ever hear anything so quaint?”

“So quaint, my dear?” murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a

partisan of W interbourne.

“Well, I don’t know,” said D aisy, fingering M rs. Walker’s ribbon s.

“M rs. Walker, I want to t ell you som ething.”

“Mother-r,” interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his

D aisy M iller



41

H enry Jam es

words, “I t ell you you’ve got to go. Eugenio’ll raise—something!”

“I’m not afraid of Eugenio,” said D aisy with a toss of her head. “Look

here, Mrs. Walker,” she went on , “you know I’m coming to your party.”

“I am d elighted to hear it.”

“I’ve got a lovely dress!”

“I am very sure of that.”

“But I want to ask a favor—permission to bring a friend.”

“I shall be happy to see any of your friends,” said Mrs. Walker,

turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller.

“O h, they are not m y friends,” answered D aisy’s mamma, smilingshyly in her own fashion. “I never spoke to them.”

“It’s an int imate friend of mine— M r. Giovanelli,” said D aisy with-

out a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant

little face.

M rs. Walker was silent a mom ent ; she gave a rapid glance at W in-

terbourn e. “I shall be glad to see M r. G iovanelli,” she then said.

“H e’s an Italian,” D aisy pursued with the prett iest serenity. “H e’sa great friend of mine; he’s the handsomest man in the world—

except M r. Winterbourne! H e knows plenty of Italians, but he wants

to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans.

H e’s tremendously clever. H e’s perfectly lovely!”

It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to

M rs. Walker’s party, and then M rs. M iller prepared to take her leave.

“I guess we’ll go back to th e hotel,” she said.

“You may go back to the hotel, Moth er, bu t I’m going to t ake a

walk,” said D aisy.

“She’s going to walk with M r. G iovanelli,” Randolph proclaimed.

“I am going to the Pincio,” said D aisy, smiling.

“Alone, my dear—at this hour?” Mrs. Walker asked. The after-

noon was drawing to a close—it was the hour for the throng of

carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. “I don’t think it’s safe,

my dear,” said M rs. Walker.



42

“Neither do I,” subjoined Mrs. Miller. “You’ll get the fever, as sure as

you live. Remember what D r. D avis told you!”

“Give her som e medicine before she goes,” said Randolph.

T he com pany had risen to its feet; D aisy, still showing her pretty

teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. “Mrs. Walker, you are too

perfect,” she said. “I’m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend.”

“Your friend won’t keep you from gettin g the fever,” M rs. Miller

observed.

“Is it M r. G iovanelli?” asked th e hostess.

Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question hisattention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her

bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she

glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation,

“M r. Giovanelli—the beautiful Giovanelli.”

“My dear young friend,” said M rs. Walker, taking her hand plead-

ingly, “don’t walk off to the Pincio at t his hou r to meet a beautiful

Italian.”“Well, he speaks English,” said M rs. Miller.

“Gracious me!” D aisy exclaimed, “I don’t to do anything improper.

T here’s an easy way to settle it.” She con tinued to glance at W inter-

bourne. “The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr.

W interbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk

with me!”

W interbourne’s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young

girl gave him gracious leave to accom pany her. They passed d own-

stairs before her m other, and at th e door W interbourne perceived

M rs. M iller’s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose

acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. “Goodbye,

Eugenio!” cried Daisy; “I’m going to take a walk.” The distance

from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the oth er end of

th e Pincian H ill is, in fact, rap idly traversed. As th e day was splen-

did , however, and th e concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loun gers

D aisy M iller



43

H enry Jam es

numerous, the young Americans found their progress much de-

layed. T his fact was highly agreeable to W int erbou rne, in spite of

his consciousness of his singu lar situ ation . The slow-moving, idly

gazing Roman crowd bestowed mu ch attent ion up on t he extremely

pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his

arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in D aisy’s m ind

when she proposed to expose herself, un attend ed, to its apprecia-

tion . H is own mission , to h er sense, app arently, was to con sign

her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once

ann oyed an d gratified, resolved th at he would do no such th ing.“W hy haven’t you been to see me?” asked D aisy. “You can’t get

out of that.”

“I have had the hon or of telling you that I have only just stepped

out of the train.”

“You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!”

cried the young girl with her litt le laugh. “I suppose you were asleep.

You have had time to go to see Mrs. Walker.”“I knew M rs. Walker— ” Winterbourne began to explain.

“I know where you knew her. You knew her at G eneva. She told

me so. Well, you knew me at Vevey. That’s just as good. So you

ought to have come.” She asked him no other question than this;

she began to prattle about her own affairs. “We’ve got splendid room s

at the hotel; Eugenio says they’re the best room s in Rom e. We are

going to stay all winter, if we don’t die of th e fever; and I guess we’ll

stay then. It’s a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would

be fearfully qu iet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we

shou ld be going round all the time with on e of those dreadful old

men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had

abou t a week of that, and now I’m enjoying myself. I kn ow ever so

many people, and they are all so charming. The society’s extremely

select. There are all kinds—English, and Germans, and Italians. I

think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But



44

there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospi-

table. There’s som ething or other every day. There’s not much d anc-

ing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was

always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs.

Walker’s, her room s are so small.” W hen they had passed the gate of

the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr.

Giovanelli might be. “We had better go straight to that place in

front,” she said, “where you look at the view.”

“I certainly shall not help you to find him,” Winterbourne de-

clared.“Then I shall find him without you,” cried Miss Daisy.

“You certainly won’t leave me!” cried W interbourne.

She burst into her little laugh. “Are you afraid you’ll get lost—or

run over? But th ere’s Giovanelli, leaning against t hat t ree. H e’s star-

ing at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so

cool?”

Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standingwith folded arms nursing his cane. H e had a handsome face, an

artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in h is bu tton-

hole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, “Do

you mean to speak to that man?”

“D o I m ean to speak to h im? W hy, you don’t suppose I mean to

commun icate by signs?”

“Pray understand, then,” said Winterbourne, “that I intend to

remain with you.”

D aisy stopped and looked at him, withou t a sign of troubled con-

sciousness in her face, with noth ing but th e presence of her charm-

ing eyes and her happy dimples. “Well, she’s a cool one!” thought

the youn g man.

“I don’t like the way you say that,” said D aisy. “It’s too imperious.”

“I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. T he main point is to give you

an idea of my meaning.”

D aisy M iller



45

H enry Jam es

T he young girl looked at h im more gravely, but with eyes that were

prettier than ever. “I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me,

or to interfere with anything I do.”

“I think you have made a mistake,” said W interbourne. “You should

sometimes listen to a gentleman—the right one.”

Daisy began to laugh again. “I do nothing but listen to gentle-

men!” she exclaimed. “Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?”

T he gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived

our two friends, and was approaching th e youn g girl with obsequi-

ous rapidity. H e bowed to W interbourne as well as to the latter’scompanion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne

thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to

D aisy, “No, he’s not the right one.”

D aisy evident ly had a natural talent for perform ing introductions;

she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other.

She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr.

Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly—W interbourne after-ward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many

American heiresses— addressed h er a great deal of very polite non-

sense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, wh o said

nothing, reflected upon that p rofun dity of Italian cleverness which

enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are

more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon

something m ore intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three.

But h e kept h is temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching

intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his

measure. “H e is not a gentleman,” said the young American; “he is

on ly a clever imitation of one. H e is a music master, or a penn y-a-

liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!” Mr. Giovanelli

had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior

ind ignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman’s not knowing

the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one.



46

Giovanelli chattered and jested and m ade himself wonderfully agree-

able. It was tru e that , if he was an imitation , the imitation was bril-

liant. “Nevertheless,” Win terbourne said to h imself, “a nice girl ought

to know!” And then he came back to the question whether this was,

in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a

little American flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably low-

lived foreigner? The rendezvous in this case, indeed, had been in

broad d aylight and in the most crowded corner of Rom e, but was it

not imp ossible to regard the choice of these circum stances as a proof

of extreme cynicism? Singular though it m ay seem, W interbournewas vexed that the young girl, in joining her amoroso, should not

appear more impatient of his own company, and he was vexed be-

cause of his inclination. It was impossible to regard her as a per-

fectly well-condu cted young lady; she was want ing in a certain in-

dispensable delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly to

be able to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments which

are called by rom ancers “lawless passions.” T hat she shou ld seem towish t o get rid of him would help h im to th ink m ore light ly of her,

and to be able to think more lightly of her would make her much

less perplexing. But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present

herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence.

She had been walking som e quarter of an hour, attended by her

two cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety, as it

seemed to W interbourne, to the pretty speeches of M r. G iovanelli,

when a carriage that had detached itself from the revolving train

drew up beside the path. At the same m oment W interbourne per-

ceived that his friend Mrs. Walker—the lady whose house he had

lately left—was seated in the vehicle and was beckoning to him.

Leaving Miss Miller’s side, he hastened to obey her sum mons. M rs.

Walker was flushed; she wore an excited air. “It is really too dread-

ful,” she said. “That girl must not do this sort of thing. She must

not walk here with you two men. Fifty people have noticed her.”

D aisy M iller



47

H enry Jam es

W interbourne raised h is eyebrows. “I think it’s a pity to m ake too

much fuss about it.”

“It’s a pity to let th e girl ruin herself!”

“She is very innocent,” said Winterbourne.

“She’s very crazy!” cried M rs. Walker. “Did you ever see anything so

imbecile as her mother? After you had all left m e just n ow, I could not

sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt to

save her. I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet, and came here

as quickly as possible. T hank H eaven I have found you!”

“What do you propose to do with us?” asked Winterbourne, smiling.“To ask her to get in, to drive her abou t here for half an h our, so

that th e world may see she is not run ning absolutely wild, and then

to take her safely hom e.”

“I don’t think it’s a very happy thought,” said Winterbourne; “but

you can try.”

M rs. Walker tried. The youn g man went in pursuit of Miss M iller,

who had simply nodded and smiled at his interlocutor in the car-riage and had gone her way with h er companion. D aisy, on learning

that Mrs. Walker wished to speak to her, retraced her steps with a

perfect good grace and with M r. G iovanelli at her side. She declared

that she was delight ed to h ave a chance to p resent th is gentleman to

Mrs. Walker. She immediately achieved the introduction, and de-

clared that she had n ever in her life seen anyth ing so lovely as M rs.

Walker’s carriage rug.

“I am glad you admire it,” said this lady, smiling sweetly. “Will

you get in and let me put it over you?”

“O h, n o, th ank you,” said D aisy. “I shall adm ire it m uch more as

I see you driving roun d with it.”

“D o get in an d d rive with me!” said M rs. Walker.

“That would be charming, but it’s so enchanting just as I am!”

and D aisy gave a brilliant glance at the gent lemen on either side of

her.



48

“It m ay be enchanting, dear child, but it is not th e custom here,”

urged M rs. Walker, leaning forward in her victoria, with her hands

devoutly clasped.

“Well, it ought to be, then!” said D aisy. “If I didn’t walk I shou ld

expire.”

“You should walk with your m oth er, dear,” cried the lady from

Geneva, losing patience.

“W ith m y mother dear!” exclaimed the youn g girl. Winterbourne

saw that she scented interference. “My mother never walked ten

steps in her life. And then, you know,” she added with a laugh, “Iam more than five years old.”

“You are old enough to be m ore reasonable. You are old enough,

dear M iss M iller, to be talked about.”

Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely. “Talked about?

W hat do you m ean?”

“Com e into m y carriage, and I will tell you.”

D aisy turn ed her quickened glance again from one of the gent le-men beside her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli was bowing to and

fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably; Win-

terbourne thought it a most unpleasant scene. “I don’t think I

want to know what you m ean,” said D aisy present ly. “I don’t thin k

I should like it.”

Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her car-

riage rug and d rive away, bu t this lady did n ot enjoy being defied, as

she afterward told him. “Should you prefer being thought a very

reckless girl?” she demanded.

“Gracious!” exclaimed D aisy. She looked again at M r. Giovanelli,

then she turned to Winterbourne. There was a little pink flush in

her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. “Does Mr. Winterbourne

th ink,” she asked slowly, smiling, th rowing back her head, and glanc-

ing at him from head to foot, “that, to save my repu tation, I ou ght

to get in to the carriage?”

D aisy M iller



49

H enry Jam es

Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed

so strange to hear her speak that way of her “reputation.” But he

himself, in fact, m ust speak in accordance with gallantry. T he finest

gallantry, here, was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for

W interbourne, as the few indications I have been able to give have

made him known t o th e reader, was that D aisy Miller shou ld take

M rs. Walker’s advice. H e looked at h er exqu isite prett iness, and then

he said, very gently, “I th ink you shou ld get into the carriage.”

D aisy gave a violent laugh. “I never heard anything so stiff! If this is

improper, Mrs. Walker,” she pursued, “then I am all improper, and youmust give me up. Goodbye; I hope you’ll have a lovely ride!” and, with

Mr. Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned

away.

Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs.

Walker’s eyes. “G et in here, sir,” she said to W interbourne, ind icat-

ing the place beside her. Th e youn g man answered that h e felt bound

to accompany Miss M iller, whereupon M rs. Walker declared th at if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She

was evident ly in earnest. Winterbourne overtook D aisy and her com-

panion, and, offering the young girl his hand, told her that Mrs.

Walker had made an imperious claim upon h is society. H e expected

that in answer she would say something rather free, something to

commit herself still fur ther to that “recklessness” from which M rs.

Walker had so charitably endeavored to d issuade her. But she on ly

shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade

him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat.

W interbourne was not in the best possible hum or as he took h is

seat in M rs. Walker’s victoria. “T hat was not clever of you,” he said

candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of car-

riages.

“In such a case,” his companion answered, “I don’t wish to be

clever; I wish to be earnest !”



50

“Well, your earnestn ess has on ly offended her and pu t her off.”

“It has happened very well,” said Mrs. Walker. “If she is so per-

fectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it

the better; one can act accordingly.”

“I suspect she meant n o harm,” Winterbourne rejoined.

“So I th ought a m onth ago. But she has been going too far.”

“W hat has she been doing?”

“Everyth ing that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could

pick up; sitting in corners with m ysterious Italians; dan cing all the

evening with th e same partners; receiving visits at eleven o’clock atnight. Her mother goes away when visitors come.”

“But her brother,” said W interbourne, laughing, “sits up till mid-

night.”

“He must be edified by what he sees. I’m told that at their hotel

everyone is talking abou t her, and that a smile goes round am ong all

the servant s when a gentleman comes and asks for M iss Miller.”

“T he servants be hanged!” said W interbourne angrily. “T he p oorgirl’s only fault,” he presently added, “is that she is very unculti-

vated.”

“She is naturally indelicate,” Mrs. Walker declared.

“Take that example this morning. H ow long had you known her

at Vevey?”

“A couple of days.”

“Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should

have left the place!”

W interbourne was silent for some m om ents; then he said, “I sus-

pect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived too long at Geneva!”

And he added a request that she should inform h im with what par-

ticular design she had made him enter her carriage.

“I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller—

not to flirt with her—to give her no further opportunity to expose

herself—to let her alone, in short.”

D aisy M iller



51

H enry Jam es

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Winterbourne. “I like her ex-

tremely.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t h elp h er to m ake a scan-

dal.”

“T here shall be noth ing scandalous in my atten tions to h er.”

“T here certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said

what I had on my conscience,” Mrs. Walker pursued. “If you wish

to rejoin the young lady I will put you down. H ere, by the way, you

have a chance.”

The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden thatoverhangs the wall of Rome and overlooks the beautiful Villa

Borghese. It is bordered by a large parapet, near which there are

several seats. O ne of the seats at a d istan ce was occupied by a gentle-

man an d a lady, toward whom M rs. Walker gave a toss of her head.

At the same moment these persons rose and walked toward the para-

pet. Winterbourne had asked the coachman to stop; he now de-

scend ed from the carriage. H is comp anion looked at h im a m o-ment in silence; then , while he raised h is hat, she drove majestically

away. Winterbourne stood there; he had turned his eyes toward D aisy

and her cavalier. They evidently saw no one; they were too deeply

occupied with each other. When th ey reached the low garden wall,

they stood a mom ent looking off at the great flat-topped pine clus-

ters of th e Villa Borghese; then Giovanelli seated himself, familiarly,

upon the broad ledge of the wall. T he western sun in th e opposite

sky sent out a brilliant shaft through a couple of cloud bars, where-

upon D aisy’s comp anion took her parasol out of her hands and

opened it. She came a little nearer, and he held the parasol over her;

then, still holding it, he let it rest upon her shoulder, so th at bot h of

their heads were hidd en from W interbourne. T his young man lin-

gered a moment, then he began to walk. But he walked—not to-

ward the couple with the parasol; toward the residence of his aun t,

M rs. Costello.



52

H e flattered h imself on the following day that there was no smil-

ing among the servants when he, at least, asked for Mrs. Miller at

her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at hom e;

and on the next day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again

had the misfortune not to find them. M rs. Walker’s party took place

on the evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his

last in terview with the hostess, Winterbourn e was among the guests.

Mrs. Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing

abroad, make a point, in their own phrase, of studying European

society, and she had on th is occasion collected several specimen s of her diversely born fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as textbooks.

When Winterbourne arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a

few moments he saw her mother come in alone, very shyly and

ruefully. Mrs. Miller’s hair above her exposed-looking temples was

more frizzled than ever. As she approached Mrs. Walker, Winter-

bourn e also drew near.

“You see, I’ve come all alone,” said poor M rs. Miller. “I’m so fright-ened; I don’t know what to do. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to a

party alone, especially in this coun try. I wanted t o bring Randolph

or Eugenio, or som eone, but D aisy just pushed me off by myself. I

ain’t u sed to going round alone.”

“And does not your daughter intend to favor us with h er society?”

dem and ed M rs. Walker impressively.

“Well, D aisy’s all dressed,” said M rs. Miller with that accent of

the dispassionate, if not of the philosophic, historian with which

she always recorded the current incidents of her daughter’s career.

“She got dressed on pu rpose before dinner. But she’s got a friend of

hers there; that gentleman— the Italian— that she wanted to bring.

T hey’ve got going at the piano; it seems as if they couldn’t leave off.

M r. G iovanelli sings splendidly. But I guess they’ll com e before very

long,” conclud ed M rs. M iller hopefully.

“I’m sorry she should come in that way,” said Mrs. Walker.

D aisy M iller



53

H enry Jam es

“Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed be-

fore dinn er if she was going to wait three hours,” responded D aisy’s

mamma. “I didn’t see the use of her pu tt ing on such a dress as that

to sit roun d with M r. G iovanelli.”

“T his is most horrible!” said M rs. Walker, tu rning away and ad-

dressing herself to W interbourne. “Elle s’affiche. It’s her revenge for

my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I

shall not speak to her.”

D aisy came after eleven o’clock; bu t she was not, on such an occa-

sion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward inradiant loveliness, smiling and chatt ering, carrying a large bouquet,

and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned

and looked at her. She came straight to M rs. Walker. “I’m afraid you

thought I never was coming, so I sent m other off to tell you. I wanted

to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you

know he sings beaut ifully, and I want you to ask him t o sing. T his is

Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he’s got themost lovely voice, and he knows the most charm ing set of songs. I

made him go over them th is evening on purpose; we had the great-

est t ime at the hot el.” O f all th is D aisy delivered herself with the

sweetest, b rightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now

round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her

shoulders, to the edges of her d ress. “Is there anyone I kn ow?” she

asked.

“I th ink every one knows you!” said M rs. Walker pregnant ly, and

she gave a very cursory greeting to M r. G iovanelli. This gentleman

bore himself gallantly. H e smiled and bowed and showed his white

teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled h is eyes and perform ed all

the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. H e

sang very prett ily half a dozen songs, th ough M rs. Walker afterward

declared that she had been qu ite un able to find ou t who asked him.

It was apparently not D aisy who had given h im his orders. D aisy sat



54

at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it

were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inau-

dibly, while it was going on.

“It’s a pity these rooms are so small; we can’t dance,” she said to

Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before.

“I am not sorry we can’t dance,” Winterbourne answered; “I don’t

dance.”

“O f course you don’t dance; you’re too stiff,” said Miss D aisy. “I

hope you enjoyed your drive with M rs. Walker!”

“No. I d idn’t en joy it; I p referred walking with you.”“We paired off: that was much better,” said D aisy. “But d id you

ever hear anyth ing so cool as Mrs. Walker’s wanting me to get into

her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext

that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been

most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days.”

“H e should n ot h ave talked about it at all,” said W interbourne;

“he would n ever have proposed to a young lady of this coun try towalk abou t the streets with h im.”

“About the streets?” cried Daisy with her pretty stare. “Where,

then, would h e have proposed to h er to walk? T he Pincio is not the

streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this

country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky

tim e of it, so far as I can learn; I don’t see why I should change m y

habits for them .”

“I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt,” said Winterbourne

gravely.

“O f course they are,” she cried, giving h im her little smiling stare

again. “I’m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl

that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a

nice girl.”

“You’re a very nice girl; bu t I wish you would flirt with me, and

me only,” said W interbourne.

D aisy M iller



55

H enry Jam es

“Ah! thank you—thank you very much; you are the last man I

should th ink of flirting with . As I have had the pleasure of inform-

ing you, you are too stiff.”

“You say that too often,” said Winterbourne.

D aisy gave a delighted laugh. “If I could h ave the sweet h ope of

making you angry, I should say it again.”

“D on’t d o that ; when I am angry I’m stiffer than ever. But if you

won’t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the

piano; th ey don’t u nderstand that sort of thing here.”

“I thought they understood nothing else!” exclaimed Daisy.“Not in young un married women.”

“It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women

than in old married ones,” Daisy declared.

“Well,” said W interbourn e, “when you deal with natives you m ust

go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom ;

it doesn’t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr.

Giovanelli, and withou t your m other—”“Gracious! poor M oth er!” interposed D aisy.

“Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means

som ething else.”

“H e isn’t preaching, at an y rate,” said D aisy with vivacity. “And if

you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are

too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends.”

“Ah!” rejoined W interbourne, “if you are in love with each other,

it is anoth er affair.”

She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he

had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she im-

mediately got up , blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim m en-

tally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the

world. “M r. G iovanelli, at least,” she said, giving h er interlocutor a

single glance, “never says such very disagreeable th ings to me.”

Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli



56

had finished singing. H e left th e piano and came over to D aisy.

“Won’t you come into the other room and have som e tea?” he asked,

bend ing before her with h is ornamental smile.

D aisy turned to W interbourne, beginning to smile again. H e was

still more perplexed, for this incon sequent smile made noth ing clear,

though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and

softness that reverted in stinctively to the pardon of offenses. “It has

never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,” she said

with her little torm enting manner.

“I have offered you advice,” Winterbourne rejoined.“I prefer weak tea!” cried D aisy, and she went off with th e bril-

liant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the

embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. T here was an

interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young

people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs.

Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which

she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl’s arrival. Sheturned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart

with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the

door; he saw it all. D aisy turn ed very pale and looked at her mother,

but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the

usual social form s. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incon gru-

ous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of

them. “Good night, M rs. Walker,” she said; “we’ve had a beautiful

evening. You see, if I let D aisy come to parties without m e, I don’t

want her to go away without me.” D aisy turn ed away, looking with

a pale, grave face at th e circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that,

for the first m oment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even

for indignation. H e on h is side was greatly touched.

“T hat was very cruel,” he said to M rs. Walker.

“She n ever enters my drawing room again!” replied his hostess.

Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker’s draw-

D aisy M iller



57

H enry Jam es

ing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller’s hotel. The

ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted

Giovanelli was always present . Very often th e brilliant little Rom an

was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being ap-

parently constant ly of the op inion that discretion is the better part

of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that D aisy

on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own

entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more

surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing

to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with G iovanellibeing interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two

gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the

same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked

to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was

very singular that she should not take more trouble to p reserve the

sanct ity of their interviews; and he liked her th e more for her inno-

cent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good hu -mor. H e could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl

who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat

derisive smile on the reader’s part, I m ay affirm that with regard to

the women who h ad hitherto interested h im, it very often seemed

to W interbou rne among the possibilities that, given certain cont in-

gencies, he should be afraid—literally afraid—of these ladies; he

had a p leasant sense that he shou ld n ever be afraid of D aisy Miller.

It must be added that th is sentiment was not altogether flattering to

Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension,

that she would prove a very light young person .

But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She

looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him

to do th is and to do that; she was constantly “chaffing” and abusing

him . She appeared com pletely to have forgotten that W interbourne

had said anyth ing to d isplease her at M rs. Walker’s little party. O ne



58

Sun day afternoon , having gone to St. Peter’s with h is aun t, W inter-

bourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in com-

pany with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the

young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at

them a m om ent t hrough her eyeglass, and then she said:

“That’s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?”

“I had not the least idea I was pensive,” said the young man.

“You are very much preoccupied; you are th inking of som ething.”

“And what is it,” he asked, “that you accuse me of thinking of?”

“O f that you ng lady’s— M iss Baker’s, Miss Chandler’s—what’s hername?— Miss M iller’s intrigue with th at litt le barber’s block.”

“D o you call it an intrigue,” Winterbourne asked— ”an affair that

goes on with such peculiar publicity?”

“That’s their folly,” said Mrs. Costello; “it’s not their merit.”

“No,” rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensive-

ness to which his aunt had alluded. “I don’t believe that there is

anything to be called an intrigue.”“I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite

carried away by him.”

“They are certainly very intimate,” said Winterbourne.

Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical

instrument . “H e is very handsome. O ne easily sees how it is. She

thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentle-

man. She has never seen anyth ing like him; he is bett er, even, than

the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if

he succeeds in m arrying the young lady, the courier will come in for

a m agnificent comm ission.”

“I don’t believe she thinks of marrying him,” said Winterbourne,

“and I don’t believe he hopes to m arry her.”

“You may be very sure she th inks of nothing. She goes on from

day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can

imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time,” added M rs.

D aisy M iller



59

H enry Jam es

Costello, “depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that

she is ‘engaged.’”

“I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,” said W interbourn e.

“Who is Giovanelli?”

“The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned

som ething. H e is apparently a perfectly respectable litt le man. I be-

lieve he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But h e doesn’t m ove

in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely

impossible that the courier introduced h im. H e is evidently im-

mensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentle-man in the world, h e, on his side, has never foun d himself in per-

sonal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensive-

ness as th is youn g lady’s. And then she m ust seem to him wonder-

fully pretty and interesting. I rather doub t that h e dreams of marry-

ing her. T hat m ust appear to h im t oo impossible a piece of luck. H e

has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substan-

tial Mr. M iller in t hat mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knowsthat he hasn’t a t itle to offer. If he were only a coun t or a m archese!

H e mu st wonder at his luck, at th e way they have taken h im up.”

“H e accoun ts for it by his han dsome face and th inks M iss M iller

a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!” said M rs. Costello.

“It is very true,” Winterbourne pursued, “that Daisy and her

mamma have not yet risen to th at stage of— what shall I call it?— of

culture at which the idea of catching a coun t or a m archese begins.

I believe that th ey are intellectually incapable of that concept ion.”

“Ah! bu t t he avvocato can’t believe it,” said M rs. Costello.

O f the observation excited by D aisy’s “intrigue,” Winterbourne

gathered that day at St. Peter’s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the

American colonists in Rom e came to talk with M rs. Costello, who sat

on a litt le portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The

vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones

in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between M rs. Costello and her



60

friends, th ere was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller’s go-

ing really “too far.” Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard,

but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw

D aisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her

accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he

could n ot deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. H e felt

very sorry for her—not exactly that he believed that she had com-

pletely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that

was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place

among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this togive a hint to M rs. M iller. H e met one day in the Corso a friend, a

tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where

he had been walking th rough the beautiful gallery. H is friend talked

for a moment about the superb port rait of Inn ocent X by Velasquez

which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, “And

in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating

a picture of a different kind—that pretty American girl whom youpointed out to me last week.” In answer to W interbourne’s inquiries,

his friend narrated that the pretty American girl—prettier than ever—

was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great

papal portrait was enshrined.

“W ho was her companion?” asked Winterbourne.

“A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delight-

fully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she

was a young lady du meilleur monde.”

“So she is!” answered W interbourne; and having assured h imself

that his informant had seen D aisy and h er comp anion but five min-

utes before, he jumped in to a cab and went to call on M rs. M iller.

She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in

D aisy’s absence.

“She’s gone out som ewhere with M r. G iovanelli,” said M rs. M iller.

“She’s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli.”

D aisy M iller



61

H enry Jam es

“I have noticed that they are very intimate,” Winterbourne ob-

served.

“Oh, it seems as if they couldn’t live without each other!” said

Mrs. Miller. “Well, he’s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling

D aisy she’s engaged!”

“And what does Daisy say?”

“O h, she says she isn’t en gaged. But she might as well be!” th is

impartial parent resum ed; “she goes on as if she was. But I’ve made

M r. Giovanelli prom ise to tell me, if SH E doesn’t. I shou ld want to

write to M r. M iller abou t it— shouldn’t you?”Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of

mind of Daisy’s mamm a struck him as so unprecedented in th e

ann als of parental vigilance that he gave up as ut terly irrelevant the

attempt to p lace her upon her guard.

After th is D aisy was never at hom e, and W interbourne ceased to

meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as

he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up t heir mindsthat she was going too far. T hey ceased to invite her; and they int i-

mated th at they desired to express to observant Europeans the great

truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady,

her behavior was not representative—was regarded by her compa-

triots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt abou t all

the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it

ann oyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. H e said to h im-

self that she was too light and childish, too un cultivated and un rea-

soning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even

to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she

carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defi-

ant , passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression

she produ ced. H e asked h imself whether D aisy’s defiance came from

the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a

young person of the reckless class. It must be adm itted that holding



62

on e’s self to a belief in D aisy’s “innocence” came to seem to W inter-

bourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have

already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself re-

du ced to chopping logic abou t th is young lady; he was vexed at h is

want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were

generic, national, and how far th ey were personal. From either view

of them he had somehow m issed her, and now it was too late. She

was “carried away” by M r. Giovanelli.

A few days after h is brief interview with her moth er, he encoun-

tered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known asthe Palace of the Caesars. The early Rom an spring had filled the air

with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine

was muffled with tender verdu re. D aisy was strolling along the top

of one of those great m oun ds of ruin that are embanked with mossy

marble and paved with monum ental inscript ions. It seemed to h im

that Rom e had never been so lovely as just then . H e stood, looking

off at the enchant ing harmony of line and color that remotely en-circles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the

freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm them-

selves in m ysterious interfusion. It seemed to h im also that D aisy

had never looked so pretty, bu t this had been an observation of his

whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli,

too, wore an aspect of even unwonted b rilliancy.

“Well,” said D aisy, “I should th ink you wou ld be lonesom e!”

“Lonesome?” asked Winterbourne.

“You are always going round by yourself. C an’t you get anyone to

walk with you?”

“I am not so fortunate,” said Winterbourne, “as your compan-

ion.”

Giovanelli, from the first, had t reated W interbourne with distin-

guished politeness. H e listened with a deferent ial air to h is remarks;

he laughed pun ctiliously at h is pleasant ries; he seemed d isposed to

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H enry Jam es

testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man.

H e carried h imself in n o degree like a jealous wooer; he had obvi-

ously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a

little humility of him. It even seemed to W interbourne at t imes that

Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a

private understanding with him—to say to him, as an intelligent

man, th at, bless you, H E kn ew how extraordinary was th is young

lady, and didn’t flatter himself with delusive—or at least too delu-

sive—hopes of matr imony and dollars. O n this occasion he strolled

away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, whichhe carefully arranged in his buttonhole.

“I know why you say th at,” said D aisy, watching Giovanelli. “Be-

cause you think I go roun d too m uch with him .” And she nodded at

her attendant.

“Every one th inks so— if you care to know,” said Winterbourne.

“O f course I care to know!” D aisy exclaimed seriously. “But I

don’t believe it. They are only pretend ing to be shocked. They don’treally care a straw what I do. Besides, I don’t go round so m uch.”

“I th ink you will find they do care. T hey will show it disagreeably.”

D aisy looked at him a moment . “H ow disagreeably?”

“H aven’t you noticed anyth ing?” W interbourne asked.

“I have noticed you. But I not iced you were as stiff as an u mbrella

the first t ime I saw you.”

“You will find I am not so stiff as several oth ers,” said W inter-

bourne, smiling.

“H ow shall I find it?”

“By going to see the oth ers.”

“W hat will they do to m e?”

“They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that

means?”

Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. “Do you

mean as M rs. Walker did the other n ight?”



64

“Exactly!” said W interbourne.

She looked away at G iovanelli, who was decorating him self with

his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, “I

shouldn’t think you wou ld let people be so unkind !” she said.

“H ow can I help it?” he asked.

“I should think you would say som ething.”

“I do say som ething”; and he paused a mom ent. “I say that your

moth er tells me that she believes you are engaged.”

“Well, she does,” said Daisy very simply.

Winterbourne began to laugh. “And does Randolph believe it?”he asked.

“I guess Randolph doesn’t believe anything,” said D aisy. Randolph’s

skepticism excited W interbourn e to further hilarity, and he observed

that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too,

addressed herself again to her countryman. “Since you have men-

tioned it,” she said, “I am engaged.”

W interbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing.“You don’t believe!” she ad ded.

H e was silent a mom ent ; and then, “Yes, I believe it,” he said.

“O h, n o, you don’t!” she answered. “Well, then— I am not!”

The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of

the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered,

present ly took leave of them. A week afterward h e went to dine at a

beaut iful villa on the Caelian H ill, and, on arriving, dismissed his

hired vehicle. T he evening was charming, and he prom ised himself

the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine

and past th e vaguely lighted m onum ents of the Forum. T here was a

waning m oon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she

was veiled in a th in cloud curtain which seemed to d iffuse and equal-

ize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o’clock),

W interbourne approached the dusky circle of the C olosseum, it re-

curred to him , as a lover of the picturesque, that t he interior, in the

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H enry Jam es

pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. H e turn ed aside and

walked to on e of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an

open carriage—one of the little Roman streetcabs—was stationed.

T hen he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great stru c-

ture, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had

never seemed to him m ore impressive. O ne-half of the gigant ic cir-

cus was in deep shade, th e other was sleeping in the lum inous dusk.

As he stood there he began to murmur Byron’s famous lines, out of

“Manfred,” but before he had finished his quotation he remem-

bered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recom-mended by the poets, they are deprecated by th e doctors. T he h is-

toric atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere,

scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma.

Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more

general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The

great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he

drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that twopersons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base.

O ne of these was a woman, seated; her compan ion was standing in

front of her.

Present ly the sound of the wom an’s voice came to h im distinctly

in the warm n ight air. “Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or

tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!” These were the

words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy M iller.

“Let us hope he is not very hungry,” responded the ingenious

Giovanelli. “H e will have to t ake me first; you will serve for des-

sert!”

Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it m ust be added,

with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been

flashed upon the ambiguity of D aisy’s behavior, and the riddle had

become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need

no longer be at pains to respect. H e stood there, looking at her—



66

looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw

them vaguely, he him self mu st h ave been m ore bright ly visible. H e

felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the

right way of regarding M iss D aisy M iller. Then , as he was going to

advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was

doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing

unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious

criticism. H e turn ed away toward the entrance of the place, bu t, as

he did so, he heard D aisy speak again.

“Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!”W hat a clever litt le reprobate she was, and how smartly she played

at injured innocence! But h e wouldn’t cut her. Winterbourne came

forward again and went toward th e great cross. D aisy had got up;

Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think

simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate

youn g girl loun ging away the evening in th is nest of malaria. What

if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for herdying of the perniciosa. “H ow long have you been h ere?” he asked

almost brutally.

Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a mo-

ment . Then— ”All the evening,” she answered, gently. “I never saw

anyth ing so pretty.”

“I am afraid,” said Winterbourne, “that you will not think Ro-

man fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it. I wonder,” he

added, turning to Giovanelli, “that you, a native Roman, should

countenance such a terrible indiscretion.”

“Ah,” said th e handsome native, “for myself I am not afraid.”

“Neither am I— for you! I am speaking for th is youn g lady.”

Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his bril-

liant teeth. But he took W interbourne’s rebuke with docility. “I told

the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signo-

rina ever pruden t?”

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H enry Jam es

“I never was sick, and I d on’t m ean to be!” the signorina declared.

“I don’t look like much, but I’m healthy! I was bound to see the

Colosseum by moon light; I shouldn’t have wanted to go hom e with-

out th at; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven’t we, M r.

Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me som e

pills. H e has got some splend id p ills.”

“I should advise you,” said W interbourne, “to drive hom e as fast

as possible and take one!”

“What you say is very wise,” Giovanelli rejoined. “I will go and

make sure the carriage is at hand .” And h e went forward rapidly.D aisy followed with W interbourne. H e kept looking at her; she

seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing;

D aisy chat tered about the beauty of the place. “Well, I have seen the

C olosseum by moon light!” she exclaimed. “T hat’s one good th ing.”

T hen , noticing W interbourne’s silence, she asked him why he didn’t

speak. H e made no an swer; he on ly began to laugh. They passed

under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with thecarriage. H ere D aisy stopped a moment, looking at the young Ameri-

can. “Did you believe I was engaged, the other day?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter what I believed the other day,” said Winter-

bourn e, still laughing.

“Well, what do you believe now?”

“I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are en-

gaged or not!”

He felt the young girl’s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the

thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer.

But Giovanelli hu rried her forward. “Q uick! quick!” he said; “if we

get in by midnight we are quite safe.”

D aisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed

himself beside her. “Don’t forget Eu genio’s pills!” said W interbourne

as he lifted his hat.

“I don’t care,” said Daisy in a little strange tone, “whether I have



68

Roman fever or not!” Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip,

and they rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pave-

ment.

W interbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no on e

that he had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colos-

seum with a gentleman ; but n evertheless, a coup le of days later, th e

fact of her having been there under these circum stances was known

to every member of the little American circle, and commented ac-

cordingly. Win terbourne reflected that they had of course known it

at the hotel, and that, after Daisy’s return, there had been an ex-change of remarks between the porter and the cab driver. But the

young man was conscious, at the same m om ent, that it h ad ceased

to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt

shou ld be “talked about” by low-minded m enials. These people, a

day or two later, had serious information to give: the little American

flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came to

him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found thattwo or three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they

were being entertained in M rs. Miller’s salon by Randolph.

“It’s going round at night,” said Randolph—”that’s what made

her sick. She’s always going round at n ight . I shouldn’t think she’d

want to, it’s so p laguy dark. You can’t see anyth ing here at night ,

except when there’s a moon. In America there’s always a moon!”

Mrs. Miller was invisible; she was now, at least, giving her aughter

the advantage of her society. It was evident that D aisy was dan ger-

ously ill.

W interbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw

Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his sur-

prise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a m ost efficient an d

judicious nurse. She talked a good deal about D r. D avis, but W in-

terbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she

was not, after all, such a monstrous goose. “Daisy spoke of you the

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69

H enry Jam es

other day,” she said to h im. “H alf the t ime she doesn’t kn ow what

she’s saying, but that time I think she did. She gave me a message

she told me to tell you. She told me to tell you that she never was

engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure I am very glad; Mr.

Giovanelli hasn’t been near us since she was taken ill. I thought he

was so m uch of a gentleman ; but I don’t call that very polite! A lady

told me that he was afraid I was angry with him for taking Daisy

round at n ight. Well, so I am, but I suppose he knows I’m a lady. I

would scorn to scold him. Anyway, she says she’s not engaged. I

don’t kn ow why she wanted you to kn ow, but she said to m e threetimes, ‘M ind you tell Mr. Winterbourne.’ And then she told m e to

ask if you remembered the time you went to th at castle in Switzer-

land . But I said I wou ldn’t give any such m essages as th at. O nly, if

she is not engaged, I’m sure I’m glad to know it.”

But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little. A week

after this, th e poor girl died; it had been a terrible case of the fever.

D aisy’s grave was in the litt le Protestant cemetery, in an angle of thewall of imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring

flowers. Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a num ber of other

mourners, a number larger than the scandal excited by the young

lady’s career would have led you to expect. N ear him stood Giovanelli,

who came nearer still before W interbourne turn ed away. Giovanelli

was very pale: on th is occasion he had n o flower in his but ton hole;

he seemed to wish to say something. At last he said, “She was the

most beautiful young lady I ever saw, and the most amiable”; and

then he added in a mom ent, “and she was the m ost inn ocent .”

Winterbourne looked at him and presently repeated his words,

“And the most innocent ?”

“The most innocent!”

Winterbourne felt sore and angry. “Why the devil,” he asked,

“did you t ake her to that fatal place?”

M r. G iovanelli’s urbanity was apparently imperturbable. H e looked



70

on the ground a mom ent, and then he said, “For myself I had no

fear; and she wanted to go.”

“T hat was no reason!” W interbourne declared.

The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes. “If she had lived, I

shou ld have got n oth ing. She would never have married me, I am

sure.”

“She would never have married you?”

“For a mom ent I hoped so. But n o. I am sure.”

W interbourne listened to him : he stood staring at th e raw protu-

berance amon g the April daisies. W hen he turn ed away again, M r.Giovanelli, with his light , slow step, had retired.

W interbourne almost imm ediately left Rom e; but the following

sum mer he again m et his aun t, M rs. Costello at Vevey. M rs. Costello

was fond of Vevey. In the interval Winterbourne h ad often thought

of Daisy Miller and her mystifying mann ers. O ne day he spoke of

her to his aun t— said it was on his conscience that he had done her

injustice.“I am sure I don’t kn ow,” said M rs. Costello. “H ow did your in-

justice affect her?”

“She sent me a message before her death which I didn’t under-

stand at the time; but I have understood it since. She would have

appreciated on e’s esteem.”

“Is that a modest way,” asked Mrs. Costello, “of saying that she

would h ave reciprocated on e’s affection ?”

Winterbourne offered no answer to this question; but he pres-

ent ly said, “You were right in that remark that you m ade last sum -

mer. I was booked to m ake a mistake. I have lived too long in for-

eign part s.”

N evertheless, he went back to live at G eneva, whence there con-

tinue to come the most contradictory accounts of his motives of

sojourn: a report th at he is “studying” hard— an int imation that he

is much interested in a very clever foreign lady.

D aisy M iller



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H enry Jam es

T he Coxon Fund

by

Henry James

CH APTER I

“T H EY’VE GO T H IM FO R LIFE!” I said to myself that evening on myway back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment

(from W imbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the D istrict Rail-

way) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my

friends would probably after all not enjoy a mon opoly of Mr. Saltram.

I won’t p retend to have taken his vast m easure on that first occasion,

but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his

acquaint ance might mean for m any persons in the way of chargesaccepted. H e had been a great experience, and it was th is perhaps

that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all,

sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole.

W hatever impression I th en received of the, amoun t of this total, I

had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. H e was to

stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a ton e that drew the sting

from the inevitable emph asis. T hese excellent people might indeed

have been con tent to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six



72

months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it

was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I re-

member that at d inner that evening he wore slippers, new and pre-

dominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles

were still in the stage of sup posing th at he might be snatched from

them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to

fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help

from competition to make them proud. Wonderful ind eed as, when

all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to

be overlooked that th e Kent Mulvilles were in their way still moreextraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encoun tered

of the familiar tru th that remarkable men find remarkable conve-

niences.

They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine,

and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by

her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a

case in which something m omentous was to be determined or done.I had never known them n ot be in a “state” abou t somebody, and I

dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invita-

tion . O n finding myself in the presence of their latest d iscovery I

had not at first felt irreverence droop— and, thank heaven, I have

never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s

compan y. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it— that compared to

this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsider-

able feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having

even in p rimal bewilderm ents made a mistake abou t th e essence of

the man. H e had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it— it

dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance

than in fact, for I’m not u naware that for so rare a sub ject the imagi-

nation goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or

giving a twist to a plume. H ow the art of port raiture would rejoice

in this figure if the art of port raiture had on ly the canvas! N ature, in

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73

H enry Jam es

truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it,

sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes

back was really golden.

Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept

dinner on th is occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on

coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville

that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and

gaping doubt less a litt le at h is face, I privately asked Adelaide what

he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she

replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At th at m om ent , at anyrate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite.

H e had previously of course discovered, as I had m yself for that

matter, that their dinners were soignes. Let m e not indeed, in saying

th is, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my coun terfeit if I seem to

hin t that there was in h is nature any oun ce of calculation. H e took

whatever came, bu t h e never plotted for it, and no man who was so

much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. H ehad a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—

that was qu ite hand -to-m outh . H e had fine gross easy senses, but it

was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he

had loved us for ou r dinners we could have paid with our dinn ers,

and it would have been a great economy of finer mat ter. I make free

in t hese connexion s with th e plural possessive because if I was never

able to do what th e Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses

and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every dem and of reflexion ,

of emot ion— particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resent-

ment. N o on e, I th ink, paid t he tribute of giving him u p so often,

and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of

my sacrifices. H e yielded lessons as the sea yields fish— I lived for a

while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his

massive monstrous failure— if failure after all it was— had been de-

signed for my private recreation . H e fairly pampered m y curiosity;



74

bu t th e history of that experience would take me too far. T his is not

the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached

him with my present hand h ad it been a qu estion of all the features.

Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anec-

dotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion , and th is is on ly

one, of which the in terest is that it con cerns even more closely sev-

eral other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little

dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—

which is yet to be reported.

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75

H enry Jam es

CH APTER II

IT IS FURTHERMORE REMARKABLE that though th e two stories are dis-

tinct— my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a

manner, the first n ight of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the

night I came back from W imbledon so agitated with a new sense of

life that, in Lon don, for th e very thrill of it, I could on ly walk hom e.

Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate,

George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to h ave

begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come hom e

with m e for a talk. I du ly remem ber, let m e parenthesise, that it wasstill more that of another person , and also that several years were to

elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had m uch to say

to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he

more indifferent ly knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for

long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news

of the old m an of the sea. I hadn’t said M r. Saltram was old, and it

was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather G eorge Gravener.I had at th at time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was stay-

ing at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge,

five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power

had seemed to me almost awful. Som e one had on ce asked m e pri-

vately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a

mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect de-

voutly replying. I could smile at p resent for this remembrance, since

before we got to Ebury Street I was stru ck with the fact that, save in



76

the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had

actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow

bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered

whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had

never had any—not even when I had f anc i ed h i m mos t

Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, how-

ever, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confi-

den tly to measurem ent? M r. Saltram’s queer figure, h is thick n ose

and han ging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine

cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the ref-uge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener

looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular.

In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile

conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram

in h is ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even th en

I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had

never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of im-patience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like

mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the

youn g Adelaide, th e fruit of multiplied ties in the previous genera-

tion. When she m arried Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener

and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, bu t G ravener prac-

tically lost one. We reacted in d ifferent ways from the form taken by

what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term

was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for

interieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools,

bu t when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line,

for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would al-

ways be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was

admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my

bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French

library.

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H enry Jam es

“O f course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it ’s clear enough h e’s a

humbug.”

“Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!”

T hat ejaculation on my part m ust have been the beginn ing of what

was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was

profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place

he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that

the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative

breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your culti-

vated cad, and that I m ight depend upon discovering—since I hadhad the levity not already to have enquired— that m y shin ing light

proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I

confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion:

“It may be— I adm it it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—

asking th e question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was

because the poor m an d idn’t d ress for d inner. H e took an instant to

circumvent m y trap and come blandly out the other side.“Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible

hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped,

they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything,

and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with C hristian charity.” H is

vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange

foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate some-

thing that led him to go on after a mom ent: “I only ask one thing—it’s

perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?”

“A real gentleman, m y dear fellow—th at’s so soon said!”

“Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one th is tim e he

must be a great rascal!”

“I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they

don’t rave about m e.”

“D on’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener pres-

ently added, “if you’ll adm it that he’s a scamp.”



78

“I don’t kn ow which to adm ire most, your logic or your benevo-

lence.”

My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject.

“W here did they pick him up?”

“I think they were struck with something he had pub lished.”

“I can fancy the dreary thing!”

“I believe they found out h e had all sorts of worries and difficul-

ties.”

“T hat of course wasn’t to be endured, so th ey jum ped at t he privi-

lege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew noth ing abou t h isdebts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles

were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they

mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was ex-

pecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on , at

th is, “and I’m too glad you don’t d isappoint m e.”

I tried to recall exactly what M rs. Mulville had told m e. “H e didn’t

leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.”“Left h im to us?” Gravener asked. “T he monster—many thanks!

I decline to take him.”

“You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I

really can’t resist th e impression th at he’s a big m an.” I was already

mastering—to m y sham e perhaps be it said— just th e tone my old

friend least liked.

“It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t hap-

pened to mention what h is reputation’s to rest on .”

“Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary

mind.”

“As exhibited in his writings?”

“Possibly in his writings, bu t certainly in his talk, which is far and

away the richest I ever listened to.”

“And what’s it all about?”

“My dear fellow, don’t ask m e! About everyth ing!” I pursued, re-

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minding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I

then m ore charitably added. “You must have heard him to kn ow

what I m ean— it’s un like anything that ever w as heard.” I coloured,

I adm it, I overcharged a litt le, for such a picture was an an ticipation

of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquain-

tan ce with him. H owever, I really expressed, a litt le lyrically per-

haps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare

that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down

to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted G eorge

Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about achatterbox the more and why he shou ld be pampered and pensioned.

T he greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. O ut of propor-

tion to everyth ing else on earth had come to be this wagging of the

ton gue. We were drenched with talk— our wretched age was dying

of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to

concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not

however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the merestammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of

the gods themselves, the one starry span gle on the ragged cloak of

hu manity. H ow m any men were there who rose to th is privilege, of

how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance?

D ying of talk?— why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing

wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t

always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best

writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should

peradventu re be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for hav-

ing listened, for having actually heard. G ravener, who had glanced

at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a

retort beaut ifully characteristic of him.

“There’s one litt le fact to be borne in m ind in the presence equally

of the best talk and of the worst.” H e looked, in saying th is, as if he

meant great th ings, and I was sure he could on ly mean once more



80

that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman.

Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the

exultation of being right by pu tting the t ruth in a slight ly different

way. “T he only thing that really coun ts for one’s estimate of a per-

son is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I re-

proached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand

that it was now the hou r at which I always gave in. My pleasant ry so

far failed to m ollify him that h e prompt ly added that to the rule he

had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception.

“None whatever?”“None whatever.”

“Trust m e then to t ry to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went

with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horr ible!”

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CH APTER III

IF THAT FIRST N I G H T was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the

freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that

was one of my great discomposures. Repetit ion, I well knew by this

tim e, was th e secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one

would never have seen h im at h is finest if one hadn’t seen him in h is

remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent,

elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric

disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous at-

tempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not tofeel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course

of five. This was the second time, and it was past n ine o’clock; the

audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had for-

tunately the attitud e of blandn ess that might have been looked for

in persons whom the prom ise of (if I’m not m istaken) An Analysis

of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbou rhood of Upper Baker

Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall tobe secured on terms as moderate as the fun ds left at our d isposal by

the irrepressible question of the main tenance of five small Saltram s—

I include the mot her— and one large one. By the time the Saltrams,

of different sizes, were all maintained we had p retty well pou red out

the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the

most original of men to appear to maint ain them.

It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach,

stand ing up there for an odious lamplit m oment to explain to half a



82

dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of

anyth ing so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so m uch as pu t

a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our

scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid

that on one of his walks abroad— he took on e, for meditation, when-

ever he was to address such a company—some accident had dis-

abled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he

never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a mag-

nificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programm es, of which I

possess an almost complete collection , are the solemn ghosts of gen-erations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best;

but I adm it I had been angry, and Kent Mu lville was shocked at m y

want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to

his more practised pat ience, only relieving myself in response to a

direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found

myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been cal-

culated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the factthat no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance.

O ur ph ilosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. T his visitor was the

only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the

spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her hand-

som e young head, and her presence spoke, a litt le mystifyingly, of a

sudden extension of Saltram’s sph ere of influence. H e was doing

better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all

occasions, to succum b to heaven knew which of his fond infirmi-

ties. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and

black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer

type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have

been a foreign coun tess, and before she addressed m e I had beguiled

our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of

some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t m ake her more fathom able

to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was

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American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the pos-

sible check to con tribu tion s from Boston. She asked m e if, as a per-

son apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting,

and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would

privately deprecate it. Perhaps she d idn’t; at any rate our talk took a

turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost

alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this ex-

plained in a mann er the miracle. T he broth erhood of the friends of

the husband was as noth ing to the brotherhood , or perhaps I shou ld

say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent M ulvillesI belonged to bot h fraternities, and even better than they I th ink I

had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to

extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her hus-

band; bu t there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of

whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. T hey did

her liberal justice, whereas her m ere patrons and partisans had noth -

ing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we,however—we of both camps, as it were— who had always done most

for her.

I thought m y young lady looked rich— I scarcely knew why; and

I hoped she had pu t her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out,

however, not at all a fine fanat ic—she was bu t a generou s, irrespon-

sible enquirer. She had come to En gland to see her aunt, and it was

at her aun t’s she had m et the dreary lady we had all so much on our

mind . I saw she’d h elp to pass the time when she observed that it

was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was

refreshing, for it was an article of faith in M rs. Saltram’s circle— at

least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband— that

she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary

person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a

prod igy. Th e question of vulgarity had no application to h im, but it

was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to



84

add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient rea-

son for his having left her to starve. “H e doesn’t seem to have much

force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so

loud that my departing friends looked back at m e over their shoul-

ders as if I were making a joke of their discomfitu re. My joke prob-

ably cost Saltram a subscript ion or two, bu t it h elped m e on with

my interlocut ress. “She says he drin ks like a fish,” she sociably con-

tin ued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was

amusing to con verse with a pretty girl who could t alk of the clear-

ness of Saltram’s min d. I expected n ext to hear she had been assuredhe was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my

conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort at-

tend ed perhaps more than ever on th is occasion with the usual ef-

fect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had com e

to-n ight out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn th is proper

way for h erself. She had read som e of his papers and hadn’t u nder-

stood them; bu t it was at home, at h er aun t’s, that her curiosity hadbeen kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of

his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept m e away,” my

compan ion dropped, “and I suppose they’d h ave don e so if I hadn’t

som ehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact M rs. Saltram her-

self says he is.”

“So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve

seen!”

My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad

faith?”

“In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some

quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the

hum iliation, as I may call it, to which he has sub jected us.”

“T he humiliation?”

“Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as

the purchaser of a ticket.”

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She let her charm ing gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humili-

ated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappoint ed as I am;

for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to

see.”

“O h, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried.

“H ow then do you get at it?”

“You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added.

“W hy his wife says he’s lovely!”

My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it b roke

out afresh. H ad she acted only in obedience to th is singular plea, socharacteristic, on M rs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the

narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “M rs. Saltram,” I explained,

“undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it

perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. H e’s not, assuredly,

superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his

great eyes.”

“Yes, h is great eyes,” said my young lady atten tively. She had evi-dently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which

alone we had really done it all.

“They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But

he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything bu t

smart.”

My companion, who appeared to reflect on th is, after a mom ent

appealed. “D o you call him a real gentleman ?”

I started slightly at the question , for I had a sense of recognising

it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put

me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t

embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and d is-

posed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!”

My prom pt itud e surp rised her a litt le, but I qu ickly felt how little

it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because

he’s— what do you call it in England ?— of humble extraction?”



86

“Not a bit. H is father was a country school-master and h is mother

the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it

simp ly because I kn ow him well.”

“But isn’t it an awful drawback?”

“Awful—qu ite awful.”

“I mean isn’t it positively fatal?”

“Fatal to what? N ot to his magnificent vitality.”

Again she had a m editative mom ent . “And is his magnificent vi-

tality the cause of his vices?”

“Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I wasthinking of his noble intellect. H is vices, as you say, have been much

exaggerated: they consist m ainly after all in one comprehensive defect.”

“A want of will?”

“A want of dignity.”

“H e doesn’t recognise his obligations?”

“O n the cont rary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in

public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them.But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them

in the crowd. The recognition’s pu rely spiritual—it isn’t in th e least

social. So he leaves all his belon gings to oth er peop le to take care of.

H e accepts favours, loans, sacrifices— all with n othing more deter-

rent than an agony of sham e. Fortun ately we’re a little faithful band,

and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about th e natural chil-

dren, engendered, to the number of three, in t he wanton ness of his

youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremen-

dous ones. “But th e efforts,” I said, “never com e to much: the on ly

things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.”

“And how m uch do they com e to?”

“You’re right to pu t it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told

you before, your questions are rather terrible. T hey come, these mere

exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a

mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. Th e genius is there,

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CH APTER IV

M RS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right t o be informed where

her husband had been th e second evening he failed to m eet h is au-

dience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in

spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much

later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville,

whose hop e for th e best n ever twirled the thu mbs of him m ore plac-

idly than when he happened to know the worst. H e had known it

on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. H e was im-

penetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed wasmore than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course

familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engage-

ments which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard

to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resent ful, qu ite irreproachable

and insufferable person. She often app eared at m y cham bers to t alk

over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of

him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, whichshe handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting

one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her as-

sumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality

her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I h ad seen the

moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation al-

most made her the fashion. H er voice was grating and her children

ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and

more loved. T hey were the people who by doing m ost for her hus-

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band had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm con-

fidence with which he had laid h is length u pon them was a pressure

gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m boun d to say he

didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of

them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary

forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed u p by depen-

dence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society.

She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and

whom she dou btless patron ised in turn for their luck in not kn ow-

ing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she hadhad a ray of imagination— if it had occasionally seemed to occur to

her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any oth er man-

ner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his

character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stub-

born little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she

never suspected t hat he had a character, such as it was, or that defi-

ciencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapableof a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea

that th ere was a general licence for such a man; bu t if this had hap-

pened it would h ave been through on e’s feeling that there could be

none for such a woman.

I recognised her superiority when I asked her abou t the aun t of

the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an

English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she

told m e and she may have trium phed still more in what she with-

held. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately

come to England; Lady Coxon, the aun t, had been established h ere

for years in con sequence of her m arriage with the late Sir Gregory

of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair

and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had

made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness

caused me to feel how m uch I was out of it and how large an inde-



90

pendent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have

been glad to kn ow more about the disappoin ted young lady, but I

felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as

she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowl-

edge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady

C oxon having in fact gone abroad accom panied by her niece. Th e

niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, M rs. Saltram

said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of som e great Ameri-

can merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dol-

lars. She had pretty clothes and pretty mann ers, and she had, whatwas prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for

M rs. Saltram was always symp athy, and she spoke as if during the

absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few

months later indeed, when they had com e back, her tone percept i-

bly changed: she alluded to th em, on my leading her up to it, rather

as to persons in her debt for favours received. W hat had happened I

didn’t know, bu t I saw it would take on ly a litt le more or a little lessto make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social counte-

nance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I

confess I saw how it wou ldn’t be in a m ere week or two that I shou ld

rid m yself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in wh ose very name, when I

learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably nei-

ther see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been

mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would

return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had

not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear

M r..Saltram, and I foun ded th is reticence on th e easy sup position

that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the

symp athy of which she boasted. T he girl at any rate would forget

th e small adventure, be distracted, t ake a husband; besides which

she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment.

We clun g to th e idea of the brilliant course, delivered with out an

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acciden t, th at, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware

of our great m an, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspi-

ration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in

the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means

we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis,

the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand

free hand in d rawing up such th ings; but for m yself I laughed at our

playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed am using work

to be scrupu lous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed

abou t it, so far as the com fort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheer-ful might pass for such a soun d. H e admitted with a candour all his

own that he was in tru th only to be depended on in th e Mulvilles’

drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think,

that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if

I’ve not been too m uch worried.” We all knew what too much worry

meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of

sobriety. O n the Saturdays I used to bring m y portm anteau, so asnot to have to th ink of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that

as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its

pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we

might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge

for adm ission. H ere it was, however, that they sham elessly broke

down; as th ere’s a flaw in every perfection th is was th e inexpugnable

refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a mar-

ket, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that

rang there. It can have happened to no m an, however, to be paid a

greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on

his greatest night s. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a pres-

ence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the

pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily

poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had antici-

pated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to



92

open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sun -

rise at sea.

In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little

board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes.

She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs

being m ostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enqu iring

what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowl-

edge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet

weather, led her so often to m y door. She thought us spiritless crea-

tures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to n o greateffect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all

moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange

adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at

best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the

last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has

now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-dis-

traught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding acrevice for their shears; and when a volum e on this or that portentous

subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles

which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank

melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an un-

written book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of

Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it

was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s

door, would have been some system of subscript ion to projected trea-

tises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean,

by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was

that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly en-

quired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in

the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought

him out in volum inous form, and the money was simply a deposit on

borrowing the work.

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CH APTER V

I WAS DOUBTLESS often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but

there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I n ever passed the h at

to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury

Street, and I think it stuck in m y throat to have to treat him to the

avowal I had foun d so easy to M ss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to

confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to

confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real

gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for.

Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceivingthat wom en are really the un fastidious sex? I kn ew at any rate that

Gravener, already quite in view bu t still hungry and frugal, had n atu-

rally enough m ore ambition t han charity. H e had sharp aims for

stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of

C lockborou gh. H is imm ediate ambition was to occupy e lui seul

the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements

and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The move-ment of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully

with the posture of the hand on the heart. H e talked to C lockborough

in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his elec-

tors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already

voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He

had more than once been at W imbledon — it was M rs. Mulville’s

work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the

god descend. H e took m ore pains to swing his censer than I h ad



94

expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little tri-

umph I m ight h ave been so artless as to express by th e observation

that such a m an was— a hund red t imes!— a man to use and never a

man to be used by. I remember that th is neat remark humiliated m e

almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I

hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s

part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on m ine. H e

was ABLE to use people— he had th e machinery; and the irony of

Saltram’s being made showy at C lockborough came out to me when

he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the ideawere quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged

if I don’t put som e of those th ings in. I can find a place for them: we

might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself shou ld have

had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “th ings” themselves,

but for som e other things very near them; in fine for th e rest of my

eloquence.

Later on I could see that the oracle of W imbledon was not in th iscase so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the

gods only coincided m ore exactly with those of the party. There was

a distinct m om ent when, without saying anything more definite to

me, Gravener entertained t he idea of annexing M r. Saltram. Such a

project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between h is body

of doc t r i ne and t ha t p r es s ed f r om headquar t e r s upon

C lockborough— the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lun gs for

convenient public un corking in corn-exchanges— was an experiment

for which no on e had the leisure. T he on ly th ing would have been

to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on

for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s

channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no

knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what th ere

would have been to do T he Em pire, th e great n ewspaper, was there

to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate

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situations in which T he Em pire broke down. In fine there was an

instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist com missioned

to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand.

No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time

when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our

friend an exasperating waste of or thodoxy it was because of his be-

ing, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was

down in the dust. T he m an would have been, just as he was, a real

enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentle-

man. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that hewas not on e.

Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at

C lockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad

I learned from M rs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she

had gone down to resum e possession. I could see the faded red liv-

ery, th e big square shoulders, th e high-walled garden of th is decent

abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor wouldhave pressed his suit , and I foun d m yself hoping th e politics of the

late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to adm onish her to ask h im

to d inn er; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would natu-

rally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-button ed

page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair

over som ebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, non e the less, th rou gh

Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence

with Lady C oxon’s housekeeper— that Gravener was known to have

spoken of the habitation I had in m y eye as the pleasantest th ing at

C lockborou gh. O n his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of

envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I

could see him in the old-t ime garden with M iss Anvoy, who would

be certain, and very justly, to th ink h im good-looking. It would be

too m uch to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; bu t

I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it sud-



96

denly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an an-

noyance the result of its happening to come over me about that

time with a rush that I was simply asham ed of Frank Saltram. There

were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached.

I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an ex-

pression; but this was a sup reme revolt. C ertain things cleared u p in

my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an

unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to

have, for practical purposes, noth ing else. I avoided George Gravener

at th is moment and reflected that at such a tim e I shou ld do so mosteffectually by leaving En gland . I wanted to forget Frank Saltram —

that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but

that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could

pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again.

It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had

done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her

husband, p rofiting by the example so signally given h im of the fataleffect of a want of character, left th e letter, the drop too much, un -

answered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to

Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the

central feature of the incident , which, h owever, had many features,

each m ore painful than whichever other we compared it with. The

Pudn eys had behaved shockingly, bu t that was no excuse. Base in-

gratitud e, gross indecency—one had one’s choice on ly of such for-

mulas as that the m ore they fitted the less they gave one rest. T hese

are dead aches now, and I am un der no obligation, thank heaven, to

be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had

to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether.

I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how

much, on the Con tinent , I forgot, I at least know how much I m issed,

him. At a distance, in a foreign land , ignoring, abjuring, un learning

him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh

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unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little

taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the

light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was

pu rsued of course by letters from M rs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple

not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be

now of the gravest. I sacrificed t o propriety by simply putt ing th em

away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my

eye, while I rum maged in my desk for another paper, was caught by

a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. T he allu-

sion was to M iss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be mar-ried to M r. G eorge Gravener; and the news was two m onths old. A

direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—

she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspir-

ant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just

then was that he had been trium phantly returned for Clockborough

in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I

might easily have referred M rs. Saltram to the journ als of the day.Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would

discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I bu t remarked in

regard to her question that she mu st really pu t it to M iss Anvoy.



98

CH APTER VI

I H AD ALMOST AVOIDED the general election, but some of its conse-

quences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in

London, began to b reathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confi-

dence, un der th e new M inistry, was un derstood to be reviving, and

one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite.

People once more fed together, and it happened that, on e Saturday

night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the

ladies left the room I m oved up to where he sat and begged to con-

gratulate him . “O n my election?” he asked after a moment; so thatI could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that t riumph and to be

allud ing to the rum our of a victory still more personal. I dare say I

coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed

out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry

that beaut iful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of som e

discomp osure— I hadn’t int ended to p ut th is before everything. H e

himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I rememberth inking th e whole man was in this assum pt ion that in expressing

my sense of what he had won I had fixed m y thoughts on h is “seat.”

We straightened the matter out, and he was so m uch lighter in hand

than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed

from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I

should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her

aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the coun -

try, had been seriously un well, and th is had delayed their arrival. I

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told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on

which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said

“Do you m ean for her ?” When I had again explained what I m eant

he went on : “O h she’s an American, but you’d scarcely kn ow it;

un less, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more mon ey than

most girls in England, even the daughters of rich m en. That wouldn’t

in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the

great liberality of her father. H e really has been most kind, an d

everything’s qu ite satisfactory.” H e added th at his eldest brother had

taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit atC oldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from

something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman be-

yond the seas had n ot m ade a settlement, bu t had given a handsom e

present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for

oth er favours. People are simp lified alike by great contentm ents and

great yearnings, and , whether or no it was Gravener’s directness th at

begot my own, I seem to recall that in some tu rn taken by our talkhe almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss

Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aun t. M y enquiry

drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would

have in any cont ingency to act u nder her late husband’s will, which

was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations com-

plicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people,

C oxon cousins, old m aids, to whom she would have more or less to

minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested

that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then sud-

denly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared

quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!”

A fortn ight later, at Lady C oxon’s own h ouse, I understood well

enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me

there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine.

T he Knight’s widow was again indisposed— she had succum bed at



100

the eleventh hour; so th at I foun d M iss Anvoy bravely playing host-

ess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he

had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with

which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively

declined to release him. I was stru ck with the courage, the grace and

gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of

the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them,

after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing h er slight ly dis-

concerted at perceiving in th e guest int roduced by her int ended the

gent leman with whom she had h ad that talk about Frank Saltram. Ihad at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a per-

son who could carry a responsibility; bu t I leave the reader to judge

of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden,

when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what im-

mediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter

had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of

the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be putby m e;” and my apprehension was prom pt ly justified. M rs. Saltram

taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to

her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself

what M iss Anvoy meant by doing such th ings, bu t the on ly answer

I arrived at was that G ravener was verily fortun ate. She hadn’t hap-

pened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, bu t she’d cer-

tainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him

like any better her having had th e innocence to invite such a person

as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I

had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her clever-

ness, such freedom into her modesty; th is, I think, was when, after

dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant m irth: “O h you

don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” W hy shou ld I? T his was tru ly a youn g

person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply

that my objection to the lady named was the objection often ut-

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tered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories.

T hen as M iss Anvoy remained mom entarily vague I added: “T hose

about her husband.”

“O h yes, bu t there are som e new ones.”

“None for m e. Ah novelty would be pleasant !”

“D oesn’t it appear that of late he h as been part icularly horrid?”

“H is fluctuat ions don’t m atter”, I return ed, “for at n ight all cats

are grey. You saw the shade of this on e the night we waited for him

together. W hat will you h ave? H e has no dignity.”

Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American dis-tinctn ess, looked encouragingly round at some of the com binations

she had r isked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.”

“You mean Gravener won’t let you?”

“I haven’t asked him . H e lets me do everything.”

“But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see

in him.”

“We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said.“Get h im to take you som e day out to see the Mulvilles.”

“I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.”

“Ut terly. But that won’t p revent his being planted there again, to

bloom like a rose, within a m onth or two.”

Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,”

she said with her fostering smile.

“T hey’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them .”

“I’ll make George take m e,” she went on as M rs. Saltram came up

to in terrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had

smiled at m e and, addressing the question to her, cont inued: “But

the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there

another course ann oun ced?”

“Another? T here are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and

feeling M rs. Saltram’s litt le eyes in my back. A few days after this I

heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for



102

W hitsun tide; but as no invitation h ad reached m e I had m y doubts,

and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postpone-

ment. Something was the matter; what was the matter was sup-

posed to be that Lady C oxon was now critically ill. I had called on

her after my dinner in t he Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen h er

nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at

this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at

which it suddenly struck me, making m e catch m y breath a little,

that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of

fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exactorder doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was som e acciden t

determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met

again, in fact told m e as much, but without signs of perturbation .

Lady Coxon had to be constant ly attended to, and there were other

good reasons as well. Lady Coxon h ad to be so constantly attended

to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I

equally failed to obtain a sight of her n iece. I judged it discreet in allthe conditions not to m ake a th ird; but th is didn’t m atter, for it was

through Adelaide Mulville that th e side-wind of the comedy, though

I was at first unwitting, began to reach m e. I went to W imbledon at

times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he

wasn’t. The Pudn eys, who had taken h im to Birmingham, had al-

ready got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his

wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, al-

most as the injured Lear wandered on the storm -lashed heath. H is

room , upstairs, had been lately don e up (I could h ear th e crackle of

the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and

bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t

barefoot in th e mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. T hese

were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to

stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak.

W hen we spoke it was on ly about the brilliant girl G eorge Gravener

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was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I

could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville

commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a

new relation . “She likes me—she likes me”: her n ative hu mility ex-

ulted in th at m easure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she

liked those who liked h er, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more

easily won over than Lady Maddock.



104

CH APTER VII

O N E O F T H E CONSEQUENCES, for the Mulvilles, of th e sacrifices th ey

made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage.

Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing,

an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand , imaginat ively, from a

broken-down jobm aster whose wife was in consum pt ion— a vehicle

that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat

beside her in a soft wh ite hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s

own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an

afternoon in July she went to return M iss Anvoy’s visit. The wheelof fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive,

comp un ctions and condonations alike unut terable, Saltram was re-

instated. Was it in p ride or in p enance that M rs. Mulville had be-

gun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his in-

gratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she

was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau

while she was in shops or with her acquaintan ce. H owever, if he wasin the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at

Lady Coxon’s door while his com pan ion paid her call—it wasn’t to

the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently

came out for him in person , not even to show either of them what a

fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright

young American. H er accoun t of the introduction I had in its order,

bu t before that, very late in t he season , un der Gravener’s auspices, I

met Miss Anvoy at tea at the H ouse of Com mons. T he member for

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Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the

Mulvilles were not of the party. O n the great terrace, as I strolled off

with h er a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me:

“I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about

Saltram’s call.

“And h ow did you find him ?”

“O h so strange!”

“You didn’t like h im?”

“I can’t tell till I see him again.”

“You want to d o that?”She h ad a pause. “Immensely.”

We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener

was looking at u s. She tu rned back toward the knot of the oth ers,

and I said: “D islike him as much as you will— I see you’re bitten.”

“Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little.

“Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.”

“I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs.Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pro-

nounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before

we separated I remarked t o her that it was an act of mere humanity

to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram— which

would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with M rs.

Mulville— she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear

hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the

opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was

surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; where-

upon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I

referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper

Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other

gifts. She asked m e if I called virtue a gift— a thing hand ed to us in

a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry

proved t o m e the problem had already caught her by th e skirt. She



106

would have help however, the same help I myself had on ce had, in

resisting its tendency to make one cross.

“What help d o you m ean?”

“That of the member for C lockborough.”

She stared, smiled, then returned: “W hy m y idea has been to help

him !”

She had helped him— I had his own word for it that at Clockborough

her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so

doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this

fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastro-phe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards con-

firmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disas-

ters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in N ew

York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexa-

tious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me

she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice.

“Alone? Gravener has permitted that?”“W hat will you have? T he H ouse of C om mons!”

I’m afraid I cursed the H ouse of C om mons: I was so m uch inter-

ested. O f course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her

his wife; only she m ightn’t n ow be able to bring h im anyth ing like

the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual

promise. M rs. Mulville let m e know what was already said: she was

charm ing, th is American girl, bu t really these American fathers— !

What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville,

was of opinion that a m an was never to suffer his relation t o m oney

to becom e a spiritual relation— he was to keep it exclusively mate-

rial. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on th is; in rejoinder to

which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she

sup posed he simp ly meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you

know? but not to th ink too m uch about it. “To take it, but not to

thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of

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an h our afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but th is didn’t prevent

my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the

Regent’s Park, of her t aking our friend to see Miss Anvoy.

“O h so charm ing!” she an swered, brighten ing. “H e said he

recognised in h er a nature he could absolutely tru st.”

“Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.”

M rs. Mulville had to remoun t the stream. “It was everyth ing one

could wish.”

Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave

him — a dole?”“Well, since you ask m e!”

“Right there on the spot?”

Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to m e of course she gave it.”

I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum

of m oney?”

“It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I

could see it was with an effort. “T hirty poun ds.”“Straight out of her pocket?”

“O ut of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She

just slipped the folded notes in to my hand. H e wasn’t looking; it

was while he was going back to th e carriage.” “O h,” said Adelaide

reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul

thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the

employment of the mon ey. H er disclosure made me for a moment

muse violently, and I dare say that du ring that m om ent I won dered

if anything else in the world m akes people so gross as unselfishness.

I u ttered, I suppose, som e vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if

she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I

assure you, m y dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.”

But I wasn’t t hinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I

said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her

betrothed!”



108

M rs. Mulville stared. “O h I suppose M r. Anvoy has scarcely gone

bankrup t— or whatever he has don e—on purpose. Very likely they

won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beau-

tiful impulse.”

“You say Saltram was very fine?”

“Beyond everything. He surprised even me.”

“And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “H ad

he peradventure caught a glimpse of the m oney in the table-drawer?”

At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so

cruel when you know how little he calculates?”“Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me th ings that act on my

nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some

splend id idea.”

M rs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beau-

tiful listen ing face.”

“Perhaps even! And what was it all about?”

“His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had toldhim about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the

sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at

th is, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused m y com pan-

ion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his

freshness.”

“O f illustration ? Indeed I do!”

“And how he has always been right on that great question.”

“O n what great question , dear lady, hasn’t h e been r ight?”

“Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he

has never, but never , had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly de-

manded.

I tried to th ink of som e other great m an, bu t I had to give it up.

“D idn’t M iss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffiden t way

than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead.

“O h yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was gett ing

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into the carriage.” T hese words somehow brushed up a picture of

Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green

landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued.

I turn ed it over. “D id he wear h is shawl?”

“H is shawl?” She hadn’t even n oticed.

“I mean yours.”

“H e looked very nice, and you kn ow he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy

used such a remarkable expression — she said h is mind’s like a crys-

tal!”

I p ricked up my ears. “A crystal?”“Suspend ed in the moral world— swinging and shining and flash-

ing th ere. She’s monstrously clever, you kn ow.”

I thought again. “Monstrously!”



110

CH APT ER VIII

G EORGE G RAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the

H ouse had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. H e was coming

up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived

near D urham. T he current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong;

at any rate on entering the compartment I found h e had had it for

some time to h imself. We fared in company, and though he had a

blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me

with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at

last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but Iasked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it

had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious.

H e ment ioned th at he was worried about his good old friend Lady

Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in

America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and

on his hands.

“Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?”“H er father has got into horrid straits— has lost n o end of money.”

I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope

that raises no objection to your marriage.”

“None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it

may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from

various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much

better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems

quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady

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Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she

sends me word that she must have Ruth. H ow can I supply her with

Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!”

“Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned.

“She’s everyth ing to her wretched father. She writes me every post—

telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth;

but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive

her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to

them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly.

I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made meask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render

that active person of some use.

He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs.

Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was un fortunately never

out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accoun ts she had

given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener

declared this to be false; Lady C oxon, who d idn’t care for her, hadn’tseen her three times. T he on ly foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy,

who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must

now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you

could never know what she’d see in people— an interesting pretext

for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss

Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told m e more abou t the

crash in N ew York and the ann oyance it had been to h im, and we

also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we

got to D oncaster the principal thing he had let m e see was that he

was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the

carriage-door, som e one m ade a movement to get in . Gravener ut -

tered a soun d of impatience, and I felt sure that bu t for th is I should

have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us

his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure re-

turned. M y com panion held h is ton gue, however, and I pretended



112

to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I

reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He

tossed away with som e vivacity th e remnant of a cigarette and then

said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered

that I’d m ake every effort to at tend, and welcom ed the note of in-

terest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon,

poor dear, is demented.” H is ton e had much behind it— was full of

prom ise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady

or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both.

The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it con-cerned h im to have the impression— the judgement, he might also

say— of anoth er person . “I m ean of the average intelligent man, but

you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the

strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would

strike a man of the world. H e had lighted another cigarette while he

talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought

out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject onwhich M iss Anvoy and I are pu lling d ifferent ways.”

“And you want m e to decide between you? I decide in advance for

M iss Anvoy.”

“In advance— that’s qu ite right. That’s how I decided when I p ro-

posed to her. But m y story will interest you on ly so far as your m ind

isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then

continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of

Research?”

“O f Research?” I was at sea a moment .

“I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.”

“She wishes to endow—?”

“Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy

design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting

apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the

interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opp or-

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tunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would

best honour h is memory by determining the exemplary public use.

T his sum of mon ey, no less than th irteen thousand pou nds, was to

be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently pro-

posed to him self that T he C oxon Fun d should cover his name with

glory— be universally desired and adm ired. H e left his wife a full

declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to

views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a

dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happ ens to have been an

ass is worse for a com munity th an bad sewerage. H e’s worst of allwhen he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. H owever, such as

they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom,

or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry

them out . But of course she m ust first catch h er hare.”

“H er earnest loyal seeker?”

“The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary

independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon thehu man race. T he ind ividual, in a word, who, having the rest of the

machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his

search.”

“H is search for what?”

“For M oral Truth . That’s what Sir G regory calls it.”

I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a

charming idea.”

“So Miss Anvoy thinks.”

“H as she a cand idate for the Fund?”

“Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable abou t it. But

Lady Coxon h as pu t the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had

a lot of talk.”

“Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intim ated, has landed you in

a disagreement .”

“She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said.



114

“And you consider there’s nothing?”

“It seems to m e a piece of solemn twadd le— which can’t fail to be

attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly im-

moral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without

establishing a tribun al— a bench of competent people, of judges.”

“T he sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?”

“And any on e she chooses to invite.”

“But she has invited you,” I noted.

“I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my

friend went on . “T he real history of the matter, I take it, is that theinspiration was originally Lady C oxon’s own, that she infected h im

with it, and that th e flattering option left h er is simply his tribute to

her beaut iful, her aboriginal enthu siasm. She came to En gland forty

years ago, a th in t ranscendental Boston ian, and even h er odd happy

frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She

feels indeed that she has become very British— as if that, as a pro-

cess, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, wereconceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the not ion of

the ‘Fun d’— cling to it as to a link with the ideal.”

“H ow can she cling if she’s dying?”

“Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s

precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare,

never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she

has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea,

to do him justice, was that it should lapse if exactly the right person, the

perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the

poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.”

I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if

she d ies withou t d oing anyth ing, what becom es of the m oney?” I

demanded.

“It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t m ade some oth er disposi-

tion of it.”

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“She m ay do that then— she m ay divert it?”

“H er hand s are not tied. She has a grand discretion. T he proof is

that th ree months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to h er

niece.”

“For M iss Anvoy’s own use?”

“For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective

marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so ear-

nest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could

think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On

the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she pro-posed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New

York got worse she repeated her proposal.”

“W hich M iss Anvoy declined?”

“Except as a form al trust.”

“You m ean except as com m ittin g herself legally to place the

money?”

“O n the head of the deserving object, th e great m an frustrated,”said G ravener. “She only consent s to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s

scheme.”

“And you b lame her for that?” I asked with som e intensity.

My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and

th ere was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ th e

young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t im mediately say it even to so

old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep d iscomfort, some restless

desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, h ad been

at th e bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by

his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled

abou t a woman was not, for him , a habit: that itself was an inconsis-

tency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other

combination of forces. It amu sed me to th ink that the combination

he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental

aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to h im m ustered



116

to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I

could from the insincere ton e in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised

her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.”

Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it im-

proper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all

settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from

her mother—a mere four hu ndred a year, which was exactly why it

would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face

of this total change in her prospects, an accession of incom e which

would d istinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there wereno other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could

cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that

Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called

rich. She could let her project of th e Fun d lapse for h er niece’s ben-

efit, bu t she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustom ed to

regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes

in p romises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinateconscience, and her con science was now a d istress to her, hovering

roun d her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, por-

tion less nieces and un discoverable ph ilosophers.

We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms,

the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh,

“that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the phi-

losopher is undiscoverable.”

He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the

ingenuity of an extravagant woman?”

“Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extrava-

gance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and

the thirty pounds.

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CH APTER IX

T H E T H I N G I had been most sensible of in that talk with George

Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to m e

at the time th at we were quite pointedly silent about him; but after-

wards it appeared more probable there had been on my com panion’s

part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the

best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more com-

pletely that, for evil as well as for good, he said n othing to Gravener’s

imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much

disgusted with him. N o m ore did I, doubtless, and for very muchthe same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confi-

dence; but when before Christm as, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed

of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s

return, I foun d m yself taking for granted we shou ld hear no more

of these nupt ials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had

never too disconcertedly believed. I began t o ask myself how people

who suited each other so litt le could p lease each oth er so much. T hecharm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubt-

less, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and pas-

sion, to force and grace and fortu ne, happy accidents and easy con-

tacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, bu t h ow could th ey

kn ow each oth er’s souls? H ow could th ey have the same prejud ices,

how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess,

seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February,

going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A



118

passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as

much of a passion as was needed. N o impu lse equally stron g indeed

had drawn George Gravener to America; a circum stance on which,

however, I reflected on ly long enough to remind m yself that it was

none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt

that the difference was not simply that of her m arks of mourn ing.

Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the differ-

ence between a handsome girl with large expectations and a hand-

some girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed

didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned th at her mourn -ing had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way

altogether, bu ried un der the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to

noth ing, had died a few weeks before.

“So she has come ou t to m arry G eorge Gravener?” I commented.

“Wouldn’t it h ave been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?”

“H asn’t the H ouse just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for M r.

Gravener the H ouse— !” T hen she added: “I gather that her havingcome is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were

qu ite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for

him over there.”

I noted that th ey were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said

was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to make it so?”

“No, I mean that she must have come out for som e reason inde-

pendent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and

there was more, as we found, to be revealed. M rs. Mulville, on hear-

ing of her arrival, had brought the youn g lady out in th e green landau

for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in

Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George

Gravener had been with h er when Adelaide called, bu t had assented

graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage,

with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on

some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up.

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Gravener had left them together, and at th e end of an hou r, on the

Saturday afternoon , the party of three had driven out to W imbledon .

T his was the girl’s second glimpse of our great m an, and I was inter-

ested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first

appeared to have been confirmed. O n her replying after consider-

ation, that of course with t ime and opportunity it couldn’t fail to

be, bu t that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently stru ck with her

use of th is last word to question h er fur ther.

“Do you m ean you’re disappointed because you judge M iss Anvoy

to be?”“Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three

people, but he scarcely opened his mouth .”

“H e’ll be all the better to-night,” I op ined after a m oment. T hen

I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea

of her being impressed?”

Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my

levity. “W hy th e importance of her being as happy as w e are!”I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness al-

most too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind

what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was

limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the

afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till

dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had

caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down.

T his made us, m ost of us—for th ere were other friends present—

convey to each other in silence som e of the unut terable things that

in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing.

If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have

expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not

to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly;

and I knew that more than on ce, to keep it from th e servants, man-

aging, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry



120

him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so

deep and so high th at I had begun to get nervous— to wonder if by

chance there were som ething behind it, if he were kept straight for

instance by the knowledge that the hated Pud neys would have more

to tell us if they chose. H e was lying low, bu t u nfortunately it was

comm on wisdom with us in this connexion that th e biggest splashes

took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life

indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as th e wa-

ters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had

been up to h is room, but had come back with a face that told as fewtales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the

lecture-room with M iss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had

gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative

stranger deprived u s of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other,

in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t

ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room

with his waistcoat much awry but h is eyes send ing ou t great signals.It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly con-

scious of him. I saw that th e crystal, as I had called it, had begun to

swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy.

Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have

said to-day, broken th e record, the manner in which that attention

had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a

perfect general consciousness that som ething great was going on: it

was a litt le like having been etherised to h ear H err Joachim play.

T he old m usic was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the

sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew some-

th ing abou t one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s

monologue could reach me only through th at medium . To this hou r

I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still

absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic

night h e was drun k; and my position is slight ly ridiculous, for I’ve

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never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with.

W hat I got ou t of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is

quite my own. T he others were shared, bu t this is incommun icable.

I feel that now, I’m bound t o say, even in thus roughly evoking th e

occasion, and it takes som ething from my pride of clearness. H ow-

ever, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark

that our youn g lady was too m uch given up to her own intensity of

observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question

of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this

discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involvedshe wou ld have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would,

in spite of the H ouse of C ommons, have foun d m eans to rejoin her.

It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodg-

ing M rs. Mulville had pu t before me as dreary, she should have in any

degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at

hearing of her having gone to stay at C oldfield. If she was in England

at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her wasun der Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was un fortunate and rela-

tively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly

won over.

There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her

behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had

taken birth in my mind, to m y private amusement, while that other

night I listened to G eorge Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched

her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing cer-

tainly to m eet— and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly per-

haps, my int erpretation of her very looks and ton es. At W imbledon

for instance it had appeared to m e she was literally afraid of Saltram ,

in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come

up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that,

though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She

would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show



122

everyth ing. What th is final exhibition might be on the part of a girl

percept ibly so able to th ink things out I found it great sport to fore-

cast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed

to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I m ightn’t find myself in

such a predicament . If there was really a present rigour in the situa-

tion of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would

have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had

laun ched her and it wasn’t I who could help h er. I d idn’t fail to ask

myself why, since I couldn’t h elp h er, I shou ld th ink so m uch about

her. It was in part m y suspen se that was responsible for this; I waitedimpatiently to see wheth er she wou ldn’t h ave told M rs. Mulville a

portion at least of what I h ad learned from Gravener. But I saw M rs.

Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again

for if she hadn’t com e as a conciliatory bride. T hat she had come in

some other character was the on ly th ing th at fitted all the app ear-

ances. H aving for family reasons to spend some time that spring in

the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the greatoceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s

thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was

something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence sur-

moun ted my curiosity. I on ly wond ered if Ruth Anvoy talked over

the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also some-

what why I didn’t hear from W imbledon . I had a reproachful note

about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no

ment ion of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been m uch

less fixed since the recent untoward events.

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CH APTER X

PO O R ADELAIDE’S SILENCE was fully explained later— practically ex-

plained when in Jun e, returning to London , I was honoured by this

adm irable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed

everything, and as soon as she told m e that darling Ruth had been

in her house nearly a mon th I had m y question ready. “What in t he

name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?”

“Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t com e

to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite suffi-

ciently established, and what was much more to the point was thatM r. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. H e had protested at

least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his

heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an

end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner.

“And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked.

Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.”

Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.”“The Coxon Fun d?” I panted.

“H e has mentioned to her his having told you about it.”

“Ah bu t so litt le! D o you mean she has accepted the trust?”

“In the most splendid spirit—as a dut y abou t which th ere can be

no two opin ions.” To which my friend added: “O f course she’s th ink-

ing of M r. Saltram .”

I gave a quick cry at t his, which, in its violence, made my visitor

tu rn pale. “H ow very awful!”



124

“Awful?”

“Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.”

“I’m sure you needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head.

“H e isn’t good enough!” I went on ; to which she opposed a sound

almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with

genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I

hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to

poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had

frightened her again— that she had never influenced anybody and

that the girl had on ly seen and heard and judged for herself. H e

hadinfluenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that

word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he

said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss

Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a

pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to have a mind; but the only

explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so

clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force forgood. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous

enough to admire.

“She’s many things enough, but is she, among them , rich enough?”

I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good

money?”

“That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she

doesn’t in th e least consider it so.”

“And Gravener does, if not his own; and that’s the whole diffi-

culty?”

“The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to

see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she

may have the m oney, bu t it’s still clearer to h er conscience that the

original condition , definite, intensely implied on her un cle’s part, is

attached to the u se of it. She can on ly take on e view of it. It’s for the

Endowm ent or it’s for noth ing.”

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“T he En dowment,” I p ermitted myself to observe, “is a concep-

tion sup erficially sub lime, but fundam entally ridiculous.”

“Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked.

“Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the

way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some

reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrange-

ment has no legal aspect.”

“Ruth doesn’t in sist on th at,” said M rs. Mulville; “and it’s, for h er,

exactly th is techn ical weakness that constitu tes the force of the m oral

obligation.”“Are you repeating her words?” I enquired. I forget what else

Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George

Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked

what could have made two such persons ever suppose they under-

stood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as

such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman

could suffer. N everth eless she wanted to see m e. At this I spran g upwith a groan. “O h I’m so sorry!— when?” Small though her sense of

humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed

the day, the nearest it wou ld be convenient I shou ld come out; bu t

before she went I asked m y visitor how long she had been acquainted

with these prod igies.

“For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.”

“And that’s why you didn’t write?”

“I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you

that no t ime had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t

very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew

of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” M rs. Mulville

went on , “that she asked m e to ask you if you wouldn’t com e and see

her. T hen at last she spoke of your kn owing about the idea of the

Endowment.”

I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?”



126

“To talk with you, naturally, about M r. Saltram .”

“As a subject for the prize?” T his was hugely obvious, and I pres-

ent ly returned: “I think I’ll sail to-m orrow for Australia.”

“Well then— sail!” said M rs. M ulville, getting up .

But I frivolously, continued. “O n T hursday at five, we said?” T he

appoin tm ent was made definite and I enqu ired h ow, all this time,

the unconscious candidate had carried himself.

“In perfection , really, by th e happiest of chances: he has positively

been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most

won derful form. H is very highest— pure celestial light . You won’tdo him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door.

“What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s ex-

posed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been

too prim. H e’ll presently take a day off, treat us to som e exhibition

that will make an En dowm ent a scandal.”

“A scand al?” M rs. Mu lville dolorously echoed.

“Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?”My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet.

“H e grows bigger every day.”

“So do you!” I laughed as she went off.

T hat girl at Wimbledon , on the Th ursday afternoon, m ore than

justified my appreh ension s. I recognised fully now the cause of the

agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint fore-

knowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do

for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing

before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us

to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of

lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed m e. Pale and

bright, in h er mon oton ous mourning, she was an image of intelli-

gent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether

any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permit-

ted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish

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old room . T his remarkable young wom an could be earnest without

being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed

her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her

eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness pro-

du ced by the parting of her lips. T hese aberrations, I hasten to add,

didn’t prevent my learning soon enou gh why she had wished to see

me. H er reason for this was as distinct as her beaut y: it was to make

me explain what I h ad m eant, on the occasion of our first m eeting,

by M r. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine,

but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to kn ow whether th ere was worse about him than what

she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so m uch in

the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of

monum ental bronze. H e was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to

be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in

him and the groun d of her project. She put her project boldly be-

fore me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willingto take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference

was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily

proh ibitive, wasn’t paralysing.

Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the pri-

mary question— the moral obligation: that was in her own breast.

There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions

she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her

intercourse with her aun t, they were absolutely clear to her; and on

questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise,

one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s

self. It was the idea of the application to the part icular case, such a

splendid one at last, th at troubled her, and she adm itted th at it stirred

very deep things. She didn’t p retend that such a responsibility was a

simple matter; if it had been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle

me with any port ion of it. T he M ulvilles were symp athy itself, bu t



128

were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their posi-

tion— would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for

me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything

dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George

Gravener—I th ought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety

perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, t he effect of a

determination that people shou ldn’t know from herself that her re-

lations with the man she was to m arry were strained. All the weight,

however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of

the weight H E had thrown in vain. O h she knew the question of character was imm ense, and that one couldn’t entertain an y plan for

making merit comfortable without run ning the gauntlet of that ter-

rible procession of interrogation -poin ts which, like a young ladies’

school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of

governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was

never, never, never an exception , never, never, never an occasion for

liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedant ry—forletting one side, in short, outbalance another? W hen M iss Anvoy

th rew off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully

emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the

courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm

of one’s adh esion ?”

“Seeing how wonderfully you’ve th reshed the whole thing ou t,” I

evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point

your enthusiasm has reached.”

She considered th is remark an instant with h er eyes on mine, and

I divined t hat it stru ck her I m ight possibly intend it as a reference

to some personal sub jection to our fat ph ilosopher, to som e aberra-

tion of sensibility, som e perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t in ter-

pret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a

manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me;

bu t wh ile I was th inking how to reassure her th e flush passed away

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in a smile of exquisite good n ature. “O h you see one forgets so won -

derfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply

extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it

also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with

what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man him-

self made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with

th is, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go

on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s

interest in life?”

“Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it wasbecause I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another

inarticulate murm ur— ”Poor George Gravener!” Wh at had become

of the lift he had given that interest? Later on I made up m y mind

that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of

wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her

alienation . The probable sincerity, in spite of th e illiberality, of h is

scrup les abou t t he particular use of it u nder d iscussion didn’t effacethe ugliness of his demand that they shou ld buy a good house with

it. Then , as for his alienation , he d idn’t, pardon ably enough, grasp

the lift Frank Saltram had given h er interest in life. If a mere specta-

tor could ask th at last question, with what rage in h is heart th e man

himself might! H e wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too p roud to show

me why he was disappoin ted.



130

CH APTER XI

I was unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the

plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my

young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy

her. H ow could I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her

how m uch had been kept back? I didn’t even kn ow and I certainly

didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the

least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A

great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced up on me by his

wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crudeconscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have

let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with

the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a

bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even

than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I m ust th ink over her

case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her

own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraidof the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what t roub led m e

most was a feeling of a different order. O f course, as th e beneficiary

of the Fun d was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that

new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it

wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have

been a striking examp le of the dom estic virtues. The Fund would

start badly, as it were, and th e laurel would, in som e respects at least,

scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea,

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however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solici-

tude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of

Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s

giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before

I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all,

saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t m ake me dishonest.

It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of

going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured

C ommon which gives W imbledon horizons. Th ere was a worry for

me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even toadmit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled

with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of

recognising perfectly what a world of trouble T he C oxon Fund would

in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of

that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from

attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply

interested? Sud denly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man

seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and

plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I

recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in de-

voted days. I stopped short as he tu rned his face to m e, and it hap-

pened that for som e reason or oth er I took in as I had perhaps never

done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with

experience as the sky is charged with light , and I felt on the instant

as if we had been overspan ned and con joined by the great arch of a

bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered

peculiarly sensitive to it by som ething in the way I had been giving

him up and sinking him. W hile I met it I stood there smitten, and

I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This

brought back his atten tion in a smile which expressed for me a cheer-

ful weary patience, a bru ised noble gentleness. I had told M iss Anvoy



132

that h e had no dignity, but what did he seem to m e, all unbutton ed

and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem

un concerned with small things, didn’t seem in short m ajestic? T here

was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences

and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward.

After I had sat by him a few minu tes I passed m y arm over his big

soft shou lder— wherever you touched h im you foun d equally little

firmness— and said in a ton e of which the supp liance fell oddly on

my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend — come back

and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keephim, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to

the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that

he had n o th ings, I asked h im if he hadn’t everyth ing of mine. I had

abstained from ordering dinn er, and it was too late for preliminaries

at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—

reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which

made me want him to feel at peace with m e—and which, precisely,was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too

often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives

me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t

even m ention M rs. Saltram and the children. Late into th e night we

smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I

on ly let h im see that I was conscious of what I owed him . H e was as

mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on

a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I

dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at W imbledon,

the night of the problematical sobriety and of M iss Anvoy’s initia-

tion; but I was as much in it on th is occasion as I had been out of it

then. At abou t 1 .30 h e was sublime.

He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were

over, and his breakfasts, at W imbledon, had always been the princi-

pal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore

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H enry Jam es

clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my

surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated,

after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house,

but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing

forth a sealed letter which, looking at m e very hard in t he eyes, she

placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a

single mom ent th ere glimmered before me the fond hope that M rs.

Saltram had tendered m e, as it were, her resignation and desired to

embody the act in an u nsparing form. To bring this about I would

have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught thesuperscript ion I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense

of som ething very different from relief: “O h the Pudneys!” I knew

their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used

the kind sold at post-offices with the stam p affixed, and as th is let-

ter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen

their horrid missives to the Mu lvilles, bu t h adn’t been in d irect cor-

respondence with them.“T hey enclosed it to m e, to be delivered. T hey doub tless explain

to you that they hadn’t your address.”

I turned th e thing over without opening it. “Wh y in the world

should they write to me?”

“Because they’ve something to tell you. T he worst,” Mrs. Saltram

dryly added.

It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable

quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disin-

genuou sly as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that

he had pu t h imself more grossly in th e wrong than at any mom ent

of his life. H e had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for

these more specious protectors, and then, according to h is wont at

the end of a few months, had du g a still deeper ditch for his aberra-

tion than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon

was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent



134

gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong

case, and I had been from the first for not defending him— reason-

ing that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This

was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest

the correspondence in time to save our litt le circle an infliction heavier

than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that

their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, con-

scious as they were in their own virtu e of an exposed place in which

Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them

whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would darehis blow; so that these vessels of rancou r were in a mann er afraid of

each other. I judged that on the day the Pudn eys should cease for

some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some rev-

elation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held

M rs. Saltram’s letter in m y hand it was distinctly com mun icated to

me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t

want to know the worst,” I presently declared.“You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.”

I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I ex-

claimed. “T here’s som ething for m e too to d eliver.”

“So t hey tell me—to M iss Anvoy.”

I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her

directly?”

M rs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with M r. and M rs.

Mulville.”

“And why should that prevent?”

Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque,

the un conscious perversity of her action. I was the on ly person save

George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory

Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there

have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human

affairs than her having com placently selected th is mom ent to fly in

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H enry Jam es

the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They

know Mr. Pudney’s hand.”

Still I didn’t understand ; then it flashed up on me. “You mean

they might intercept it? H ow can you imply anything so base?” I

indignantly demanded

“It’s not I— it’s Mr. Pudn ey!” cried M rs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s

his own idea.”

“T hen why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?”

M rs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard

look. “You must m ake that ou t for yourself.”I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denun ciation?”

“A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman

exclaimed.

I burst ou t laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect

of impertinence. “Especially to M iss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked?

W hy do such things concern her ?” I asked, much at a loss.

“Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. M r. and M rs. Pudneyhave been watching th is: they feel she m ay be taken in .”

“Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make

when she has lost her power to contribute?”

Again M rs. Saltram considered; th en very nobly: “There are oth er

things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so

long as the young lady had an y; bu t she now added, with a glance at

my letter, that M r. and M rs. Pudney dou btless explained their mo-

tives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up.

“Kindness to M iss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view

of kindness before her reverses.”

My compan ion smiled with som e acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer

than the Mulvilles!”

I didn’t want h er to think that, nor th at she shou ld report to th e

Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well

remember that th is was the mom ent at which I began, with consid-



136

erable emotion , to p romise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never

to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny

envelopes. My emotion , and I fear I mu st add my confusion, quickly

deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs.

Saltram as to think I m ight by som e diplomacy restore the Pudneys

to a quieter vigilance.

“It’s best you should take my view of my safety,” I at any rate soon

responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I

added: “You may turn out to have don e, in bringing m e this letter,

a th ing you’ll profoundly regret.” M y tone had a significance which,I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I

had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering ef-

fect, at wh ich her eyes followed so h un grily the litt le flourish of th e

letter with which I emph asised them that I instinctively slipp ed M r.

Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her em-

barrassed ann oyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to h im.

I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word Iwouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any

rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened,

from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have

amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge.

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CH APT ER XII

M RS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed

almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of some-

thing precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking

resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in

that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night

before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adven-

turer and pathfinder. What had dropped from m e like a cum bersome

garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath

was the disposition to haggle over his value. H ang it, one had to choose,one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high

and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet

hour— the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned

that M iss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a

visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under

bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to

her; but I took m y time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltramto deal as her apprehensions should prom pt with the Pudneys. I knew

at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I

gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but

it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the

month that I thus invited m yself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville,

perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I w as so stiff. At

that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also

wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr.



138

Gravener and her sweet youn g friend— a state of things but half satis-

factory to her so long as the advantage resulting to M r. Saltram failed

to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that

her sweet youn g friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also

intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young

man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise,

and of course the question can’t com e up to-day. These are old frus-

trations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t m arried, I hear, and neither have I.

During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to

ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answerwas to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had imm ediately

connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-car-

riage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness

weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in

candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly

confidence had laid on me.

“You mean M iss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told m e soherself,” he said.

“It wasn’t to tell you so that I wan ted to see you,” I replied; “for it

seemed to me that such a comm un ication would rest wholly with

herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she

probably told you I was discouraging.”

“Discouraging?”

“O n the subject of a present app lication of T he Coxon Fun d.”

“To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what

you call discouraging!” Gravener cried.

“Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.”

“I believe she did , but such a th ing’s measured by the effect. She’s

not ‘discouraged,’” he said.

“T hat’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that

it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I

can’t u ndertake to p roduce th at effect. In fact I d on’t wan t to!”

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“It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and

really grave. T hen he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly

glorified— perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pen-

sion?”

I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with

another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it.

W hen I see the com pliments that are paid right and left I ask m yself

why this on e shouldn’t take its course. T his th erefore is what you’re

entitled to have looked to m e to m ention to you. I’ve some evidence

that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I p ropose to invite MssAnvoy to remain in ignorance of it.”

“And to invite me to do th e same?”

“Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a

sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.”

“And you don’t mean to?”

“T here’s on ly one consideration that would make me,” I said.

Gravener’s clear hand som e eyes plun ged in to m ine a minu te, butevident ly without fishing up a clue to th is motive—a failure by which

I was almost wounded. “W hat does the letter cont ain?”

“It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.”

“W hy is it sent through you?”

“Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the th ing. “T he only

explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have

imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may

have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.”

“My relations with M iss Anvoy are not at an end ,” poor G ravener

stammered.

Again for an instant I thought. “T he offer I propose to m ake you

gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are

you still engaged to M iss Anvoy?”

“No, I’m not,” h e slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good

friends.”



140

“Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband

and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?”

“Removed?” he anxiously repeated.

“If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her

idea.”

“Then for God’s sake send it!”

“I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would

now presum ably bring abou t your marriage.”

“I’d m arry her the next day!” my visitor cried.

“Yes, but would she marry you

? What I ask of you of course isnoth ing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of th is.

If you give it m e,” I said, “I’ll engage to han d her the letter before

night.”

Gravener took up h is hat; turning it m echan ically roun d h e stood

looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very an-

grily hon estly and gallant ly, “H and it to the devil!” he broke out;

with which he clapped the hat on his head and left m e.“Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at W imbledon ,

when I had t old h er the story of M rs. Saltram’s visit.

She debated for a time probably of the briefest, bu t long enough

to m ake me nervous. “H ave you brought it with you?”

“No ind eed. It’s at hom e, locked up.”

T here was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and

destroy it.”

I went back, but I d idn’t destroy it t ill after Saltram’s death, when

I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly,

but, prom pt as they were, T he C oxon Fund had already becom e an

operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram , while we gath -

ered about, as it were, to watch th e manna descend, had begun to

draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn

everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas,

as all the world now knows, quite quenched h im; it was the begin-

T he Coxon Fund



141

H enry Jam es

ning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his

wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and

who at t his hou r accuses us of having bribed h im, on the whim of a

meddlesom e American, to renoun ce his glorious office, to becom e,

as she says, like everybod y else. T he very day he found himself able

to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may

easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially de-

prived the M ulvilles, whose want of self-support I n ever measured

till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now.

Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitu tion is embodiedin the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless

good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but n o

one present s a true sph ere of usefulness. T hey comp lain that peop le

are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adop-

tion was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their

carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we

were all happier as well as poorer before; even including GeorgeGravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has

lately becom e Lord M addock. H is wife, whose fortune clears the

property, is criminally du ll; he hates being in the Upper H ouse, and

hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I

should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great

eventual boon prom ised the patient by the rate at which T he C oxon

Fund must be rolling up?



142

The Death of the Lion

by

Henry James

CH APTER I

I H AD SIMPLY, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begunwhen I received my manuscript back from M r. Pinhorn. M r. Pinhorn

was my “chief,” as he was called in the office: he had the high mis-

sion of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical, which

had been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took

hold of it. It was M r. D eedy who had let th e thing down so dread-

fully: he was never ment ioned in the office now save in con nexion

with that misdemeanour. Youn g as I was I had been in a m annertaken over from M r. D eedy, who had been owner as well as editor;

forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant and office-furn i-

ture, which poor M rs. D eedy, in her bereavement and depression,

parted with at a rough valuation. I could account for my continuity

but on the supposition that I had been cheap. I rather resented the

practice of fathering all flatn ess on m y late protector, who was in h is

unhonoured grave; but as I had my way to make I found matter

enough for complacency in being on a “staff.” At the same time I

T he D eath of the Lion



143

H enry Jam es

was aware of my exposure to suspicion as a produ ct of th e old low-

ering system. T his made me feel I was doubly bou nd to have ideas,

and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr.

Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on N eil Paraday. I remem-

ber how he looked at m e—quite, to begin with, as if he had n ever

heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment was by no m eans

in the centre of the heavens; and even when I had knowingly ex-

plained he expressed but little confidence in the demand for any

such stuff. When I had reminded him that the great principle on

which we were sup posed to work was just to create the demand werequired, he considered a mom ent and then returned: “I see— you

want to write him up.”

“Call it that if you like.”

“And what’s your inducement?”

“Bless my soul— my adm iration!”

Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. “Is there much to be done

with h im?”“W hatever there is we shou ld have it all to ourselves, for he hasn’t

been touched.”

This argument was effective and Mr. Pinhorn responded. “Very

well, touch h im.” Th en h e added: “But where can you do it?”

“Un der th e fifth rib!”

M r. Pinhorn stared. “W here’s that?”

“You want me to go down and see him?” I asked when I h ad

enjoyed his visible search for the obscure suburb I seemed to h ave

named.

“I don’t ‘want’ anything—the proposal’s your own . But you m ust

remember that that’s the way we do th ings N O W,” said M r. Pinhorn

with another dig M r. D eedy.

Un regenerate as I was I could read the qu eer implications of this

speech. The present owner’s superior virtue as well as his deeper

craft spoke in h is reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort



144

who deal in false representations. Mr. Deedy would as soon have

sent me to call on N eil Paraday as he would have published a “holi-

day-number”; but such scruples presented themselves as mere ig-

noble thrift to his successor, whose own sincerity took the form of

ringing door-bells and whose definition of genius was the art of

finding people at home. It was as if Mr. Deedy had published re-

ports without h is youn g men’s having, as Pinhorn would have said,

really been there. I was un regenerate, as I have hin ted, and couldn’t

be concerned to straighten out the journalistic morals of my chief,

feeling them indeed to be an abyss over the edge of which it wasbett er not to peer. Really to be there this time moreover was a vision

that m ade the idea of writing som ething subtle abou t N eil Paraday

only the more inspiring. I would be as considerate as even M r. D eedy

could h ave wished, and yet I should be as present as only M r. Pinhorn

could conceive. My allusion to the sequestered manner in which

M r. Paraday lived— it had formed part of my explanation, though I

knew of it only by hearsay—was, I could divine, very much whathad made Mr. Pinhorn nibble. It struck him as inconsistent with

the success of his paper that any one should be so sequestered as

that. And then wasn’t an im mediate exposure of everything just what

the public wanted? Mr. Pinhorn effectually called me to order by

reminding me of the promptness with which I had m et Miss Braby

at Liverpool on her return from her fiasco in the States. H adn’t we

published, while its freshness and flavour were unimpaired, Miss

Braby’s own version of that great intern ation al episode? I felt some-

what uneasy at this lumping of the actress and the author, and I

confess that after having enlisted Mr. Pinhorn’s sympathies I pro-

crastinated a little. I had succeeded better than I wished, and I h ad,

as it happened, work nearer at hand. A few days later I called on

Lord C rouchley and carried off in trium ph the most unintelligible

statement that had yet appeared of his lordship’s reasons for his

change of front. I thu s set in m otion in th e daily papers colum ns of




145

H enry Jam es

virtu ous verbiage. T he following week I ran down to Brighton for a

chat, as M r. Pinhorn called it, with M rs. Boun der, who gave me, on

the subject of her divorce, many curious particulars that had not

been articulated in court. If ever an article flowed from the primal

fount it was that article on Mrs. Bounder. By this time, however, I

became aware that Neil Paraday’s new book was on the point of

appearing and that its approach had been the groun d of my original

appeal to M r. Pinhorn, who was now annoyed with m e for having

lost so many days. H e bun dled me off—we would at least not lose

another. I’ve always thought his sud den alertness a remarkable ex-ample of the journalistic instinct. Nothing had occurred, since I

first spoke to him, to create a visible urgency, and no enlightenm ent

could possibly have reached him. It was a pure case of profession

flair—he had smelt the com ing glory as an an imal smells its distant

prey.



146

CH APTER II

I M AY AS WELL SAY at on ce that this little record p retends in n o degree

to be a picture either of my introduction to M r. Paraday or of cer-

tain proximate steps and stages. The scheme of my narrative allows

no space for these things, and in any case a prohibitory sentiment

would han g abou t m y recollection of so rare an h our. T hese meagre

notes are essentially private, so that if th ey see the light the insidiou s

forces that, as my story itself shows, make at present for publicity

will simply have overmastered my precautions. T he curtain fell lately

enough on the lamentable drama. My mem ory of the day I alightedat Mr. Paraday’s door is a fresh memory of kindness, hospitality,

compassion, and of the wonderful illuminating talk in which the

welcome was conveyed. Some voice of the air had taught me the

right moment, th e mom ent of his life at which an act of un expected

young allegiance might most come home to him. He had recently

recovered from a long, grave illness. I had gone to the neighbouring

inn for the night, but I spent the evening in his company, and heinsisted the next day on my sleeping under his roof. I hadn’t an

indefinite leave: M r. Pinhorn supposed us to put our victims through

on the gallop. It was later, in the office, that th e rude motions of the

jig were set to m usic. I fortified myself, however, as my train ing had

taught me to do, by the conviction that nothing could be more

advantageous for my article than to be written in the very atmo-

sphere. I said n oth ing to M r. Paraday about it, but in the morning,

after my remove from the inn , while he was occupied in his study,




147

H enry Jam es

as he had n otified m e he shou ld need to be, I comm itted to paper

the m ain heads of my impression. Then th inking to comm end m y-

self to M r. Pinhorn by my celerity, I walked ou t and posted my little

packet before luncheon. Once my paper was written I was free to

stay on, and if it was calculated to divert attent ion from my levity in

so doing I could reflect with satisfaction that I had never been so

clever. I don’t m ean to deny of course th at I was aware it was much

too good for Mr. Pinhorn; but I was equally conscious that Mr.

Pinh orn had the supreme shrewdness of recognising from time to

time the cases in which an article was not too bad only because itwas too good. There was noth ing he loved so m uch as to p rint on

the right occasion a thing he hated. I had begun my visit to the

great man on a Mon day, and on the Wednesday his book came out.

A copy of it arrived by the first post, and he let me go ou t into the

garden with it imm ediately after breakfast, I read it from beginn ing

to end that day, and in the evening he asked me to remain with him

the rest of the week and over th e Sunday.T hat n ight my manuscript came back from M r. Pinh orn, accom-

pan ied with a letter th e gist of which was the desire to know what I

meant by trying to fob off on him such stuff. T hat was the meaning

of the question, if not exactly its form, and it made my mistake

immense to me. Such as this mistake was I could now only look it

in the face and accept it. I knew where I had failed, but it was ex-

actly where I couldn’t have succeeded. I had been sent down to be

personal and then in point of fact hadn’t been personal at all: what

I had d ispatched to London was just a little finicking feverish study

of my auth or’s talent . Anyth ing less relevant to M r. Pinhorn’s pur-

pose couldn’t well be imagined, and h e was visibly angry at m y hav-

ing (at h is expense, with a second-class ticket) approached the sub-

ject of our en terp rise only to stand off so helplessly. For myself, I

knew but too well what had happened, and how a miracle—as pretty

as some old miracle of legend—had been wrought on the spot to



148

save me. T here had been a b ig brush of wings, the flash of an opa-

line robe, and then, with a great cool stir of the air, th e sense of an

angel’s having swooped down and caught m e to his bosom. H e held

me only till the danger was over, and it all took place in a minute.

W ith my manuscript back on my hands I understood th e phenom-

enon better, and the reflexions I made on it are what I m eant, at the

beginning of this anecdote, by my change of heart. Mr. Pinhorn’s

note was not on ly a rebuke decidedly stern, bu t an invitation im me-

diately to send him — it was the case to say so— the genuine article,

the revealing and reverberating sketch to th e prom ise of which, andof which alone, I owed my squandered privilege. A week or two

later I recast my peccant paper and, giving it a particular applica-

tion to Mr. Paraday’s new book, obtained for it the hospitality of

another journal, where, I m ust adm it, M r. Pinhorn was so far vindi-

cated as that it attracted not the least atten tion.




149

H enry Jam es

CH APTER III

I WAS FRANKLY, at the end of three days, a very prejudiced critic, so that

one morn ing when, in the garden, my great m an had offered to read

me something I quite held my breath as I listened. It was the written

scheme of another book— something put aside long ago, before his

illness, but th at he had lately taken out again to reconsider. H e had

been turning it round when I came down on h im, and it had grown

magnificently under this second hand. Loose liberal confident, it might

have passed for a great gossiping eloquent letter—the overflow into

talk of an artist’s amorous plan. The th eme I thought singularly rich,quite the strongest he had yet treated; and this familiar statement of

it, full too of fine maturities, was really, in summarised splendour, a

mine of gold, a precious independent work. I remember rather pro-

fanely wondering whether the ultimate production could possibly keep

at the pitch. H is reading of the fond epistle, at any rate, made me feel

as if I were, for the advantage of posterity, in close correspondence

with him—were the distinguished person to whom it had been affec-tionately addressed. It was a high distinction simply to be told such

things. The idea he now communicated had all the freshness, the

flushed fairness, of the conception untouched and untried: it was

Venus rising from the sea and before the airs had blown upon her. I

had never been so throbbingly present at such an un veiling. But when

he had tossed th e last bright word after the others, as I had seen cash-

iers in banks, weighing mounds of coin, drop a final sovereign into

the tray, I knew a sudden prudent alarm.



150

“My dear master, how, after all, are you going to do it? It’s infi-

nitely noble, but what t ime it will take, what patience and indepen-

dence, what assured, what perfect con dit ions! O h for a lone isle in a

tepid sea!”

“Isn’t this practically a lone isle, and aren’t you, as an

encircling medium , tepid enough?” he asked, alluding with a laugh

to th e wonder of my young adm iration and the narrow limits of his

little provincial home. “Time isn’t what I’ve lacked hitherto: the

question hasn’t been to find it, bu t to use it. O f course my illness

made, while it lasted, a great hole—but I d are say there would havebeen a hole at any rate. T he earth we tread has more pockets than a

billiard-table. T he great thing is now to keep on my feet.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Neil Paraday looked at me with eyes—such pleasant eyes as he

had— in which, as I now recall their expression, I seem to have seen

a dim imagination of his fate. H e was fifty years old, and his illness

had been cruel, his convalescence slow. “It isn’t as if I weren’t allright.”

“O h if you weren’t all right I wouldn’t look at you!” I ten derly

said.

We had both got up, quickened as by this clearer air, and he had

lighted a cigarette. I had taken a fresh one, which with an intenser

smile, by way of answer to m y exclamation , he app lied to the flame

of his match. “If I weren’t better I shouldn’t h ave thought of that !”

H e flourished his script in h is hand.

“I don’t want to be discouraging, but th at’s not t rue,” I return ed.

“I’m sure th at du ring the months you lay here in pain you had visi-

tations sublime. You thought of a thousand th ings. You th ink of

more and more all the while. T hat’s what m akes you, if you’ll par-

don my familiarity, so respectable. At a t ime when so m any people

are spent you come into your second wind. But , thank God, all the

same, you’re bett er! T han k G od, too, you’re not, as you were telling




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H enry Jam es

me yesterday, ‘successful.’ If you weren’t a failure what wou ld be the

use of trying? That’s my one reserve on the subject of your recov-

ery—that it makes you ‘score,’ as the newspapers say. It looks well

in the newspapers, and almost anything that does that’s horrible.

‘We are happy to announce that M r. Paraday, the celebrated author,

is again in the enjoyment of excellent health.’ Somehow I shouldn’t

like to see it.”

“You won’t see it; I’m not in the least celebrated— my obscurity

protects me. But couldn’t you bear even to see I was dying or dead?”

my host enqu ired.“D ead— passe encore; there’s nothing so safe. O ne never knows

what a living artist m ay do— one has mourned so m any. H owever,

one must m ake the worst of it. You must be as dead as you can.”

“D on’t I meet that cond ition in having just pu blished a book?”

“Adequately, let us hope; for th e book’s verily a masterp iece.”

At th is moment the parlour-maid appeared in the door that opened

from the garden: Paraday lived at no great cost, and the frisk of pet ticoats, with a timorou s “Sherry, sir?” was abou t h is modest m a-

hogany. H e allowed half his incom e to his wife, from whom he had

succeeded in separating withou t redundancy of legend. I had a gen-

eral faith in his having behaved well, and I had once, in London,

taken M rs. Paraday down to dinn er. H e now turn ed to speak to th e

maid, who offered him, on a tray, some card or note, while, agi-

tated, excited, I wandered to th e end of the precinct. T he idea of his

security became supremely dear to me, and I asked myself if I were

the same young man who had come down a few days before to

scatter him to the four winds. When I retraced my steps he had

gone into the hou se, and the woman— the second London post had

come in— had placed m y letters and a newspaper on a bench. I sat

down there to the letters, which were a brief business, and then,

without heeding th e address, took the paper from its envelope. It

was the journal of highest renown, T he Em pire of that morning. It



152

regularly came to Paraday, but I remembered that neither of us had

yet looked at the copy already delivered. This one had a great m ark

on the “editorial” page, and , un crum pling the wrapper, I saw it to

be directed to m y host and stamped with the name of his publish-

ers. I instant ly divined that T he Em pire had spoken of him , and I’ve

not forgotten th e odd little shock of the circum stance. It checked all

eagerness and made me drop the paper a moment. As I sat there

conscious of a palpitation I th ink I had a vision of what was to be. I

had also a vision of the letter I would presently address to Mr.

Pinh orn, breaking, as it were, with M r. Pinhorn . O f course, how-ever, the next minu te the voice of T he Em pire was in my ears.

The article wasn’t, I thanked heaven, a review; it was a “leader,”

the last of three, presenting Neil Paraday to the human race. H is

new book, the fifth from h is hand, had been but a day or two out ,

and T he Em pire, already aware of it, fired, as if on the birth of a

prince, a salute of a whole column. The guns had been booming

these three hours in the house without our suspecting them. Thebig blundering newspaper had discovered h im, and n ow he was pro-

claimed and anointed and crowned. His place was assigned him as

publicly as if a fat usher with a wand had pointed to the topmost

chair; he was to pass up and still up, higher and h igher, between the

watching faces and the envious sounds—away up to the dais and

the throne. T he article was “epoch-making,” a landmark in his life;

he had taken rank at a bound, waked u p a national glory. A national

glory was needed, and it was an im mense convenience he was there.

W hat all this meant rolled over me, and I fear I grew a litt le faint—

it meant so m uch more than I could say “yea” to on the spot . In a

flash, somehow, all was different; the tremendous wave I speak of

had swept something away. It had knocked down, I suppose, my

litt le custom ary altar, my twinkling tapers and my flowers, and had

reared itself into the likeness of a temp le vast and bare. When N eil

Paraday should come out of the house he would come out a con-




153

H enry Jam es

temporary. That was what had happened: the poor man was to be

squeezed in to his horrible age. I felt as if he had been overtaken on

the crest of the hill and brought back to the city. A little more and

he would h ave dipped d own the shor t cut to posterity and escaped.



154

CH APTER IV

W H EN H E CAME O UT it was exactly as if he had been in custody, for

beside him walked a stout man with a big black beard, who, save

that he wore spectacles, might have been a policeman, and in whom

at a second glance I recognised the highest contemporary enter-

prise.

“This is Mr. Morrow,” said Paraday, looking, I thought, rather

white: “he wants to publish heaven kn ows what abou t m e.”

I winced as I remembered that this was exactly what I m yself had

wanted. “Already?” I cried with a sort of sense that my friend hadfled to me for protection .

M r. M orrow glared, agreeably, through his glasses: they suggested

the electric headlights of som e monstrous modem ship, and I felt as

if Paraday and I were tossing terrified under his bows. I saw his

momentum was irresistible. “I was confident that I should be th e

first in the field. A great interest is naturally felt in Mr. Paraday’s

surroundings,” he h eavily observed.“I hadn’t the least idea of it,” said Paraday, as if he had been told

he had been snoring.

“I find he hasn’t read the article in T he Em pire,” Mr. Morrow

remarked to me. “That’s so very interesting—it’s som ething to start

with,” he smiled. H e had begun to p ull off his gloves, which were

violently new, and to look encouragingly round the little garden . As

a “surrounding” I felt how I myself had already been taken in; I was

a litt le fish in t he stom ach of a bigger on e. “I represent ,” our visitor




155

H enry Jam es

continued, “a syndicate of influential journals, no less than thirty-

seven, whose public—whose publics, I may say—are in peculiar

sympathy with Mr. Paraday’s line of thought. They would greatly

appreciate any expression of his views on the subject of the art h e so

nobly exemplifies. In addition to my connexion with the syndicate

just mentioned I hold a particular commission from T he Tatler , whose

most prominent department, ‘Smatter and Chatter’—I dare say

you’ve often enjoyed it—attracts such attention. I was honoured

on ly last week, as a representat ive of T he Tatler , with the confidence

of Guy Walsingham, the brilliant author of ‘O bsessions.’ She pro-nounced herself thorou ghly pleased with m y sketch of her method ;

she went so far as to say that I had made her genius more compre-

hensible even to herself.”

Neil Paraday had dropped on the garden-bench and sat there at

once detached and confoun ded; he looked hard at a bare spot in the

lawn, as if with an anxiety that h ad suddenly made him grave. H is

movement had been interpreted by his visitor as an invitation tosink sympathetically into a wicker chair that stood hard by, and

while Mr. Morrow so settled himself I felt he had taken official

possession and that there was no un doing it. O ne had heard of un -

fortunate people’s having “a man in the house,” and this was just

what we had. There was a silence of a moment, during which we

seemed to acknowledge in the only way that was possible the pres-

ence of universal fate; the sunny stillness took no pity, and my

thought, as I was sure Paraday’s was doing, performed within the

minute a great distant revolut ion. I saw just how emp hatic I should

make my rejoinder to M r. Pinhorn, and that having com e, like Mr.

Morrow, to betray, I must remain as long as possible to save. Not

because I had brought my mind back, but because our visitors last

words were in my ear, I p resent ly enquired with gloom y irrelevance

if Guy Walsingham were a woman.

“O h yes, a mere pseudonym— rather pretty, isn’t it?— and conve-



156

nient, you know, for a lady who goes in for the larger latitude. ‘O b-

sessions, by Miss So-and-so,’ would look a little odd, but men are

more naturally indelicate. H ave you p eeped into ‘O bsessions’?” M r.

Morrow continued sociably to our companion.

Paraday, still absent , remote, made no answer, as if he hadn’t h eard

the question: a form of intercourse that appeared t o suit the cheer-

ful Mr. Morrow as well as any other. Imperturbably bland , he was a

man of resources— he only needed to be on the spot . H e had pock-

eted the whole poor p lace while Paraday and I were wool-gathering,

and I could imagine that he had already got his “heads.” His sys-tem, at any rate, was justified by the inevitability with which I re-

plied, to save my friend the trouble: “Dear no—he hasn’t read it.

H e doesn’t read such th ings!” I unwarily added.

“T hings that are too far over the fence, eh?” I was indeed a god-

send to Mr. Morrow. It was the psychological moment; it deter-

mined the appearance of his note-book, which, however, he at first

kept slight ly behind him, even as the dent ist approaching his victimkeeps the horrible forceps. “Mr. Paraday holds with the good old

proprieties— I see!” And thinking of the thirty-seven influential jour-

nals, I found myself, as I found poor Paraday, helplessly assistin g at

the promulgation of this ineptitude. “There’s no point on which

distinguished views are so acceptable as on this question—raised

perhaps more strikingly than ever by Guy Walsingham— of the per-

missibility of the larger latitude. I’ve an appointment, precisely in

connexion with it, next week, with Dora Forbes, author of ‘The

O ther Way Rou nd,’ which everybody’s talking about. H as M r.

Paraday glanced at ‘T he O ther Way Roun d’?” M r. Morrow now

frankly appealed to me. I took on myself to repud iate the supposi-

tion , while our compan ion, still silent , got up nervously and walked

away. H is visitor paid no heed to his withdrawal; but opened ou t

the note-book with a more fatherly pat. “Dora Forbes, I gather,

takes the ground, the same as Guy Walsingham’s, that the larger




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H enry Jam es

latitude has simply got to come. He holds that it has got to be squarely

faced. O f course his sex makes him a less prejudiced witness. But an

authoritative word from Mr. Paraday—from the point of view of

his sex, you know—

would go right roun d the globe. H e takes the line that we haven’t

got to face it?”

I was bewildered: it sounded somehow as if th ere were three sexes.

My interlocutor’s pencil was poised, m y private respon sibility great.

I simply sat staring, non e the less, and on ly found p resence of mind

to say: “Is this Miss Forbes a gentleman?”M r. M orrow had a sub tle smile. “It wouldn’t be ‘Miss’— th ere’s a

wife!”

“I mean is she a m an?”

“The wife?”—Mr. Morrow was for a moment as confused as my-

self. But when I explained that I alluded to D ora Forbes in person he

informed me, with visible amusement at my being so out of it, that

this was the “pen-name” of an indubitable male—he had a big redmoustache. “H e goes in for the slight mystification because the ladies

are such popular favourites. A great deal of interest is felt in his acting

on that idea—which is clever, isn’t it?—and there’s every prospect of

its being widely imitated.” O ur host at this mom ent joined us again,

and Mr. Morrow remarked invitingly that he should be happy to

make a note of any observation the movement in question, the bid

for success under a lady’s name, might suggest to M r. Paraday. But the

poor man, without catching the allusion, excused himself, pleading

that, though greatly honoured by his visitor’s interest, he suddenly

felt un well and shou ld have to take leave of him —have to go and lie

down and keep quiet. H is young friend might be trusted to answer

for him, but he hoped M r. Morrow didn’t expect great things even of

his young friend. His young friend, at this moment, looked at Neil

Paraday with an anxious eye, greatly wondering if he were doomed to

be ill again; but Paraday’s own kind face met his question reassur-



158

ingly, seemed to say in a glance intelligible enough: “Oh I’m not ill,

bu t I’m scared: get him out of the house as quietly as possible.” Get-

ting newspaper-men out of the house was odd business for an emis-

sary of Mr. Pinhorn, and I was so exhilarated by the idea of it that I

called after him as he left us: “Read the article in The Empire and

you’ll soon be all right!”




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER V

“D ELICIOUS M Y H AVING come down to tell him of it!” M r. Morrow

ejaculated. “My cab was at the door twenty minutes after T he Em-

pire had been laid on my breakfast-table. Now what have you got

for me?” he cont inued, dropping again into his chair, from which,

however, he the next moment eagerly rose. “I was shown into the

drawing-room , bu t there must be m ore to see—his study, his liter-

ary sanctum, the little things he has about, or other domestic ob-

jects and features. H e wouldn’t be lying down on his stu dy-table?

T here’s a great in terest always felt in th e scene of an author’s labours.Sometimes we’re favoured with very delightful peeps. Dora Forbes

showed m e all his table-drawers, and almost jamm ed m y hand into

one into which I made a dash! I don’t ask that of you, but if we

could talk things over right there where he sits I feel as if I should

get the keynote.”

I had no wish whatever to be rude to Mr. Morrow, I was much

too initiated not to tend to m ore diplomacy; but I h ad a quick in-spiration, and I entertained an insurm ountable, an almost supersti-

tious objection to his crossing the threshold of my friend’s little

lonely shabby consecrated workshop. “N o, no— we shan’t get at h is

life that way,” I said. “The way to get at his life is to—But wait a

mom ent!” I broke off and went quickly into the house, whence I in

three minutes reappeared before Mr. Morrow with the two volum es

of Paraday’s new book. “H is life’s here,” I wen t on , “and I’m so full

of th is adm irable thing that I can’t talk of anything else. The artist’s



160

life’s his work, and th is is the place to observe him. W hat he has to

tell us he tells us with this perfection. My dear sir, the best inter-

viewer is the best reader.”

Mr. Morrow good-humouredly protested. “Do you mean to say

that no oth er source of information should be open to us?”

“None other till th is particular one—by far the m ost copious—

has been quite exhausted. H ave you exhausted it, my dear sir? H ad

you exhausted it when you came down here? It seems to me in our

time almost wholly neglected, and something should surely be done

to restore its ruined credit. It’s the course to wh ich th e artist h imself at every step, and with such pathetic confidence, refers us. T his last

book of Mr. Paraday’s is full of revelations.”

“Revelations?” panted M r. Morrow, whom I had forced again in to

his chair.

“The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that

seems to m e quite final all the auth or th inks, for instance, abou t the

advent of the ‘larger latitude.’”“W here does it do that?” asked M r. Morrow, who h ad picked up

the second volum e and was insincerely thu mbing it.

“Everywhere—in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the

opinion , disengage the answer—those are the real acts of hom age.”

Mr. Morrow, after a minute, tossed the book away. “Ah but you

mustn’t take me for a reviewer.”

“H eaven forbid I should take you for anyth ing so dreadful! You

came down to perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I m ay con-

fide to you, d id I. Let us perform our litt le act together. T hese pages

overflow with the testimony we want: let us read them and taste

them and interpret them. You’ll of course have perceived for your-

self that on e scarcely does read N eil Paraday till one reads him aloud;

he gives out to the ear an extraordinary full tone, and it’s on ly when

you expose it confidently to that test that you really get near his

style. Take up your book again and let me listen, while you pay it




161

H enry Jam es

out, to that wonderful fifteenth chapter. If you feel you can’t do it

justice, compose you rself to at ten tion while I produce for you — I

th ink I can!— th is scarcely less adm irable ninth.”

M r. Morrow gave me a straight look which was as hard as a blow

between the eyes; he had turned rather red, and a question had

formed itself in his mind which reached m y sense as distinctly as if

he had uttered it: “What sort of a damned fool are you?” Th en he

got up, gathering together his hat and gloves, buttoning his coat,

projecting hungrily all over the place the big transparency of his

mask. It seemed to flare over Fleet Street and somehow made theactual spot distressingly humble: there was so little for it to feed on

unless he counted the blisters of our stucco or saw his way to do

something with the roses. Even t he poor roses were comm on kinds.

Presently his eyes fell on the manuscript from which Paraday had

been reading to me and which still lay on the bench. As my own

followed them I saw it looked promising, looked pregnant, as if it

gent ly throbbed with the life the reader had given it. M r. M orrowindulged in a nod at it and a vague thrust of his umbrella. “What’s

that?”

“Oh, it’s a plan—a secret.”

“A secret!” There was an instant’s silence, and then Mr. Morrow

made anoth er movement. I m ay have been m istaken, bu t it affected

me as the translated impulse of the desire to lay hands on the manu-

script, and th is led m e to indulge in a quick anticipatory grab which

may very well have seemed ungraceful, or even impertinent, and

which at any rate left M r. Paraday’s two adm irers very erect, glaring

at each other while one of them held a bund le of papers well behind

him . An instant later M r. M orrow quitted m e abruptly, as if he had

really carried som ething off with him . To reassure myself, watching

his broad back recede, I only grasped my manuscript the tighter. H e

went to th e back door of the house, the one he had come out from,

but on trying the handle he appeared to find it fastened. So he



162

passed roun d into the front garden, and by listening intent ly enough

I could p resently hear the outer gate close behind him with a bang.

I thought again of the thirty-seven influential journals and won-

dered what wou ld be h is revenge. I hasten to add that he was mag-

nanimous: which was just the most dreadful thing he could have

been. T he Tatler published a charming chatty familiar account of

M r. Paraday’s “H om e-life,” and on the

wings of the thirty-seven influential journals it went, to use Mr.

Morrow’s own expression, right round the globe.




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER VI

A WEEK LATER, early in May, my glorified friend came up to town,

where, it m ay be veraciously recorded he was the king of th e beasts

of the year. No advancement was ever more rapid, no exaltation

more complete, no bewilderment more teachable. His book sold

but moderately, though the article in T he Em pire had done unwonted

wonders for it; but he circulated in person to a measure that the

libraries might well have envied. H is formula had been foun d— he

was a “revelation.” H is mom entary terror had been real, just as mine

had been—the overclouding of his passionate desire to be left tofinish his work. He was far from unsociable, but he had the finest

concept ion of being let alone th at I’ve ever met. For the tim e, non e

the less, he took h is profit where it seemed most to crowd on him ,

having in his pocket th e portable soph istries about the nature of the

artist’s task. O bservation too was a kind of work an d experience a

kind of success; London dinners were all material and London la-

dies were fruitful toil. “N o on e has the faintest concept ion of whatI’m trying for,” he said to me, “and not m any have read three pages

that I’ve written; but I must dine with them first—they’ll find out

why when they’ve time.” It was rather rude justice perhaps; bu t the

fatigue had the merit of being a new sort , while the phan tasmagoric

town was probably after all less of a battlefield than the haunted

study. H e once told me that he had had no personal life to speak of

since his fortieth year, but had had more than was good for him

before. London closed the parenthesis and exhibited him in rela-



164

tions; one of the most inevitable of these being that in which he

found h imself to M rs. Weeks Wimbush, wife of the boun dless brewer

and proprietress of the universal menagerie. In this establishment,

as everybody knows, on occasions when the crush is great, the ani-

mals rub shoulders freely with the spectators and t he lions sit down

for whole evenings with the lambs.

It had been ominously clear to me from the first that in Neil

Paraday this lady, who, as all the world agreed, was tremendous fun ,

considered that she had secured a prime attraction, a creature of

almost heraldic oddity. Nothing could exceed her enthusiasm overher capture, and noth ing could exceed the confused app rehensions

it excited in m e. I had an instinctive fear of her which I t ried with-

out effect to conceal from her victim, but which I let her notice

with perfect impunity. Paraday heeded it, bu t she never did, for her

conscience was that of a romping child. She was a blind violent

force to which I could att ach no m ore idea of respon sibility than to

the creaking of a sign in the wind. It was difficult to say what sheconduced to bu t circulation . She was constructed of steel and leather,

and all I asked of her for our tractable friend was not to d o h im to

death. H e had consented for a time to be of india-rubber, but m y

thoughts were fixed on the day he should resume his shape or at

least get back into his box. It was evidently all right, but I should be

glad wh en it was well over. I had a special fear— the imp ression was

ineffaceable of the hou r when, after M r. Morrow’s departure, I had

found him on the sofa in his study. That pretext of indisposition

had not in the least been m eant as a snub to the envoy of T he Tatler —

he had gone to lie down in very truth. H e had felt a pang of his old

pain, th e result of the agitation wrought in h im by this forcing open

of a new period. H is old programm e, his old ideal even h ad to be

changed. Say what on e would, success was a complication and rec-

ognition had to be reciprocal. T he m onastic life, the p ious illum i-

nation of the missal in the convent cell were th ings of the gathered




165

H enry Jam es

past. It didn’t engender despair, bu t at least it requ ired adjustment .

Before I left him on that occasion we had passed a bargain, my part

of which was that I should make it m y business to take care of him.

Let whoever would represent the interest in his presence (I must

have had a mystical prevision of Mrs. Weeks Wimbush) I should

represent the interest in his work—or otherwise expressed in his

absence. These two interests were in their essence opposed; and I

doub t, as youth is fleeting, if I shall ever again kn ow th e intensity of

joy with which I felt that in so good a cause I was willin g to make

myself odious.O ne day in Sloane Street I found myself questionin g Paraday’s

landlord, who had come to the door in answer to my knock. Two

vehicles, a barouche and a smart hansom, were drawn up before the

house.

“In the d rawing-room, sir? M rs. Weeks W imbush.”

“And in the d ining-room?”

“A young lady, sir—waiting: I think a foreigner.”It was three o’clock, and on days when Paraday didn’t lunch out

he attached a value to th ese appropriated hours. O n which days,

however, didn’t the dear m an lun ch ou t? M rs. Wimbush, at such a

crisis, would h ave rushed rou nd im mediately after her own repast. I

went in to the dining-room first, postponing the pleasure of seeing

how, upstairs, the lady of the barouche would, on my arrival, point

the moral of my sweet solicitude. N o on e took such an in terest as

herself in his doing only what was good for him , and she was always

on the spot to see that he did it. She made appointm ents with h im

to discuss the best m eans of econom ising his time and protecting

his privacy. She further made his health her special business, and

had so much sympathy with my own zeal for it that she was the

auth or of pleasing fictions on the subject of what m y devotion had

led m e to give up. I gave up noth ing (I don’t coun t M r. Pinhorn)

because I had nothing, and all I had as yet achieved was to find



166

myself also in the menagerie. I had dashed in to save my friend, but

I had only got domesticated and wedged; so that I could do little

more for h im than exchange with him over people’s heads looks of

intense but futile intelligence.




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER VII

T H E YOUNG LADY in the dining-room had a brave face, black hair, blue

eyes, and in her lap a big volume. “I’ve come for his autograph,” she

said when I had explained to her that I was un der bon ds to see people

for him when he was occupied. “I’ve been waiting half an hour, but

I’m prepared to wait all day.” I don’t know whether it was this that

told me she was American, for th e propensity to wait all day is not in

general characteristic of her race. I was enlightened probably not so

much by the spirit of the utterance as by some quality of its sound. At

any rate I saw she had an individual patience and a lovely frock, to-gether with an expression that played among her pretty features like a

breeze among flowers. Putting her book on the table she showed me

a massive album, showily bou nd and full of autographs of price. T he

collection of faded notes, of still more faded “thoughts,” of quota-

tions, platitudes, signatures, represented a formidable purpose.

I could only disclose my dread of it. “Most people apply to Mr.

Paraday by letter, you know.”“Yes, but he doesn’t answer. I’ve written th ree times.”

“Very true,” I reflected; “the sort of letter you mean goes straight

into the fire.”

“H ow do you kn ow the sort I m ean?” My interlocut ress had

blushed and smiled, and in a moment she added: “I don’t believe he

gets many like them!”

“I’m sure they’re beautiful, but he burns without reading.” I didn’t

add that I had convinced him h e ought to.



168

“Isn’t he then in danger of burning things of importance?”

“H e would perhaps be so if distinguished m en hadn’t an infallible

nose for nonsense.”

She looked at me a moment—her face was sweet and gay. “Do

you burn without reading too?”—in answer to which I assured her

that if she’d tru st m e with her repository I’d see that M r. Paraday

shou ld write his name in it.

She considered a litt le. “T hat’s very well, but it wouldn’t m ake me

see him.”

“Do you want very much to see him?” It seemed ungracious to catechiseso charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken my duty to

the great author so seriously.

“Enough to have come from America for the purpose.”

I stared. “All alon e?”

“I don’t see that that’s exactly your bu siness, but if it will make me

more seductive I’ll confess that I’m qu ite by m yself. I h ad t o com e

alone or not come at all.”She was interesting; I could imagine she had lost parent s, natural

protectors—could con ceive even she had inherited m oney. I was at

a pass of my own fortunes when keeping hansoms at doors seemed

to me pure swagger. As a trick of this bold and sensitive girl, how-

ever, it became rom ant ic—a part of the general romance of her free-

dom , her errand , her innocence. T he confidence of young Ameri-

cans was notorious, and I speedily arrived at a conviction that no

impulse could have been m ore generous than the impulse that h ad

operated here. I foresaw at th at mom ent that it would m ake her my

peculiar charge, just as circum stances had made N eil Paraday. She

would be another person to look after, so th at one’s honour would

be concerned in guiding her straight. These things became clearer

to m e later on; at the instant I had scepticism enough to observe to

her, as I turned the pages of her volume, that her net had all the

same caught many a big fish. She appeared to have had fruitful




169

H enry Jam es

access to the great ones of the earth; there were people moreover

whose signatures she had presumably secured without a personal

interview. She couldn’t have worried George Washington and

Friedrich Schiller and H annah M ore. She met this argum ent, to m y

surprise, by throwing up the album without a pang. It wasn’t even

her own; she was responsible for n one of its treasures. It belonged to

a girl-friend in America, a young lady in a western city. This youn g

lady had insisted on her bringing it, to pick up more autographs:

she thought they might like to see, in Europe, in what company

they would be. The “girl-friend,” the western city, the immortalnames, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all made a story as strange

to m e, and as beguiling, as som e tale in the Arabian N ights. T hu s it

was that my informant had encum bered herself with the pon derous

tome; bu t she hastened to assure me that th is was the first t ime she

had brought it out . For her visit to M r. Paraday it h ad simply been

a pretext. She didn’t really care a straw that he should write his name;

what she did want was to look straight in to h is face.I demurred a little. “And why do you require to do that?”

“Because I just love him!” Before I cou ld recover from the agitat -

ing effect of this crystal ring my com pan ion had con tinued: “H asn’t

there ever been any face that you’ve wanted to look into?”

H ow could I tell her so soon how m uch I appreciated th e oppor-

tunity of looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the

proposition that there were certainly for every one such yearnings,

and even such faces; and I felt the crisis demand all my lucidity, all

my wisdom . “O h yes, I’m a student of physiognomy. D o you m ean,”

I pursued, “that you’ve a passion for M r. Paraday’s books?”

“T hey’ve been everything to me and a litt le more beside—I know

them by heart. They’ve completely taken hold of me. There’s no

auth or abou t whom I’m in such a state as I’m in about N eil Paraday.”

“Permit me to remark then,” I presently returned, “that you’re

one of the right sort.”



170

“O ne of the enthusiasts? O f course I am!”

“Oh there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean

you’re one of those to wh om an appeal can be made.”

“An appeal?” H er face lighted as if with th e chance of som e great

sacrifice.

If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a mo-

ment I mentioned it. “Give up this crude purpose of seeing him! Go

away without it. T hat will be far better.”

She looked mystified, then turned visibly pale. “Why, hasn’t he

any personal charm?” The girl was terrible and laughable in herbright directness.

“Ah that dreadful word ‘personally’!” I wailed; “we’re dying of it,

for you women bring it out with murderous effect. W hen you meet

with a genius as fine as th is idol of ours let h im off the dreary duty

of being a personality as well. Know him on ly by what’s best in him

and spare him for the same sweet sake.”

My young lady continued to look at me in confusion and mis-trust, and the result of her reflexion on what I had just said was to

make her suddenly break out: “Look here, sir—what’s the matter

with h im?”

“T he m atter with him is that if he doesn’t look out peop le will eat

a great hole in his life.”

She turned it over. “H e hasn’t any disfigurement ?”

“Noth ing to speak of!”

“D o you mean that social engagements interfere with h is occupa-

tions?”

“That but feebly expresses it.”

“So that he can’t give himself up to his beaut iful imagination?”

“H e’s beset, badgered, bothered— he’s pulled to p ieces on the pre-

text of being applauded. People expect him to give them his time,

his golden tim e, who wouldn’t themselves give five shillings for one

of his books.”




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H enry Jam es

“Five? I’d give five thousand!”

“Give your sympathy—give your forbearance. Two-thirds of those

who approach him only do it to advertise themselves.”

“Why it’s too bad!” the girl exclaimed with the face of an angel.

“It’s the first tim e I was ever called crude!” she laughed.

I followed up my advantage. “T here’s a lady with him now who’s

a terrible complication , and who yet hasn’t read, I’m sure, ten pages

he ever wrote.”

My visitor’s wide eyes grew tenderer. “T hen how does she talk— ?”

“Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you wantto know how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid h im.”

“Avoid h im?” she despairingly breathed.

“Don’t force him to have to take account of you; admire him in

silence, cultivate him at a d istance and secretly appropriate his mes-

sage. Do you want to know,” I continued, warming to my idea,

“how to perform an act of homage really sublime?” Then as she

hun g on my words: “Succeed in never seeing h im at all!”“Never at all?”—she suppressed a shriek for it.

“The more you get into his writings the less you’ll want to, and

you’ll be immensely sustained by the thought of the good you’re

doing him.”

She looked at me withou t resentm ent or spite, and at the truth I

had put before her with candour, credulity, pity. I was afterwards

happy to remember that she must have gathered from my face the

liveliness of my interest in herself. “I think I see what you m ean.”

“O h I express it badly, bu t I should be delight ed if you’d let m e

come to see you—to explain it better.”

She m ade no respon se to this, and her th oughtful eyes fell on the

big album, on which she presently laid her hands as if to take it

away. “I did use to say out West th at they might write a litt le less for

autographs—to all the great poets, you know—and study the

thoughts and style a little more.”



172

“W hat do they care for the thoughts and style? T hey didn’t even

understand you. I’m not sure,” I added, “that I do myself, and I

dare say that you by no means make me out .”

She had got up to go, and thou gh I wanted her to succeed in not

seeing N eil Paraday I wanted her also, inconsequen tly, to remain in

the house. I was at any rate far from desiring to hustle her off. As

Mrs. Weeks Wimbush, upstairs, was still saving our friend in her

own way, I asked my young lady to let me briefly relate, in illustra-

tion of my point, the little incident of my having gone down into

the country for a profane purpose and been converted on the spotto holiness. Sinking again into h er chair to listen she showed a deep

interest in the anecdote. Then th inking it over gravely she returned

with her odd inton ation: “Yes, but you do see him!” I had to admit

that this was the case; and I wasn’t so prepared with an effective

attenuat ion as I could have wished. She eased the situation off, how-

ever, by the charming quaintness with which she finally said: “Well,

I wouldn’t want h im to be lonely!” T his time she rose in earnest, butI persuaded her to let me keep the album to show Mr. Paraday. I

assured her I’d bring it back to her myself. “Well, you’ll find my

add ress som ewhere in it on a paper!” she sighed all resignedly at the

door.




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H enry Jam es

CH APT ER VIII

I BLUSH TO CONFESS IT , but I invited Mr. Paraday that very day to

transcribe into the album one of his most characteristic passages. I

told h im how I had got rid of the strange girl who had brought it—

her om inous name was Miss H urter and she lived at an h otel; quite

agreeing with him moreover as to the wisdom of getting rid with

equal promptitude of the book itself. This was why I carried it to

Albemarle Street no later than on the morrow. I failed to find her at

home, but she wrote to m e and I went again; she wanted so mu ch

to hear m ore about Neil Paraday. I retu rned repeatedly, I m ay brieflydeclare, to supply her with this information. She had been immensely

taken, the more she thought of it, with th at idea of mine

about the act of homage: it had ended by filling her with a generous

rapture. She positively desired to do something sublime for him,

though indeed I cou ld see that, as th is part icular flight was difficult,

she appreciated the fact that m y visits kept her up. I had it on my

conscience to keep her up: I neglected noth ing that wou ld contrib-ute to it, and her conception of our cherished author’s indepen-

dence became at last as fine as his very own. “Read h im, read him —

that will be an education in decency,” I constantly repeated; while,

seeking him in his works even as God in nature, she represented

herself as convinced that, according to my assurance, this was the

system that had, as she expressed it, weaned her. We read him to-

gether when I cou ld find time, and the generous creature’s sacrifice

was fed by our com mun ion. There were twenty selfish women abou t



174

whom I told her and who stirred her to a beautiful rage. Immedi-

ately after my first visit her sister, Mrs. Milsom, came over from

Paris, and the two ladies began to present, as they called it, their

letters. I thanked our stars that none had been presented to Mr.

Paraday. T hey received invitations and dined out, and some of these

occasions enabled Fann y H ur ter to p erform , for con sistency’s sake,

touching feats of submission. N oth ing indeed wou ld now have in-

duced her even to look at th e object of her admiration. O nce, hear-

ing his name announced at a party, she instantly left the room by

another door and then straightway quitted the house. At anothertime when I was at the opera with them— M rs. Milsom had invited

me to their box— I attempted to point M r. Paraday out to her in the

stalls. O n th is she asked h er sister to change places with her and ,

while that lady devoured the great man through a powerful glass,

presented, all the rest of the evening, her inspired back to th e hou se.

To torment her tenderly I pressed the glass upon her, telling her

how wonderfully near it brought our friend’s handsome head. Byway of answer she simply looked at me in charged silence, letting

me see that tears had gathered in her eyes. These tears, I may re-

mark, produced an effect on me of which the end is not yet. There

was a moment when I felt it my duty to mention them to Neil

Paraday, but I was deterred by the reflexion that there were ques-

tion s more relevant to his happiness.

T hese question indeed, by the end of the season, were reduced to

a single one—the question of reconstitu ting so far as might be pos-

sible the conditions under which he had produced his best work.

Such condit ions could n ever all com e back, for there was a new on e

that t ook up too m uch p lace; but some perhaps were not beyond

recall. I want ed above all th ings to see him sit down to the sub ject

he had, on my making his acquaintance, read me that admirable

sketch of. Som ething told m e there was no security but in h is doing

so before the new factor, as we used to say at M r. Pinhorn’s, should




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H enry Jam es

render the problem incalculable. It only half-reassured me that the

sketch itself was so copious and so eloquent that even at the worst

there would be the making of a small but complete book, a tiny

volum e which, for th e faithful, might well becom e an object of ado-

ration. There would even not be wanting critics to declare, I fore-

saw, that the plan was a thing to be more thankful for than the

stru cture to have been reared on it. My impatience for the structure,

none the less, grew and grew with the interruptions. He had on

coming up t o town begun t o sit for his port rait to a young paint er,

Mr. Rumble, whose little game, as we also used to say at Mr.Pinhorn’s, was to be th e first to perch on the shoulders of renown.

M r. Rumble’s studio was a circus in which the m an of the hour, and

still more the woman, leaped through the hoops of his showy frames

almost as electrically as th ey bu rst into telegrams and “specials.” H e

pranced into the exhibitions on their back; he was the repor ter on

canvas, the Vandyke up to date, and there was one roaring year in

which M rs. Bounder and M iss Braby, Guy Walsingham and D oraForbes proclaimed in chorus from the same pictured walls that no

one had yet got ahead of him.

Paraday had been prom ptly caught and saddled, accept ing with

characteristic good-humour his confidential hint that to figure in

his show was not so m uch a consequence as a cause of immortality.

From Mrs. Wimbush to the last “representative” who called to as-

certain his twelve favourite dishes, it was the same ingenuous as-

sumption that he would rejoice in the repercussion. There were

moments when I fancied I might have had m ore patience with them

if they hadn’t been so fatally benevolent. I hated at all events Mr.

Rumble’s picture, and had my bott led resentment ready when, later

on, I found my distracted friend had been stuffed by M rs. Wimbu sh

into the mouth of another cann on. A youn g artist in whom she was

intensely interested, and who had no conn exion with M r. Rum ble,

was to show how far he could m ake him go. Poor Paraday, in return,



176

was naturally to write som ething somewhere about the young art-

ist. She p layed h er victims against each other with adm irable inge-

nuity, and her establishm ent was a huge machine in which th e tini-

est and the biggest wheels went round to the same treadle. I had a

scene with her in which I tried to express that the fun ction of such

a man was to exercise his genius—not to serve as a hoarding for

pictorial posters. The people I was perhaps angriest with were the

editors of magazines who had introdu ced what th ey called n ew fea-

tu res, so aware were they that the newest feature of all would be to

make him grind their axes by cont ributing his views on vital topicsand taking part in the periodical prattle abou t the future of fiction.

I made sure that before I should have done with him there would

scarcely be a current form of words left m e to be sick of; but m ean-

while I could make surer still of my animosity to bustling ladies for

whom he drew the water that irrigated their social flower-beds.

I had a battle with M rs. Wimbush over the artist she protected,

and another over the qu estion of a certain week, at the end of July,that M r. Paraday appeared to have contracted to spend with her in

the country. I protested against this visit; I intimated that he was

too unwell for hospitality without a nuance, for caresses without

imagination; I begged he might rather take the tim e in som e restor-

ative way. A sultry air of promises, of ponderous parties, hung over

his August, and he would greatly profit by the interval of rest. He

hadn’t told me he was ill again that he had had a warning; but I

hadn’t needed this, for I found his reticence his worst symptom.

The only thing he said to me was that he believed a comfortable

attack of something or other would set him up: it would put out of

the question everything but the exemptions he prized. I’m afraid I

shall have presented him as a martyr in a very small cause if I fail to

explain that he surrendered himself mu ch m ore liberally than I sur-

rendered him. H e filled h is lungs, for th e most part; with the com-

edy of his queer fate: the tragedy was in the spectacles th rough which




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H enry Jam es

I chose to look. H e was conscious of incon venience, and above all

of a great renou ncement; bu t h ow could he have heard a m ere dirge

in the bells of his accession? The sagacity and the jealousy were

mine, and his the impressions and the harvest. O f course, as regards

M rs. Wimbush, I was worsted in m y encoun ters, for wasn’t the state

of his health the very reason for his coming to her at Prestidge?

Wasn’t it precisely at Prestidge that he was to be coddled, and wasn’t

the dear Princess coming to h elp her to coddle him? T he dear Prin-

cess, now on a visit to En gland , was of a famous foreign house, and,

in h er gilded cage, with her retinue of keepers and feeders, was themost expensive specimen in the good lady’s collection . I don’t think

her august presence had had to do with Paraday’s consent ing to go,

but it’s not impossible he had operated as a bait to the illustrious

stranger. The party had been made up for him, Mrs. Wimbush

averred, and every one was coun ting on it, the dear Princess most of

all. If he was well enough he was to read them som ething absolutely

fresh, and it was on that particular prospect the Princess had set herheart. She was so fond of genius in an y walk of life, and was so used

to it and understood it so well: she was th e greatest of M r. Paraday’s

adm irers, she devoured everything he wrote. And then he read like

an angel. Mrs. Wimbush reminded m e that he had again and again

given her, M rs. Wimbush, the privilege of listening to h im.

I looked at her a mom ent. “W hat h as he read to you?” I crud ely

enquired.

For a moment too she met my eyes, and for the fraction of a

moment she hesitated and coloured. “Oh all sorts of things!”

I won dered if this were an imperfect recollection or only a perfect

fib, and she quite understood my unu ttered comment on her mea-

sure of such things. But if she could forget Neil Paraday’s beauties

she could of course forget my rudeness, and three days later she

invited me, by telegraph, to join the party at Prestidge. T his time

she might indeed h ave had a story about what I had given up to be



178

near the master. I addressed from that fine residence several com-

munications to a young lady in London, a young lady whom, I

confess, I qu itted with reluctance and whom the reminder of what

she herself could give up was required to m ake me quit at all. It adds

to the gratitud e I owe her on other groun ds that she kindly allows

me to t ranscribe from my letters a few of the passages in wh ich th at

hateful sojourn is candidly com memorated.




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER IX

“I SUPPOSE I O U G H T to enjoy the joke of what’s going on here,” I

wrote, “but somehow it doesn’t amuse me. Pessimism on the con-

trary possesses me an d cynicism deeply engages. I positively feel my

own flesh sore from th e brass nails in N eil Paraday’s social harness.

T he hou se is full of people who like him , as they ment ion, awfully,

and with whom his talent for talking nonsense has prodigious

success. I delight in his nonsense myself; why is it therefore that I

grudge these happy folk their artless satisfaction? Mystery of the

hu man heart— abyss of the critical spirit! M rs. Wimbush thinks shecan answer that question , and as my want of gaiety has at last worn

out her patience she has given me a glimpse of her shrewd guess.

I’m made restless by the selfishness of the insincere friend—I want

to monopolise Paraday in order that he may push me on. To be

intim ate with him is a feather in my cap; it gives me an impor tance

that I couldn’t naturally pretend to, and I seek to deprive him of

social refreshment because I fear that meeting more disinterestedpeople may enlighten him as to my real motive. All the disinter-

ested people here are his part icular admirers and have been carefully

selected as such. There’s supposed to be a copy of his last book in

the house, and in the hall I com e upon ladies, in attitudes, bending

gracefully over the first volum e. I discreetly avert my eyes, and when

I next look round the precarious joy has been superseded by the

book of life. There’s a sociable circle or a confidential couple, and

the relinquished volume lies open on its face and as dropped un der



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H enry Jam es

that h is condition m akes him un easy—h as even p romised m e he’ll

go straight home instead of returning to his final engagements in

town. Last n ight I had som e talk with h im about going to-day, cut-

ting his visit short; so sure am I that he’ll be better as soon as he’s

shu t up in h is lighthouse. H e told me that th is is what he would like

to d o; reminding me, however, that th e first lesson of his

greatness has been precisely that he can’t do what he likes. Mrs.

W imbush would never forgive him if he should leave her before the

Princess has received th e last h and. When I hint that a violent ru p-

ture with our h ostess would be the best thing in the world for himhe gives me to understand that if his reason assent s to t he proposi-

tion his courage han gs woefully back. H e makes no secret of being

mortally afraid of her, and when I ask what harm she can do him

th at she hasn’t already done he simp ly repeats: ‘I’m afraid, I’m afraid!

D on’t enquire too closely,’ he said last night ; ‘on ly believe th at I feel

a sort of terror. It’s strange, when she’s so kind! At any rate, I’d as

soon overturn that piece of priceless Sevres as tell her I must gobefore my date.’ It soun ds dreadfully weak, but h e has som e reason ,

and he pays for his imagination, which put s him (I should hate it)

in the place of others and makes him feel, even against himself,

their feelings, their appetites, their motives. It’s indeed inveterately

against h imself that he makes his imagination act. W hat a pity he

has such a lot of it! H e’s too beastly intelligent . Besides, the famous

reading’s still to com e off, and it has been postponed a day to allow

Guy Walsingham to arrive. It app ears th is eminent lady’s staying at

a hou se a few miles off, which m eans of course that M rs. Wimbush

has forcibly ann exed her. She’s to com e over in a d ay or two— M rs.

W imbush wants her to hear M r. Paraday.

“To-day’s wet and cold, and several of the company, at th e invita-

tion of the D uke, have driven over to luncheon at Bigwood. I saw

poor Paraday wedge himself, by command, into the little supple-

mentary seat of a brougham in which the Princess and our hostess



182

were already ensconced. If the front glass isn’t open on his dear old

back perhaps he’ll survive. Bigwood, I believe, is very grand and

frigid, all marble and precedence, and I wish him well out of the

adventu re. I can’t tell you how m uch more and more your attitude

to h im, in the midst of all this, shin es out by con trast. I never will-

ingly talk to these people abou t h im, but see what a com fort I find

it to scribble to you! I appreciate it—it keeps me warm; there are no

fires in the house. Mrs. Wimbush goes by the calendar, the tem-

peratu re goes by the weather, the weather goes by God knows what ,

and the Princess is easily heated. I’ve nothing but my acrimony towarm m e, and have been out under an umbrella to restore my cir-

culation. Coming in an hour ago I foun d Lady Augusta Minch rum -

maging about t he hall. W hen I asked her what she was looking for

she said she had m islaid som ething that M r. Paraday had lent her. I

ascertained in a moment that the article in question is a manu-

script, and I’ve a foreboding that it’s the n oble morsel he read m e six

weeks ago. W hen I expressed m y surp rise that he should have ban-died about anyth ing so precious (I happen to know it’s his only

copy—in the m ost beaut iful hand in all the world) Lady Augusta

confessed to m e that she hadn’t had it from h imself, but from M rs.

W imbush, who had wished to give her a glimpse of it as a salve for

her not being able to stay and hear it read.

“‘Is that the piece he’s to read,’ I asked, ‘when Guy Walsingham

arrives?’

“‘It’s not for Guy Walsingham they’re waiting now, it’s for Dora

Forbes,’ Lady Augusta said. ‘She’s coming, I believe, early to-mor-

row. Meanwhile Mrs. Wimbush has foun d ou t about him, and is

actively wiring to h im. She says he also m ust hear him.’

“‘You bewilder m e a little,’ I replied; ‘in the age we live in one gets

lost among the genders and the pronouns. The clear thing is that

Mrs. Wimbush doesn’t guard such a treasure so jealously as she

might.’




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H enry Jam es

“‘Poor dear, she has the Princess to guard! Mr. Paraday lent her

the manuscript to look over.’

“‘She spoke, you mean, as if it were the morning paper?’

“Lady Augusta stared— my irony was lost on her. ‘She didn’t have

time, so she gave me a chance first; because un fortunately I go to-

morrow to Bigwood.’

“‘And your chance has only proved a chance to lose it?’

“‘I haven’t lost it. I remem ber now— it was very stupid of me to

have forgotten. I told m y maid to give it to Lord D orimon t— or at

least to h is man.’“‘And Lord D orimont went away directly after luncheon .’

“‘Of course he gave it back to my maid—or else his man did,’

said Lady Augusta. ‘I dare say it’s all right.’

“T he conscience of these people is like a summer sea. T hey haven’t

tim e to look over a priceless com position; they’ve on ly tim e to kick

it about the house. I suggested that the ‘man,’ fired with a noble

emulation, h ad perhaps kept the work for his own perusal; and herladyship wanted to know whether, if the thing shouldn’t reappear

for the grand occasion appointed by our hostess, the author wouldn’t

have som ething else to read th at would do just as well. T heir ques-

tion s are too delightful! I declared to Lady Augusta briefly that noth-

ing in the world can ever do so well as the thing that does best; and

at th is she looked a little disconcerted. But I added that if the manu-

script had gone astray our little circle would have the less of an

effort of attention to make. Th e piece in question was very long—it

would keep th em th ree hou rs.

“‘T hree hou rs! O h th e Princess will get up!’ said Lady Augusta.

“‘I thought she was Mr. Paraday’s greatest admirer.’

“‘I dare say she is—she’s so awfully clever. But what’s the use of

being a Princess— ‘

“‘If you can’t dissemble your love?’ I asked as Lady Augusta was

vague. She said at any rate she’d question her maid; and I’m hoping



184

that when I go down to d inner I shall find t he manuscript has been

recovered.”




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER X

“IT H AS N OT BEEN RECOVERED ,” I wrote early the next day, “and I’m

moreover much troubled about our friend. He came back from

Bigwood with a chill and , being allowed to have a fire in his room ,

lay down a while before dinner. I tried to send him to bed and

indeed thought I had put him in the way of it; but after I had gone

to dress Mrs. Wimbush came up to see him, with the inevitable

result that when I returned I found him under arms and flushed

and feverish, though decorated with the rare flower she had brought

him for his button-hole. He came down to dinner, but Lady Au-gusta M inch was very shy of him. To-day he’s in great pain, and the

advent of ces dames—I mean of Guy Walsingham and Dora

Forbes— doesn’t at all console me. It does M rs. Wimbush, however,

for she has consented to h is remaining in bed so th at he may be all

right to-morrow for the listening circle. Guy Walsingham’s already

on the scene, and the Doctor for Paraday also arrived early. I haven’t

yet seen the author of ‘O bsessions,’ bu t of course I’ve had a mo-ment by myself with the D octor. I tried to get h im to say that our

invalid m ust go straight home—I mean to-morrow or next day; but

he quite refuses to talk about the future. Absolute quiet and warmth

and the regular adm inistration of an important remedy are the points

he m ainly insists on. H e returns this afternoon, and I’m to go back

to see the patient at on e o’clock, when he next takes his medicine. It

consoles me a little that h e certainly won’t be able to read— an exer-

tion he was already more than un fit for. Lady Augusta went off after



186

breakfast, assuring m e her first care would be to follow up the lost

manu script. I can see she thinks me a shocking busybody and doesn’t

understand my alarm, bu t she’ll do what she can, for she’s a good-

natured woman. ‘So are they all honourable men.’ That was pre-

cisely what made her give the thing to Lord Dorimont and made

Lord D orimont bag it. W hat use he has for it G od on ly knows. I’ve

the worst forebodings, but somehow I’m strangely without passion—

desperately calm. As I consider the un conscious, the well-meaning

ravages of our appreciative circle I bow my head in submission to

some great natural, some universal accident; I’m rendered almostindifferent, in fact quite gay (ha-ha!) by the sense of immitigable

fate. Lady Augusta prom ises me to t race the precious object and let

me have it through the post by the time Paraday’s well enough to

play his part with it . T he last evidence is that her maid did give it to

his lordship’s valet. O ne would suppose it som e thrilling number of

the family budget . Mrs. Wimbush, who’s aware of the accident, is

much less agitated by it than she would doubtless be were she notfor the hour inevitably engrossed with Guy Walsingham.”

Later in the day I informed m y correspon dent, for whom indeed

I kept a loose diary of the situation, that I had made the acquain-

tance of this celebrity and that she was a pretty little girl who wore

her hair in what used to be called a crop. She looked so juvenile and

so innocent that if, as Mr. Morrow had announced, she was re-

signed to the larger latitude, her sup eriority to prejud ice must have

come to her early. I spent most of the day hovering about Neil

Paraday’s room , bu t it was comm un icated to me from below that

Guy Walsingham , at Prestidge, was a success. Toward evening I be-

came conscious somehow that her superiority was contagious, and

by the time the company separated for the night I was sure the

larger latitude had been generally accepted. I thought of D ora Forbes

and felt that he had no time to lose. Before dinner I received a

telegram from Lady Augusta Minch. “Lord Dorimont thinks he




187

H enry Jam es

must have left bund le in train— enqu ire.” H ow could I enquire— if

I was to t ake the word as a comm and? I was too worried and now

too alarmed about N eil Paraday. T he D octor came back, and it was

an imm ense satisfaction to me to be sure he was wise and interested.

H e was proud of being called t o so distinguished a patient, bu t he

admitted to me that night that my friend was gravely ill. It was

really a relapse, a recrudescence of his old malady. There could be

no question of moving him: we must at any rate see first, on the

spot, what turn his condition would t ake. M eanwhile, on the m or-

row, he was to h ave a nurse. O n the morrow the dear man waseasier, and my spirits rose to such cheerfulness that I could almost

laugh over Lady Augusta’s second telegram: “Lord Dorimont’s ser-

vant been to station— nothing foun d. Push enqu iries.” I did laugh,

I’m sure, as I remembered this to be the m ystic scroll I had scarcely

allowed poor M r. Morrow to point his um brella at. Fool that I had

been: the th irty-seven influent ial journals wouldn’t have destroyed

it, th ey’d only have printed it. O f course I said noth ing to Paraday.W hen the n urse arrived she turned m e out of the room, on which

I went downstairs. I should premise that at breakfast the news that

our brilliant friend was doing well excited universal complacency,

and the Princess graciously remarked that he was only to be com-

miserated for missing the society of Miss Collop. Mrs. Wimbush,

whose social gift never shone bright er than in the dry decorum with

which she accepted this fizzle in her fireworks, mentioned to me

that Guy Walsingham had made a very favourable impression on

her Imperial Highness. Indeed I think every one did so, and that,

like the mon ey-market or the national honour, her Imperial H igh-

ness was constitutionally sensitive. There was a certain gladness, a

perceptible bustle in the air, however, which I thought slightly

anomalous in a house where a great author lay critically ill. “ Le roy

est m ort— viv e le roy”: I was reminded that another great author had

already stepped into his shoes. When I came down again after the



188

nurse had taken possession I found a strange gentleman hanging

about the hall and pacing to and fro by the closed door of the draw-

ing-room. This personage was florid and bald; he had a big red

moustache and wore showy kn ickerbockers— characteristics all that

fitted to my conception of the identity of Dora Forbes. In a mo-

ment I saw what had happened: the author of “The O ther Way

Round” had just alighted at the portals of Prestidge, but had suf-

fered a scruple to restrain him from penetrating further. I recognised

his scrup le when , pausing to listen at h is gestu re of caution , I heard

a shrill voice lifted in a sort of rhythmic uncanny chant. The fa-mous reading had begun, only it was the author of “Obsessions”

who now furnished the sacrifice. The new visitor whispered to me

that he judged som ething was going on he oughtn’t to interrup t.

“Miss Collop arrived last n ight,” I smiled, “and the Princess has a

th irst for the inedit.”

D ora Forbes lifted h is bushy brows. “M iss C ollop?”

“Guy Walsingham, your distinguished confrere—or shall I sayyour form idable rival?”

“O h!” growled D ora Forbes. T hen he added: “Shall I spoil it if I

go in?”

“I should think noth ing could spoil it!” I ambiguously laughed.

D ora Forbes evidently felt the dilemma; he gave an irritated crook

to h is moustache. “Shall I go in?” he presently asked.

We looked at each other hard a moment; then I expressed some-

th ing bitter that was in m e, expressed it in an infernal “Do!” After this

I got out into the air, but not so fast as not to hear, when the door of

the drawing-room opened, the disconcerted drop of Miss Collop’s

public mann er: she must have been in the midst of the larger latitude.

Producing with extreme rapidity, Guy Walsingham has just published

a work in which amiable people who are not initiated have been pained

to see the genius of a sister-novelist held up to unmistakeable ridicule;

so fresh an exhibition does it seem to them of the dreadful way men




189

H enry Jam es

have always treated wom en. D ora Forbes, it’s true, at the present hour,

is imm ensely pushed by M rs. Wimbush and has sat for his portrait to

the young artists she protects, sat for it not on ly in oils but in m onu-

mental alabaster.

What happened at Prestidge later in the day is of course

contemporary history. If the interruption I had whimsically sanc-

tioned was almost a scandal, what is to be said of that general scatter

of the com pany which, u nd er the D octor’s rule, began to take place

in the evening? H is rule was soothing to behold, small com fort as I

was to have at the end. He decreed in the interest of his patient anabsolut ely soundless house and a consequen t break-up of the party.

Little country p ractitioner as he was, he literally packed off the Prin-

cess. She departed as promptly as if a revolution had broken out,

and Guy Walsingham emigrated with her. I was kindly permitted to

remain, and this was not denied even to M rs. Wimbush. T he privi-

lege was withheld indeed from D ora Forbes; so M rs. W imbush kept

her latest capture temporarily concealed. This was so little, how-ever, her usual way of dealing with her eminent friends that a coup le

of days of it exhausted h er patience, and she went up to t own with

him in great publicity. The sudden turn for the worse her afflicted

guest had, after a brief improvement, taken on the third n ight raised

an obstacle to her seeing him before her retreat; a fortun ate circum -

stance doubtless, for she was fundamentally disappointed in him.

This was not the kind of performance for which she had invited

him to Prestidge, let alone invited the Princess. I must add that

none of the generous acts marking her patronage of intellectual and

other merit have done so much for her reputation as her lending

N eil Paraday the m ost beaut iful of her numerous homes to d ie in.

H e took advantage to the utm ost of the singular favour. D ay by day

I saw him sink, and I roamed alone about the empty terraces and

gardens. H is wife never came near him, bu t I scarcely noticed it: as

I paced there with rage in m y heart I was too full of anoth er wrong.



190

In the event of his death it would fall to m e perhaps to bring ou t in

some charming form, with notes, with the tenderest editorial care,

that precious heritage of his written project. But where was that

precious heritage and were both the author and the book to have

been snatched from us? Lady Augusta wrote me th at she had done

all she could and that poor Lord Dorimont, who had really been

worried to death, was extremely sorry. I couldn’t have the matter

out with M rs. Wimbush, for I didn’t want t o be taun ted by her with

desiring to aggrandise myself by a public connexion with Mr.

Paraday’s sweepings. She had signified her willingness to meet theexpense of all advertising, as indeed she was always ready to do. The

last n ight of the horrible series, th e night before he d ied, I pu t my

ear closer to his pillow.

“T hat th ing I read you that morning, you know.”

“In your garden th at d readful day? Yes!”

“Won’t it do as it is?”

“It would have been a glorious book.”“It is a glorious book,” Neil Paraday murmured. “Print it as it

stands—beautifully.”

“Beautifully!” I passionately promised.

It may be imagined whether, now that he’s gone, the promise

seems to me less sacred. I’m convinced that if such pages had ap-

peared in his lifetime the Abbey would hold him to-day. I’ve kept

the advertising in m y own hands, but the manuscript has not been

recovered. It’s impossible, and at any rate intolerable, to suppose it

can have been wanton ly destroyed. Perhaps som e hazard of a blind

hand, some brutal fatal ignorance has lighted kitchen-fires with it.

Every stupid and hideous accident haunts my meditations. My

undiscourageable search for the lost treasure would make a long

chapter. Fortun ately I’ve a devoted associate in th e person of a young

lady who has every day a fresh indignation and a fresh idea, and

who maintains with intensity that the prize will still turn up. Som e-




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H enry Jam es

tim es I believe her, bu t I’ve quite ceased to believe myself. The on ly

thing for us at all events is to go on seeking and hoping together;

and we should be closely un ited by this firm tie even were we not at

present by another.



192

T he D iary of a M an

of Fifty

by

Henry James

FLORENCE, APRIL 5T H , 1874.—They told me I should find Italygreatly changed; and in seven-and-twenty years there is room for

changes. But to me everything is so perfectly the same that I seem

to be living my youth over again; all the forgotten impressions of

that enchanting time come back to me. At the moment they were

powerful enough; but they afterwards faded away. What in the world

became of them? Whatever becomes of such things, in the long

intervals of consciousness? W here do they hide themselves away? inwhat unvisited cupboards and crannies of our being do they pre-

serve themselves? T hey are like th e lines of a letter written in sympa-

thetic ink; hold the letter to the fire for a while and the grateful

warmth brings out the invisible words. It is the warmth of this yel-

low sun of Florence that has been restoring the text of my own

young romance; the thing has been lying before me today as a clear,

fresh page. T here have been m om ents during the last ten years when

I have fell so portentously old, so fagged and finished, th at I should

T he D iary of a M an of Fifty



193

H enry Jam es

have taken as a very bad joke any intim ation that th is present sense

of juvenility was still in store for me. It won’t last, at any rate; so I

had better m ake the best of it. But I confess it surprises me. I have

led too serious a life; bu t that perhaps, after all, preserves one’s youth .

At all events, I have travelled too far, I h ave worked too hard, I have

lived in bru tal climates and associated with tiresom e people. When

a man has reached his fifty-second year without being, materially,

the worse for wear—when he has fair health, a fair fortune, a tidy

conscience and a complete exempt ion from embarrassing relatives—

I suppose he is bound, in delicacy, to write himself happy. But Iconfess I shirk this obligation . I have not been m iserable; I won’t go

so far as to say that—or at least as to write it. But happiness—

positive happiness—would have been something different. I don’t

know that it would have been better, by all measurements—that it

would have left me better off at the present time. But it certainly

would h ave made this difference— that I should not have been re-

du ced, in pursuit of pleasant images, to disinter a bu ried episode of more than a quarter of a century ago. I should have found enter-

tainment more—what shall I call it?—more contemporaneous. I

shou ld have had a wife and children, and I should n ot be in the way

of making, as the French say, infidelities to the present . O f course

it’s a great gain to have had an escape, not to have committed an act

of thumping folly; and I suppose that, whatever serious step one

might h ave taken at twenty-five, after a stru ggle, and with a violent

effort, and however one’s conduct might appear to be justified by

events, there would always remain a certain element of regret; a

certain sense of loss lurking in the sense of gain; a tendency to won -

der, rather wishfully, what might have been. What m ight have been,

in t his case, would, without d oub t, have been very sad, and what

has been h as been very cheerful and comfortable; bu t there are nev-

ertheless two or three questions I might ask myself. Why, for in-

stance, have I never married—why have I never been able to care



194

for any woman as I cared for th at one? Ah, why are the m oun tains

blue and why is the sun shine warm? H appiness mitigated by imper-

tinent conjectures— that’s abou t my ticket.

6T H .— I knew it wouldn’t last; it’s already passing away. But I h ave

spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place. Every-

thing reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same

time; my imagination makes a great circuit and comes back to the

starting-point. There is that well-remembered odour of spring in

the air, and the flowers, as they used to be, are gathered into greatsheaves and stacks, all along the rugged base of the Strozzi Palace. I

wandered for an hour in th e Boboli Gardens; we went there several

times together. I remember all those days ind ividually; they seem to

me as yesterday. I foun d the corner where she always chose to sit—

the bench of sun -warmed marble, in front of the screen of ilex, with

that exuberant statue of Pomona just beside it. The place is exactly

the same, except that poor Pomona has lost one of her tapering fin-gers. I sat there for half an hour, and it was strange how near to m e she

seemed. The place was perfectly empty—that is, it was filled with

H ER. I closed my eyes and listened; I could almost hear the rustle of

her dress on the gravel. Why do we make such an ado about death?

W hat is it, after all, but a sort of refinement of life? She died ten years

ago, and yet, as I sat there in the sunny stillness, she was a palpable,

audible presence. I went afterwards into the gallery of the palace, and

wandered for an hour from room to room. The same great pictures

hung in the same places, and the same dark frescoes arched above

them. Twice, of old, I went there with her; she had a great under-

standing of art. She understood all sorts of things. Before the Ma-

don na of the Chair I stood a long time. T he face is not a particle like

hers, and yet it reminded me of her. But everything does that. We

stood and looked at it together once for half an hour; I remember

perfectly what she said.




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H enry Jam es

8T H .— Yesterday I felt blue— blue and bored; and when I got up

this morning I had half a mind to leave Florence. But I went out

into t he street, beside the Arno, and looked up and down— looked

at th e yellow river and the violet h ills, and then decided to remain—

or rather, I decided noth ing. I simply stood gazing at th e beauty of

Florence, and before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour

again, and it was too late to start for Rome. I strolled along the

quay, where something presently happened that rewarded me for

staying. I stopped in front of a little jeweller’s shop, where a great

many objects in m osaic were exposed in the window; I stood therefor some minutes—I don’t know why, for I have no taste for mo-

saic. In a moment a little girl came and stood beside me—a little

girl with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket. I tu rned away, bu t,

as I tu rned, m y eyes happened to fall on her basket. It was covered

with a napkin, and on the napkin was pinn ed a piece of paper, in-

scribed with an address. This address caught my glance— there was

a name on it I knew. It was very legibly written—evidently by ascribe who h ad m ade up in zeal what was lacking in skill. Con tessa

Salvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina—so ran th e superscription ; I looked

at it for som e moments; it caused m e a sudden emot ion. Presently

the little girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me,

wondering, with a pair of timid brown eyes.

“Are you carrying your basket to the Countess Salvi?” I asked.

The child stared at me. “To the Countess Scarabelli.”

“D o you kn ow the Coun tess?”

“Know her?” murmured the child, with an air of small dismay.

“I m ean, have you seen her?”

“Yes, I have seen her.” And then, in a mom ent , with a sud den soft

smile—”E bella!” said th e little girl. She was beautiful h erself as she

said it.

“Precisely; and is she fair or dark?”

The child kept gazing at me. “Bionda—bionda,” she answered,



196

looking abou t into the golden sunshine for a comparison .

“And is she young?”

“She is not young—like me. But she is not old like—like—”

“Like me, eh? And is she married?”

The little girl began to look wise. “I have never seen the Signor

Conte.”

“And she lives in Via G hibellina?”

“Sicuro. In a beaut iful palace.”

I had one more question to ask, and I pointed it with certain

copper coins. “Tell me a little—is she good?”The child inspected a moment the contents of her little brown

fist. “It’s you who are good,” she answered.

“Ah, but the Countess?” I repeated.

My informant lowered her big brown eyes, with an air of consci-

entious meditation that was inexpressibly quaint. “To me she ap-

pears so,” she said at last, looking up.

“Ah, th en, she must be so,” I said, “because, for your age, you arevery intelligent.” And having delivered myself of this comp liment I

walked away and left the litt le girl coun ting her soldi.

I walked back to the hotel, wondering how I could learn some-

thing about the Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli. In the doorway I found

the innkeeper, and n ear him stood a young m an whom I imm edi-

ately perceived to be a compatriot, and with whom , apparently, he

had been in conversation.

“I wonder whether you can give me a piece of information,” I said

to the landlord. “Do you know anything about the Count Salvi-

Scarabelli?”

T he landlord looked down at his boots, then slowly raised his shoul-

ders, with a melancholy smile. “I have many regrets, dear sir—”

“You don’t know the name?”

“I know the name, assuredly. But I don’t know the gentleman.”

I saw that my question had attracted the attention of the young




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H enry Jam es

Englishm an, who looked at m e with a good deal of earnestness. H e

was apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided

to speak.

“The Count Scarabelli is dead,” he said, very gravely.

I looked at h im a mom ent ; he was a pleasing youn g fellow. “And

his widow lives,” I observed, “in Via Ghibellina?”

“I daresay that is the name of the street.” He was a handsome

young Englishman, but he was also an awkward one; he wondered

who I was and what I wanted, and he did m e the hon our to perceive

that, as regards these poin ts, my appearance was reassuring. But hehesitated, very properly, to talk with a perfect stranger about a lady

whom he knew, and h e had not the art to conceal his hesitation . I

instantly felt it to be singular that though he regarded me as a per-

fect stranger, I had n ot the same feeling about him. W hether it was

that I had seen him before, or simply that I was struck with his

agreeable youn g face—at an y rate, I felt m yself, as th ey say here, in

sympathy with h im. If I have seen h im before I don’t remember theoccasion, and neither, apparently, does he; I suppose it’s only a part

of the feeling I have had the last three days abou t everything. It was

th is feeling that made me suddenly act as if I had known h im a long

time.

“D o you know the Countess Salvi?” I asked.

H e looked at m e a little, and then, without resenting the freedom

of my question— ”The C oun tess Scarabelli, you mean,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered; “she’s the daughter.”

“T he daughter is a litt le girl.”

“She must be grown up now. She must be—let me see—close

upon thirty.”

My youn g Englishm an began t o smile. “O f whom are you speak-

ing?”

“I was speaking of the daught er,” I said, un derstanding h is smile.

“But I was th inking of the mother.”



198

“O f the mother?”

“O f a person I kn ew twenty-seven years ago— the most charming

wom an I have ever known. She was the Countess Salvi— she lived

in a wond erful old hou se in Via Ghibellina.”

“A wonderful old h ouse!” my young Englishm an repeated.

“She had a little girl,” I went on; “and the little girl was very fair,

like her mother; and the mother and d aughter had the same name—

Bianca.” I stopped and looked at my comp anion, and he blushed a

little. “And Bianca Salvi,” I continued, “was the most charming

woman in the world.” H e blushed a little more, and I laid m y handon his shoulder. “Do you know why I tell you this? Because you

remind me of what I was when I kn ew her—when I loved her.” My

poor young Englishm an gazed at me with a sort of embarrassed and

fascinated stare, and still I went on. “I say that’s the reason I told

you th is— but you’ll th ink it a strange reason. You remind me of my

younger self. You needn’t resent that—I was a charming young fel-

low. T he C oun tess Salvi thought so. H er daughter th inks the sameof you.”

Instantly, instinctively, he raised his hand to my arm. “Truly?”

“Ah, you are wonderfully like me!” I said, laughing. “That was

just my state of mind. I wanted trem endously to please her.” H e

dropped h is hand and looked away, smiling, but with an air of in-

genuous confusion which quickened my interest in h im. “You don’t

know what to m ake of me,” I pursued. “You don’t kn ow why a

stranger should suddenly address you in this way and pretend to

read your thoughts. Doub tless you th ink m e a little cracked. Per-

haps I am eccentric; but it’s not so bad as that. I have lived about the

world a great deal, following my profession, which is that of a sol-

dier. I have been in India, in Africa, in Canada, and I have lived a

good d eal alone. T hat inclines people, I think, to sud den bursts of

confidence. A week ago I came into Italy, where I spent six months

when I was your age. I came straight t o Florence— I was eager to see




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H enry Jam es

it again, on account of associations. T hey have been crowding upon

me ever so thickly. I have taken the liberty of giving you a hint of

them.” The young man inclined himself a little, in silence, as if he

had been struck with a sudden respect. H e stood and looked away

for a mom ent at the river and t he m ountains. “It’s very beautiful,” I

said.

“O h, it’s enchanting,” he murmured.

“T hat’s the way I used to talk. But that’s noth ing to you.”

H e glanced at me again. “O n the contrary, I like to hear.”

“Well, th en, let us take a walk. If you too are staying at th is inn ,we are fellow-travellers. We will walk down the Arno to the Cascine.

T here are several th ings I should like to ask of you.”

My young Englishman assented with an air of almost filial confi-

dence, and we strolled for an hour beside the river and through the

shady alleys of th at lovely wilderness. We had a great deal of talk: it’s

not only myself, it’s my whole situation over again.

“Are you very fond of Italy?” I asked.H e hesitated a mom ent . “O ne can’t express that.”

“Just so; I cou ldn’t express it. I used to t ry— I used to write verses.

O n the sub ject of Italy I was very ridiculous.”

“So am I ridiculous,” said my com panion.

“No, m y dear boy,” I answered, “we are not ridiculous; we are two

very reasonable, sup erior people.”

“T he first t ime one comes— as I have don e—it’s a revelation .”

“O h, I remember well; one never forgets it. It’s an in troduction t o

beauty.”

“And it m ust be a great p leasure,” said my young friend, “to com e

back.”

“Yes, fortunately the beauty is always here. What form of it,” I

asked, “do you prefer?”

My com pan ion looked a little mystified; and at last h e said, “I am

very fond of the pictures.”



200

“So was I. And among the pictures, which do you like best?”

“O h, a great many.”

“So did I; bu t I had certain favourites.”

Again the young man hesitated a little, and then he confessed that

the group of painters he preferred, on the whole, to all others, was

that of the early Florentines.

I was so struck with this that I stopped short. “That was exactly

my taste!” And then I passed my hand into his arm and we went our

way again.

We sat down on an old stone bench in the C ascine, and a solemnblank-eyed H ermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages,

stood above us and listened to our talk.

“T he Countess Salvi died ten years ago,” I said.

My comp anion admitted that he had heard her daught er say so.

“After I knew her she married again,” I added. “The Coun t Salvi

died before I knew her— a coup le of years after th eir marriage.”

“Yes, I h ave heard t hat.”“And what else have you heard?”

My companion stared at m e; he had evident ly heard noth ing.

“She was a very interesting woman— there are a great many th ings

to be said abou t her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. H as the daughter

the same charm?”

“You forget,” said m y young man, smiling, “th at I have never seen

the m other.”

“Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter—how long have

you known h er?”

“O nly since I have been here. A very short time.”

“A week?”

For a mom ent he said noth ing. “A month .”

“T hat’s just the answer I should have made. A week, a month— it

was all the same to me.”

“I think it is more than a m onth,” said t he youn g man.




201

H enry Jam es

“It’s probably six. H ow did you make her acquaintan ce?”

“By a letter—an introd uction given me by a friend in England.”

“The analogy is complete,” I said. “But the friend who gave me

my letter to M adame de Salvi died m any years ago. H e, too, ad-

mired her greatly. I don’t know why it never came into my mind

that her daughter m ight be living in Florence. Som ehow I took for

granted it was all over. I never thought of the litt le girl; I never heard

what had becom e of her. I walked past the palace yesterday and saw

that it was occup ied; but I took for granted it had changed hands.”

“T he Coun tess Scarabelli,” said my friend, “brou ght it to her hus-band as her m arriage-port ion.”

“I hope he appreciated it! There is a fountain in the court, and

there is a charming old garden beyond it. The Countess’s sitting-

room looks into that garden. The staircase is of white marble, and

there is a medallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the

place where it makes a bend. Before you come into the drawing-

room you stand a mom ent in a great vaulted place hu ng roun d withfaded tapestry, paved with bare tiles, and furn ished on ly with t hree

chairs. In t he drawing-room , above the fireplace, is a superb Andrea

del Sarto. The furniture is covered with pale sea-green.”

My com panion listened to all this.

“T he Andrea del Sarto is there; it’s magnificent. But the furn iture

is in pale red.”

“Ah, th ey have changed it, then— in t wenty-seven years.”

“And there’s a portrait of Madame de Salvi,” con tinued my friend.

I was silent a mom ent . “I should like to see that .”

H e too was silent . Then he asked, “W hy don’t you go and see it? If

you knew the mother so well, why don’t you call upon the daughter?”

“From what you tell me I am afraid.”

“W hat have I told you to make you afraid?”

I looked a little at his ingenuous countenance. “T he m other was a

very dangerous wom an.”



202

The young Englishman began to blush again. “The daughter is

not,” he said.

“Are you very sure?”

H e didn’t say he was sure, bu t h e present ly inquired in what way

the Countess Salvi had been dangerous.

“You must n ot ask m e that,” I an swered “for after all, I desire to

remember only what was good in her.” And as we walked back I

begged him to render me the service of mentioning my name to his

friend, and of saying that I had known her mother well, and that I

asked permission to come and see her.

9T H .—I have seen that poor boy half a dozen times again, and a

most amiable youn g fellow he is. H e con tinues to represent to m e,

in th e most extraordinary manner, my own youn g identity; the cor-

respondence is perfect at all point s, save that he is a better boy than

I. H e is evidently acutely interested in h is Countess, and leads quite

the same life with her that I led with M adame de Salvi. H e goes tosee her every evening and stays half the night; these Florentines

keep the most extraordinary hours. I remember, towards 3 A.M.,

M adame de Salvi used to tu rn m e out.— ”Come, come,” she would

say, “it’s time to go. If you were to stay later people might talk.” I

don’t kn ow at what time he comes home, but I suppose his evening

seems as short as mine did. Today he brought me a message from

his Con tessa—a very gracious litt le speech. She remembered often

to have heard her mother speak of me—she called me her English

friend. All her mother’s friends were dear to her, and she begged I

would do her the honour to come and see her. She is always at hom e

of an evening. Poor young Stanmer (he is of the Devonshire

Stanmers— a great property) repor ted this speech verbatim , and of

course it can’t in the least signify to him that a poor grizzled, bat-

tered soldier, old enough to be his father, should come to call upon

his inammorata. But I remember how it used to m atter to me when




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H enry Jam es

other men cam e; th at’s a point of difference. H owever, it’s on ly be-

cause I’m so old. At twenty-five I shouldn’t h ave been afraid of my-

self at fifty-two. Camerino was thirty-four—and then the others!

She was always at hom e in the evening, and they all used to com e.

They were old Florentine names. But she used to let me stay after

them all; she thought an old English name as good. What a tran-

scendent coquett e! … But basta cosi as she used to say. I m eant to

go ton ight to C asa Salvi, but I couldn’t bring myself to the point. I

don’t kn ow what I’m afraid of; I used to be in a hurry enough to go

there once. I suppose I am afraid of the very look of the place—of the old room s, the old walls. I shall go tomorrow night. I am afraid

of the very echoes.

10T H .—She has the most extraordinary resemblance to her m other.

W hen I went in I was tremendou sly startled; I stood starting at her.

I have just come hom e; it is past midnight; I have been all the evening

at C asa Salvi. It is very warm— my window is open— I can look ou ton the river gliding past in the starlight. So, of old, when I came

home, I used to stand and look out. There are the same cypresses on

the opposite hills.

Poor young Stanm er was there, and three or four other admirers;

they all got up when I came in. I think I had been talked abou t, and

there was som e curiosity. But why should I have been talked about?

They were all youngish men—none of them of my time. She is a

wonderful likeness of her mother; I couldn’t get over it. Beautiful

like her mother, and yet with the same faults in her face; but with

her mother’s perfect head and brow and sympathetic, almost pity-

ing, eyes. H er face has just that peculiarity of her m other’s, which,

of all hu man countenances that I have ever known, was the one th at

passed most quickly and completely from the expression of gaiety

to that of repose. Repose in her face always suggested sadness; and

while you were watching it with a kind of awe, and wondering of



204

what t ragic secret it was the token, it k indled, on the instant , into a

radiant Italian smile. T he Countess Scarabelli’s smiles tonight , how-

ever, were almost u ninterrup ted. She greeted m e—divinely, as her

mother used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner of the

sofa—as I used to do—and watched her while she talked. She is

thin and very fair, and was dressed in light, vaporous black that

completes the resemblance. T he house, the room s, are almost abso-

lutely the same; there may be changes of detail, bu t they don’t m odify

the general effect. There are the same precious pictures on the walls

of the salon—the same great dusky fresco in the concave ceiling.T he daughter is not rich, I suppose, any m ore than th e mother. The

furniture is worn and faded, and I was admitted by a solitary ser-

vant, who carried a twinkling taper before me up the great dark

marble staircase.

“I have often heard of you,” said the Countess, as I sat down n ear

her; “my mother often spoke of you.”

“O ften?” I answered. “I am surprised at that.”“W hy are you surp rised? Were you not good friends?”

“Yes, for a certain tim e—very good friends. But I was sure she had

forgotten me.”

“She never forgot,” said the Coun tess, looking at m e intently and

smiling. “She was not like that.”

“She was not like most oth er women in any way,” I declared.

“Ah, she was charming,” cried the Countess, rattling open her

fan. “I have always been very curious to see you. I h ave received an

impression of you.”

“A good one, I hope.”

She looked at me, laughing, and not answering this: it was just

her mother’s trick.

“‘My Englishman,’ she used to call you—’il mio Inglese.’”

“I hope she spoke of me kind ly,” I insisted.

T he C ountess, still laughing, gave a litt le shrug balancing her hand




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H enry Jam es

to and fro. “So-so; I always supposed you had had a quarrel. You

don’t m ind my being frank like this— eh?”

“I delight in it; it reminds me of your m other.”

“Every on e tells me that. But I am not clever like her. You will see

for yourself.”

“That speech,” I said, “completes the resemblance. She was al-

ways pretending she was not clever, and in reality— ”

“In reality she was an angel, eh? To escape from dangerous com-

parisons I will adm it, th en, that I am clever. T hat will make a differ-

ence. But let u s talk of you. You are very— how shall I say it?— veryeccentric.”

“Is that what your mother told you?”

“To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great original. But aren’t

all Englishmen eccentric? All except that one!” and the Countess

poin ted to poor Stanmer, in h is corner of the sofa.

“O h, I know just what he is,” I said.

“H e’s as quiet as a lamb— he’s like all the world,” cried the Countess.“Like all the world— yes. H e is in love with you.”

She looked at me with sudden gravity. “I don’t object to your

saying that for all the world— but I do for him.”

“Well,” I went on, “he is peculiar in this: he is rather afraid of

you.”

Instan tly she began to smile; she turn ed her face toward Stanm er.

H e had seen th at we were talking about him; he coloured and got

up— then came toward us.

“I like men who are afraid of noth ing,” said our hostess.

“I know what you want,” I said to Stanm er. “You want to know

what the Signora Contessa says about you.”

Stan mer looked straight into her face, very gravely. “I don’t care a

straw what she says.”

“You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa,” I answered.

“She declares she doesn’t care a pin’s head what you th ink.”



206

“I recognise the Countess’s style!” Stanmer exclaimed, turning away.

“O ne would think,” said the C ount ess, “that you were trying to

make a quarrel between us.”

I watched h im m ove away to another part of the great saloon ; he

stood in front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it. But he was

not seeing it; he was listening to what we might say. I often stood

there in just that way. “He can’t quarrel with you, any more than I

could have quarrelled with your mother.”

“Ah, but you did. Something painful passed between you.”

“Yes, it was painful, bu t it was not a quarrel. I went away one dayand never saw her again. That was all.”

T he C oun tess looked at me gravely. “W hat d o you call it when a

man does that?”

“It depends upon the case.”

“Som etimes,” said the Countess in French, “it’s a lachete.”

“Yes, and som etimes it’s an act of wisdom .”

“And sometimes,” rejoined the Countess, “it’s a mistake.”I shook m y head. “For m e it was no m istake.”

She began to laugh again. “Caro Signore, you’re a great original.

W hat had m y poor mother done to you?”

I looked at our young Englishm an, who still had his back turn ed

to us and was staring up at the picture. “I will tell you some other

time,” I said.

“I shall certainly remind you; I am very curious to know.” Then

she opened and shut her fan two or th ree times, still looking at m e.

What eyes they have! “Tell me a little,” she went on, “if I may ask

without indiscretion. Are you m arried?”

“No, Signora C ontessa.”

“Isn’t that at least a mistake?”

“D o I look very unhappy?”

She dropped her head a little to one side. “For an Englishm an— no!”

“Ah,” said I, laughing, “you are quite as clever as your mother.”




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“And they tell me that you are a great soldier,” she continued;

“you have lived in India. It was very kind of you, so far away, to have

remembered our poor dear Italy.”

“O ne always remem bers Italy; the distance makes no difference. I

remem bered it well the day I heard of your mother’s death !”

“Ah, that was a sorrow!” said the Countess. “There’s not a day

th at I don’t weep for h er. But che vuole? She’s a saint its parad ise.”

“Sicuro,” I answered; and I looked some tim e at the groun d. “But

tell me about yourself, dear lady,” I asked at last, raising my eyes.

“You have also had the sorrow of losing your h usband.”“I am a poor widow, as you see. Che vuole? My husband died

after three years of marriage.”

I waited for her to rem ark that th e late Count Scarabelli was also

a saint in paradise, but I waited in vain.

“T hat was like your d istinguished father,” I said.

“Yes, he too d ied youn g. I can’t be said to have known him; I was

but of the age of my own litt le girl. But I weep for him all the m ore.”Again I was silent for a moment .

“It was in India too,” I said presently, “that I heard of your m oth er’s

second marriage.”

T he Countess raised her eyebrows.

“In India, then, one hears of everything! Did that news please

you?”

“Well, since you ask m e—no.”

“I understand that,” said the C oun tess, looking at her open fan.

“I shall not marry again like that.”

“T hat’s what your mother said to m e,” I ventured to observe.

She was not offended, bu t she rose from her seat and stood look-

ing at m e a moment. Then— “You should n ot h ave gone away!” she

exclaimed. I stayed for another h our; it is a very pleasant house.

Two or th ree of the men who were sitting there seemed very civil

and intelligent; one of them was a major of engineers, who offered



208

me a profusion of information upon the new organisation of the

Italian arm y. While he talked, however, I was observing our hostess,

who was talking with the others; very little, I not iced, with her young

Inglese. She is altogether charming— full of frankness and freedom ,

of that inimitable disinvoltura which in an Englishwoman would

be vulgar, and which in her is simply the perfection of apparent

spontaneity. But for all her spontaneity she’s as subtle as a needle-

point , and knows tremendously well what she is abou t. If she is not

a consum mate coquette … W hat had she in her head when she said

that I should not have gone away?—Poor little Stanmer didn’t goaway. I left him there at midnight.

12T H .—I found him today sitting in the church of Santa Croce,

into which I wandered to escape from the heat of the sun .

In the nave it was cool and dim; he was staring at the blaze of

candles on the great altar, and th inking, I am sure, of his incompa-

rable Countess. I sat down beside him, and after a while, as if toavoid the appearance of eagerness, he asked m e how I had enjoyed

my visit to C asa Salvi, and what I thought of the padrona.

“I think half a dozen things,” I said, “but I can only tell you one

now. She’s an enchan tress. You shall hear the rest when we have left

the church.”

“An enchantress?” repeated Stanmer, looking at me askance.

H e is a very simple youth, but who am I to blame him ?

“A charmer,” I said “a fascinatress!”

H e turned away, staring at the altar cand les.

“An art ist— an actress,” I went on , rather bru tally.

H e gave me another glance.

“I th ink you are telling m e all,” he said.

“No, no, there is more.” And we sat a long time in silence.

At last h e proposed th at we should go out ; and we passed in the

street, where the shadows had begun to stretch themselves.




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H enry Jam es

“I don’t kn ow what you m ean by her being an actress,” he said, as

we turn ed hom eward.

“I suppose not. N either shou ld I have known , if any one had said

that to me.”

“You are th inking abou t the m other,” said Stanm er. “W hy are

you always bringing her in?”

“My dear boy, the analogy is so great it forces itself upon me.”

H e stopped and stood looking at m e with his modest, perplexed

young face. I thought he was going to exclaim—“The analogy be

hanged!”—but he said after a moment—“Well, what does it p rove?”

“I can’t say it p roves anything; bu t it suggests a great m any things.”

“Be so good as to ment ion a few,” he said, as we walked on .

“You are not sure of her yourself,” I began.

“Never mind that— go on with your analogy.”

“T hat’s a part of it. You are very much in love with her.”

“T hat’s a part of it too, I suppose?”“Yes, as I have told you before. You are in love with her, and yet

you can’t make her out; that’s just where I was with regard to M a-

dame de Salvi.”

“And she too was an enchantress, an actress, an artist, and all the

rest of it?”

“She was the most perfect coquette I ever knew, and the most

dangerous, because the most finished.”

“W hat you m ean, then, is that her daughter is a finished coquette?”

“I rather th ink so.”

Stanmer walked along for some moments in silence.

“Seeing that you suppose me to be a—a great admirer of the Coun t-

ess,” he said at last, “I am rather surprised at the freedom with which

you speak of her.”

I confessed that I was surprised at it myself. “But it’s on account

of the interest I take in you.”



210

“I am immensely obliged to you!” said the poor boy.

“Ah, of course you don’t like it. T hat is, you like m y interest— I

don’t see how you can h elp liking that ; but you don’t like m y free-

dom . T hat’s natu ral enough; but , my dear young friend, I want

only to help you. If a man had said to me—so many years ago—

what I am saying to you, I should certainly also, at first, have thought

him a great brute. But after a little, I should have been grateful—I

should have felt that he was helping me.”

“You seem to have been very well able to help yourself,” said

Stanmer. “You tell me you made your escape.”“Yes, bu t it was at the cost of infinite perplexity—of what I m ay

call keen suffering. I should like to save you all that.”

“I can only repeat—it is really very kind of you.”

“Don’t repeat it too often, or I shall begin to think you don’t m ean it.”

“Well,” said Stanmer, “I think th is, at any rate—that you take an

extraordinary respon sibility in trying to p ut a man out of conceit of

a woman wh o, as he believes, may make him very happy.”I grasped his arm, and we stopped, going on with our talk like a

coup le of Florent ines.

“D o you wish to marry her?”

H e looked away, without m eeting my eyes. “It’s a great respon si-

bility,” he repeated.

“Before H eaven,” I said, “I wou ld have married the moth er! You

are exactly in my situat ion.”

“Don’t you think you rather overdo the analogy?” asked poor

Stanmer.

“A litt le more, a little less— it doesn’t matter. I believe you are in

my shoes. But of course if you prefer it, I will beg a thousand par-

dons and leave them to carry you where they will.”

H e had been looking away, but n ow he slowly tu rned his face and

met m y eyes. “You have gone too far to retreat; what is it you know

about her?”




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H enry Jam es

“About this one— not hing. But about th e other—”

“I care noth ing about the other!”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “they are mother and daughter—they

are as like as two of Andrea’s Madonnas.”

“If they resemble each other, then, you were simply mistaken in

the m other.”

I took h is arm and we walked on again; there seemed no adequate

reply to such a charge. “Your state of m ind brings back m y own so

completely,” I said presently. “You adm ire her— you adore her, and

yet, secretly, you mistru st her. You are enchant ed with her personalcharm, her grace, her wit, her everything; and yet in your private

heart you are afraid of her.”

“Afraid of her?”

“Your m istrust keeps rising to th e surface; you can’t rid you rself of

the suspicion that at the bottom of all th ings she is hard and cruel,

and you would be immensely relieved if som e one should persuade

you th at your suspicion is right.”Stanm er made no direct reply to th is; but before we reached the

hotel he said— ”What d id you ever know abou t the mother?”

“It’s a terrible story,” I answered.

H e looked at m e askance. “W hat d id she do?”

“Come to my rooms this evening and I will tell you.”

H e declared he would, but he never came. Exactly the way I should

have acted!

14T H .— I went again, last evening, to C asa Salvi, where I found the

same little circle, with the addition of a couple of ladies. Stanmer

was there, trying hard to t alk to on e of them, bu t m aking, I am sure,

a very poor business of it. The Countess—well, the Countess was

adm irable. She greeted m e like a friend of ten years, toward whom

familiarity should not have engendered a want of ceremony; she

made me sit near her, and she asked m e a dozen questions about my



212

health and m y occupations.

“I live in the past,” I said. “I go into the galleries, into the old

palaces and the churches. Today I spent an hour in M ichael Angelo’s

chapel at San Loreozo.”

“Ah yes, that’s th e past,” said the Countess. “T hose th ings are very

old.”

“Twenty-seven years old,” I answered.

“Twenty-seven? Altro!”

“I mean my own past,” I said. “I went to a great many of those

places with your moth er.”“Ah, the pictures are beautiful,” murmured the Countess, glanc-

ing at Stanmer.

“H ave you lately looked at any of them?” I asked. “H ave you gone

to the galleries with him?”

She hesitated a mom ent, smiling. “It seems to m e that your qu es-

tion is a little impertinent. But I th ink you are like that.”

“A little impertinent? Never. As I say, your mother did me thehonour, more than on ce, to accom pany me to th e Uffizzi.”

“My mother must have been very kind to you.”

“So it seemed to me at the time.”

“At th e time on ly?”

“Well, if you prefer, so it seems to m e now.”

“Eh,” said the Countess, “she made sacrifices.”

“To what, cara Signora? She was perfectly free. Your lamented

father was dead— and she had not yet contracted h er second m ar-

riage.”

“If she was intending to marry again, it was all the more reason

she shou ld have been careful.”

I looked at her a moment ; she met m y eyes gravely, over th e top of

her fan. “Are you very careful?” I said.

She dropped her fan with a certain violence. “Ah, yes, you are

impertinent!”




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H enry Jam es

“Ah no,” I said. “Remember that I am old enough to be your

father; that I kn ew you when you were three years old. I m ay surely

ask such questions. But you are right; one must do your mother

justice. She was certain ly thinking of her second marriage.”

“You have not forgiven her that!” said the Countess, very gravely.

“H ave you?” I asked, more lightly.

“I don’t jud ge my mother. T hat is a mortal sin. M y stepfather was

very kind to m e.”

“I remember him,” I said; “I saw him a great m any times— your

moth er already received him.”My hostess sat with lowered eyes, saying nothing; but she pres-

ently looked up.

“She was very un happy with my father.”

“T hat I can easily believe. And your stepfather— is he still living?”

“He died—before my mother.”

“Did he fight any more duels?”

“H e was killed in a duel,” said th e Countess, discreetly.It seems almost monstrous, especially as I can give no reason for

it—but this announcement, instead of shocking me, caused me to

feel a strange exhilaration. Most assuredly, after all these years, I

bear the poor man n o resentment. O f course I cont rolled my man-

ner, and simply remarked to t he C oun tess that as his fault had been

so was his pun ishment . I think, however, that the feeling of which I

speak was at the bottom of my saying to her that I hoped that,

unlike her m oth er’s, her own brief married life had been happy.

“If it was not ,” she said, “I have forgott en it now.”—I won der if

the late C ount Scarabelli was also killed in a du el, and if his adver-

sary … Is it on the books that his adversary, as well, shall perish by

the pistol? W hich of those gentlemen is he, I wonder? Is it reserved

for poor little Stanmer to put a bullet into him? No; poor little

Stanmer, I trust, will do as I did. And yet, unfortunately for him,

that woman is consummately plausible. She was wonderfully nice



214

last evening; she was really irresistible. Such frankness and freedom ,

and yet something so soft and womanly; such graceful gaiety, so

much of the brightn ess, without any of the stiffness, of good breed-

ing, and over it all som ething so pictu resquely simp le and southern.

She is a perfect Italian. But she comes honestly by it. After the t alk

I have just jotted down she changed her place, and the conversation

for half an hour was general. Stanmer indeed said very little; partly,

I suppose, because he is shy of talking a foreign tongue. Was I like

that—was I so constantly silent? I suspect I was when I was per-

plexed, and H eaven knows that very often m y perplexity was ex-treme. Before I went away I had a few more words tete-a-tete with

the C oun tess.

“I hope you are not leaving Florence yet,” she said; “you will stay

a while longer?”

I answered that I came only for a week, and that my week was

over.

“I stay on from day to day, I am so much interested.”“Eh, it’s the beautiful moment. I’m glad our city pleases you!”

“Florence pleases me—and I take a paternal interest to our young

friend ,” I added, glancing at Stanmer. “I have become very fond of

him.”

“Bel tipo inglese,” said m y hostess. “And he is very intelligent; he

has a beautiful mind.”

She stood there resting her smile and her clear, expressive eyes

upon m e.

“I don’t like to praise him too much,” I rejoined, “lest I should

appear to praise myself; he reminds me so m uch of what I was at his

age. If your beautiful mother were to come to life for an hour she

would see the resemblance.”

She gave me a little amused stare.

“And yet you don’t look at all like him !”

“Ah, you d idn’t know m e when I was twenty-five. I was very hand-




215

H enry Jam es

some! And, m oreover, it isn’t that, it’s the ment al resemblance. I was

ingenuou s, candid, t rusting, like him.”

“Trusting? I remem ber my mother once telling me that you were

the most suspicious and jealous of men!”

“I fell into a suspicious mood, but I was, fundamentally, not in

the least addicted to th inking evil. I couldn’t easily imagine any harm

of any one.”

“And so you mean that Mr. Stanmer is in a suspicions mood?”

“Well, I mean th at his situat ion is the same as mine.”

T he Countess gave me one of her serious looks. “Com e,” she said,“what was it—this famous situation of yours? I have heard you

mention it before.”

“Your moth er might have told you, since she occasionally did me

the honou r to speak of me.”

“All my mother ever told m e was that you were—a sad puzzle to her.”

At th is, of course, I laughed out— I laugh still as I write it.

“Well, then, that was my situation—I was a sad puzzle to a veryclever wom an.”

“And you m ean, therefore, that I am a puzzle to poor M r. Stanmer?”

“H e is racking his brains to m ake you out. Remember it was you

who said he was intelligent.”

She looked round at him, and as fortune would have it, his ap-

pearance at that moment quite confirmed my assertion. He was

lounging back in his chair with an air of indolence rather too m arked

for a drawing-room, and staring at the ceiling with the expression of

a man who has just been asked a conundrum. Madame Scarabelli

seemed struck with his attitude.

“D on’t you see,” I said, “he can’t read the riddle?”

“You yourself,” she answered, “said he was incapable of thinking

evil. I should be sorry to have him th ink an y evil of m e.”

And she looked straight at me—seriously, appealingly— with h er

beaut iful candid brow.



216

I inclined myself, smiling, in a manner which m ight have meant—

”H ow could that be possible?”

“I have a great esteem for him,” she went on; “I want him to think

well of me. If I am a pu zzle to h im, do m e a litt le service. Explain

me to him.”

“Explain you, dear lady?”

“You are older and wiser than he. M ake him un derstand me.”

She looked deep int o my eyes for a moment, and then she turned

away.

26T H .—I have written nothing for a good many days, but mean-

while I have been half a dozen times to Casa Salvi. I have seen a

good deal also of my young friend—had a good many walks and

talks with him. I have proposed to h im to come with m e to Venice

for a fortnight, but he won’t listen to the idea of leaving Florence.

H e is very happy in spite of his doubts, and I confess that in the

perception of his happiness I have lived over again my own. This isso much the case that when, the other day, he at last made up his

mind to ask me to tell him the wrong that Madame de Salvi had

done me, I rather checked his curiosity. I told him that if he was

bent upon knowing I would satisfy him, but that it seemed a pity,

just now, to indulge in pain ful im agery.

“But I thought you wanted so m uch to put me out of conceit of

our friend.”

“I admit I am inconsistent, but there are various reasons for it. In

the first place—it’s obvious—I am open to the charge of playing a

double game. I profess an admiration for the Countess Scarabelli, for

I accept her hospitality, and at the same time I attempt to poison your

mind; isn’t that the proper expression? I can’t exactly make up my

mind to that, though m y adm iration for the Countess and m y desire

to prevent you from taking a foolish step are equally sincere. And

then, in the second place, you seem to m e, on the whole, so happy!




217

H enry Jam es

O ne hesitates to destroy an illusion, no m atter how pernicious, that is

so delightful while it lasts. These are the rare moments of life. To be

young and ardent, in the midst of an Italian spring, and to believe in

the moral perfection of a beautiful woman— what an admirable situ-

ation! Float with the current ; I’ll stand on the brink and watch you.”

“Your real reason is th at you feel you have no case against the poor

lady,” said Stanmer. “You adm ire her as much as I do.”

“I just adm itted that I admired her. I never said she was a vulgar

flirt; her m other was an absolutely scient ific one. H eaven knows I

adm ired that! It’s a nice point, however, how m uch one is hound inhonour not to warn a young friend against a dangerous woman

because one also has relations of civility with th e lady.”

“In such a case,” said Stanm er, “I wou ld break off my relations.”

I looked at h im, and I th ink I laughed.

“Are you jealous of me, by chance?”

H e shook h is head emph atically.

“Not in the least; I like to see you there, because your conductcontradicts your words.”

“I have always said that the C ountess is fascinating.”

“O therwise,” said Stanm er, “in the case you speak of I would give

the lady notice.”

“Give her notice?”

“Mention to her that you regard her with suspicion , and that you

propose to do your best to rescue a simple-minded youth from her

wiles. T hat would be m ore loyal.” And h e began to laugh again.

It is not the first time he has laughed at me; but I have never

minded it, because I have always un derstood it.

“Is that what you recommend me to say to the C ountess?” I asked.

“Recommend you!” he exclaimed, laughing again; “I recom mend

noth ing. I may be the victim to be rescued, but I am at least n ot a

partner to the conspiracy. Besides,” he added in a moment, “the

C oun tess knows your state of mind .”



218

“H as she told you so?”

Stanmer hesitated.

“She has begged me to listen to everything you may say against

her. She declares that she has a good conscience.”

“Ah,” said I , “she’s an accomplished wom an!”

And it is indeed very clever of her to take that tone. Stanmer

afterwards assured me explicitly that he has never given her a h int of

the liberties I have taken in conversation with—what shall I call

it?—with her moral nature; she has guessed them for herself. She

must hate me intensely, and yet her manner has always been socharming to me! She is truly an accomplished woman!

M AY 4T H .—I have stayed away from Casa Salvi for a week, but I

have lingered on in Florence, under a mixture of impulses. I have

had it on my conscience not to go near the Countess again—and

yet from the moment she is aware of the way I feel about her, it is

open war. There need be no scruples on either side. She is as free touse every possible art to entan gle poor Stan mer more closely as I am

to clip her fine-spu n meshes. Under the circumstances, however, we

naturally shouldn’t meet very cordially. But as regards her meshes,

why, after all, should I clip them? It wou ld really be very interesting

to see Stanmer swallowed up. I should like to see how he would

agree with h er after she had devoured him— (to what vulgar imag-

ery, by the way, does curiosity reduce a man!) Let him finish the

story in his own way, as I finished it in mine. It is the same story;

but why, a quarter of a century later, should it have the same

denoument? Let h im m ake his own denoument.

5T H .— H ang it, however, I don’t want th e poor boy to be miserable.

6TH .—Ah, but did my denoument then prove such a happy one?




219

H enry Jam es

7T H .—H e came to my room late last n ight ; he was much excited.

“W hat was it she did to you?” he asked.

I answered h im first with another question. “H ave you quarrelled

with the C ountess?”

But h e only repeated his own. “W hat was it she d id to you?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” And he sat there beside she candle,

staring at m e. “T here was a man always there—C oun t C amerino.”

“T he m an she married?”

“T he man she m arried. I was very much in love with h er, and yet

I didn’t trust her. I was sure that she lied; I believed that she couldbe cruel. N evertheless, at m om ents, she had a charm which m ade it

pure pedantry to be conscious of her faults; and while these mo-

ments lasted I would have done anything for her. Unfortunately

they didn’t last long. But you kn ow what I mean; am I not describ-

ing the Scarabelli?”

“The Countess Scarabelli never lied!” cried Stanmer.

“That’s just what I would have said to any one who should havemade the insinutation! But I suppose you are not asking me the

question you put to me just now from dispassionate curiosity.”

“A man may want to know!” said th e innocent fellow.

I couldn’t help laughing out. “This, at any rate, is my story.

C amerino was always there; he was a sort of fixture in the h ouse. If

I had m om ents of dislike for the divine Bianca, I had n o m oments

of liking for him. And yet he was a very agreeable fellow, very civil,

very intelligent, not in the least d isposed to make a quarrel with m e.

T he trouble, of course, was simply that I was jealous of him. I don’t

know, however, on what groun d I could have quarrelled with him ,

for I had no definite rights. I can’t say what I expected—I can’t say

what, as the matter stood , I was prepared to do. W ith m y name and

my prospects, I might perfectly have offered her my hand. I am not

sure that she would have accepted it— I am by no means clear that

she wanted that. But she wanted, wanted keenly, to attach me to



220

her; she wanted to have me about. I should have been capable of

giving up everything—England, my career, my family—simply to

devote myself to her, to live near her and see her every day.”

“W hy didn’t you do it, then?” asked Stanm er.

“Why don’t you?”

“To be a proper rejoinder to m y question ,” he said, rather neatly,

“yours should be asked twenty-five years hence.”

“It remains perfectly true th at at a given m om ent I was capable of

doing as I say. T hat was what she wanted— a rich, susceptible, credu-

lous, convenient young Englishm an established near her en perma-nence. And yet,” I added, “I must do her complete justice. I hon-

estly believe she was fond of me.” At this Stanmer got up and walked

to the window; he stood looking out a m oment, and th en he turned

roun d. “You know she was older than I,” I went on. “Madame

Scarabelli is older than you. O ne day in the garden, her mother

asked m e in an angry ton e why I disliked C amerino; for I had been

at no pains to conceal my feeling about him, and something had just happened to brin g it out. ‘I dislike him ,’ I said, ‘becau se you

like him so m uch.’ ‘I assure you I don’t like him,’ she answered. ‘H e

has all the appearance of being your lover,’ I retor ted. It was a bru tal

speech, certainly, bu t any other m an in my place would have made

it. She took it very strangely; she turn ed pale, but she was not indig-

nant . ‘H ow can h e be my lover after what he has don e?’ she asked.

‘W hat has he done?’ She hesitated a good while, then she said: ‘H e

killed my husban d.’ ‘G ood heavens!’ I cried, ‘and you receive him !’

Do you know what she said? She said, ‘Che voule?’”

“Is that all?” asked Stan mer.

“No; she went on to say that C amerino had killed C oun t Salvi in

a duel, and she admitted that her hu sband’s jealousy had been th e

occasion of it. T he Count, it appeared, was a monster of jealousy—

he had led her a dreadful life. H e himself, meanwhile, had been

anything but irreproachable; he had d one a mortal injury to a man




221

H enry Jam es

of whom he pretended to be a friend, and this affair had become

notorious. The gentleman in question had demanded satisfaction

for his out raged hon our; but for som e reason or other (the Coun t-

ess, to do her justice, did not tell me that her husband was a cow-

ard), he had not as yet obtained it. The duel with Camerino had

come on first; in an access of jealous fury the Count had struck

C amerino in the face; and th is out rage, I know not h ow justly, was

deemed expiable before the other. By an extraordinary arrangement

(the Italians have certainly no sense of fair play) the other man was

allowed to be C amerino’s second. The duel was fought with swords,and the Coun t received a wound of which, thou gh at first it was not

expected to be fatal, he died on the following day. The matter was

hushed up as much as possible for the sake of the Countess’s good

name, and so successfully that it was presently observed that, among

the public, the other gentleman had the credit of having put h is blade

through M . de Salvi. T his gentleman took a fancy not to cont radict

the impression, and it was allowed to subsist. So long as he consented,it was of course in Camerino’s interest not to contradict it, as it left

him much m ore free to keep up h is intimacy with the Countess.”

Stanmer had listened to all this with extreme attention. “Why

didn’t she contradict it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I am bound to believe it was for the

same reason . I was horrified, at any rate, by the whole story. I was

extremely shocked at the Countess’s want of dignity in continuing

to see the man by whose hand her husband had fallen.”

“The husband had been a great brute, and it was not known,”

said Stanmer.

“Its not being known made no difference. And as for Salvi having

been a brute, that is bu t a way of saying that h is wife, and the man

whom his wife subsequen tly married, d idn’t like him.”

Stanmer hooked extremely meditative; his eyes were fixed on mine.

“Yes, that marriage is hard to get over. It was not becoming.”



222

“Ah,” said I, “what a long breath I drew when I heard of it! I

remember the place and the hour. It was at a hill-station in India,

seven years after I had left Florence. The post brought me some

English papers, and in one of them was a letter from Italy, with a lot

of so-called ‘fashionable intelligence.’ There, among various scan-

dals in h igh life, and other delectable items, I read that the Coun t-

ess Bianca Salvi, famous for some years as the presiding genius of

the most agreeable seen in Florence, was abou t to bestow her hand

upon Count Camerino, a distinguished Bolognese. Ah, my dear

boy, it was a tremendous escape! I had been ready to marry thewoman who was capable of that! But m y instinct had warned m e,

and I had trusted my instinct.”

“‘Instinct’s everything,’ as Falstaff says!” And Stanmer began to

laugh. “D id you t ell Madame de Salvi that your instinct was against

her?”

“No; I told her that she frightened me, shocked me, horrified

me.”“T hat’s abou t the same thing. And what did she say?”

“She asked me what I would have? I called her friendship with

C amerino a scandal, and she answered that her husband had been a

brute. Besides, no one knew it; therefore it was no scandal. Just your

argument! I retorted that this was odious reasoning, and that she

had no m oral sense. We had a passionate argum ent , and I declared

I would never see her again. In the heat of my displeasure I left

Florence, and I kept m y vow. I n ever saw her again.”

“You couldn’t have been much in love with her,” said Stanmer.

“I was not— three months after.”

“If you had been you would have come back—three days after.”

“So doubt less it seems to you. All I can say is th at it was the great

effort of my life. Being a m ilitary man, I have had on various occa-

sions to face time enemy. But it was not then I needed my resolu-

tion ; it was when I left Florence in a post-chaise.”




223

H enry Jam es

Stanm er turned about the room two or three times, and th en he

said: “I don’t understand! I don’t understand why she should have

told you that C amerino had killed her hu sband. It could only dam-

age her.”

“She was afraid it would damage her more that I should th ink he

was her lover. She wished to say the thing that would m ost effectu-

ally persuade me that he was not her lover— that he could n ever be.

And then she wished to get the credit of being very frank.”

“Good heavens, how you must have analysed her!” cried m y com -

panion, staring.“There is nothing so analytic as disillusionment. But there it is.

She married Camerino.”

“Yes, I don’t lime that,” said Stan mer. H e was silent a while, and

then he added—”Perhaps she wouldn’t have done so if you had

remained.”

H e has a litt le innocent way! “Very likely she would have dis-

pensed with the ceremony,” I answered, drily.“Upon my word,” he said, “you have analysed her!”

“You ought to he grateful to me. I have don e for you what you

seem un able to do for yourself.”

“I don’t see any Camerino in my case,” he said.

“Perhaps among those gentlemen I can find one for you.”

“Thank you,” he cried; “I’ll take care of that myself!” And he

went away— satisfied, I hope.

10T H .— H e’s an obstinate litt le wretch; it irritates me to see him

sticking to it. Perhaps he is looking for h is Camerino. I shall leave

him, at any rate, to his fate; it is growing insupportably hot.

11T H .— I went th is evening to b id farewell to the Scarabelli. T here

was no one there; she was alone in her great dusky drawing-room,

which was lighted only by a couple of candles, with the immense



224

windows open over the garden. She was dressed in white; she was

deucedly pretty. She asked me, of course, why I had been so long

withou t coming.

“I think you say that only for form,” I answered. “I imagine you

know.”

“Che! what have I done?”

“Noth ing at all. You are too wise for that.”

She looked at me a while. “I think you are a little crazy.”

“Ah n o, I am only too sane. I have too m uch reason rather than

too little.”“You have, at an y rate, what we call a fixed idea.”

“T here is no harm in that so long as it’s a good one.”

“But yours is abom inable!” she exclaimed, with a laugh.

“O f course you can’t like me or my ideas. All th ings considered,

you have treated m e with won derful kindn ess, and I thank you and

kiss your hands. I leave Florence tomorrow.”

“I won’t say I’m sorry!” she said, laughing again. “But I am veryglad to have seen you. I always won dered about you. You are a curi-

osity.”

“Yes, you must find me so. A man who can resist your charms!

The fact is, I can’t. This evening you are enchanting; and it is the

first t ime I have been alone with you.”

She gave no heed to th is; she tu rned away. But in a mom ent she

came back, and stood looking at me, and her beautiful solemn eyes

seemed to shine in th e dimn ess of the room .

“How could you t reat m y mother so?” she asked.

“Treat her so?”

“H ow could you desert the most charming woman in the world?”

“It was not a case of desertion; and if it had been it seems to me

she was consoled.”

At th is moment there was the soun d of a step in t he ante-cham-

ber, and I saw that the C ountess perceived it to be Stanmer’s.




225

H enry Jam es

“That wouldn’t have happened,” she murm ured. “My poor mother

needed a protector.”

Stanmer came in, interrupting our talk, and looking at me, I thought,

with a little air of bravado. He must think me indeed a tiresome,

meddlesome bore; and upon my word, turn ing it all over, I wonder at

his docility. After all, he’s five-and-twenty— and yet I must add, it does

irritate me— the way he sticks! H e was followed in a m oment by two

or three of the regular Italians, and I made my visit short.

“Good-bye, Countess,” I said; and she gave me her hand in si-

lence. “D o you need a prot ector?” I added, softly.She looked at m e from head to foot, and then, almost angrily—

”Yes, Signore.”

But, to deprecate her anger, I kept her hand an instant, and then

bent my venerable head and kissed it. I think I appeased her.

BOLOGNA, 14T H .—I left Florence on the 11th, and have been

here these three days. D elight ful old Italian town— but it lacks thecharm of my Florentine secret.

I wrote that last entry five days ago, late at night, after coming

back from Casa Salsi. I afterwards fell asleep in my chair; the night

was half over when I woke up. Instead of going to bed, I stood a

long time at the window, looking out at the river. It was a warm,

still night, an d th e first faint streaks of sunrise were in th e sky. Pres-

ently I heard a slow footstep beneath my window, and looking down,

made out by the aid of a street lamp that Stanmer was but just

coming hom e. I called to him to come to my rooms, and , after an

interval, he made his appearance.

“I want to bid you good-bye,” I said; “I shall depart in the morn-

ing. D on’t go to the trouble of saying you are sorry. O f course you

are not ; I must have bullied you immensely.”

H e made no attemp t to say he was sorry, but he said he was very

glad to have made my acquaint ance.



226

“Your conversation ,” he said, with his litt le innocent air, “has been

very suggestive.”

“H ave you found C amerino?” I asked, smiling.

“I have given up the search.”

“Well,” I said, “some day when you find that you have made a

great mistake, remember I told you so.”

H e looked for a minute as if he were trying to an ticipate that day

by the exercise of his reason .

“H as it ever occurred to you that you may have made a great m is-

take?”“O h yes; everything occurs to on e soon er or later.”

T hat’s what I said to h im; but I didn’t say that the question , poin ted

by his candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater

force than it h ad ever had before.

And then he asked m e whether, as th ings had turned out , I m yself

had been so especially happy.

PARIS, D ECEMBER 17T H .—A note from young Stanmer, whom I

saw in Florence— a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth

transcribing.

“My dear General—I have it at heart to tell you th at I was married

a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You talked m e into a

great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear. Things

that involve a risk are like the Christian faith; they must be seen

from the inside.— Yours ever, E. S.

“P. S.—A fig for analogies unless you can find an analogy for my

happiness!”

H is happiness makes him very clever. I hope it will last— I m ean

his cleverness, not his happiness.




227

H enry Jam es

LO N D O N , APRIL 19T H , 1877.— Last n ight , at Lady H — ’s, I met

Edmun d Stanm er, who m arried Bianca Salvi’s daughter. I heard the

other day that they had come to En gland. A handsome youn g fel-

low, with a fresh con tented face. H e reminded me of Florence, which

I didn’t pretend to forget; but it was rather awkward, for I remem-

ber I used to disparage that woman to h im. I had a com plete theory

about her. But he didn’t seem at all stiff; on the contrary, he ap-

peared to enjoy our encounter. I asked h im if his wife were there. I

had to do that.

“O h yes, she’s in on e of the other rooms. C ome and make heracquaint ance; I want you to know her.”

“You forget that I do kn ow her.”

“O h no, you don’t; you n ever did.” And he gave a little significant

laugh.

I d idn’t feel like facing the ci-devant Scarabelli at that mom ent ; so

I said that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the

honour of calling upon his wife. We talked for a minute of some-th ing else, and then, suddenly breaking off and looking at m e, he

laid his hand on my arm. I must do him the justice to say that he

looks felicitou s.

“D epend upon it you were wrong!” he said.

“My dear young friend,” I answered, “imagine the alacrity with

which I concede it.”

Som ething else again was spoken of, bu t in an instan t he repeated

his movement .

“D epend upon it you were wrong.”

“I am sure the Countess has forgiven me,” I said, “and in that case

you ought to bear no grud ge. As I have had the honour to say, I will

call upon her immediately.”

“I was not alluding to my wife,” he answered. “I was th inking of

your own story.”

“My own story?”



228

“So m any years ago. Was it not rather a m istake?”

I looked at him a moment; he’s positively rosy.

“T hat’s not a question to solve in a London crush.”

And I turned away.

22D .—I haven’t yet called on the ci-devant; I am afraid of finding

her at home. And that boy’s words have been thrumming in my

ears—“Depend upon it you were wrong. Wasn’t it rather a mis-

take?” Was I wrong— w as it a mistake? Was I too cautions—too

suspicious—too logical? Was it really a protector she needed— a manwho might have helped her? Would it h ave been for h is benefit to

believe in h er, and was her fault only that I had forsaken h er? Was

the poor wom an very unhappy? G od forgive me, how th e questions

come crowding in! If I marred her happiness, I certainly didn’t m ake

my own. And I m ight have made it— eh? T hat’s a charm ing discov-

ery for a m an of my age!




229

H enry Jam es

Sir D ominick

Ferrand

by

Henry James

“T HERE ARE SEVERAL OBJECTIONS to it, but I’ll take it if you’ll alter it,”Mr. Locket’s rather curt note had said; and there was no waste of

words in the postscript in which he had added: “If you’ll come in and

see me, I’ll show you what I mean.” This commun ication had reached

Jersey Villas by the first post, and Peter Baron had scarcely swallowed

his leathery muffin before he got into motion to obey the editorial

behest. H e knew that such precipitation looked eager, and he had no

desire to look eager—it was not in his interest; but how could hemaintain a godlike calm, principled though he was in favour of it, the

first t ime on e of the great m agazines had accepted, even with a cruel

reservation, a specimen of his ardent young genius?

It was not t ill, like a child with a sea-shell at h is ear, he began to be

aware of the great roar of the “un derground,” th at, in his th ird-class

carriage, the cruelty of the reservation penetrated, with the taste of

acrid smoke, to h is inn er sense. It was really degrading to be eager in

the face of having to “alter.” Peter Baron tried to figure to h imself at



230

that moment that he was not flying to betray the extremity of his

need, but hurrying to fight for some of those passages of superior

boldness which were exactly what the condu ctor of the “Prom iscu-

ous Review” would be sure to be down upon. H e made believe—as

if to the greasy fellow-passenger opposite—that he felt indignant;

but he saw that to th e small round eye of this still more downtrod-

den brot her h e represented selfish success. H e would have liked to

linger in th e concept ion that h e had been “approached” by the Pro-

miscuous; but whatever might be thought in the office of that peri-

odical of som e of his flights of fancy, th ere was no wan t of vividnessin his occasional suspicion that he passed there for a familiar bore.

T he only th ing th at was clearly flattering was the fact that the Pro-

miscuou s rarely published fiction . H e should th erefore be associ-

ated with a deviation from a solemn habit, and that would more

than m ake up to him for a phrase in one of M r. Locket’s inexorable

earlier notes, a phrase which still rankled, about his showing no

symptom of the faculty really creative. “You don’t seem able to keepa character together,” th is pit iless monitor h ad somewhere else re-

marked. Peter Baron, as he sat in h is corner while the train stopp ed,

considered, in the befogged gaslight, the bookstall standard of lit-

erature and asked him self whose character had fallen to pieces now.

Torment ing indeed had always seemed to him such a fate as to h ave

the creative head without the creative hand.

It should be mentioned, however, that before he started on his

mission t o M r. Locket his atten tion had been briefly engaged by an

incident occurring at Jersey Villas. O n leaving the h ouse (he lived at

No. 3, the door of which stood open to a small front garden), he

encountered the lady who, a week before, had taken possession of

the room s on the ground floor, the “parlours” of Mrs. Bundy’s ter-

minology. He had heard her, and from his window, two or three

times, had even seen her pass in and out, and this observation had

created in his mind a vague prejudice in her favour. Such a preju-

Sir D om inick Ferrand



231

H enry Jam es

dice, it was true, had been subjected to a violent test; it had been

fairly apparent that she had a light step, but it was still less to be

overlooked that she had a cottage piano. She had furthermore a

litt le boy and a very sweet voice, of which Peter Baron had caught

the accent, not from her singing (for she only played), but from h er

gay admonitions to her child, whom she occasionally allowed to

amuse himself—under restrictions very publicly enforced—in the

tiny black patch which, as a forecourt to each house, was held, in

the humble row, to be a feature. Jersey Villas stood in pairs, semi-

detached, and Mrs. Ryves—such was the name under which thenew lodger presented herself—had been admitted to the house as

confessedly mu sical. Mrs. Bun dy, th e earnest p roprietress of No. 3,

who considered her “parlou rs” (they were a dozen feet square), even

more attractive, if possible, than the second floor with wh ich Baron

had had to con tent him self— M rs. Bundy, who reserved the draw-

ing-room for a casual dressm aking business, had t hreshed out the

subject of the new lodger in advance with our young man, re-minding him that her affection for his own person was a proof

th at, oth er things being equal, she positively preferred tenant s who

were clever.

T his was the case with M rs. Ryves; she h ad satisfied M rs. Bun dy

that she was not a simple strummer. M rs. Bundy adm itted to Peter

Baron that, for herself, she had a weakness for a pretty tune, and

Peter could honestly reply that his ear was equally sensitive. Every-

thing would depend on the “touch” of their inmate. Mrs. Ryves’s

piano would blight h is existence if her hand should p rove heavy or

her selections vulgar; but if she played agreeable things and played

them in an agreeable way she would render him rather a service

while he smoked the pipe of “form.” Mrs. Bundy, who wanted to

let her rooms, guaranteed on the part of the stranger a first-class

talent, and Mrs. Ryves, who evidently knew thoroughly what she

was abou t, had not falsified this somewhat rash prediction. She never



232

played in the morning, which was Baron’s working-time, and he

foun d h imself listen ing with p leasure at other hours to h er discreet

and melancholy strains. H e really knew little abou t music, and the

only criticism he would have made of Mrs. Ryves’s conception of it

was that she seemed devoted to t he d ismal. It was not, h owever, that

these strains were not p leasant to h im; they floated up, on the con-

trary, as a sort of conscious response to som e of his brood ings and

dou bts. H armon y, therefore, would have reigned supreme had it

not been for the singularly bad taste of No. 4. Mrs. Ryves’s piano

was on the free side of the house and was regarded by Mrs. Bundyas open to n o objection but that of their own gentleman, who was

so reasonable. As much, however, could not be said of the gentle-

man of No. 4, who had not even Mr. Baron’s excuse of being

“littery”(he kept a bull-terrier and had five hats—the street could

count them), and whom, if you had listened to Mrs. Bundy, you

would have supposed to be divided from the obnoxious instrument

by walls and corridors, obstacles and in tervals, of massive structureand fabulous extent. This gent leman had taken up an attitude which

had now passed into the phase of correspon dence and comprom ise;

but it was the opinion of the immediate neighbourhood that h e had

not a leg to stand upon , and on whatever subject the sentiment of

Jersey Villas might have been vague, it was not so on the rights and

the wrongs of landladies.

Mrs. Ryves’s little boy was in the garden as Peter Baron issued

from the house, and his mother appeared to have come out for a

moment, bareheaded, to see that he was doing no harm. She was

discussing with h im the responsibility that h e might incur by pass-

ing a piece of string round one of the iron palings and pretending

he was in com mand of a “geegee”; but it h appened th at at th e sight

of the other lodger the child was seized with a finer perception of

the drivable. H e rushed at Baron with a flourish of the bridle, shout -

ing, “O u geegee!” in a m ann er productive of som e refined em bar-

Sir Dominick Ferrand



233

H enry Jam es

rassment to his mother. Baron met his advance by mounting him

on a shoulder and feigning to prance an instant , so that by the time

th is performance was over—it took but a few seconds—the youn g

man felt in troduced to M rs. Ryves. H er smile struck him as charm-

ing, and such an impression shortens many steps. She said, “O h, thank

you— you mustn’t let him worry you”; and then as, having put down

the child and raised his hat, he was turning away, she added: “It’s very

good of you n ot to complain of my piano.”

“I particularly enjoy it—you play beautifully,” said Peter Baron.

“I have to play, you see—it’s all I can do. But the people next doordon’t like it, though my room, you kn ow, is not against their wall.

T herefore I thank you for letting me tell them that you, in the house,

don’t find me a nu isance.”

She looked gent le and bright as she spoke, and as the young man’s

eyes rested on her the tolerance for which she expressed herself in-

debted seemed to him the least indulgence she might count upon.

But h e only laughed and said “O h, no, you’re not a nu isance!” andfelt more and m ore introduced.

T he little boy, who was handsome, hereupon clamou red for an-

other ride, and she took h im up herself, to m oderate his transports.

She stood a moment with the child in her arms, and he put his

fingers exuberantly into h er hair, so that while she smiled at Baron

she slowly, perm ittingly shook h er head to get rid of them.

“If they really make a fuss I’m afraid I shall have to go,” she went on.

“O h, don’t go!” Baron broke out, with a sud den expressiveness

which made h is voice, as it fell upon his ear, strike him as the voice

of another. She gave a vague exclamation and , nodding slightly but

not unsociably, passed back into the house. She had made an im-

pression which remained till the other party to the conversation

reached the railway-station , when it was sup erseded by the th ought

of his prospective discussion with M r. Locket. This was a proof of

the intensity of that in terest.



234

The aftertaste of the later conference was also intense for Peter

Baron, who quitted his editor with his manuscript under his arm.

He had had the question out with Mr. Locket, and he was in a

flutter which ought to have been a sense of triumph and which

indeed at first he succeeded in regarding in this light. Mr. Locket

had had to adm it that there was an idea in his story, and that was a

tribute which Baron was in a position to make the most of. But

there was also a scene which scandalised the editorial conscience

and which the young man had promised to rewrite. The idea that

M r. Locket had been so good as to disengage depended for clearnessmainly on th is scene; so it was easy to see his objection was perverse.

T his inference was probably a part of the joy in which Peter Baron

walked as he carried hom e a con tribu tion it pleased h im to classify

as accepted. He walked to work off his excitement and to think in

what manner he should reconstruct. He went some distance with-

out settling that point, and then, as it began to worry him, h e looked

vaguely into shop-windows for solutions and hin ts. Mr. Locket livedin the depths of Chelsea, in a little panelled, amiable house, and

Baron t ook his way hom eward along the King’s Road. There was a

new amusement for him, a fresher bustle, in a London walk in the

morning; these were hours that he habitually spent at his table, in

the awkward attitude engendered by the poor piece of furniture,

one of the rickety features of Mrs. Bundy’s second floor, which had

to serve as his altar of literary sacrifice. If by except ion he went out

when the day was young he noticed that life seemed younger with

it; there were livelier industries to profit by and shop-girls, often

rosy, to look at; a different air was in th e streets and a chaff of traffic

for the observer of manners to catch. Above all, it was the time

when poor Baron made his purchases, which were wholly of the

wandering mind; his extravagances, for som e mysterious reason, were

all matutinal, and he had a foreknowledge that if ever he should

ruin h imself it wou ld be well before noon . H e felt lavish this morn -




235

H enry Jam es

ing, on the strength of what the Promiscuous would do for him; he

had lost sight for the moment of what he should have to do for the

Promiscuous. Before the old bookshops and printshops, the crowded

pan es of the curiosity-mongers and the desirable exhibitions of ma-

hogany “done up,” he used, by an inn ocent process, to commit luxu-

rious follies. He refurnished Mrs. Bundy with a freedom that cost

her nothing, and lost himself in pictures of a transfigured second

floor.

O n th is part icular occasion th e King’s Road p roved almost

unprecedentedly expensive, and indeed th is occasion differed frommost others in containing the germ of real danger. For once in a

way he had a bad conscience— he felt him self tempted to p ick h is

own pocket. H e never saw a commodious writing-table, with el-

bow-room and drawers and a fair expanse of leather stamped neatly

at th e edge with gilt, without being freshly reminded of Mrs. Bundy’s

dilapidations. There were several such tables in the King’s Road—

they seemed indeed particularly num erous today. Peter Baron glancedat them all th rough the fronts of the shops, but there was one that

detained him in supreme contemplation. There was a fine assur-

ance about it which seemed a guarantee of masterpieces; but when

at last he went in and, just to help himself on his way, asked the

impossible price, the sum mentioned by the voluble vendor mocked

at h im even m ore than h e had feared. It was far too expensive, as he

hinted, and he was on the point of completing his comedy by a

pensive retreat when the shopman bespoke his attention for an-

other article of the same general character, which he described as

remarkably cheap for what it was. It was an old piece, from a sale in

the country, and it had been in stock some time; but it had got

pushed out of sight in one of the upper rooms—they contained

such a wilderness of treasures—and h appened to have but just com e

to light. Peter suffered himself to be conducted into an intermi-

nable dusky rear, where he presently found himself bending over



236

one of those square substan tial desks of old m ahogany, raised, with

the aid of fron t legs, on a sort of retreating pedestal which is fitted

with small drawers, cont racted conveniences known im memorially

to the knowing as davenports. This specimen had visibly seen ser-

vice, but it had an old-time solidity and to Peter Baron it un expect-

edly appealed.

H e would have said in advance that such an article was exactly

what he didn’t want , but as the shopm an pushed up a chair for him

and he sat down with his elbows on the gentle slope of the large,

firm lid, he felt that such a basis for literature would be half thebatt le. H e raised the lid and looked lovingly into the deep int erior;

he sat ominously silent while his comp anion dropped the striking

words: “Now that’s an article I personally covet!” Then when the

man mentioned the ridiculous price (they were literally giving it

away), he reflected on the economy of having a literary altar on

which one could really kindle a fire. A davenport was a compro-

mise, but what was all life but a comp romise? H e could beat downthe dealer, and at M rs. Bundy’s he had to write on an insincere card-

table. After he had sat for a minute with his nose in the friendly

desk he had a queer impression that it might tell him a secret or

two— one of the secrets of form , on e of the sacrificial mysteries—

though no doub t its career had been literary only in the sense of its

helping some old lady to write invitations to dull dinners. There

was a strange, faint odour in the receptacle, as if fragrant, hallowed

th ings had once been put away there. When he took h is head out of

it he said to the shopm an: “I don’t m ind meeting you halfway.” H e

had been told by knowing people that th at was the right thing. H e

felt rather vulgar, but the davenport arrived that evening at Jersey

Villas.




237

H enry Jam es

CH APTER II

“I D ARESAY it will be all right; he seems quiet now,” said the poor

lady of the “parlours” a few days later, in reference to their litigious

neighbour and the precarious piano. The two lodgers had grown

regularly acquainted, and the piano had had much to do with it.

Just as this instrument served, with the gentleman at No. 4, as a

theme for discussion, so between Peter Baron and the lady of the

parlours it had become a basis of peculiar agreement , a topic, at any

rate, of conversation frequently renewed. M rs. Ryves was so prepos-

sessing that Peter was sure that even if they had not had the pianohe would have found som ething else to th resh out with her. Fortu-

nately however they did have it, and he, at least, made the most of

it, knowing more now about his new friend , who when, widowed

and fatigued, she held her beaut iful child in her arms, looked dim ly

like a modern M adonna. M rs. Bundy, as a letter of furnished lodg-

ings, was characterised in general by a familiar dom estic severity in

respect to picturesque young wom en, but she had th e highest con-fidence in Mrs. Ryves. She was luminous about her being a lady,

and a lady who could bring Mrs. Bundy back to a gratified recogni-

tion of one of those manifestations of mind for which she had an

independent esteem. She was professional, but Jersey Villas could

be prou d of a profession that d idn’t happen to be the wrong one—

they had seen som ething of that. M rs. Ryves had a hundred a year

(Baron wondered how Mrs. Bundy knew this; he thought it un-

likely Mrs. Ryves had told her), and for the rest she depended on



238

her lovely music. Baron judged that her music, even though lovely,

was a frail dependence; it wou ld hardly help to fill a concert-room ,

and he asked h imself at first whether she played country-dances at

children’s parties or gave lessons to youn g ladies who studied above

their station.

Very soon, ind eed, he was sufficiently enlightened; it all went fast,

for the little boy had been almost as great a help as the piano. Sidn ey

haunted the doorstep of N o. 3 he was eminently sociable, and had

established independent relations with Peter, a frequent feature of

which was an adventurous visit, upstairs, to picture books criticisedfor not being all geegees and walking sticks happily more conform -

able. T he young man’s window, too, looked ou t on their acquain-

tance; through a starched muslin curtain it kept h is neighbour be-

fore him, m ade him almost m ore aware of her com ings and goings

than h e felt he had a right to be. H e was capable of a shyness of

curiosity about her and of dumb little delicacies of consideration.

She d id give a few lesson s; they were essentially local, and he endedby knowing more or less what she went ou t for and what she came

in from. She had almost no visitors, only a decent old lady or two,

and, every day, poor dingy Miss Teagle, who was also ancient and

who came humbly enough to governess the infant of the parlours.

Peter Baron’s window had always, to his sense, looked out on a good

deal of life, and one of the things it had most shown h im was that

there is nobod y so bereft of joy as not to be able to command for

twopence the services of somebody less joyous. Mrs. Ryves was a

struggler (Baron scarcely liked to think of it), but she occupied a

pinnacle for M iss Teagle, who h ad lived on — and from a noble nurs-

ery— into a period of diplomas and h um iliation.

M rs. Ryves som etimes went out, like Baron him self, with m anu -

scripts under her arm, an d, still more like Baron, she almost always

came back with them . H er vain approaches were to the m usic-sell-

ers; she tried to comp ose—t o produce songs that would m ake a hit.




239

H enry Jam es

A successful song was an incom e, she confided to Peter one of the

first t imes he took Sidney, blase and drowsy, back to h is moth er. It

was not on one of these occasions, but once when he had come in

on no better pretext than that of simply wanting to (she had after all

virtually invited h im), that she m entioned how only one song in a

thousand was successful and that the terrible difficulty was in get-

ting the right words. T his rightn ess was just a vulgar “fluke”—there

were lots of words really clever that were of no use at all. Peter said,

laughing, that he supposed any words he should try to produce

would be sure to be too clever; yet only three weeks after his firstencounter with Mrs. Ryves he sat at his delightful davenport (well

aware that he had duties more pressing), trying to string together

rhymes idiotic enough to make his neighbou r’s fortune. H e was

satisfied of the fineness of her musical gift—it had the touching

note. The touching not e was in her person as well.

The davenport was delightful, after six months of its tottering

predecessor, and such a re-enforcement to the young man’s stylewas not impaired by his sense of som ething lawless in the way it had

been gained. H e had made the purchase in anticipation of the money

he expected from Mr. Locket, but Mr. Locket’s liberality was to

depend on the ingenu ity of his contributor, who now foun d h im-

self confron ted with the consequence of a frivolous optimism. T he

fruit of his labour presented, as he stared at it with his elbows on his

desk, an aspect uncompromising and incorruptible. It seemed to

look up at him reproachfully and to say, with its essential finish:

“How could you promise anything so base; how could you pass

your word to mutilate and dishon our me?” T he alterations demanded

by M r. Locket were impossible; the concessions to the platitud e of

his conception of the public mind were degrading. The public

mind!— as if the public had a mind, or any principle of percept ion

more discoverable than the stare of hudd led sheep! Peter Baron felt

that it concerned him to determine if he were only not clever enough



241

H enry Jam es

always som e of it about), he had con fided to the small Sidney that if

he would wait a little he should be intrusted with something n ice to

take down to h is parent. Sidn ey had absorbing occupation and, while

Peter copied off the song in a pretty hand, roamed, gurgling and

sticky, about the room . In th is manner he lurched like a little toper

into the rear of the davenport, which stood a few steps out from the

recess of the window, and, as he was fond of beating time to his

intensest joys, began to bang on t he surface of it with a paper-kn ife

which at that spot had chanced to fall upon the floor. At the mo-

ment Sidn ey comm itted th is violence his kind friend had h appenedto raise the lid of the desk and, with his head beneath it, was rum-

maging amon g a mass of papers for a proper envelope. “I say, I say,

my boy!” he exclaimed, solicitous for the ancient glaze of his most

cherished possession. Sidney paused an instant; then, while Peter

still hun ted for the envelope, he adm inistered anot her, and this time

a distinctly disobedient, rap. Peter heard it from within and was

struck with its odd ity of sound— so m uch so that, leaving the childfor a moment under a demoralising impression of impunity, he

waited with quick curiosity for a repetition of the stroke. It came of

course immediately, and then the youn g man, who had at the same

instant foun d his envelope and ejaculated “H allo, this thing has a

false back!” jum ped up and secured h is visitor, whom with his left

arm he held in durance on his knee while with his free hand he

add ressed th e missive to M rs. Ryves.

As Sidney was fond of errands he was easily got r id of, and after he

had gone Baron stood a moment at the wind ow chinking penn ies

and keys in pockets and wondering if the charm ing composer would

th ink h is song as good, or in other words as bad, as he th ought it.

H is eyes as he tu rned away fell on the wooden back of the daven-

port, where, to his regret, the traces of Sidney’s assault were visible

in three or four ugly scratches. “Confound the little brute!” he ex-

claimed, feeling as if an altar had been desecrated. H e was reminded,



242

however, of the observation th is outrage had led him to make, and ,

for further assurance, he kn ocked on the wood with his knuckle. It

sounded from that position commonplace enough, but his suspi-

cion was strongly confirmed when, again standing beside the desk,

he put his head beneath the lifted lid and gave ear while with an

extended arm he tapped sharply in the same place. The back was

distinctly hollow; there was a space between t he inner and t he ou ter

pieces (he could m easure it), so wide that he was a fool not to have

noticed it before. T he depth of the receptacle from front to rear was

so great that it could sacrifice a certain quantity of room withoutdetection . The sacrifice could of course only be for a purpose, and

the purpose could only be the creation of a secret compartment.

Peter Baron was still boy enough to be th rilled by the idea of such a

feature, the more so as every indication of it had been cleverly con-

cealed. The people at the shop h ad never noticed it, else they would

have called his atten tion to it as an enhancement of value. H is leg-

endary lore instructed him that where there was a hiding-place therewas always a hidden spring, and he pried and pressed and fumbled

in an eager search for the sensitive spot. The article was really a

wonder of neat constru ction; everything fitted with a closeness that

completely saved appearances.

It took Baron some minutes to pursue his inqu iry, du ring which

he reflected th at the people of the shop were not such fools after all.

T hey had admitted m oreover that th ey had accident ally neglected

th is relic of gent ility—it had been overlooked in the mu ltiplicity of

their treasures. H e now recalled that the man h ad wanted to polish

it up before sending it home, and that, satisfied for his own part

with its honourable appearance and averse in general to shiny furn i-

ture, he had in his impatience declined to wait for such an op era-

tion , so th at the object had left th e place for Jersey Villas, carrying

presumably its secret with it, two or three hours after his visit. This

secret it seemed indeed capable of keeping; there was an absurdity




243

H enry Jam es

in being baffled, but Peter couldn’t find the spring. H e thum ped

and sounded, he listened and measured again; he inspected every

join t and crevice, with the effect of becoming surer still of the exist-

ence of a chamber and of making up his mind that his davenport

was a rarity. Not only was there a compartment between the two

backs, bu t th ere was distinctly som ething in the com partm ent! Per-

haps it was a lost manu script— a nice, safe, old-fashioned story th at

Mr. Locket wouldn’t object to. Peter returned to the charge, for it

had occurred to h im that he had perhaps not sufficient ly visited the

small drawers, of which, in two vertical rows, th ere were six in num-ber, of different sizes, inserted sideways into that portion of the struc-

ture which formed part of the support of the desk. H e took them out

again and examined more minutely the condition of their sockets,

with the happy result of discovering at last, in the place into which

the third on the left-hand row was fitted, a small sliding panel. Be-

hind the panel was a spring, like a flat button, which yielded with a

click when he pressed it and which instant ly produced a loosening of one of the pieces of the shelf forming the highest part of the daven-

port—pieces adjusted to each other with the most deceptive close-

ness.

This particular piece proved to be, in its turn, a sliding panel,

which, when pushed, revealed the existence of a smaller receptacle,

a narrow, oblong box, in the false back. Its capacity was limited, but

if it couldn’t hold m any th ings it might hold precious ones. Baron ,

in p resence of the ingenuity with which it had been dissimulated,

immediately felt that, but for the odd chance of little Sidney Ryves’s

having hammered on the outside at the moment he himself hap-

pened to have his head in the desk, he might have remained for

years without suspicion of it. This apparently would have been a

loss, for he had been right in guessing that the chamber was not

empty. It contained ob jects which, whether precious or not, had at

any rate been worth som ebody’s hiding. These objects were a collec-



244

tion of small fiat parcels, of the shape of packets of letters, wrapped

in white paper and neatly sealed. The seals, mechanically figured,

bore the impress neither of arms nor of initials; the paper looked

old— it had turned faint ly sallow; the packets might have been there

for ages. Baron counted them—there were nine in all, of different

sizes; he tu rned them over and over, felt them curiously and snuffed

in their vague, musty smell, which affected him with the melan-

choly of some smothered human accent. The little bundles were

neither named n or num bered— there was not a word of writing on

any of the covers; but they plainly contained old letters, sorted andmatched according to d ates or to authorship. T hey told som e old,

dead story—they were the ashes of fires burned ou t.

As Peter Baron held his discoveries successively in his hands he

became conscious of a queer emotion which was not altogether ela-

tion and yet was still less pu re pain. H e had m ade a find , but it

somehow added to his responsibility; he was in the presence of some-

th ing interesting, bu t (in a mann er he couldn’t h ave defined) th iscircumstance suddenly constituted a danger. It was the perception

of the danger, for instance, which caused to remain in abeyance any

impu lse he might have felt to break one of the seals. H e looked at

them all narrowly, but he was careful not to loosen them, and he

wondered uncomfortably whether the contents of the secret com-

partm ent would be held in equity to be the property of the people

in the King’s Road. H e had given m oney for th e davenport, but had

he given m oney for these buried papers? H e paid by a growing con-

sciousness that a nameless chill had stolen into the air the penalty,

which he had many a time paid before, of being made of sensitive

stuff. It was as if an occasion had insidiously arisen for a sacrifice—

a sacrifice for the sake of a fine superstition , something like hon our

or kindn ess or justice, som ething indeed perhaps even finer still— a

difficult deciphering of duty, an impossible tantalising wisdom.

Standing there before his ambiguou s treasure and losing him self for




245

H enry Jam es

the mom ent in the sense of a dawning complication, he was startled

by a light, quick tap at the door of his sitting-room. Instinctively,

before answering, he listened an instan t— he was in the att itud e of a

miser surprised while coun ting his hoard. T hen he answered “O ne

moment, please!” and slipped the little heap of packets into the

biggest of the drawers of the davenport, which happened to be open.

T he aperture of the false back was still gaping, and he had not t ime

to work back the spring. He hastily laid a big book over the place

and then went and opened his door.

It offered him a sight none the less agreeable for being unex-pected— the graceful and agitated figure of M rs. Ryves. H er agita-

tion was so visible that he thought at first that som ething d readful

had happened to her child— that she had rushed up to ask for help,

to beg him to go for the doctor. T hen he perceived that it was prob-

ably connected with the desperate verses he had transmitted to her

a quarter of an hour before; for she had his open manuscript in on e

hand and was nervously pulling it about with the other. She lookedfrightened and pretty, and if, in invading the privacy of a fellow-

lodger, she had been guilty of a departure from rigid custom, she

was at least con scious of the enorm ity of the step and incapable of

treating it with levity. The levity was for Peter Baron , who endeav-

oured, however, to clothe h is familiarity with respect, pushing for-

ward the seat of honour and repeating that he rejoiced in such a

visit. The visitor came in, leaving the door ajar, and after a minu te

du ring which, to h elp her, he charged her with the purpose of tell-

ing him th at he ought to be ashamed to send her down such rub-

bish, she recovered herself sufficiently to stam mer out t hat his song

was exactly what she had been looking for and that after reading it

she had been seized with an extraordinary, irresistible impulse—

that of thanking him for it in person and without delay.

“It was the impulse of a kind n ature,” he said, “and I can’t tell you

what pleasure you give me.”



246

She declined to sit down , and evidently wished to appear to have

come but for a few seconds. She looked confusedly at the place in

which she found herself, and when her eyes met his own they struck

him as anxious and appealing. She was evidently not thinking of his

song, though she said three or four times over that it was beautiful.

“Well, I only wanted you to know, and now I must go,” she added;

but on his hearth rug she lingered with such an odd helplessness that

he felt almost sorry for her.

“Perhaps I can improve it if you find it doesn’t go,” said Baron. “I’m

so delighted to do anything for you I can.”“There may be a word or two that might be changed,” she an-

swered, rather absently. “I shall have to think it over, to live with it

a little. But I like it, and that’s all I wanted to say.”

“Charm ing of you. I’m not a bit busy,” said Baron.

Again she looked at h im with a troubled intensity, then sudd enly

she demanded: “Is there anything the matter with you?”

“T he matter with m e?”“I mean like being ill or worried. I won dered if there might be; I

had a sudden fancy; and that, I th ink, is really why I came up .”

“There isn’t, indeed; I’m all right. But your sudden fancies are

inspirations.”

“It’s absurd. You must excuse me. Good-by!” said M rs. Ryves.

“What are the words you want changed?” Baron asked.

“I don’t want any—if you’re all right. Good-by,” his visitor re-

peated, fixing her eyes an instan t on an object on h is desk that h ad

caught them. His own glanced in the same direction and he saw

that in h is hu rry to shuffle away the packets foun d in the davenport

he had overlooked one of them, which lay with its seals exposed.

For an instant he felt found out, as if he had been concerned in

something to be ashamed of, and it was only his quick second thought

that told him how little the incident of which the packet was a

sequel was an affair of M rs. Ryves’s. H er con scious eyes came back




247

H enry Jam es

to his as if they were soun ding them , and suddenly th is instinct of

keeping his discovery to himself was succeeded by a really startled

inference that , with t he rarest alertness, she had guessed something

and that her guess (it seemed almost supernatural), had been her

real motive. Some secret sympathy had made her vibrate—had

touched h er with th e knowledge that he had brought something to

light . After an instant he saw that she also d ivined the very reflec-

tion he was then making, and th is gave him a lively desire, a grate-

ful, happ y desire, to appear to have noth ing to conceal. For herself,

it determined her still more to pu t an end to her mom entary visit.But before she had passed to the door he exclaimed: “All right? H ow

can a fellow be anyth ing else who has just had such a find?”

She paused at this, still looking earnest and asking: “What have

you foun d?”

“Som e ancient family papers, in a secret compartment of my writ-

ing-table.” And he took up the packet he had left out, holding it

before her eyes. “A lot of other things like that.”“W hat are they?” murm ured M rs. Ryves.

“I haven’t the least idea. They’re sealed.”

“You haven’t broken the seals?” She had come further back.

“I haven’t had time; it only happened ten minutes ago.”

“I knew it,” said Mrs. Ryves, more gaily now.

“W hat d id you know?”

“T hat you were in some predicament.”

“You’re extraordinary. I never heard of anything so miraculous;

down two flights of stairs.”

“ Are you in a quand ary?” the visitor asked.

“Yes, abou t giving them back.” Peter Baron stood smiling at her

and rapping his packet on the palm of his hand. “What do you

advise?”

She herself smiled now, with her eyes on th e sealed parcel. “Back

to whom ?”



248

“The man of whom I bought th e table.”

“Ah then, they’re not from your family?”

“No indeed, the piece of furn iture in which th ey were hidden is

not an ancestral possession. I bought it at second h and — you see it’s

old— the other day in the King’s Road. O bviously the man who

sold it to me sold me more than he meant ; he had n o idea (from his

own point of view it was stupid of him), that there was a hidden

chamber or that mysterious documents were buried th ere. O ught I

to go and tell him? It’s rather a nice question .”

“Are the papers of value?” M rs. Ryves inqu ired.“I haven’t the least idea. But I can ascertain by breaking a seal.”

“D on’t!” said M rs. Ryves, with much expression. She looked grave

again.

“It’s rather tantalising—it’s a bit of a problem,” Baron went on,

tu rning his packet over.

M rs. Ryves hesitated. “W ill you show me what you have in your

hand?”H e gave her the packet, and she looked at it and h eld it for an

instant to her nose. “It has a queer, charming old fragrance,” he

said.

“Charming? It’s horrid.” She hand ed him back the packet, saying

again more emphatically “Don’t!”

“D on’t break a seal?”

“Don’t give back the papers.”

“Is it honest t o keep th em?”

“Certainly. They’re yours as much as the people’s of the shop. T hey

were in the hidden chamber when t he table came to the shop, and

the people had every opp ortunity to find them out . Th ey didn’t—

therefore let them take the consequences.”

Peter Baron reflected, diverted by her intensity. She was pale, with

eyes almost ardent . “The table had been in the place for years.”

“T hat proves the th ings haven’t been missed.”




249

H enry Jam es

“Let m e show you how they were concealed,” he rejoined; and he

exhibited the ingenious recess and the working of the curious spring.

She was greatly interested, she grew excited and became familiar;

she appealed to him again not to do anything so foolish as to give

up the papers, the rest of which, in their little blank, im penetrable

covers, he placed in a row before her. “T hey might be traced— their

history, their ownership,” he argued; to which she replied that this

was exactly why he ought to be quiet. H e declared that women h ad

not t he smallest sense of honour, and she retorted that at any rate

they have other perceptions more delicate than those of men. Headmitted that the papers might be rubbish, and she conceded that

noth ing was more probable; yet when he offered to settle the point

off-hand she caught him by the wrist, acknowledging that, absurd

as it was, she was nervous. Finally she put the whole thing on the

ground of his just doing her a favour. She asked him to retain the

papers, to be silent about them, simply because it would please her.

That would be reason enough. Baron’s acquaintance, his agreeablerelations with her, advanced many steps in the treatm ent of this ques-

tion; an element of friendly candour made its way into their discus-

sion of it.

“I can’t m ake out why it m atters to you, one way or the other, nor

why you should think it worth talking abou t,” the youn g man rea-

soned.

“Neither can I. It’s just a whim.”

“Certainly, if it will give you any pleasure, I’ll say nothing at the

shop.”

“T hat’s charm ing of you, and I ’m very grateful. I see now that th is

was why the spirit moved me to come up—to save them,” Mrs.

Ryves went on. She added, moving away, that now she had saved

them she mu st really go.

“To save them for what, if I m ayn’t break th e seals?” Baron asked.

“I don’t know—for a generous sacrifice.”



250

“W hy shou ld it be generous? W hat’s at stake?” Peter demanded,

leaning against t he doorpost as she stood on the landing.

“I don’t know what, but I feel as if something or other were in

peril. Burn them up!” she exclaimed with shining eyes.

“Ah, you ask too much—I’m so curious about them!”

“Well, I won’t ask more than I ought, and I’m much obliged to

you for your prom ise to be quiet. I trust to your discretion. G ood-

by.”

“You ought t o reward my discretion,” said Baron, coming out to

the landing.She had partly descended the staircase and she stopped, leaning

against th e baluster and smiling up at h im. “Surely you’ve had your

reward in the hon our of my visit.”

“That’s delightful as far as it goes. But what will you do for me if

I bu rn the papers?”

Mrs. Ryves considered a moment. “Burn them first and you’ll

see!”O n this she went rapidly downstairs, and Baron, to whom the

answer appeared inadequate and the proposition indeed in that form

grossly un fair, returned to h is room . The vivacity of her interest in a

question in which she had d iscoverably nothing at stake mystified,

amused and, in addition, irresistibly charmed him. She was deli-

cate, imaginative, inflammable, qu ick to feel, qu ick to act. H e didn’t

complain of it, it was the way he liked women to be;, but he was not

impelled for th e hour to comm it the sealed packets to th e flames.

H e dropped them again into their secret well, and after that he went

out. H e felt restless and excited; another day was lost for work— the

dreadful job t o be performed for M r. Locket was still furth er off.




251

H enry Jam es

CH APTER III

T EN D AYS AFTER M rs. Ryves’s visit he paid by appointment another

call on the editor of the Promiscuous. H e foun d h im in t he little

wainscoted Chelsea house, which had to Peter’s sense the smoky

brownn ess of an old pipebowl, surrou nd ed with all the emblems of

his office—a litter of papers, a hedge of encyclopaedias, a photo-

graphic gallery of popu lar cont ributors—and he promised at first to

consume very few of the m oments for which so many claims com-

peted. It was Mr. Locket himself however who presently made the

interview spacious, gave it air after d iscovering th at poor Baron hadcome to tell him something m ore interesting th an that he couldn’t

after all patch up his tale. Peter had begun with this, had int imated

respectfully that it was a case in which both practice and p rinciple

rebelled, and then, p erceiving how litt le Mr. Locket was affected by

his audacity, had felt weak and slightly silly, left with his heroism on

his hands. H e had armed him self for a struggle, but the Prom iscu-

ous didn’t even protest, and there would have been n oth ing for himbut to go away with the prospect of never coming again had he not

chanced to say abrup tly, irrelevant ly, as he got up from his chair:

“D o you h appen to be at all interested in Sir Dom inick Ferrand?”

Mr. Locket, who had also got up, looked over his glasses. “The

late Sir D om inick?”

“T he only one; you know th e family’s extinct.”

Mr. Locket shot his young friend another sharp glance, a silent

retort to the glibness of th is inform ation . “Very extinct indeed. I ’m



252

afraid the subject today would scarcely be regarded as attractive.”

“Are you very sure?” Baron asked.

M r. Locket leaned forward a little, with h is fingertips on h is table,

in the att itude of giving permission to retire. “I might consider th e

question in a special connection.” H e was silent a minute, in a way

that relegated poor Peter to the general; but meeting the youn g man’s

eyes again h e asked: “Are you— a—thinking of proposing an article

upon h im?”

“Not exactly proposing it— because I don’t yet quite see my way;

but the idea rather appeals to m e.”M r. Locket emitted the safe assertion that th is eminent statesman

had been a striking figure in h is day; then he added: “H ave you

been studying him?”

“I’ve been dipping into him.”

“I’m afraid he’s scarcely a question of th e hour,” said M r. Locket ,

shu ffling papers together.

“I think I could m ake him one,” Peter Baron d eclared.Mr. Locket stared again; he was unable to repress an unattenuated “You?”

“I have some new material,” said the young man, colouring a little.

“That often freshens up an old story.”

“It bu ries it som etimes. It’s often only another tom bstone.”

“T hat depends upon what it is. H owever,” Peter added, “the docu-

ments I speak of would be a crushing monum ent.”

M r. Locket, hesitating, shot another glance un der h is glasses. “Do

you allude to— a—revelations?”

“Very curious ones.”

Mr. Locket, still on his feet, had kept his body at the bowing

angle; it was therefore easy for h im after an instant to bend a litt le

further and to sink into his chair with a movement of his hand

toward the seat Baron had occupied. Baron resumed possession of

th is convenience, and the conversation took a fresh start on a basis

which such an extension of privilege could render but little less hu-




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H enry Jam es

miliating to our young m an. H e had matured n o plan of confiding

his secret to Mr. Locket, and he had really come out to make him

conscientiously that other announcement as to which it appeared

that so m uch artistic agitation h ad been wasted. H e had ind eed

during the past days—days of painful indecision— appealed in imagi-

nation to the editor of the Promiscuous, as he had appealed to other

sources of comfort; but his scruples turned their face upon him

from quarters high as well as low, and if on the one hand he had by

no means made up his mind n ot to mention h is strange knowledge,

he had still more left to the determination of the mom ent the ques-tion of how he shou ld introduce the subject. H e was in fact too

nervous to decide; he only felt that he needed for his peace of mind

to com mun icate his discovery. H e wanted an opinion, the impres-

sion of somebody else, and even in this intensely professional pres-

ence, five minutes after he had begun to tell his queer story, he felt

relieved of half his bu rden. H is story was very queer; he cou ld take

the measure of th at h imself as he spoke; but wouldn’t th is very cir-cum stance qualify it for the Promiscuou s?

“O f course the letters may be forgeries,” said M r. Locket at last.

“I’ve no doubt that’s what many people will say.”

“H ave they been seen by any expert?”

“No indeed; th ey’ve been seen by nobody.”

“H ave you got any of them with you?”

“No; I felt nervous abou t bringing them out .”

“That’s a pity. I should have liked the testimony of my eyes.”

“You may have it if you’ll com e to m y room s. If you don’t care to

do that without a further guarantee I’ll copy you out some pas-

sages.”

“Select a few of th e worst!” M r. Locket laughed. O ver Baron’s

distressing information he had become quite human and genial.

But he added in a moment m ore dryly: “You kn ow they ought to be

seen by an expert .”



254

“T hat’s exactly what I dread,” said Peter.

“T hey’ll be worth noth ing to me if they’re not.”

Peter com mun ed with his innermost spirit. “H ow mu ch will they

be worth to m e if they are?”

M r. Locket t urn ed in his study-chair. “I should require to look at

them before answering that question.”

“I’ve been to the British museum—there are many of his letters

there. I’ve obtained perm ission to see them , and I’ve compared ev-

erything carefully. I repudiate the possibility of forgery. No sign of

genuineness is wanting; there are details, down to the very post-marks, that no forger could have invented. Besides, whose interest

could it conceivably have been? A labor of unspeakable difficulty,

and all for what advantage? T here are so m any letters, too— twenty-

seven in all.”

“Lord, what an ass!” Mr. Locket exclaimed.

“It will be one of the strangest post-mortem revelations of which

history preserves the record.”M r. Locket, grave now, worried with a paper-knife the crevice of a

drawer. “It’s very odd. But to be worth anything such documents

should be sub jected to a searching criticism— I mean of the histori-

cal kind.”

“Certainly; that would be the task of the writer introducing them

to th e public.”

Again Mr. Locket considered; then with a smile he looked up.

“You had better give up original composition and take to buying

old furniture.”

“D o you mean because it will pay better?”

“For you, I should th ink, original composition couldn’t pay worse.

The creative faculty’s so rare.”

“I do feel tempted to turn my atten tion to real heroes,” Peter re-

plied.

“I’m bound to d eclare that Sir D ominick Ferrand was never one




255

H enry Jam es

of mine. Flashy, crafty, second-rate—that’s how I’ve always read h im.

It was never a secret, moreover, that his private life had its weak

spots. H e was a mere flash in the pan.”

“H e speaks to t he people of th is coun try,” said Baron .

“He did; but his voice—the voice, I mean, of his prestige—is

scarcely audible now.”

“They’re still proud of some of the things he did at the Foreign

O ffice— the famous ‘exchange’ with Spain, in the Mediterranean,

which took Europe so by surprise and by which she felt injured,

especially when it became apparent how m uch we had the best of the bargain. Th en the sudden, unexpected show of force by which

he imposed on the United States our interpretation of that tiresom e

treaty—I could n ever make out what it was about . Th ese were both

matters that no one really cared a straw about, but he made every

one feel as if they cared; the nation rose to the way he played his

trumps—it was un comm on. H e was one of the few men we’ve had,

in our period, who took Europe, or took America, by surp rise, madethem jum p a bit; and the coun try liked h is doing it— it was a pleas-

ant change. T he rest of the world considered that they knew in any

case exactly what we would do, which was usually nothing at all.

Say what you like, he’s still a high name; partly also, no doubt, on

account of other th ings his early success and early death , his politi-

cal ‘cheek’ and wit; his very appearance—he certainly was hand-

some—and the possibilities (of future personal supremacy) which

it was the fashion at the t ime, which it’s the fashion still, to say had

passed away with him. He had been twice at the Foreign Office;

that alone was remarkable for a man dying at forty-four. What there-

fore will the coun try think when it learns he was venal?”

Peter Baron himself was not angry with Sir Dominick Ferrand,

who had simply become to him (he had been “reading up” fever-

ishly for a week) a very curious subject of psychological study; but

he could easily put h imself in the p lace of that portion of the public



256

whose memory was long enough for their patriotism to receive a

shock. It was some time fortunately since the conduct of public

affairs had wanted for men of disinterested ability, bu t the extraor-

dinary documents concealed (of all places in the world—it was as

fantastic as a nightmare) in a “bargain” picked up at second-hand

by an obscure scribbler, would be a calculable blow to the retrospec-

tive mind. Baron saw vividly that if these relics should be made

public the scandal, the horror, the chatter would be immense. Im-

mense would be also the contribut ion to tru th , the rectification of

history. H e had felt for several days (and it was exactly what hadmade him so nervous) as if he held in his hand the key to public

attention.

“There are too many things to explain,” Mr. Locket went on,

“and the singular provenance of your papers would count almost

overwhelmingly against them even if the other objection s were met.

T here would be a perfect and probably a very com plicated pedigree

to t race. H ow did they get into your davenport , as you call it, andhow long had they been there? What hands secreted them? what

hands had, so incredibly, clun g to them and preserved th em? W ho

are the persons mentioned in them? who are the correspondents,

the part ies to the nefarious transactions? You say the t ransactions

appear to be of two distinct kinds—som e of them connected with

pu blic business and oth ers involving obscure personal relation s.”

“T hey all have th is in com mon,” said Peter Baron , “that they con-

stitute evidence of uneasiness, in some instances of painful alarm,

on the writer’s part, in relation to exposure—the exposure in the

one case, as I gather, of the fact that he had availed himself of offi-

cial opportunities to promote enterprises (public works and that

sort of th ing) in which he had a pecun iary stake. T he dread of the

light in the other connection is evidently different, and these letters

are the earliest in d ate. T hey are addressed to a wom an, from whom

he had evidently received m oney.”




257

H enry Jam es

M r. Locket wiped his glasses. “W hat wom an?”

“I h aven’t th e least idea. There are lots of questions I can’t answer,

of course; lots of identities I can’t establish; lots of gaps I can’t fill.

But as to two p oints I’m clear, and they are the essent ial ones. In the

first place the papers in my possession are genuine; in the second

place they’re compromising.”

With th is Peter Baron rose again, rather vexed with him self for hav-

ing been led on to advertise his treasure (it was his interlocutor’s per-

fectly natural scept icism that produced this effect), for he felt that he

was putting h imself in a false position. H e detected in M r. Locket’sstudied detachment the fermentation of impulses from which, un-

successful as he was, he himself prayed to be delivered.

M r. Locket remained seated; he watched Baron go across the room

for his hat and u mbrella. “O f course, the question wou ld come up

of whose property tod ay such documents would legally he. There

are heirs, descendants, executors to consider.”

“In some degree perhaps; hut I’ve gone into that a little. SirD ominick Ferrand had n o children, and he left n o brothers and no

sisters. H is wife survived him, bu t she d ied ten years ago. H e can

have had n o heirs and no execut ors to speak of, for he left no prop-

erty.”

‘’That’s to his honour and against your theory,’’ said Mr. Locket.

“I have no theory. H e left a largeish mass of debt,” Peter Baron

added. At th is M r. Locket got up, while his visitor pursued: “So far

as I can ascertain, though of course my inquiries have had to be very

rapid and superficial, there is no one now living, directly or indi-

rectly related to the personage in question, who would be likely to

suffer from any steps in th e direction of publicity. It happens to be

a rare instance of a life that had, as it were, no loose ends. At least

there are none perceptible at present.”

“I see, I see,” said Mr. Locket. “But I don’t think I should care

much for your article.”



258

“W hat article?”

“T he on e you seem to wish to write, embodying this new matter.”

“O h, I don’t wish to write it!” Peter exclaimed. And then he bade

his host good-by.

“Good-by,” said Mr. Locket. “Mind you, I don’t say that I think

there’s nothing in it.”

“You would th ink there was som ething in it if you were to see my

documents.”

“I should like to see the secret compartment,”

the caustic editor rejoined. “Copy me out some extracts.”“To what end , if there’s no question of their being of use to you?”

“I don’t say that— I m ight like th e letters themselves.”

“Themselves?”

“Not as the basis of a paper, bu t just to pu blish— for a sensation.”

“T hey’d sell your num ber!” Baron laughed.

“I daresay I should like to look at them,” Mr. Locket conceded

after a mom ent. “W hen should I find you at home?”“D on’t com e,” said the young man . “I make you no offer.”

“I might make you one,” the editor h inted. “D on’t t rouble your-

self; I shall probably destroy them .” With th is Peter Baron took his

departure, waiting however just afterwards, in the street near the

house, as if he had been looking out for a stray hansom, to which he

would n ot have signalled h ad it appeared. H e thou ght M r. Locket

might hu rry after him, but M r. Locket seemed to have other things

to d o, and Peter Baron returned on foot to Jersey Villas.




259

H enry Jam es

CH APTER IV

O N T H E EVENING that succeeded this apparently point less encounter

he had an interview more conclusive with Mrs. Bundy, for whose

shrewd an d philosophic view of life he had several tim es expressed,

even to the good woman herself, a considerable relish. The situation

at Jersey Villas (Mrs. Ryves had suddenly flown off to Dover) was

such as to create in him a desire for moral sup port, and there was a

kind of domestic determination in Mrs. Bundy which seemed, in

general, to advertise it. H e had asked for her on coming in, but h ad

been told she was absent for the hour; upon which he had add ressedhim self mechan ically to the task of doing up his dishonoured manu-

script— the ingenious fiction about which M r. Locket had been so

stupid—for further adventures and not improbable defeats. He

passed a restless, ineffective afternoon, asking himself if his genius

were a horrid delusion, looking out of his window for something

that didn’t happen, som ething th at seemed now to be the advent of

a persuasive M r. Locket and now the return , from an absence moredisappointing even than M rs. Bundy’s, of his interesting neighbour

of the parlours. H e was so nervous and so depressed th at he was

unable even to fix his mind on the composition of the note with

which, on its next peregrination, it was necessary that his manu-

script should be accompanied. He was too nervous to eat, and he

forgot even to dine; he forgot to light his candles, he let h is fire go

out, and it was in the melancholy chill of the late dusk that Mrs.

Bundy, arriving at last with his lamp, found him extended m oodily



260

upon his sofa. She had been informed that he wished to speak to

her, and as she placed on the malodorous lum inary an oily shade of

green pasteboard she expressed the friendly hope that there was

nothing wrong with his ‘ealth.

The young man rose from his couch, pulling himself together

sufficiently to reply that his health was well enough but that his

spirits were down in h is hoots. H e had a strong disposition to “draw”

his land lady on th e subject of Mrs. Ryves, as well as a vivid convic-

tion that she constituted a theme as to which Mrs. Bundy would

require little pressure to tell him even more than she knew. At thesame time he hated to appear to pry into the secrets of his absent

friend ; to discuss her with their bustling hostess resembled too much

for his taste a gossip with a tattling servant about an unconscious

employer. H e left out of accoun t however M rs. Bundy’s knowledge

of the hum an h eart, for it was th is fine principle that broke down

the barriers after he had reflected reassuringly that it was not med-

dling with M rs. Ryves’s affairs to try and find out if she stru ck suchan observer as happy. Crudely, abruptly, even a little blushingly, he

pu t the direct question to M rs. Bundy, and th is led tolerably straight

to another question, which, on his spirit, sat equally heavy (they

were indeed but different phases of the same), and which the good

wom an answered with expression when she ejaculated: “T hink it a

liberty for you to run down for a few hours? If she do, m y dear sir,

just send her to me to talk to!” As regard s happiness indeed she

warned Baron against imposing too high a standard on a young

thing who had been through so much, and before he knew it he

found himself, without the responsibility of choice, in submissive

receipt of Mrs. Bundy’s version of this experience. It was an inter-

esting p icture, though it h ad its infirmities, one of them congenital

and consisting of the fact that it had sprung essentially from the

virginal brain of Miss Teagle. Amplified, edited, embellished by the

richer genius of Mrs. Bundy, who had incorporated with it and n ow




261

H enry Jam es

liberally introduced copious interleavings of Miss Teagle’s own ro-

mance, it gave Peter Baron m uch food for meditation , at th e same

time that it only half relieved his curiosity about the causes of the

charm ing woman’s un derlying strangeness. H e sounded this note

experimentally in Mrs. Bundy’s ear, but it was easy to see that it

didn’t reverberate in her fancy. She had no idea of the picture it

would have been natural for him to desire that Mrs. Ryves should

present to h im, and she was therefore unable to estimate the points

in respect to which his actual impression was irritating. She had

indeed no adequate concept ion of the intellectual requirement s of ayoung man in love. She couldn’t tell him why their faultless friend

was so isolated, so un related, so nervously, shrinkingly proud. O n

the other hand she could tell him (he knew it already) that she had

passed many years of her life in the acquisition of accomplishments

at a seat of learning no less remote than Boulogne, and that Miss

Teagle had been intimately acquainted with the late M r. Everard Ryves,

who was a “most rising” young man in the city, not m aking any yearless than h is clear twelve hundred. “N ow that he isn’t there to make

them, his mourn ing widow can’t live as she had then, can she?” Mrs.

Bundy asked.

Baron was not prepared to say that she could, bu t he thought of

another way she m ight live as he sat, the next day, in the train which

rattled him down to D over. Th e place, as he approached it, seemed

bright and breezy to h im; his roamings had been neither far enough

nor frequent enough to make the cockneyfied coast insipid. Mrs.

Bundy had of course given h im the address he needed, and on emerg-

ing from the station he was on the point of asking what d irection he

shou ld take. H is attent ion h owever at this moment was drawn away

by the bustle of the departing boat. H e had been long enough shut

up in London to be conscious of refreshment in the mere act of

turning his face to Paris. H e wandered off to the pier in com pany

with happier tourists and, leaning on a rail, watched enviously the



262

preparation, the agitation of foreign travel. It was for som e minut es

a foretaste of adventure; but, ah, when was he to have the very

draught? H e turn ed away as he dropped th is interrogative sigh, and

in doing so perceived th at in another part of the pier two ladies and

a litt le boy were gathered with som ething of the same wistfulness.

T he little boy indeed happened to look round for a mom ent, upon

which, with the keenn ess of the predatory age, he recognised in our

young man a source of pleasures from which he lately had been

weaned. H e boun ded forward with irrepressible cries of “Geegee!”

and Peter lifted him aloft for an embrace. O n put ting him d own thepilgrim from Jersey Villas stood confronted with a sensibly severe

M iss Teagle, who had followed her litt le charge. “W hat’s the matter

with the old woman?” he asked himself as he offered her a hand

which she treated as the m erest d etail. W hatever it was, it was (and

very prop erly, on the part of a loyal suivante) th e same complaint as

that of her employer, to whom , from a distance, for Mrs. Ryves had

not advanced an inch, he flourished his hat as she stood looking athim with a face that he imagined rather white. M rs. Ryves’s response

to this salutation was to shift her position in such a manner as to

appear again absorbed in the Calais boat. Peter Baron, however,

kept hold of the child, whom Miss Teagle artfully endeavoured to

wrest from him—a policy in which he was aided by Sidney’s own

rough but instinctive loyalty; and he was thankful for the happy

effect of being dragged by his jubilant friend in t he very direction in

which he had tended for so many hours. Mrs. Ryves turned once

more as he came near, and then, from the sweet, strained smile with

which she asked h im if he were on h is way to France, he saw that if

she had been angry at h is having followed her she had quickly got

over it.

“No, I’m not crossing; but it came over me that you might be,

and that’s why I hu rried down — to catch you before you were off.”

“O h, we can’t go— more’s th e pity; but why, if we could,” M rs.




263

H enry Jam es

Ryves inquired, “should you wish to prevent it?”

“Because I’ve som ething to ask you first, something that may take

some time.” He saw now that her embarrassment had really not

been resentful; it had been nervous, tremulous, as the emotion of

an unexpected p leasure m ight h ave been. “T hat’s really why I deter-

mined last night, without asking your leave first to pay you this

little visit—that and the intense desire for another bout of horse-

play with Sidn ey. O h, I’ve come to see you,” Peter Baron went on ,

“and I won’t make any secret of th e fact that I expect you to resign

yourself gracefully to the trial and give me all your time. The day’slovely, and I’m ready to declare that the place is as good as the day.

Let me drink deep of these things, drain the cup like a man who

hasn’t been ou t of London for months and months. Let m e walk

with you and talk with you and lunch with you—I go back this

afternoon . Give me all your hours in short , so th at they may live in

my memory as one of the sweetest occasions of life.”

T he emission of steam from the French packet made such an up-roar that Baron could breathe his passion into the young woman’s

ear without scandalising the spectators; and the charm which little

by little it scattered over his fleeting visit proved indeed to be the

collective influence of the conditions he had p ut into words. “W hat

is it you wish to ask m e?” M rs. Ryves dem and ed, as they stood there

together; to which h e replied that he would tell her all abou t it if she

would send Miss Teagle off with Sidney. Miss Teagle, who was al-

ways ant icipating her cue, had already begun ostentatiously to gaze

at the distant shores of France and was easily enough induced to

take an earlier start hom e and rise to th e responsibility of stopp ing

on her way to con tend with the butcher. She had however to retire

without Sidney, who clun g to h is recovered prey, so that the rest of

the episode was seasoned, to Baron’s sense, by the importunate twitch

of the child’s little, plump, cool hand. The friends wandered to-

gether with a conjugal air and Sidney not between them, hanging



264

wistfully, first, over the lengthened picture of the Calais boat, till

they could look after it, as it moved rumbling away, in a spell of

silence which seemed to con fess— especially when, a m om ent later,

their eyes met—that it produced the same fond fancy in each. T he

presence of the boy moreover was no hindrance to their talking in a

manner that they made believe was very frank. Peter Baron pres-

ently told his com panion what it was he had taken a journey to ask,

and he had time afterwards to get over his discomfiture at her ap-

pearance of having fancied it might be someth ing greater. She seemed

disappoin ted (bu t she was forgiving) on learning from him that hehad only wished to know if she judged ferociously his not having

complied with her request to respect certain seals.

“H ow ferociously do you suspect m e of having judged it?” she

inquired.

“W hy, to th e extent of leaving the house the next m om ent.”

T hey were still lingering on the great granite pier when he touched

on th is matter, and she sat down at the end while the breeze, warmedby the sunshine, ruffled the purple sea. She coloured a little and

looked troubled, and after an instant she repeated interrogatively:

“The next m oment?”

“As soon as I told you what I had done. I was scrupulous about

this, you will remember; I went straight downstairs to confess to

you. You turned away from me, saying noth ing; I couldn’t im ag-

ine—as I vow I can’t imagine now—why such a matter should ap-

pear so closely to touch you. I went out on som e business and when

I returned you had quitted the house. It had all the look of my

having offended you, of your wishing to get away from me. You

didn’t even give me time to tell you how it was that, in spite of your

advice, I determined to see for myself what my discovery repre-

sented. You must do me justice and hear what determined m e.”

Mrs. Ryves got up from her scat and asked him, as a particular

favour, not to allude again to his discovery. It was no concern of




265

H enry Jam es

hers at all, and she had no warrant for prying into his secrets. She

was very sorry to have been for a mom ent so absurd as to appear to

do so, and she hum bly begged h is pardon for her medd ling. Saying

this she walked on with a charming colour in her cheek, while he

laughed out , though he was really bewildered, at the endless capri-

ciousness of women . Fortunately the incident didn’t spoil the hour,

in which there were other sources of satisfaction, and they took

their course to h er lodgings with such p leasant litt le pauses and ex-

cursions by the way as permitted her to show him the objects of

interest at D over. She let him stop at a wine-merchant’s and buy abottle for luncheon, of which, in its order, they partook, together

with a pudding invented by Miss Teagle, which, as they hypocriti-

cally swallowed it, m ade them look at each other in an in timacy of

indulgence. T hey came out again and, while Sidney grubbed in the

gravel of the shore, sat selfishly on the Parade, to the disappoint-

ment of Miss Teagle, who had fixed her hopes on a fly and a ladylike

visit to the castle. Baron had his eye on his watch— he had to th inkof his train and the dismal return and m any other melancholy things;

but the sea in th e afternoon light was a more appealing picture; the

wind had gone down, the Channel was crowded, the sails of the

ships were white in the purple distance. T he youn g man had asked

his companion (he had asked her before) when she was to come

back to Jersey Villas, and she h ad said that she should probably stay

at D over another week. It was dreadfully expensive, but it was do-

ing the child all the good in the world, and if M iss Teagle could go

up for some th ings she should probably be able to manage an exten-

sion. Earlier in the day she had said that she perhaps wouldn’t re-

tu rn to Jersey Villas at all, or on ly return to wind up h er connection

with Mrs. Bundy. At another moment she had spoken of an early

date, an imm ediate reoccupation of the wonderful parlours. Baron

saw that she had no plan, no real reasons, that she was vague and, in

secret, worried and nervous, waiting for something that didn’t de-



266

pend on herself. A silence of several minu tes had fallen up on them

while they watched the shining sails; to which Mrs. Ryves put an

end by exclaiming abruptly, bu t without com pleting her sentence:

“O h, if you h ad come to tell me you h ad destroyed th em— ”

“T hose terrible papers? I like the way you t alk abou t ‘destroying!’

You don’t even know what they are.”

“I don’t want to kn ow; they pu t m e into a state.”

“W hat sort of a state?”

“I don’t kn ow; they haunt m e.”

“T hey haun ted m e; that was why, early one morning, suddenly, Icouldn’t keep my hand s off them. I had told you I wouldn’t touch

them. I had deferred to your whim , your superstition (what is it?)

but at last they got the better of me. I had lain awake all night

threshing about , itching with curiosity. It made me ill; my own nerves

(as I m ay say) were irritated, my capacity to work was gone. It had

come over me in the small hours in the shape of an obsession, a

fixed idea, that there was nothing in the ridiculous relics and thatmy exaggerated scruples were making a fool of me. It was ten to one

they were rubbish, they were vain, they were empty; that they had

been even a practical joke on the part of som e weak-minded gentle-

man of leisure, the former possessor of the confounded davenport.

T he longer I hovered about them with such p recautions the longer I

was taken in, and the sooner I exposed their insignificance the sooner

I should get back to m y usual occupations. T his conviction made my

hand so uncontrollable that that morning before breakfast I broke

one of the seals. It took me but a few minutes to perceive that the

contents were not rubbish; the little bundle contained old letters—

very curious old letters.”

“I know—I know; ‘private and confidential.’ So you broke the

other seals?” M rs. Ryves looked at him with the strange apprehen-

sion he had seen in her eyes when she appeared at his door the

mom ent after h is discovery.




267

H enry Jam es

“You know, of course, because I told you an hour later, though

you wou ld let me tell you very little.”

Baron, as he m et th is queer gaze, smiled hard at her to prevent her

guessing that he smarted with the fine reproach conveyed in the

tone of her last words; but she appeared able to guess everything,

for she reminded h im th at she had n ot had to wait that morning till

he came downstairs to know what had happened above, but had

shown him at the moment how she had been conscious of it an

hour before, had passed on her side the same tormented night as he,

and had h ad to exert extraordinary self-comm and not to ru sh up tohis rooms while th e study of th e open packets was going on. “You’re

so sensitively organised an d you’ve such m ysteriou s powers th at you

re uncanny,” Baron declared.

“I feel what takes place at a d istan ce; that’s all.”

“O ne would th ink somebody you liked was in danger.”

“I told you th at that was what was present to m e the day I came

up to see you.”“O h, but you don’t like me so m uch as that,” Baron argued, laugh-

ing.

She hesitated. “No, I don’t know that I do.”

“It must be for someone else—the other person concerned. The

other day, however, you wouldn’t let me tell you that person’s nam e.”

Mrs. Ryves, at this, rose quickly. “I don’t want to know it; it’s

none of my business.”

“No, fortu nately, I don’t think it is,” Baron rejoined, walking with

her along the Parade. She had Sidney by the hand now, and the

young man was on the other side of her. They moved toward the

station— she had offered to go part of the way. “But with your mi-

raculous gift it’s a wonder you haven’t divined.”

“I on ly divine what I want,” said M rs. Ryves.

“T hat’s very convenient!” exclaimed Peter, to whom Sidn ey had

present ly come roun d again. “O nly, being th us in the dark, it’s dif-



268

ficult to see your m otive for wishing the papers destroyed.”

Mrs. Ryves meditated, looking fixedly at the ground. “I thought

you might do it to oblige me.”

“D oes it strike you that such an expectation, formed in such con-

dition s, is reasonable?”

Mrs. Ryves stopped short, and this time she turned on him the

clouded clearness of her eyes. “W hat do you mean to do with them?”

It was Peter Baron’s turn to m editate, which he did, on the empty

asphalt of the Parade (the “season,” at Dover, was not yet), where

their shadows were long in the afternoon light. H e was und er sucha charm as he had never known, and he wanted immensely to be

able to reply: “I’ll do anything you like if you’ll love me.” These

words, however, wou ld have represented a responsibility and have

constitu ted what was vulgarly termed an offer. An offer of what? he

quickly asked himself here, as he had already asked himself after

making in spirit other awkward dashes in the same direction—of

what but his poverty, his obscurity, his attempts that had come tonothing, his abilities for which there was nothing to show? Mrs.

Ryves was not exactly a success, but she was a greater success than

Peter Baron . Poor as he was he hated the sordid (he knew she d idn’t

love it), and he felt small for talking of marriage. T herefore he didn’t

put the question in the words it would have pleased him most to

hear himself utter, but he com prom ised, with an angry young pang,

and said to her: “W hat will you do for me if I pu t an end to th em?”

She shook her head sadly— it was always her prettiest m ovement .

“I can promise nothing—oh, no, I can’t promise! We must part

now,” she added. “You’ll miss your train.”

H e looked at his watch, taking the hand she held out to him. She

drew it away quickly, and noth ing then was left him, before hu rry-

ing to the station, but to catch up Sidney and squeeze him till he

ut tered a little shriek. O n the way back to town the situation struck

him as grotesque.




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER V

IT TORMENTED H IM so the next m orning that after threshing it ou t a

little further he felt he had something of a grievance. Mrs. Ryves’s

intervention had made him acutely uncomfortable, for she had taken

the attitude of exerting pressure without, it appeared, recognising

on his part an equ al right. She had imposed herself as an influence,

yet she held herself aloof as a participant; there were things she looked

to h im to do for her, yet she could tell him of no good that would

come to h im from the doing. She should either have had less to say

or have been willing to say more, and he asked h imself why he shouldbe the sport of her moods and her m ysteries. H e perceived h er knack

of punctual interference to be striking, but it was just th is apparent

infallibility that he resented. Why didn’t she set up at once as a

professional clairvoyant and eke out her litt le income more success-

fully? In pu rely private life such a gift was disconcerting; her divina-

tions, her evasions disturbed at any rate his own tranquillity.

What disturbed it still further was that he received early in theday a visit from M r. Locket, who, leaving him u nder no illusion as

to the grounds of such an h onour, remarked as soon as he had got

into the room or rather while he still panted on the second flight

and the smudged little slavey held open Baron’s door, that he had

taken up his young friend’s invitation to look at Sir Dominick

Ferrand’s letters for him self. Peter drew them forth with a prompt i-

tude intended to show th at he recognised th e com mercial character

of the call and without attenuating the inconsequence of this depar-



270

ture from the last determination he had expressed to Mr. Locket.

H e showed h is visitor the davenport and the hidden recess, and he

smoked a cigarette, humming softly, with a sense of unwonted ad-

vantage and triumph, while the cautious editor sat silent and handled

the papers. For all his caution Mr. Locket was unable to keep a

warmer light out of his jud icial eye as he said to Baron at last with

sociable brevity—a tone that took many things for granted: “I’ll

take them hom e with m e—th ey require much attention.”

T he youn g man looked at him a mom ent. “Do you th ink they’re

genu ine?” H e didn’t m ean to be mocking, he meant not to be; butthe words sounded so to his own ear, and he could see that they

produced th at effect on M r. Locket.

“I can’t in the least determine. I shall have to go into them at m y

leisure, and that’s why I ask you to lend them t o m e.”

H e had shuffled the papers together with a movement charged,

while he spoke, with the air of being preliminary to th at of thrust-

ing them into a little black bag which he had b rought with him andwhich, resting on the shelf of the davenport, struck Peter, who viewed

it askance, as an object darkly editorial. It made our young man,

somehow, suddenly apprehensive; the advantage of which he had

just been conscious was about to be transferred by a quiet process of

legerdemain to a person who already had advantages enough. Baron,

in short , felt a deep pang of anxiety; he couldn’t have said why. M r.

Locket took decidedly too many things for granted, and the ex-

plorer of Sir Dominick Ferrand’s irregularities remembered afresh

how clear he had been after all about his indisposition to t raffic in

them. H e asked h is visitor to what end he wished to remove the

letters, since on the one hand there was no question now of the

article in the Prom iscuous which was to reveal their existence, and

on the other he himself, as their owner, had a thousand insurm oun t-

able scruples about pu tting them into circulation.

M r. Locket looked over h is spectacles as over the bat tlemen ts of a




271

H enry Jam es

fortress. “I’m not t hinking of the end— I’m th inking of the begin-

ning. A few glances have assured m e that such docum ents ought to

be submitted to some comp etent eye.”

“Oh, you mustn’t show them to anyone!” Baron exclaimed.

“You m ay th ink m e presum ptuou s, but the eye that I ventu re to

allude to in those terms— ”

“Is the eye now fixed so terribly on m e?” Peter laughingly inter-

rup ted. “O h, it wou ld be interesting, I confess, to kn ow how th ey

strike a man of your acuteness!” It had occurred to h im that by such

a concession he might endear himself to a literary umpire hithertoimplacable. There would be no question of his publishing Sir

Dominick Ferrand, but he might, in due acknowledgment of ser-

vices rendered, form the habit of pub lishing Peter Baron. “H ow

long would it be your idea to retain them?” he inqu ired, in a man-

ner which, he immediately became aware, was what incited Mr.

Locket to begin stuffing the papers into his bag. With th is percep-

tion he came quickly closer and, laying his hand on the gaping re-ceptacle, lightly drew its two lips together. In th is way the two m en

stood for a few seconds, touching, almost in the attitude of com bat,

looking hard into each other’s eyes.

T he tension was quickly relieved h owever by the surp rised flush

which mant led on M r. Locket’s brow. H e fell back a few steps with

an injured dignity that might have been a protest against physical

violence. “Really, my dear young sir, your att itude is tan tam ount to

an accusation of intended bad faith. Do you think I want to steal

the confounded things?” In reply to such a challenge Peter could

only hastily declare that he was guilty of no d iscourteous suspicion—

he only wanted a limit n amed, a pledge of every precaut ion against

accident. M r. Locket admitted the justice of the demand, assured

him he would restore the property within th ree days, and com pleted,

with Peter’s assistance, his little arrangements for removing it dis-

creetly. When he was ready, his treacherous reticule distended with



272

its treasures, he gave a lingering look at the inscrutable davenport .

“It’s how they ever got into that thing that puzzles one’s brain!”

“There was some concatenation of circumstances that would

doubtless seem natural enough if it were explained, but that one

would have to remoun t the stream of time to ascertain. To one course

I have definitely made up m y mind : not to m ake any statement or

any inquiry at the shop. I simply accept the mystery,” said Peter,

rather grandly.

“T hat wou ld be thought a cheap escape if you were to pu t it into

a story,” Mr. Locket smiled.“Yes, I shouldn’t offer the story to you . I shall be impatient till I

see my papers again,” the young man called ou t, as his visitor hur-

ried downstairs.

That evening, by the last delivery, he received, under the Dover

postmark, a letter that was not from Miss Teagle. It was a slightly

confused but altogether friendly note, written that morning after

breakfast, th e ostensible purpose of which was to thank h im for theamiability of his visit, to express regret at any appearance the writer

might have had of medd ling with what d idn’t concern her, and to

let h im know that th e evening before, after he had left her, she had

in a moment of inspiration got hold of the tail of a really musical

idea— a perfect accompaniment for the song he had so kindly given

her. She had scrawled, as a specimen, a few bars at the end of her

note, mystic, mocking musical signs which had no sense for her

correspon dent. The whole letter testified to a restless but rather point-

less desire to remain in comm un ication with him. In answering her,

however, which he did that night before going to bed, it was on this

bright possibility of their collaboration , its advantages for the future

of each of them, that Baron principally expat iated. H e spoke of th is

future with an eloquence of which he would have defended the

sincerity, and drew of it a picture extravagantly rich. The n ext morn-

ing, as he was abou t to settle himself to tasks for some time terribly




273

H enry Jam es

neglected, with a sense that after all it was rather a relief not to be

sitting so close to Sir D ominick Ferrand, who had become dread-

fully distracting; at the very moment at which he habitually ad-

dressed his preliminary invocation to the muse, he was agitated by

the arrival of a telegram which proved to be an urgent request from

Mr. Locket that he would immediately come down and see him.

This represented, for poor Baron, whose funds were very low, an-

other m orn ing sacrificed, but som ehow it didn’t even occur to him

that he might impose his own tim e upon t he editor of the Promis-

cuou s, the keeper of the keys of renown. H e had some of the plas-ticity of the raw con tribu tor. H e gave the muse another holiday,

feeling she was really ashamed to take it, and in course of time found

himself in Mr. Locket’s own chair at Mr. Locket’s own table—so

much nobler an expanse than the slippery slope of the davenp ort—

considering with quick intensity, in the white flash of certain words

just brought out by h is host, the quan tity of happiness, of em anci-

pation that might reside in a hun dred pound s.Yes, that was what it meant: M r. Locket, in the twenty-four hours,

had d iscovered so much in Sir D om inick’s literary remains that his

visitor foun d h im primed with an offer. A hu nd red pound s would

be paid him that day, that minute, and no questions would be ei-

th er asked or answered. “I take all the risks, I take all the risks,” th e

editor of the Promiscuous repeated. The letters were out on the

table, Mr. Locket was on the hearthrug, like an orator on a plat-

form, and Peter, un der the influence of his sudden ultimatum, had

dropped, rather weakly, into the seat which happened to be nearest

and which, as he became conscious it m oved on a pivot, he whirled

round so as to enable himself to look at his tempter with an eye

intended to be cold. What surprised him most was to find M r. Locket

taking exactly the line about the expediency of publication which

he would have expected M r. Locket not to take. “Hush it all up ; a

barren scandal, an offence that can’t be remedied, is the thing in the



274

world that least justifies an airing— ” som e such line as that was the

line he would have thought natural to a m an whose life was spen t in

weighing questions of propriety and who had only the other day

objected, in the light of this virtue, to a work of the most disinter-

ested art. But the auth or of that incorrupt ible masterpiece had pu t

his finger on the place in saying to his interlocutor on the occasion

of his last visit th at, if given to the world in the pages of the Prom is-

cuous, Sir Dominick’s aberrations would sell the edition. It was not

necessary for Mr. Locket to reiterate to his young friend his phrase

about their making a sensation . If he wished to purchase the “rights,”as theatrical people said, it was not to protect a celebrated name or to

lock them up in a cupboard. That form ula of Baron’s covered all the

ground, and one edition was a low estimate of the probable perfor-

mance of the magazine.

Peter left the letters behind him and, on withdrawing from the

editorial presence, took a long walk on the Embankm ent. H is im-

pressions were at war with each oth er—he was flurried by possibili-ties of which he yet denied the existence. H e had consented to t rust

M r. Locket with the papers a day or two lon ger, till he should have

thou ght out th e terms on which he m ight— in the event of certain

occurrences—be induced to dispose of them. A hundred pounds

were not this gentleman’s last word, nor perhaps was mere unrea-

son ing int ractability Peter’s own. H e sighed as he took n o note of

the pictures made by barges—sighed because it all might mean

money. H e needed m oney bitterly; he owed it in d isquieting quar-

ters. M r. Locket had pu t it before him that he had a high respon si-

bility—that he might vindicate the disfigured truth, contribute a

chapter to the h istory of England. “You haven’t a right to suppress

such momentous facts,” the hungry litt le editor had declared, th ink-

ing how the series (he would spread it into three numbers) would

be the talk of the town. If Peter had money he m ight treat himself

to ardour, to bliss. Mr. Locket had said, no doubt justly enough,




275

H enry Jam es

that there were ever so many questions one would have to meet

should one venture to p lay so daring a game. T hese questions, em-

barrassments, dangers—the danger, for instance, of the cropping-

up of som e lurking litigious relative—he would take over unreserv-

edly and bear the bru nt of dealing with . It was to be remembered

that the papers were discredited, vitiated by their childish pedigree;

such a preposterous origin, suggesting, as he had h inted before, the

feeble ingenuity of a third-rate novelist, was a thing he should have

to place himself at the positive disadvantage of being silent about.

H e would rather give no account of the matter at all than exposehimself to the ridicule that such a story would infallibly excite.

Couldn’t one see them in advance, the clever, taunting things the

daily and weekly papers would say? Peter Baron had his guileless

side, but he felt, as he worried with a stick that betrayed him the

granite parapets of the T ham es, that he was not such a fool as not t o

know how M r. Locket would “work” the mystery of his marvellous

find. N othing could help it on better with the public than the im-penetrability of the secret attached to it. If Mr. Locket should only

be able to kick up dust enough over the circumstances that had

guided h is hand his fortune would literally be m ade. Peter thou ght

a hundred pounds a low bid, yet he wondered how the Promiscu-

ous could bring itself to offer such a sum— so large it loom ed in the

light of literary remun eration as hitherto revealed to our young man.

The explanation of this anomaly was of course that the editor

shrewdly saw a dozen ways of getting his money back. T here would

be in the “sensation,” at a later stage, the m aking of a book in large

type—the book of the hour; and the profits of th is scandalous vol-

ume or, if one preferred the name, this reconstruction, before an

impartial posterity, of a great historical humbug, the sum “down,”

in oth er words, that any lively publisher would give for it, figured

vividly in Mr. Locket’s calculations. It was therefore altogether an

opp ortunity of dealing at first h and with the lively publisher that



276

Peter was invited to forego. Peter gave a masterful laugh, rejoicing

in h is heart that, on t he spot , in th e repaire he had lately quitted, he

had not been tempted by a figure that would have approximately

represented the value of his property. It was a good job, he mentally

added as he turned his face hom eward, th at th ere was so little like-

lihood of his having to stru ggle with that particular pressure.




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER VI

W H EN , H ALF AN H O U R LATER, he approached Jersey Villas, he noticed

that the house-door was open; then, as he reached the gate, saw it

make a frame for an unexpected presence. Mrs. Ryves, in her bon-

net and jacket, looked out from it as if she were expecting some-

th ing— as if she had been passing to and fro to watch. Yet when he

had expressed to her that it was a delightful welcome she replied

that she had on ly thought there might possibly be a cab in sight. H e

offered to go and look for one, upon which it appeared that after all

she was not , as yet at least, in need. H e went back with her into h ersitting-room, where she let h im know that within a couple of days

she had seen clearer what was best; she had determ ined to qu it Jer-

sey Villas and had come up to t ake away her th ings, which she had

just been packing an d get ting together.

“I wrote you last night a charming letter in answer to yours,”

Baron said. “You didn’t m ent ion in yours that you were com ing

up.”“It wasn’t your answer that brought m e. It hadn’t arrived when I

came away.”

“You’ll see when you get back that my letter is charming.”

“I daresay.” Baron had observed th at th e room was not, as she had

intimated, in confusion—Mrs. Ryves’s preparations for departure

were not striking. She saw him look round and, standing in front of

the fireless grate with her hands behind her, she suddenly asked:

“W here have you come from now?”



278

“From an in terview with a literary friend .”

“W hat are you concocting between you?”

“N othing at all. We’ve fallen out— we don’t agree.”

“Is he a publisher?”

“H e’s an editor.”

“Well, I’m glad you don’t agree. I don’t know what he wants, bu t,

whatever it is, don’t do it.”

“H e must do what I want!” said Baron.

“And what’s that?”

“O h, I’ll tell you when h e has done it!” Baron begged her to lethim hear the “musical idea” she had mentioned in her letter; on

which she took off her hat and jacket and, seating herself at her

piano, gave him, with a sentiment of which the very first notes thrilled

him , the accomp animent of his song. She phrased the words with

her sketchy sweetness, and he sat there as if he had been held in a

velvet vise, th robb ing with the emotion , irrecoverable ever after in

its freshn ess, of the young artist in the presence for the first t ime of “production”—the p roofs of his book, the hanging of his picture,

the rehearsal of his play. W hen she had finished he asked again for

the same delight, and then for more music and for more; it did h im

such a world of good, kept him quiet and safe, smoothed out the

creases of his spirit. She dropped her own experiments and gave

him imm ortal things, and he loun ged th ere, pacified and charmed,

feeling th e mean litt le room grow large and vague and happy possi-

bilities come back. Abruptly, at the piano, she called out to him:

“Those papers of yours—the letters you found—are not in the

house?”

“No, they’re not in the house.”

“I was sure of it! No m atter—it’s all right !” she added. She herself

was pacified— trou ble was a false note. Later he was on the point of

asking her how she knew the objects she had m entioned were not in

the house; bu t he let it pass. The sub ject was a profitless riddle— a




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H enry Jam es

puzzle that grew grotesquely bigger, like some monstrosity seen in

th e darkn ess, as one opened on e’s eyes to it. H e closed his eyes— he

wanted another vision. Besides, she had shown him that she had

extraordinary senses—her explanation would have been stranger than

the fact. M oreover they had other th ings to t alk about, in p articular

the question of her pu tting off her return to D over till the morrow

and dispensing meanwhile with the valuable protection of Sidney.

T his was indeed but another face of the question of her dining with

him somewhere that evening (where else should she dine?)—ac-

comp anying him, for instance, just for an h our of Bohemia, in theirdeadly respectable lives, to a jolly little place in Soho. Mrs. Ryves

declined to have her life abused, but in fact, at the proper mom ent,

at the jolly little place, to which she did accompany him—it dealt

in m acaroni and Chianti—the pair put their elbows on the crumpled

cloth and , face to face, with their little emptied coffee-cups pu shed

away and the young man’s cigarette lighted by her command, be-

came increasingly confidential. They went afterwards to the the-atre, in cheap places, and came home in “busses” and under um-

brellas.

O n the way back Peter Baron turn ed som ething over in h is mind

as he had never turned anything before; it was the question of

whether, at the end, she would let h im com e into h er sitting-room

for five minutes. He felt on this point a passion of suspense and

impatience, and yet for what would it be but to t ell her how poor he

was? T his was literally the mom ent to say it, so supremely depleted

had the hour of Bohemia left him. Even Bohemia was too expen-

sive, and yet in the course of the day his whole temper on the sub-

ject of certain fitnesses had changed. At Jersey Villas (it was near

midnight, and Mrs. Ryves, scratching a light for her glimmering

taper, had said: “O h, yes, come in for a minu te if you like!”), in her

precarious parlour, which was indeed, after the brilliances of the

evening, a return to u gliness and truth , she let h im stand while he



280

explained that he had certainly everything in the way of fame and

fortun e still to gain, but that youth and love and faith and energy—

to say nothing of her suprem e dearness— were all on his side. Why,

if one’s beginnings were rough, should one add to the hardness of

the conditions by giving up the dream which, if she would only

hear him out, would m ake just the blessed difference? W heth er Mrs.

Ryves heard him out or not is a circumstance as to which this

chronicle happens to be silent; but after he had got possession of

both her hands and breathed into her face for a moment all the

intensity of his tenderness— in the relief and joy of ut terance he feltit carry him like a rising flood—she checked him with better rea-

sons, with a cold, sweet afterthought in which he felt there was

something d eep. H er procrastinating head-shake was prettier than

ever, yet it h ad n ever meant so m any fears and pains— impossibili-

ties and memories, independences and pieties, and a sort of uncom-

plaining ache for the ruin of a friendship that had been happy. She

had liked h im— if she hadn’t she wouldn’t h ave let h im th ink so!—but she prot ested t hat she had n ot, in the odious vulgar sense, “en-

couraged” him. Moreover she couldn’t talk of such things in that

place, at that h our, and she begged h im n ot to m ake her regret her

good-nature in staying over. There were peculiarities in her posi-

tion, considerations insurm oun table. She got rid of him with kind

and confused words, and afterwards, in the dull, hu miliated n ight ,

he felt that he had been put in his place. Women in her situation,

wom en wh o after having really loved and lost, u sually lived on into

the new dawns in which old ghosts steal away. But there was som e-

th ing in his whimsical neighbou r th at struck him as terribly invul-

nerable.




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H enry Jam es

CH APTER VII

“I’VE H AD T IME TO L OOK a litt le furth er into what we’re prepared to

do, and I find the case is one in which I shou ld consider the advis-

ability of going to an extreme length,” said M r. Locket. Jersey Villas

the next morning had had the privilege of again receiving the editor

of the Promiscuous, and he sat once more at the davenport, where

the bone of content ion, in the shape of a large, loose heap of papers

that showed how much they had been handled, was placed well in

view. “We shall see our way to offering you three hun dred, bu t we

shou ldn’t, I must positively assure you, see it a single step further.”Peter Baron , in his dressing-gown an d slippers, with his hand s in

his pockets, crept softly abou t the room, repeating, below his breath

and with inflections that for h is own sake he endeavoured to make

humorous: “Three hundred—three hundred.” His state of mind

was far from hilarious, for he felt poor and sore and disappointed;

but h e wanted to prove to h imself that he was gallant— was made,

in general and in part icular, of undiscourageable stuff. The first thinghe had been aware of on stepping into his front room was that a four-

wheeled cab, with Mrs. Ryves’s luggage upon it, stood at the door of

No. 3. Permitting himself, behind his curtain, a pardonable peep, he

saw the mistress of his thoughts come out of the house, attended by

M rs. Bundy, and take her place in the modest vehicle. After this his eyes

rested for a long time on the sprigged cotton back of the landlady, who

kept bobbing at the window of the cab an endlessly moralising old

head. Mrs. Ryves had really taken flight—he had made Jersey Villas



282

impossible for her—but Mrs. Bundy, with a magnanimity unprec-

edented in the profession, seemed to express a belief in the purity of her

motives. Baron felt that his own separation had been, for the present at

least, effected; every instinct of delicacy prompted him to stand back.

M r. Locket talked a long time, and Peter Baron listened and waited.

H e reflected that h is willingness to listen would probably excite hopes

in his visitor—hopes which he himself was ready to contemplate

without a scruple. H e felt no pity for M r. Locket and h ad no con-

sideration for his suspense or for his possible illusions; he only felt

sick and forsaken an d in want of comfort and of money. Yet it was akind of outrage to h is dignity to have the kn ife held to h is throat,

and he was irritated above all by the ground on which Mr. Locket

put the question—the ground of a service rendered to historical

tru th . It m ight be—he wasn’t clear; it m ight be— the question was

deep, too deep, probably, for his wisdom; at any rate he had to

control himself not to in terrupt angrily such dry, interested palaver,

the false voice of commerce and of cant. H e stared tragically out of the window and saw the stupid rain begin to fall; the day was du ller

even than his own soul, and Jersey Villas looked so sordidly hideous

that it was no wonder M rs. Ryves couldn’t endure them. H ideous as

they were he should have to tell M rs. Bundy in the course of the day

that he was obliged to seek humbler quarters. Suddenly he inter-

rupted Mr. Locket; he observed to him: “I take it that if I should

make you th is concession the hospitality of the Promiscuou s would

be by th at very fact un restrictedly secured to me.”

Mr. Locket stared. “Hospitality—secured?” He thumbed the

proposition as if it were a hard p each.

“I mean th at of course you wouldn’t— in courtsey, in gratitude—

keep on declining m y things.”

“I should give them m y best att ent ion— as I’ve always done in the

past.”

Peter Baron hesitated. It was a case in which there would have




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H enry Jam es

seemed to be som e chance for the ideally shrewd aspirant in such an

advantage as he possessed; but after a moment the blood rushed

into his face with the sham e of the idea of pleading for h is produc-

tions in the name of anything but their merit. It was as if he had

stupidly ut tered evil of them . Nevertheless be added th e interroga-

tion:

“Would you for instance publish my little story?”

“T he one I read (and objected to som e features of ) the oth er day?

D o you m ean— a—with the alteration?” Mr. Locket continued.

“Oh, no, I mean utterly without it. The pages you want alteredcontain, as I explained to you very lucidly, I think, the very raison

d’etre of the work, and it would therefore, it seems to me, be an

imbecility of the first magnitude to cancel them.” Peter had really

renoun ced all hop e that h is critic would und erstand what he meant,

bu t, under favour of circumstances, he couldn’t forbear to taste the

luxury, which probably never again would come within his reach,

of being really plain, for one wild moment, with an editor.Mr. Locket gave a constrained smile. “Think of the scandal, Mr.

Baron.”

“But isn’t this other scandal just wh at you’re going in for?”

“It will be a great public service.”

“You mean it will be a big scandal, whereas my poor story wou ld

be a very small one, and that it’s on ly out of a big one that m oney’s

to be made.”

M r. Locket got up— he too had h is dignity to vindicate. “Such a

sum as I offer you ought really to be an offset against all claims.”

“Very good— I don’t m ean to m ake any, since you don’t really care

for what I write. I take note of your offer,” Peter pursued, “and I

engage to give you to-night (in a few words left by my own hand at

your house) my absolutely definite and final reply.”

M r. Locket’s movements, as he hovered n ear the relics of the emi-

nent statesman , were those of som e feathered parent flutt ering over



284

a threatened nest. If he had brought his huddled brood back with

him t his morning it was because he had felt sure enough of closing

the bargain to be able to be graceful. H e kept a glittering eye on the

papers and remarked th at he was afraid that before leaving them he

must elicit som e assurance that in the meanwhile Peter would not

place them in any other hands. Peter, at th is, gave a laugh of harsher

cadence than he intended, asking, justly enough, on what privilege

his visitor rested such a dem and and why he him self was disquali-

fied from offering his wares to the highest bidder. “Surely you

wouldn’t hawk such things about?” cried Mr. Locket; but beforeBaron h ad t ime to retort cynically he added: “I’ll pu blish your little

story.”

“O h, th ank you!”

“I’ll pu blish anyth ing you’ll send me,” Mr. Locket continued, as

he went out. Peter had before this virtually given his word that for

the letters he would treat only with the Promiscuous.

The young man passed, during a portion of the rest of the day,the strangest hours of his life. Yet he thought of them afterwards not

as a phase of temptation, th ough they had been full of the emot ion

that accompan ies an intense vision of alternatives. The struggle was

already over; it seemed to him that, poor as he was, he was not p oor

enough to take Mr. Locket’s money. H e looked at the opposed courses

with the self-possession of a man who has chosen, but this self-

possession was in itself the most exquisite of excitements. It was

really a high revulsion and a sort of noble pity. H e seemed indeed to

have his finger upon the pulse of history and to be in the secret of

the gods. H e had t hem all in his hand, the tablets and the scales and

the torch. H e couldn’t keep a character together, bu t he might easily

pull one to pieces. That would be “creative work” of a kind—he

could reconstruct the character less pleasingly, could show an un-

known side of it. Mr. Locket had had a good deal to say about

responsibility; and responsibility in tru th sat there with h im all the




285

H enry Jam es

morning, while he revolved in his narrow cage and, watching the

crude spring rain on the windows, thought of the dismalness to

which, at D over, M rs. Ryves was going back. This influence took in

fact the form, put on the physiognomy of poor Sir Dominick

Ferrand; he was at present as perceptible in it, as coldly and stran gely

personal, as if he had been a haun ting ghost and had risen beside his

own old hearthstone. Our friend was accustomed to his company

and indeed h ad spent so many hou rs in it of late, following him up

at the museum and comparing his different portraits, engravings

and lithographs, in which there seemed to be conscious, pleadingeyes for the betrayer, th at their queer int imacy had grown as close as

an embrace. Sir Dom inick was very dum b, bu t h e was terrible in h is

depend ence, and Peter would not have encouraged him by so m uch

curiosity nor reassured him by so m uch deference had it not been

for the young man’s complete acceptance of the impossibility of

getting out of a tight place by exposing an individual. It didn’t m at-

ter that the individual was dead; it didn’t m atter th at he was dishon-est. Peter felt h im sufficiently alive to suffer; he perceived the recti-

fication of history so conscientiously desired by Mr. Locket to be

som ehow for him self not an imperative task. It had com e over him

too definitely that in a case where one’s success was to hinge upon

an act of extradition it would minister most to an easy conscience to

let t he success go. N o, n o— even should he be starving he couldn’t

make money out of Sir D om inick’s disgrace. H e was almost sur-

prised at the violence of the horror with which, as he shuffled mourn-

fully about , the idea of any such profit inspired h im. What was Sir

Dominick to him after all? He wished he had never come across

him.

In on e of his brood ing pauses at the window—the window out of

which never again apparent ly should he see Mrs. Ryves glide across

the little garden with the step for which he had liked her from the

first— he became aware that the rain was about to intermit and the



286

sun to m ake some grudging amends. T his was a sign that he m ight

go out ; he had a vague perception that there were things to be done.

H e had work to look for, and a cheaper lodging, and a new idea

(every idea he had ever cherished had left h im), in addition to which

the prom ised little word was to be dropp ed at M r. Locket’s door. He

looked at his watch and was surprised at the hour, for he had n oth -

ing but a heartache to show for so much time. He would have to

dress qu ickly, bu t as he passed to h is bedroom his eye was caught by

the little pyramid of letters which M r. Locket h ad constructed on

his davenport . T hey startled h im and, staring at them, he stoppedfor an instant, half-amused, half-annoyed at their being still in ex-

istence. H e had so com pletely destroyed them in spirit that he had

taken th e act for grant ed, and he was now reminded of the orderly

stages of which an inten tion must consist to be sincere. Baron went

at the papers with all his sincerity, and at his empty grate (where

there lately had been no fire and he had only to remove a horrible

ornament of tissue-paper dear to M rs. Bundy) he bu rned the collec-tion with infinite method. It made him feel happier to watch the

worst pages turn to illegible ashes—if happiness be the right word

to apply to his sense, in the process, of som ething so crisp and crack-

ling that it suggested the death-rustle of bank-notes.

When ten minutes later he came back into his sitting-room, he

seemed to himself oddly, unexpectedly in the presence of a bigger

view. It was as if some interfering mass had been so displaced that

he could see more sky and more coun try. Yet the opposite houses

were naturally still there, and if the grimy little place looked lighter

it was dou btless only because the rain had indeed stopped and the

sun was pouring in. Peter went to the window to open it to the

altered air, and in doing so beheld at the garden gate the humble

“growler” in which a few hours before he had seen M rs. Ryves take

her departure. It was unmistakable—he remembered the knock-

kneed white horse; but this made the fact that his friend’s luggage




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H enry Jam es

no longer surmounted it only the more mystifying. Perhaps the

cabm an h ad already removed the luggage— he was now on his box

smoking th e short p ipe that derived relish from inaction paid for.

As Peter turned into the room again his ears caught a kn ock at his

own door, a knock explained, as soon as he had respon ded, by the

hard b reath ing of Mrs. Bun dy.

“Please, sir, it’s to say she’ve come back.”

“W hat has she come back for?” Baron’s question sounded un gra-

cious, but his heartache had given another throb, and he felt a dread

of another wound. It was like a practical joke.“I think it’s for you, sir,” said Mrs. Bundy. “She’ll see you for a

mom ent , if you’ll be so good, in the old place.”

Peter followed his hostess downstairs, and Mrs. Bundy ushered

him , with h er comp any flourish, into the apartment she had fond ly

designated.

“I went away th is morn ing, and I’ve on ly return ed for an instant ,”

said M rs. Ryves, as soon as M rs. Bun dy had closed the door. H e sawthat she was different n ow; som ething had h appened that had m ade

her indulgent.

“H ave you been all the way to D over and back?”

“No, but I’ve been to Victoria. I’ve left my luggage there—I’ve

been driving about .”

“I hope you’ve enjoyed it.”

“Very much. I’ve been to see Mr. M orrish.”

“M r. M orrish?”

“The musical publisher. I showed him our song. I played it for

him, and he’s delighted with it. H e declares it’s just the thing. H e

has given me fifty pounds. I think he believes in us,” Mrs. Ryves

went on, while Baron stared at th e wonder—too sweet to be safe, it

seemed to him as yet—of her stand ing there again before him and

speaking of what they had in com mon. “Fifty poun ds! fifty poun ds!”

she exclaimed, flut tering at him her happy cheque. She h ad com e



288

back, the first thing, to tell him, and of course his share of the m oney

would be the half. She was rosy, jubilant , natural, she chattered like

a happy wom an. She said they must do m ore, ever so m uch m ore.

M r. Morrish had practically prom ised he would take anything th at

was as good as that. She had kept her cab because she was going to

D over; she couldn’t leave the oth ers alone. It was a vehicle infirm

and inert , bu t Baron, after a litt le, appreciated its pace, for she had

consented to his getting in with her and driving, this time in ear-

nest, to Victoria. She had on ly come to tell him the good news—

she repeated this assurance more than once. They talked of it soprofoundly that it drove everything else for the time out of his head—

his du ty to M r. Locket, the remarkable sacrifice he had just achieved,

and even th e odd coincidence, matching with the oddity of all the

others, of her having reverted to the house again, as if with one of

her famous divinations, at the very moment the trumpery papers,

the origin really of their int imacy, had ceased to exist. But she, on

her side, also had evidently forgotten the t rumpery papers: she n evermentioned them again, and Peter Baron n ever boasted of what he

had done with them. H e was silent for a while, from curiosity to see

if her fine nerves had really given her a hint; and then later, when it

came to be a question of his permanent attitud e, he was silent, p ro-

digiously, religiously, tremulously silent, in consequence of an ex-

traordinary conversation that h e had with her.

This conversation took place at Dover, when he went down to

give her the money for which, at Mr. Morrish’s bank, he had ex-

changed the cheque she had left with him. That cheque, or rather

certain things it represented, had made somehow all the difference

in their relations. The difference was huge, and Baron could think

of nothing but this confirmed vision of their being able to work

fruitfully together that would account for so rapid a change. She

didn’t t alk of impossibilities now— she d idn’t seem t o want to stop

him off; only when, the day following his arrival at D over with the




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H enry Jam es

fifty pounds (he had after all to agree to share them with her—he

couldn’t expect her to take a present of money from him), he re-

turned to the question over which th ey had had their little scene the

night they dined together— on this occasion (he had brought a port-

manteau and he was staying) she m entioned th at there was some-

th ing very particular she had it on her conscience to t ell him before

letting him commit himself. There dawned in her face as she ap-

proached t he subject a light of warning that frightened h im; it was

charged with something so strange that for an instant he held his

breath. This flash of ugly possibilities passed however, and it waswith the gesture of taking still tenderer possession of her, checked

indeed by the grave, important way she held up a finger, that he

answered: “Tell me everything—tell me!”

“You m ust know what I am — who I am ; you must know espe-

cially what I’m not! T here’s a nam e for it, a h ideou s, cruel nam e. It’s

not my fault! O thers have known, I’ve had to speak of it— it has

made a great difference in my life. Surely you must have guessed!”she went on, with the thinnest quaver of irony, letting him now

take her hand, which felt as cold as her hard duty. “Don’t you see

I’ve no belongings, no relations, no friends, noth ing at all, in all the

world, of my own ? I was only a poor girl.”

“A poor girl?” Baron was mystified, touched, distressed, piecing

dim ly together what she meant, but feeling, in a great surge of pity,

that it was on ly som ething more to love her for.

“My m other—m y poor m other,” said M rs. Ryves.

She paused with this, and through gathering tears her eyes met

his as if to plead with him to understand . H e und erstood , and drew

her closer, but she kept herself free still, to continue: “She was a

poor girl—she was on ly a governess; she was alone, she thought he

loved her. H e did— I th ink it was the only happ iness she ever knew.

But she died of it.”

“O h, I’m so glad you tell me—it’s so grand of you!” Baron mur-



290

mured. “T hen— your father?” H e hesitated, as if with h is hands on

old wounds.

“He had his own troubles, but he was kind to her. It was all mis-

ery and folly— he was married. H e wasn’t h appy—there were good

reasons, I believe, for that. I kn ow it from letters, I kn ow it from a

person who’s dead. Everyone is dead now—it’s too far off. That’s

the only good thing. He was very kind to me; I remember him,

though I didn’t know then , as a little girl, who he was. H e put m e

with some very good people— he did what he could for me. I think,

later, his wife knew—a lady who came to see me once after his death.I was a very litt le girl, but I rem ember many things. What he could

he did— something that helped m e afterwards, something that helps

me now. I think of him with a strange pity—I see him !” said M rs.

Ryves, with the faint past in her eyes. “You mustn’t say anything

against h im,” she added, gent ly and gravely.

“Never—never; for he has on ly made it more of a raptu re to care

for you.”“You must wait, you must th ink; we must wait together,” she went

on . “You can’t tell, and you m ust give me time. Now that you know,

it’s all right ; but you had to kn ow. D oesn’t it make us bett er friend s?”

asked M rs. Ryves, with a tired smile which had the effect of put ting

the whole story further and furth er away. T he next m om ent, how-

ever, she added quickly, as if with the sense that it couldn’t be far

enough: “You don’t know, you can’t judge, you must let it settle.

T hink of it, th ink of it; oh you will, and leave it so. I must have time

myself, oh I m ust! Yes, you must believe me.”

She turned away from him, and he remained looking at her a

mom ent . “Ah, how I shall work for you!” he exclaimed.

“You must work for yourself; I’ll help you.” H er eyes had m et h is

eyes again, and she added, hesitating, thinking: “You had better

know, perhaps, who he was.”

Baron shook his head, smiling confidently. “I don’t care a straw.”




291

H enry Jam es

“I do— a little. H e was a great m an.”

“T here must indeed have been some good in h im.”

“H e was a high celebrity. You’ve often heard of him .”

Baron wondered an instant . “I’ve no doub t you’re a princess!” he

said with a laugh. She made him nervous.

“I’m not asham ed of him. H e was Sir Dom inick Ferrand.”

Baron saw in her face, in a few seconds, th at she had seen som e-

th ing in h is. H e knew that he stared, then turned pale; it had the

effect of a powerful shock. H e was cold for an instant, as he had just

found her, with the sense of danger, the confused horror of havingdealt a blow. But t he blood rushed back to its courses with h is still

qu icker consciousness of safety, and he could make out, as he recov-

ered his balance, that his emotion struck her simply as a violent

surprise. H e gave a mu ffled murm ur: “Ah, it’s you, my beloved!”

which lost itself as he drew her close and held her long, in the inten-

sity of his embrace and the wond er of his escape. It took more than

a minute for h im t o say over to h imself often enough, with h is hid-den face: “Ah, she must never, never know!”

She never knew; she only learned, when she asked him casually,

that he had in fact destroyed the old docum ents she had had such a

comic caprice abou t. The sensibility, the curiosity they had h ad th e

queer privilege of exciting in her h ad lapsed with the event as irre-

sponsibly as they had arisen, and she appeared to have forgotten, or

rather to attribute now t o other causes, th e agitation and several of

the odd incidents that accom panied them. T hey naturally gave Pe-

ter Baron rather more to th ink about, much food, indeed, for clan-

destine m editation , som e of which, in spite of the pains he took not

to be caught, was noted by his friend and interpreted, to his knowl-

edge, as depression produced by the long probation she succeeded

in imposing on h im. H e was more patient th an she could guess,

with all her guessing, for if he was put t o the proof she herself was

not left undissected. It came back to him again and again that if the



292

documents he had burned proved anything they proved that Sir

Dominick Ferrand’s human errors were not all of one order. The

wom an he loved was the daughter of her father, he couldn’t get over

that. What was more to th e point was that as he came to know her

better and better—for th ey did work together un der M r. M orrish’s

protection—his affection was a quantity still less to be neglected.

H e som etimes wondered, in the light of her general straightn ess

(their marriage had brought ou t even m ore than he believed there

was of it) whether the relics in the davenport were genuine. That

piece of furniture is still almost as useful to him as Mr. Morrish’spatronage. T here is a tremendous run , as th is gentlemen calls it, on

several of their songs. Baron nevertheless still tries his hand also at

prose, and his offerings are now n ot always declined by th e maga-

zines. But he has never approached the Promiscuous again. This

periodical published in due course a highly eulogistic study of the

remarkable career of Sir D om inick Ferrand.




293

H enry Jam es

Eugene Pickering

by

Henry James

CH APTER I

IT WAS AT H om burg, several years ago, before the gam-ing had beensup pressed. T he evening was very warm, and all the world was gath-

ered on the terrace of the Kursaal and the esplanade below it to

listen to the excellent orchestra; or half the world, rather, for the

crowd was equally dense in the gaming-rooms around the tables.

Everywhere the crowd was great. The night was perfect, the season

was at its height, the open windows of the Kursaal sent long shafts

of unn atural light into th e dusky woods, and n ow and then, in theintervals of the m usic, one m ight almost hear the clink of the napo-

leons and the metallic call of the croupiers rise above the watching

silence of the saloon s. I had been strolling with a friend, and we at

last prepared to sit down. C hairs, however, were scarce. I had cap-

tured one, but it seemed no easy matter to find a mate for it. I was

on the point of giving up in despair, and p roposing an adjournment

to the silken ottomans of the Kursaal, when I observed a young

man lounging back on one of the objects of my quest, with his feet



294

supported on the rounds of another. T his was more than his share

of luxury, and I prompt ly approached h im. H e evidently belonged

to the race which has the credit of knowing best, at home and abroad,

how to make itself comfortable; but something in his appearance

suggested that his present attitude was the result of inadvertence

rather than of egotism. H e was staring at the cond uctor of the or-

chestra and listening intent ly to the music. H is han ds were locked

round his long legs, and his mouth was half open, with rather a

foolish air. “T here are so few chairs,” I said, “that I must beg you to

surrend er this second one.” H e started, stared, b lushed, pushed th echair away with awkward alacrity, and murm ured som ething abou t

not having noticed th at he had it.

“What an odd-looking youth!” said my companion, who had

watched me, as I seated myself beside her.

“Yes, he is odd-looking; but what is odder still is that I have seen

him before, that h is face is familiar to m e, and yet that I can’t p lace

him.” The orchestra was playing the Prayer from Der Freischutz,bu t Weber’s lovely music only deepened the blank of mem ory. Who

the deuce was he? where, when, how, had I kn own him ? It seemed

extraord inary th at a face should be at on ce so familiar and so strange.

We had our backs turned to h im, so that I could n ot look at him

again. When the music ceased we left our places, and I went to

consign m y friend to her m amm a on the terrace. In passing, I saw

that my young man had departed; I concluded that he only strik-

ingly resembled some one I knew. But who in the world was it he

resembled? T he ladies went off to their lodgings, which were near

by, and I turned into the gaming-rooms and h overed abou t the circle

at roulette. Gradually I filtered through to the inn er edge, near the

table, and , looking round, saw my puzzling friend stationed oppo-

site to m e. H e was watching the game, with h is hands in h is pock-

ets; but singularly enough, now that I observed him at my leisure,

the look of familiarity quite faded from his face. W hat had m ade us

Eugene Pickering



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H enry Jam es

call his appearance odd was his great length and leanness of limb,

his long, white neck, his blue, prominent eyes, and his ingenuous,

un conscious absorpt ion in the scene before him. H e was not hand-

some, certainly, but he looked peculiarly amiable and if his overt

wonderment savoured a trifle of rurality, it was an agreeable con-

trast to th e hard, inexpressive masks abou t him. H e was the verdant

offshoot , I said to myself, of som e ancient, rigid stem; he had been

brought up in the quietest of homes, and he was having his first

glimpse of life. I was curious to see wheth er he would pu t anything

on the table; he evidently felt the tem ptation, but he seemed paraly-sed by chronic embarrassment. He stood gazing at the chinking

com plexity of losses and gains, shaking his loose gold in h is pocket ,

and every now and then p assing his han d n ervously over his eyes.

Most of the spectators were too attent ive to the play to have many

thoughts for each other; but before long I noticed a lady who evi-

dently had an eye for her neighbours as well as for the table. She was

seated about half-way between my friend and me, and I presentlyobserved that she was trying to catch h is eye. T hough at H omburg, as

people said, “one could never be sure,” I yet doubted whether this

lady were one of those whose especial vocation it was to catch a

gentleman’s eye. She was youthful rather than elderly, and pretty rather

than plain; indeed, a few minutes later, when I saw her smile, I thought

her wonderfully pretty. She had a charming gray eye and a good deal

of yellow hair disposed in picturesque disorder; and though her fea-

tures were meagre and her com plexion faded, she gave one a sense of

sentimental, artificial gracefulness. She was dressed in white muslin

very much puffed and filled, but a trifle the worse for wear, relieved

here and there by a pale blue ribbon. I used to flatter myself on guess-

ing at people’s nation ality by their faces, and, as a rule, I guessed aright.

T his faded, crum pled, vaporous beauty, I conceived, was a German—

such a German, somehow, as I had seen imagined in literature. Was

she not a friend of poets, a correspondent of philosophers, a muse, a



296

priestess of aesthetics—something in the way of a Bettina, a Rahel?

My conjectures, however, were speedily merged in wonderment as to

what my diffident friend was making of her. She caught his eye at

last, and raising an ungloved hand, covered altogether with blue-

gemmed rings—turquoises, sapphires, and lapis—she beckoned him

to come to her. The gesture was executed with a sort of practised

coolness, and accompanied with an appealing smile. He stared a mo-

ment, rather blankly, un able to suppose that the invitation was ad-

dressed to him ; then, as it was immediately repeated with a good deal

of intensity, he blushed to the roots of his hair, wavered awkwardly,and at last m ade his way to the lady’s chair. By the time he reached it

he was crimson, and wiping his forehead with his pocket-handker-

chief. She tilted back, looked up at him with the same smile, laid two

fingers on his sleeve, and said something, interrogatively, to which he

replied by a shake of the head. She was asking him, evidently, if he

had ever played, and he was saying no. Old players have a fancy that

when luck has turned her back on them they can put her into good-hum our again by having their stakes placed by a novice. O ur youn g

man’s physiognomy had seemed to his new acquaintance to express

the perfection of inexperience, and, like a practical woman, she had

determined to make him serve her turn. Unlike most of her neighbours,

she had no little pile of gold before her, bu t she drew from her pocket

a double napoleon, put it into his hand, and bade him place it on a

num ber of his own choosing. H e was evident ly filled with a sort of

delightful trouble; he enjoyed the adventure, but he shrank from the

hazard. I would have staked the coin on its being his companion’s

last; for although she still smiled intently as she watched his hesita-

tion , there was anyth ing but indifference in her pale, pretty face. Sud-

denly, in desperation, he reached over and laid the piece on the table.

My attention was diverted at this moment by my having to make way

for a lady with a great many flounces, before me, to give up her chair

to a rustling friend to whom she had promised it; when I again looked

Eugene Pickering



297

H enry Jam es

across at the lady in white muslin, she was drawing in a very goodly

pile of gold with her little blue-gemmed claw. Good luck and bad, at

the H omburg tables, were equally undemonstrative, and this happy

adventuress rewarded her young friend for the sacrifice of his inno-

cence with a single, rapid, upward smile. He had innocence enough

left, however, to look round the table with a gleeful, conscious laugh,

in the m idst of which his eyes encountered my own. T hen suddenly

the familiar look which had vanished from his face flickered up un-

mistakably; it was the boyish laugh of a boyhood’s friend. Stupid fel-

low that I was, I had been looking at Eugene Pickering!T hou gh I lingered on for some t ime longer he failed to recognise

me. Recognition , I th ink, had kind led a smile in my own face; but ,

less fortunate than h e, I suppose my smile had ceased to be boyish.

Now that luck had faced about again, his companion played for

herself—played and won, hand over hand. At last she seemed dis-

posed to rest on her gains, and p roceeded to bury them in the folds

of her m uslin. Pickering had staked n oth ing for himself, bu t as hesaw her prepare to withd raw he offered her a double napoleon and

begged h er to place it. She shook h er head with great decision, and

seemed to bid him put it up again; but he, still blushing a good

deal, pressed her with awkward ardou r, and she at last took it from

him, looked at him a moment fixedly, and laid it on a number. A

moment later the croupier was raking it in. She gave the young m an

a litt le nod which seemed to say, “I told you so;” he glanced roun d

the table again and laughed; she left her chair, and he made a way

for her throu gh the crowd. Before going home I took a turn on t he

terrace and looked down on the esplanade. T he lamps were out , but

the warm starlight vaguely illumined a dozen figures scattered in

coup les. O ne of these figures, I thought , was a lady in a white dress.

I had n o inten tion of letting Pickering go withou t remind ing him

of our old acquaintance. H e had been a very singular boy, and I was

curious to see what had become of his singularity. I looked for him



298

the next morning at two or three of the hotels, and at last I discov-

ered h is whereabouts. But he was out, th e waiter said; he had gone

to walk an hour before. I went my way, confident that I should

meet h im in the evening. It was the rule with the H omburg world

to spend its evenings at the Kursaal, and Pickering, apparently, had

already discovered a good reason for not being an exception . O ne of

the charm s of H omburg is the fact that of a hot day you m ay walk

about for a whole afternoon in unbroken shade. T he um brageous

gardens of the Kursaal mingle with the charming H ardtwald, wh ich

in turn melts away into the wooded slopes of the Taunus Moun-tains. To th e H ardtwald I bent my steps, and strolled for an hou r

th rough m ossy glades and the still, perpendicular gloom of the fir-

woods. Sud den ly, on the grassy margin of a by-path, I came upon a

young man stretched at h is length in the sun -checkered shade, and

kicking his heels towards a patch of blue sky. My step was so noise-

less on the turf that, before he saw me, I had time to recognise

Pickering again. He looked as if he had been lounging there forsom e time; his hair was tossed about as if he had been sleeping; on

the grass near him , beside h is hat and stick, lay a sealed letter. W hen

he perceived me he jerked himself forward, and I stood looking at

him without introducing myself— purposely, to give him a chance

to recognise me. H e put on his glasses, being awkwardly near-sighted,

and stared up at me with an air of general trustfulness, bu t without

a sign of knowing me. So at last I introduced m yself. T hen he jum ped

up and grasped m y hands, and stared and b lushed and laughed, and

began a dozen random questions, ending with a demand as to how

in the world I had known him.

“Why, you are not changed so utterly,” I said; “and after all, it’s

bu t fifteen years since you used to do m y Latin exercises for m e.”

“Not changed, eh?” he answered, still smiling, and yet speaking

with a sort of ingenuous dismay.

T hen I remembered that poor Pickering had been, in th ose Latin

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days, a victim of juvenile irony. H e used to bring a bott le of medi-

cine to school and take a dose in a glass of water before lunch; and

every day at two o’clock, half an hour before the rest of us were

liberated, an old nurse with bushy eyebrows came and fetched him

away in a carriage. H is extremely fair complexion, h is nurse, and his

bott le of medicine, which suggested a vague analogy with the sleep-

ing-potion in the tragedy, caused him to be called Juliet. Certainly

Romeo’s sweetheart hardly suffered more; she was not, at least, a

stand ing joke in Verona. Remem bering these things, I h astened to

say to Pickering that I h oped he was still the same good fellow whoused to do my Latin for m e. “We were capital friends, you know,” I

went on, “then and afterwards.”

“Yes, we were very good friends,” he said, “and that makes it the

stranger I shouldn’t have known you. For you know, as a boy, I

never had many friends, nor as a man either. You see,” he added,

passing his hand over his eyes, “I am rather dazed, rather bewil-

dered at finding myself for the first time—alone.” And he jerkedback h is shoulders nervously, and th rew up his head, as if to sett le

him self in an unwon ted position . I wondered whether the old n urse

with th e bushy eyebrows had remained attached to h is person up to

a recent period, and discovered present ly that, virtu ally at least, she

had. We had th e whole sum mer day before us, and we sat down on

the grass together and overhauled our old m emories. It was as if we

had stum bled upon an ancient cupboard in some dusky corner, and

rum maged out a heap of childish playth ings— tin soldiers and torn

story-books, jack-knives and Chinese puzzles. This is what we re-

membered between us.

H e had m ade but a shor t stay at school—not because he was tor-

mented, for he thou ght it so fine to be at school at all that h e held

his ton gue at home abou t th e sufferings incurred through the medi-

cine-bottle, but because his father thought he was learning bad

manners. This he imparted to me in confidence at the time, and I



300

remember how it increased my oppressive awe of Mr. Pickering,

who had appeared to me in glimpses as a sort of high priest of the

proprieties. M r. Pickering was a widower—a fact which seemed to

produce in him a sort of preternatural concentration of parental

dignity. H e was a majestic man, with a hooked nose, a keen dark

eye, very large whiskers, and notions of his own as to how a boy—

or h is boy, at any rate—should be brou ght u p. First and foremost,

he was to be a “gentleman”; which seemed to m ean, chiefly, that he

was always to wear a muffler and gloves, and be sent to bed, after a

supper of bread and milk, at eight o’clock. School-life, on experi-ment, seemed hostile to these observances, and Eugene was taken

home again, to be moulded into u rbanity beneath the parental eye.

A tutor was provided for him, and a single select companion was

prescribed. T he choice, mysteriously, fell on me, born as I was un-

der quite another star; my parents were appealed to, and I was al-

lowed for a few months to h ave my lessons with Eugene. T he tutor,

I th ink, must have been rather a snob, for Eugene was treated like aprin ce, while I got all the questions and the raps with the ruler. And

yet I remember never being jealous of my happier comrade, and

striking up, for the time, one of those friend ships of childh ood. H e

had a watch and a pony and a great store of picture-books, but my

envy of these luxuries was tempered by a vague compassion which

left me free to be generous. I could go out to play alone, I could

bu tton my jacket m yself, and sit up till I was sleepy. Poor Pickering

could n ever take a step without asking leave, or spend h alf an hour

in the garden without a formal report of it when he came in. My

parents, who had no desire to see me inoculated with importun ate

virtu es, sent me back to school at the end of six months. After that

I never saw Eugene. His father went to live in the country, to pro-

tect the lad’s morals, and Eugene faded, in reminiscence, into a pale

image of the depressing effects of edu cation. I think I vaguely sup-

posed that h e would m elt into th in air, and indeed began gradually

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to doubt of his existence, and to regard him as one of the foolish

th ings one ceased to believe in as one grew older. It seemed n atural

that I should have no m ore news of him. O ur present m eeting was

my first assurance th at h e had really survived all that m uffling and

coddling.

I observed him now with a good deal of interest, for he was a rare

phenomenon—the fruit of a system persistently and uninterrupt-

edly applied. H e struck me, in a fashion , as certain youn g monks I

had seen in Italy; he had the same candid, unsophisticated cloister

face. H is education had been really almost monastic. It had foun dhim evidently a very compliant, yielding subject; his gentle affec-

tionate spirit was not one of those that need to be broken. It had

bequeathed him, now that he stood on the threshold of the great

world, an extraordinary freshness of impression and alertness of

desire, and I confess that, as I looked at him and m et his transparent

blue eye, I trembled for the unwarned innocence of such a soul. I

became aware, gradually, that th e world had already wrought a cer-tain work upon him and roused him to a restless, troubled self-

consciousness. Everyth ing about h im pointed to an experience from

which he had been debarred; his whole organism trembled with a

dawning sense of unsuspected possibilities of feeling. This appeal-

ing tremor was indeed outwardly visible. He kept shifting himself

about on the grass, th rusting his hands through h is hair, wiping a

light perspiration from his forehead, breaking out to say som ething

and rushing off to someth ing else. O ur sudden m eeting had greatly

excited him , and I saw that I was likely to p rofit by a certain over-

flow of sentimental fermentation. I could do so with a good con-

science, for all this trepidation filled me with a great friendliness.

“It’s nearly fifteen years, as you say,” he began, “since you used to

call me ‘butter-fingers’ for always missing the ball. That’s a long

time to give an account of, and yet they have been, for me, such

eventless, monotonous years, that I could almost tell their history



302

in t en words. You, I suppose, have had all kinds of adventures and

travelled over half the world. I remember you had a turn for deeds

of daring; I used to think you a little Captain C ook in roun dabou ts,

for climbing the garden fence to get the ball when I had let it fly

over. I climbed n o fences then or since. You remem ber m y father, I

suppose, and the great care he took of me? I lost him some five

months ago. From those boyish days up to h is death we were always

together. I don’t think that in fifteen years we spent half a dozen

hours apart. We lived in the country, winter and summer, seeing

but three or four people. I had a succession of tutors, and a libraryto browse abou t in ; I assure you I am a tremendous scholar. It was a

du ll life for a growing boy, and a du ller life for a young man grown,

bu t I never knew it. I was perfectly happy.” H e spoke of his father at

som e length , and with a respect which I privately declined to emu-

late. Mr. Pickering had been, to m y sense, a frigid egotist, unable to

conceive of any larger vocation for his son than to strive to repro-

duce so irreproachable a model. “I know I have been strangelybrought up,” said my friend, “and that th e result is som ething gro-

tesque; but my education, piece by piece, in detail, became one of

my father’s personal habits, as it were. He took a fancy to it at first

through his intense affection for m y mother and the sort of worship

he paid her memory. She died at my birth, and as I grew up, it

seems that I bore an extraord inary likeness to her. Besides, m y fa-

ther had a great many theories; he prided himself on his conserva-

tive opinion s; he thought the usual American laisser-aller in educa-

tion was a very vulgar practice, and that children were not to grow

up like dusty thorns by the wayside. “So you see,” Pickering went

on, smiling and blushing, and yet with something of the irony of

vain regret, “I am a regular garden plant. I have been watched and

watered and p run ed, and if there is any virtue in tending I ought to

take the prize at a flower show. Some three years ago my father’s

health broke down, and he was kept very much within doors. So,

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although I was a man grown, I lived altogether at hom e. If I was out

of his sight for a quarter of an hour he sent som e one after me. H e

had severe attacks of neuralgia, and he used to sit at his window,

basking in th e sun . H e kept an opera-glass at hand, and when I was

out in the garden he used to watch me with it. A few days before his

death I was twenty-seven years old, and the most innocent youth, I

suppose, on the continent. After he died I missed him greatly,”

Pickering continu ed, evident ly with no inten tion of making an epi-

gram. “I stayed at hom e, in a sort of dull stupor. It seemed as if life

offered itself to m e for the first time, and yet as if I didn’t know howto t ake hold of it.”

H e ut tered all th is with a frank eagerness which increased as he

talked, and there was a singular contrast between the meagre expe-

rience he described and a certain radiant intelligence which I seemed

to perceive in his glance and tone. Eviden tly he was a clever fellow,

and his natural faculties were excellent. I imagined he had read a

great d eal, and recovered, in som e degree, in restless intellectual conjecture, the freedom he was condemned to ignore in practice. O p-

portunity was now offering a meaning to the empty forms with

which his imagination was stored, but it appeared to him dimly,

th rough the veil of his personal diffidence.

“I have not sailed roun d the world, as you supp ose,” I said, “but I

confess I envy you the novelties you are going to behold. C om ing to

H om burg you have plun ged in medias res.”

H e glanced at m e to see if my remark contained an allusion, and

hesitated a mom ent. “Yes, I know it. I came to Bremen in the steamer

with a very friendly G erman, who un dertook to initiate me into th e

glories and mysteries of the Fatherland. At this season, he said, I

must begin with H omburg. I landed bu t a fortn ight ago, and h ere I

am.” Again he hesitated, as if he were going to add something abou t

the scene at the Kursaal but suddenly, nervously, he took up the

letter which was lying beside him, looked hard at the seal with a



304

troubled frown, and then flun g it back on the grass with a sigh.

“H ow long do you expect to be in Europe?” I asked.

“Six months I supposed when I came. But not so long—now!”

And he let his eyes wander to the letter again.

“And where shall you go— what shall you do?”

“Everywhere, everyth ing, I shou ld have said yesterday. But now it

is different .”

I glanced at the letter—interrogatively, and he gravely picked it

up and pu t it into his pocket. We talked for a while longer, bu t I saw

that he had suddenly become preoccupied; that he was apparentlyweighing an impu lse to break som e last barrier of reserve. At last he

suddenly laid his hand on my arm, looked at m e a moment appeal-

ingly, and cried, “Upon my word, I should like to tell you every-

thing!”

“Tell me everyth ing, by all means,” I answered, smiling. “I desire

noth ing better than to lie here in th e shade and h ear everyth ing.”

“Ah, but the question is, will you understand it? No matter; youth ink m e a queer fellow already. It’s not easy, either, to tell you what

I feel—not easy for so queer a fellow as I to tell you in how many

ways he is queer!” He got up and walked away a moment, passing

his han d over his eyes, then came back rapidly and flung himself on

th e grass again. “I said just now I always supposed I was happy; it’s

tru e; but now th at m y eyes are open, I see I was on ly stu ltified. I was

like a poodle-dog that is led about by a blue ribbon, and scoured

and combed and fed on slops. It was not life; life is learning to know

one’s self, and in that sense I have lived more in the past six weeks

than in all the years that preceded them. I am filled with th is fever-

ish sense of liberation; it keeps rising to m y head like th e fumes of

strong wine. I find I am an active, sentient, intelligent creature,

with desires, with passions, with possible convictions—even with

what I n ever dreamed of, a possible will of my own! I find there is a

world to know, a life to lead, men and women to form a thousand

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relations with . It all lies there like a great surging sea, where we mu st

plunge and dive and feel the breeze and breast the waves. I stand

shivering here on the brink, staring, longing, wondering, charmed

by the smell of the brine and yet afraid of the water. The world

beckons and smiles and calls, but a nameless influence from the

past, that I can neither wholly obey nor wholly resist, seems to hold

me back. I am full of impulses, but, somehow, I am not full of

strength. Life seems inspiring at certain m om ents, bu t it seems ter-

rible and u nsafe; and I ask m yself why I should wanton ly measure

myself with merciless forces, when I have learned so well how tostand aside and let them pass. Why shou ldn’t I turn my back upon

it all and go h om e to— what awaits me?— to t hat sightless, soun d-

less country life, and long days spent among old books? But if a

man IS weak, he doesn’t wan t to assent beforehand to his weakness;

he wants to taste whatever sweetn ess there may be in paying for the

knowledge. So it is that it com es back— th is irresistible impulse to

take my plunge— to let m yself swing, to go where liberty leads me.”H e paused a moment, fixing me with his excited eyes, and perhaps

perceived in my own an irrepressible smile at h is perplexity. “‘Swing

ahead, in H eaven’s name,’ you wan t t o say, ‘and much good may it

do you.’ I don’t know whether you are laughing at m y scrup les or at

what possibly strikes you as my depravity. I doubt,” he went on

gravely, “whether I have an inclination toward wrong-doing; if I

have, I am sure I shall not prosper in it. I honestly believe I may

safely take out a license to am use myself. But it isn’t that I think of,

any more than I d ream of, playing with suffering. Pleasure and pain

are empty words to me; what I long for is knowledge—some other

knowledge than com es to u s in form al, colourless, imp ersonal pre-

cept. You would understand all this bett er if you could breathe for

an hour the musty in-door atm osphere in which I have always lived.

To break a window and let in light and air—I feel as if at last I must

act !”



306

“Act, by all means, now and always, when you have a chance,” I

answered. “But don’t take th ings too hard, n ow or ever. Your long

confinement m akes you think the world better worth kn owing than

you are likely to find it. A man with as good a head and heart as

yours has a very ample world within h imself, and I am no believer

in art for art, nor in what’s called ‘life’ for life’s sake. Nevertheless,

take your plunge, and come and tell me whether you have found

the pearl of wisdom.” H e frowned a little, as if he thought m y sym-

pathy a trifle meagre. I shook him by the hand and laughed. “The

pearl of wisdom,” I cried, “is love; honest love in the most conve-nient concentrat ion of experience! I advise you to fall in love.” H e

gave me no smile in response, but drew from h is pocket the letter of

which I have spoken, held it up, and shook it solemnly. “What is

it?” I asked.

“It is my sentence!”

“Not of death, I h ope!”

“O f marriage.”“With whom?”

“W ith a person I don’t love.”

T his was serious. I stop ped smiling, and begged h im t o explain.

“It is th e singular part of my story,” he said at last. “It will remin d

you of an old-fashion ed rom ance. Such as I sit here, talking in this

wild way, and tossing off provocations to destiny, my destiny is settled

and sealed. I am engaged, I am given in marriage. It’s a bequest of

the past— the past I had no hand in! T he marriage was arranged by

my father, years ago, when I was a boy. The young girl’s father was

his part icular friend; he was also a widower, and was bringing up his

daughter, on his side, in the same severe seclusion in which I was

spend ing my days. To this day I am u nacquainted with the origin of

the bond of union between ou r respective progenitors. M r. Vernor

was largely engaged in business, and I imagine that once upon a

time he found h imself in a financial strait and was helped th rough it

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H enry Jam es

by my father’s coming forward with a heavy loan, on which, in his

situation, he could offer no security but h is word. O f this my father

was qu ite capable. H e was a man of dogmas, and he was sure to

have a rule of life—as clear as if it had been written out in h is beau-

tiful copper-plate hand—adapted to the conduct of a gentleman

toward a friend in p ecun iary embarrassment. W hat is more, he was

sure to adhere to it. M r. Vernor, I believe, got on his feet, paid h is

debt, and vowed my father an eternal gratitud e. H is little daughter

was the apple of his eye, and he pledged h imself to bring her up to

be the wife of his benefactor’s son . So our fate was fixed, parentally,and we have been educated for each other. I have not seen my be-

trothed since she was a very plain-faced little girl in a sticky pin-

afore, hugging a on e-armed doll— of the male sex, I believe—as big

as herself. M r. Vernor is in what is called the Eastern trade, and has

been living these many years at Smyrna. Isabel has grown up there

in a white-walled garden, in an orange grove, between her father

and her governess. She is a good deal my junior; six months ago shewas seventeen; when she is eighteen we are to marry.”

H e related all this calmly enough, without the accent of com-

plaint , drily rather and doggedly, as if he were weary of th inking of

it. “It’s a rom ance, indeed, for th ese dull days,” I said, “and I heart-

ily congratulate you. It’s not every young man who finds, on reach-

ing the marrying age, a wife kept in a box of rose-leaves for him. A

thousand to one Miss Vernor is charm ing; I wonder you don’t post

off to Smyrna.”

“You are joking,” he answered, with a wounded air, “and I am

terribly serious. Let me tell you the rest. I never suspected this supe-

rior con spiracy till som ething less th an a year ago. My father, wish-

ing to provide against h is death , inform ed m e of it very solemn ly. I

was neither elated n or depressed; I received it, as I remem ber, with

a sort of emotion which varied only in degree from that with which

I could have hailed the announ cement that he had ordered m e a set



308

of new shirts. I supposed that was the way that all marriages were

made; I had heard of their being made in heaven, and what was my

father but a divinity? Novels and poems, indeed, talked about fall-

ing in love; but novels and poems were one thing and life was an-

other. A short t ime afterwards he introduced me to a photograph of

my predestined, who has a pretty, but an extremely inanim ate, face.

After this his health failed rapidly. O ne night I was sitting, as I

habitually sat for hours, in his dim ly-lighted room , near his bed, to

which he had been confined for a week. He had not spoken for

some time, and I supposed he was asleep; but happ ening to look athim I saw his eyes wide open, and fixed on me strangely. H e was

smiling benignantly, intensely, and in a moment he beckoned to

me. T hen, on my going to him— ’I feel that I shall not last long,’ he

said; ‘but I am willing to die when I think how comfortably I have

arranged your future.’ H e was talking of death , and anything but

grief at that moment was doubtless impious and monstrous; but

there came into my heart for the first time a throbbing sense of being over-governed. I said noth ing, and he thought m y silence was

all sorrow. ‘I shall not live to see you married,’ he went on, ‘but

since the foundation is laid, th at litt le signifies; it would be a selfish

pleasure, and I have never thought of myself bu t in you. To foresee

your future, in its main ou tline, to know to a certainty that you will

be safely domiciled here, with a wife approved by my judgment,

cultivating the m oral fruit of which I have sown t he seed— th is will

content me. But , my son , I wish to clear this bright vision from the

shadow of a doub t. I believe in your docility; I believe I m ay trust

the salutary force of your respect for my memory. But I must re-

member that when I am removed you will stand here alone, face to

face with a hu ndred nameless temptations to perversity. The fum es

of unrighteous pride may rise into your brain and tempt you, in t he

interest of a vulgar theory which it will call your ind epend ence, to

shat ter th e edifice I have so laboriously constru cted. So I m ust ask

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you for a promise—the solemn promise you owe my condition.’

And he grasped my hand. ‘You will follow th e path I have marked;

you will be faithful to th e young girl whom an in fluence as devoted

as that which h as governed your own youn g life has moulded into

everything amiable; you will marry Isabel Vernor.’ This was pretty

‘steep,’ as we used to say at school. I was frightened; I d rew away my

hand and asked to be trusted without any such terrible vow. My

reluctance start led m y father into a suspicion that the vulgar theory

of independ ence had already been whispering to m e. H e sat up in

his bed and looked at me with eyes which seemed to foresee a life-tim e of odious ingratitud e. I felt th e reproach; I feel it now. I prom -

ised! And even now I don’t regret m y prom ise nor complain of my

father’s tenacity. I feel, som ehow, as if the seeds of u ltimate repose

had been sown in those un suspecting years— as if after m any days I

might gather the m ellow fruit. But after many days! I will keep m y

promise, I will obey; but I want to live first!”

“My dear fellow, you are living now. All th is passionate con scious-ness of your situation is a very arden t life. I wish I cou ld say as much

for my own.”

“I want to forget my situation. I want to spend three months

without thinking of the past or the future, grasping whatever the

present offers me. Yesterday I thought I was in a fair way to sail with

the tide. But this morning comes this memento!” And he held up

his letter again.

“W hat is it?”

“A letter from Smyrna.”

“I see you have not yet broken the seal.”

“No; nor do I mean t o, for the present. It cont ains bad n ews.”

“What do you call bad news?”

“News that I am expected in Smyrna in three weeks. News that

Mr. Vernor disapproves of my roving about the world. News that

his daughter is standing expectant at th e altar.”



310

“Is not th is pu re con jecture?”

“Conjecture, possibly, but safe conjecture. As soon as I looked at

the letter som ething smote me at th e heart. Look at the device on

th e seal, and I am sure you will find it’s tarry not!!” And h e flung the

letter on the grass.

“Upon my word, you h ad better open it,” I said.

“If I were to open it and read my summons, do you know what I

should do? I should march home and ask the Oberkellner how one

gets to Smyrna, pack my trunk, take my ticket, and not stop till I

arrived. I know I should; it would be the fascination of habit. Theonly way, therefore, to wander to my rope’s end is to leave the letter

unread.”

“In your place,” I said, “curiosity would m ake me open it.”

H e shook h is head. “I have no curiosity! For a long time n ow the

idea of my marriage has ceased to be a novelty, and I have contem-

plated it mentally in every possible light. I fear nothing from that

side, but I do fear something from conscience. I want my handstied. Will you do me a favour? Pick up the letter, pu t it in to your

pocket, and keep it t ill I ask you for it. Wh en I do, you m ay know

that I am at m y rope’s end .”

I took the letter, smiling. “And how long is your rope to be? T he

H om bu rg season doesn’t last for ever.”

“D oes it last a m onth? Let that be m y season! A mon th hence you

will give it back to me.”

“To-m orrow if you say so. Meanwh ile, let it rest in peace!” And I

consigned it to the most sacred in terstice of my pocket-book. To say

that I was disposed to humour the poor fellow would seem to be

saying that I thought his request fantastic. It was his situation, by

no fault of his own, that was fantastic, and he was on ly trying to be

natural. H e watched me put away the letter, and when it had disap-

peared gave a soft sigh of relief. The sigh was natural, and yet it set

me th inking. H is general recoil from an immediate responsibility

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imposed by oth ers might be wholesome enough; but if there was an

old grievance on one side, was there not possibly a new-born delu-

sion on the other? It would be un kind to withh old a reflection th at

might serve as a warning; so I told him, abrupt ly, that I had been an

undiscovered spectator, the night before, of his exploits at roulette.

H e blushed deeply, but he met m y eyes with the same clear good-

humour.

“Ah, th en, you saw that won derful lady?”

“Won derful she was indeed. I saw her afterwards, too, sitting on

the terrace in the starlight . I imagine she was not alone.”“No, indeed, I was with h er—for nearly an hour. T hen I walked

home with her.”

“Ah! And did you go in?”

“No, she said it was too late to ask m e; though she remarked that

in a general way she did not stand upon ceremony.”

“She did herself injustice. W hen it came to losing your m oney for

you, she made you insist.”“Ah, you noticed that too?” cried Pickering, still qu ite unconfused.

“I felt as if the whole table were staring at me; bu t her mann er was

so gracious and reassuring that I supposed she was doing nothing

unusual. She confessed, however, afterwards, that she is very eccen-

tric. The world began to call her so, she said, before she ever dreamed

of it, and at last finding that she had the reputation, in spite of

herself, she resolved to enjoy its privileges. N ow, she does what she

chooses.”

“In other words, she is a lady with n o reputation to lose!”

Pickering seemed puzzled; he smiled a little. “Is not that what you

say of bad women?”

“Of some—of those who are found out.”

“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I have not yet found out Madame

Blumenthal.”

“If that’s her name, I suppose she’s German.”



312

“Yes; but she speaks English so well that you wouldn’t know it.

She is very clever. H er husband is dead.”

I laughed involuntarily at the conjunction of these facts, and

Pickering’s clear glance seemed to qu estion my mirth . “You have

been so bluntly frank with me,” I said, “that I too must be frank.

Tell me, if you can, whether this clever Madame Blum enthal, whose

husband is dead, has given a point to your desire for a suspension of

comm un ication with Smyrna.”

H e seemed to pon der my question, unshrinkingly. “I think not,”

he said, at last. “I have had the desire for three months; I have knownM adame Blum enthal for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Very tru e. But when you foun d this letter of yours on your place

at breakfast, did you seem for a moment to see Madame Blumenthal

sitting opposite?”

“O pposite?”

“O pposite, my dear fellow, or anywhere in the neighbourh ood.

In a word, does she in terest you?”“Very much!” he cried, joyously.

“Amen!” I answered, jumping up with a laugh. “And now, if we

are to see the world in a month , there is no tim e to lose. Let us begin

with the H ardtwald.”

Pickering rose, and we strolled away into the forest, talking of

lighter things. At last we reached t he edge of the wood , sat down on

a fallen log, and looked ou t across an in terval of meadow at the long

wooded waves of the Taunus. What my friend was thinking of I

can’t say; I was meditating on his queer biography, and letting my

wond erment wander away to Smyrna. Suddenly I remembered th at

he possessed a portrait of the young girl who was waiting for him

there in a white-walled garden. I asked him if he had it with him.

He said nothing, but gravely took out his pocket-book and drew

forth a small photograph. It represented, as the poet says, a simple

maiden in her flower—a slight young girl, with a certain childish

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roundness of contour. There was no ease in her posture; she was

standing, stiffly and shyly, for her likeness; she wore a short-waisted

white dress; her arms hun g at her sides and h er hands were clasped

in front; her head was bent downward a little, and her dark eyes

fixed. But her awkwardness was as pretty as that of some angular

seraph in a m ediaeval carving, and in h er timid gaze there seemed to

lurk the questioning gleam of childhood. “What is this for?” her

charm ing eyes appeared to ask; “why have I been dressed up for th is

ceremony in a white frock and amber beads?”

“Gracious powers!” I said to m yself; “what an enchant ing thing isinnocence!”

“T hat port rait was taken a year and a half ago,” said Pickering, as

if with an effort to be perfectly just. “By this time, I suppose, she

looks a little wiser.”

“Not much, I hope,” I said, as I gave it back. “She is very sweet!”

“Yes, poor girl, she is very sweet—no doubt!” And he put the

th ing away without looking at it.We were silent for some moments. At last, abruptly—“My dear

fellow,” I said, “I shou ld take som e satisfaction in seeing you imme-

diately leave Homburg.”

“Immediately?”

“To-day—as soon as you can get ready.”

H e looked at me, surprised, and little by little he blushed. “T here

is something I have not told you,” he said; “something that your

saying that M adame Blum enthal has no reputation to lose has made

me half afraid to tell you.”

“I think I can guess it. Madame Blumenthal has asked you to

come and play her game for her again.”

“Not at all!” cried Pickering, with a smile of triumph. “She says

that she m eans to play no m ore for th e present. She has asked m e to

come and take tea with her this evening.”

“Ah, then,” I said, very gravely, “of course you can’t leave H om burg.”



314

H e answered noth ing, but looked askance at me, as if he were

expecting me to laugh. “Urge it strongly,” he said in a moment.

“Say it’s my duty—that I must .”

I didn’t quite understand him, but, feathering the shaft with a

harmless expletive, I told him that unless he followed my advice I

would never speak to him again.

H e got up, stood before me, and struck the groun d with h is stick.

“Good!” he cried; “I wanted an occasion to break a rule—to leap a

barrier. H ere it is. I stay!”

I made him a mock bow for his energy. “That’s very fine,” I said;“but now, to pu t you in a proper mood for M adame Blum enth al’s

tea, we will go and listen t o th e band play Schubert under the lin-

dens.” And we walked back through the woods.

I went to see Pickering the next day, at h is inn , and on knocking,

as directed, at his door, was surprised to hear the sound of a loud

voice within. M y knock remained u nnoticed, so I presently int ro-

duced myself. I found n o company, but I d iscovered m y friend walk-ing up and down the room and apparently declaiming to himself

from a little volum e bound in white vellum . H e greeted m e heartily,

threw his book on the table, and said that he was taking a German

lesson.

“And who is your t eacher?” I asked, glancing at t he book.

H e rather avoided meeting my eye, as he answered, after an instant’s

delay, “Madame Blumenthal.”

“Ind eed! H as she written a grammar?”

“It’s not a gramm ar; it’s a tragedy.” And he hand ed m e the book.

I opened it, and beheld, in delicate type, with a very large margin,

an H istorisches Trauerspiel in five acts, entitled “C leopatra.” There

were a great many marginal corrections and annotations, apparently

from the author’s hand; the speeches were very long, and there was an

inordinate number of soliloquies by the heroine. O ne of them, I re-

member, towards the end of the play, began in this fashion—

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H enry Jam es

“What, after all, is life but sensation, and sensation but decep-

tion?— reality that pales before the light of on e’s dreams as O ctavia’s

du ll beauty fades beside mine? But let m e believe in some intenser

bliss, and seek it in the arms of death!”

“It seems decidedly passionate,” I said. “H as th e tragedy ever been

acted?”

“Never in public; but M adame Blum enth al tells me that she had

it played at h er own house in Berlin, and that she herself undertook

the part of the heroine.”

Pickering’s unworldly life had not been of a sort to sharpen hispercept ion of the ridiculous, but it seemed t o m e an un mistakable

sign of his being under the charm, that this information was very

soberly offered. H e was preoccup ied, he was irrespon sive to m y ex-

perimental observations on vulgar topics— the hot weather, the inn ,

the advent of Adelina Patti. At last, uttering his thoughts, he an-

noun ced th at Madame Blum enthal had proved to be an extraordi-

narily interesting woman. H e seemed to have quite forgotten our longtalk in the H artwaldt, and betrayed no sense of this being a confes-

sion that he had taken his plunge and was floating with the current.

H e only remembered that I had spoken slight ingly of the lady, and he

now hinted that it behoved m e to amend my opinion. I had received

the day before so strong an impression of a sort of spiritual fastidious-

ness in m y friend’s nature, that on hearing now the striking of a new

hour, as it were, in h is consciousness, and observing how the echoes

of the past were immediately quenched in its music, I said to m yself

that it had certainly taken a delicate hand to wind up that fine ma-

chine. No doubt Madame Blumenthal was a clever woman. It is a

good German custom at H omburg to spend the hour preceding din-

ner in listening to the orchestra in the Kurgarten; Mozart and

Beethoven, for organisms in which the interfusion of soul and sense is

peculiarly mysterious, are a vigorous stimulus to the appetite. Pickering

and I conformed, as we had done the day before, to the fashion, and



316

when we were seated under the trees, he began to expatiate on his

friend’s merits.

“I don’t know whether she is eccentric or not,” he said; “to me

every one seems eccentric, and it’s not for me, yet a while, to mea-

sure people by my narrow precedents. I never saw a gaming table in

my life before, and sup posed that a gambler was of necessity som e

dusky villain with an evil eye. In G ermany, says Madame Blumenthal,

people play at roulette as they play at billiards, and her own vener-

able mother originally taught her the rules of the game. It is a

recognised source of subsistence for decent people with small means.But I confess M adame Blum enthal might do worse things than p lay

at roulette, and yet make them harmonious and beautiful. I have

never been in the habit of thinking positive beauty the most excel-

lent thing in a woman. I have always said to myself that if my heart

were ever to be captured it would be by a sort of general grace—a

sweetness of motion and tone— on which on e could coun t for sooth -

ing imp ressions, as one coun ts on a musical instrument that is per-fectly in tune. M adame Blumenth al has it— this grace that sooth es

and satisfies; and it seems the more perfect th at it keeps order and

harmony in a character really passionately ardent and active. With

her eager nature and her innumerable accomplishments nothing

would be easier than that she should seem restless and aggressive.

You will know her, and I leave you to judge whether she does seem

so! She has every gift, and culture has done everything for each.

What goes on in her mind I of course can’t say; what reaches the

observer—the admirer—is simply a sort of fragrant emanation of

intelligence and sympathy.”

“Madame Blumenthal,” I said, smiling, “might be the loveliest

woman in the world, and you the object of her choicest favours,

and yet what I shou ld m ost envy you would be, not your peerless

friend , but your beaut iful imagination.”

“T hat’s a polite way of calling me a fool,” said Pickering. “You are

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a sceptic, a cynic, a satirist! I hope I shall be a long time coming to

that.”

“You will make th e journey fast if you travel by express trains. But

pray tell me, have you ventured to intim ate to Madame Blum enth al

your high opin ion of her?”

“I don’t know what I may have said. She listens even better than

she talks, and I think it possible I may have made her listen to a

great deal of nonsense. For after the first few words I exchanged

with her I was conscious of an extraordinary evaporation of all my

old diffidence. I have, in tru th , I suppose,” he added in a mom ent,“owing to my peculiar circumstances, a great accumulated fund of

unuttered t hings of all sorts to get rid of. Last evening, sitt ing th ere

before that charm ing woman, they came swarming to m y lips. Very

likely I poured them all out. I have a sense of having enshrouded

myself in a sort of mist of talk, and of seeing her lovely eyes shining

through it opposite to me, like fog-lamps at sea.” And here, if I

remember rightly, Pickering broke off into an ardent parenthesis,and declared that Madame Blumenthal’s eyes had something in them

that he had never seen in any others. “It was a jumble of crudities

and inanities,” he went on; “they must have seemed to her great

rubbish; but I felt the wiser and the stron ger, som ehow, for having

fired off all my guns—they could hurt nobody now if they hit—

and I imagine I might have gone far withou t finding another woman

in whom such an exhibition would h ave provoked so little of mere

cold amusement.”

“Madame Blumenthal, on th e contrary,” I surm ised, “entered into

your situation with warmth .”

“Exactly so—the greatest! She has felt and suffered, and now she

understands!”

“She told you, I imagine, that she understood you as if she had

made you, and she offered to be your guide, philosopher, and friend.”

“She spoke to me,” Pickering answered, after a pause, “as I had



318

never been spoken to before, and she offered me, formally, all the

offices of a woman’s friendship.”

“W hich you as formally accepted?”

“To you the scene sounds absurd , I suppose, but allow me to say I

don’t care!” Pickering spoke with an air of genial defiance which

was the most inoffensive thing in the world. “I was very much m oved;

I was, in fact, very much excited. I tried to say something, but I

couldn’t; I had had plenty to say before, but now I stammered and

bungled, and at last I bolted out of the room.”

“Meanwhile she had dropped her tragedy into your pocket!”“Not at all. I had seen it on the table before she came in. After-

wards she kindly offered to read German aloud with me, for the

accent , two or three times a week. ‘W hat shall we begin with?’ she

asked. ‘W ith this!’ I said, and held up the book. And she let me take

it to look it over.”

I was neither a cynic nor a satirist, but even if I had been, I might

have been disarm ed by Pickering’s assurance, before we parted, thatM adame Blum enthal wished to know me and expected h im to in-

troduce me. Among the foolish th ings which, according to h is own

account, he had uttered, were som e generous words in m y praise, to

which she had civilly replied. I confess I was curious to see her, bu t

I begged that the introduction should n ot be immediate, for I wished

to let Pickering work out his destiny alone. For some days I saw

litt le of him, though we met at the Kursaal and strolled occasionally

in the park. I watched, in spite of my desire to let him alone, for th e

signs and portents of the world’s action upon him — of that portion

of the world, in especial, of which M adame Blum enth al had consti-

tu ted h erself the agent. H e seemed very happy, and gave me in a

dozen ways an impression of increased self-confidence and matu-

rity. H is mind was adm irably active, and always, after a quarter of

an h our’s talk with him, I asked m yself what experience could really

do, th at innocence had not done, to m ake it bright and fine. I was

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H enry Jam es

struck with his deep enjoyment of the whole spectacle of foreign

life— its novelty, its picturesqueness, its light and shade—and with

the infinite freedom with which he felt he could go and come and

rove and linger and observe it all. It was an expan sion, an awaken-

ing, a coming to moral manhood . Each t ime I met him h e spoke a

litt le less of Madame Blumenthal; but he let me know generally that

he saw her often, and continued to admire her. I was forced to ad-

mit to m yself, in spite of preconceptions, that if she were really the

ruling star of th is happy season , she must be a very sup erior woman.

Pickering had the air of an ingenu ous young philosoph er sitting atthe feet of an austere muse, and not of a sentimental spendthrift

dangling about some supreme incarnation of levity.



320

CH APTER II

M ADAME BLUMENTHAL SEEMED , for the time, to have abjured the

Kursaal, and I n ever caught a glimpse of her. H er young friend,

apparently, was an in teresting study, and the studious mind prefers

seclusion.

She reappeared, however, at last, one evening at the opera, where

from my chair I perceived her in a box, looking extremely pretty.

Adelina Patti was singing, and after the rising of the curtain I was

occupied with the stage; but on looking round when it fell for th e

entr’acte, I saw that the authoress of “Cleopatra” had been joinedby her young admirer. H e was sitting a litt le behind her, leaning

forward, looking over her shoulder and listening, while she, slowly

moving her fan to and fro and letting her eye wander over the house,

was apparently talking of this person and that. No doubt she was

saying sharp th ings; but Pickering was not laughing; his eyes were

following her covert indications; his mouth was half open, as it al-

ways was when h e was interested; he looked in tensely serious. I wasglad that, having her back to him, she was unable to see how he

looked. It seemed the proper moment to present m yself and make

her my bow; but just as I was abou t to leave my place a gent leman,

whom in a mom ent I perceived to be an old acquaintance, came to

occupy the next chair. Recognition and m utual greetings followed,

and I was forced to postpone my visit to Madame Blumenthal. I

was not sorry, for it very soon occurred to me that Niedermeyer

would be just the man to give me a fair prose version of Pickering’s

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lyric tributes to his friend. He was an Austrian by birth, and had

formerly lived abou t Europe a great deal in a series of small diplo-

matic posts. England especially he had often visited, and he spoke

the language almost without accent. I had once spent three rainy

days with him in th e house of an En glish friend in the country. H e

was a sharp observer, and a good deal of a gossip; he knew a little

something abou t every one, and abou t some people everyth ing. H is

knowledge on social matters generally had the quality of all Ger-

man science; it was copious, minu te, exhaustive.

“Do tell me,” I said, as we stood looking round the house, “whoand what is the lady in white, with the young man sitting behind

her.”

“Who?” he answered, dropping his glass. “Madame Blumenthal!

W hat! It would take long to say. Be introduced; it’s easily done; you will

find her charming. Then, after a week, you will tell me what she is.”

“Perhaps I should not. My friend there has known her a week,

and I don’t think he is yet able to give a coherent accoun t of her.”H e raised h is glass again, and after looking a while, “I am afraid

your friend is a litt le—what do you call it?— a litt le ‘soft.’ Poor fel-

low! he’s not the first. I have never known th is lady that she h as not

had some eligible youth hovering about in some such attitude as

that, undergoing the softening process. She looks wonderfully well,

from here. It’s extraordinary how those women last!”

“You don’t m ean, I take it, when you talk about ‘those women,’

that Madame Blumenthal is not embalmed, for du ration, in a cer-

tain infusion of respectability?”

“Yes and no. T he atmosphere that surrounds her is ent irely of her

own m aking. There is no reason in her antecedents that people should

drop t heir voice when they speak of her. But some women are never

at their ease till they have given some damnable twist or other to

their position before the world. The attitude of upright virtue is

unbecom ing, like sitting too straight in a faut euil. D on’t ask m e for



322

opinions, however; content yourself with a few facts and with an

anecdote. Madame Blumenthal is Prussian, and very well born. I

remember her m other, an old Westphalian G rafin, with principles

marshalled out like Frederick the Great’s grenadiers. She was poor,

however, and her principles were an insufficient dowry for Anastasia,

who was married very youn g to a vicious Jew, twice her own age. H e

was supposed to have money, but I am afraid he had less than was

nom inated in the bond , or else that h is pretty young wife spent it

very fast. She has been a widow these six or eight years, and has

lived, I imagine, in rather a hand -to-mouth fashion . I suppose she issom e six or eight and th irty years of age. In winter one hears of her

in Berlin, giving little suppers to the artistic rabble there; in sum mer

one often sees her across the green table at Ems and Wiesbaden.

She’s very clever, and her cleverness has spoiled her. A year after her

marriage she published a novel, with her views on matrimony, in

the G eorge Sand manner—beating the drum to M adame Sand’s

trumpet. N o doubt she was very unhapp y; Blum enthal was an oldbeast. Since then she has published a lot of literature—novels and

poems and pamphlets on every conceivable theme, from the con-

version of Lola Mon tez to the H egelian ph ilosoph y. H er talk is much

better than her writing. H er conjugophobia—I can’t call it by any

other name—made people think lightly of her at a time when her

rebellion against marriage was probably only theoretic. She had a

taste for spinn ing fine phrases, she drove her shutt le, and when she

came to the end of her yarn she found that society had turned its

back. She tossed her head, declared that at last she could breathe the

sacred air of freedom, and formally announced that she had em-

braced an ‘intellectual’ life. This meant un limited camaraderie with

scribblers and daubers, H egelian ph ilosoph ers and H un garian pia-

nists. But she has been admired also by a great many really clever

men; there was a time, in fact, when she turn ed a head as well set on

its shoulders as this one!” And Niedermeyer tapped his forehead.

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“She h as a great charm , and, literally, I know n o h arm of her. Yet for

all that, I am not going to speak to h er; I am not going near her box.

I am going to leave her to say, if she does me the hon our to observe

the omission, that I too have gone over to the Philistines. It’s not

that; it is that there is something sinister about the woman. I am too

old for it to frighten me, but I am good-natured enough for it to

pain m e. H er quarrel with society has brought h er no h appiness,

and her outward charm is only the mask of a dangerous discontent.

H er imagination is lodged where her heart shou ld be! So long as

you amuse it, well and good; she’s radiant . But t he m om ent you letit flag, she is capable of dropping you without a pang. If you land

on your feet you are so m uch the wiser, simply; bu t there have been

two or three, I believe, who have almost broken their necks in the

fall.”

“You are reversing your prom ise,” I said, “and giving m e an opin-

ion, but not an anecdote.”

“This is my anecdote. A year ago a friend of mine made her ac-quaintance in Berlin, and though he was no longer a young man,

and had never been what is called a susceptible one, he took a great

fancy to M adam e Blum enthal. H e’s a major in the Prussian artil-

lery—grizzled, grave, a trifle severe, a man every way firm in the

faith of his fathers. It’s a proof of Anastasia’s charm th at such a man

should have got into the habit of going to see her every day of his

life. But the major was in love, or next door to it! Every day that h e

called h e found h er scribbling away at a litt le orm olu table on a lot

of half-sheets of note-paper. She used to b id him sit down and hold

his tongue for a quarter of an h our, till she had finished her chapter;

she was writing a novel, and it was prom ised to a publisher. Clorinda,

she confided to h im, was the name of the injured h eroine. T he m ajor,

I imagine, had n ever read a work of fiction in his life, bu t he knew

by hearsay that Madame Blum enthal’s literature, when pu t forth in

pink covers, was subversive of several respectable institutions. Be-



324

sides, he didn’t believe in wom en knowing how to write at all, and it

irritated h im to see th is inky godd ess correcting proof-sheets under

his nose— irritated h im the more that, as I say, he was in love with

her and that he ventured to believe she had a kindn ess for his years

and his honours. And yet she was not such a woman as he could

easily ask to m arry him . The result of all this was that he fell into the

way of railing at her intellectual pursuits and saying he should like

to run his sword through her pile of papers. A woman was clever

enough when she could guess her husband’s wishes, and learned

enough when she could read him the newspapers. At last, one day,Madame Blumenthal flung down her pen and announced in tri-

um ph that she had finished h er novel. Clorind a had expired in the

arms of—some one else than her husband. The major, by way of

congratulating her, declared that her novel was immoral rubbish,

and that her love of vicious paradoxes was only a peculiarly de-

praved form of coquetry. H e add ed, however, that he loved h er in

spite of her follies, and that if she would formally abjure them hewould as formally offer her his hand . T hey say that women like to

be snubbed by military men. I don’t know, I’m sure; I don’t know

how m uch pleasure, on th is occasion, was mingled with Anastasia’s

wrath. But her wrath was very quiet, and the major assured me it

made her look uncommonly pretty. ‘I have told you before,’ she

says, ‘that I write from an inner need. I write to u nburden my heart,

to satisfy my conscience. You call my poor efforts coquetry, vanity,

the desire to prod uce a sensation. I can prove to you that it is the

qu iet labour itself I care for, and not th e world’s more or less flatter-

ing atten tion to it!’ And seizing the history of C lorinda she th rust it

into the fire. T he m ajor stands staring, and the first thing he knows

she is sweeping him a great curtsey and bidding him farewell for

ever. Left alone and recovering h is wits, he fishes out C lorinda from

the embers, and then proceeds to thump vigorously at the lady’s

door. But it never opened, and from that day to the day three mon ths

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H enry Jam es

ago when he told m e the tale, he had not beheld h er again.”

“By Jove, it’s a striking story,” I said. “But the question is, what

does it p rove?”

“Several things. First (what I was careful not to tell my friend),

that M adame Blum enth al cared for him a trifle more than h e sup-

posed; second, that he cares for her more than ever; th ird, that the

performance was a master-stroke, and that her allowing him to force

an interview upon her again is only a question of time.”

“And last?” I asked.

“This is another anecdote. The other day, Unter den Linden, Isaw on a bookseller’s counter a little pink-covered romance—

’Sophronia,’ by Madame Blumenthal. Glancing through it, I ob-

served an extraordinary abuse of asterisks; every two or three pages

the narrative was adorned with a por tentous blank, crossed with a

row of stars.”

“Well, but poor Clorinda?” I objected, as Niedermeyer paused.

“Sophronia, my dear fellow, is simply Clorinda renamed by thebaptism of fire. The fair author came back, of course, and found

C lorinda tumbled upon the floor, a good deal scorched, bu t, on the

whole, more frightened than hurt. She picks her up, brushes her

off, and sends her to the printer. Wherever the flames had burnt a

hole she swings a constellation! But if the major is prepared to drop

a penitent tear over the ashes of Clorinda, I shall not whisper to him

that the urn is empty.”

Even Adelina Patti’s singing, for the next half-hour, bu t half availed

to divert me from my quickened curiosity to behold Madame

Blumenthal face to face. As soon as the curtain had fallen again I

repaired to her box and was ushered in by Pickering with zealous

hospitality. H is glowing smile seemed to say to m e, “Ay, look for

yourself, and adore!” Noth ing could h ave been more gracious than

the lady’s greeting, and I found, somewhat to m y surprise, that her

prett iness lost n othing on a nearer view. H er eyes indeed were the



326

finest I have ever seen— the softest, the deepest, the m ost intensely

responsive. In spite of something faded and jaded in her physiog-

nomy, her movements, her smile, and the tone of her voice, espe-

cially when she laughed, had an almost girlish frankness and spon-

taneity. She looked at you very hard with her radiant gray eyes, and

she indulged while she t alked in a sup erabun dance of restless, rather

affected little gestures, as if to make you t ake her m eaning in a cer-

tain very particular and sup erfine sense. I wondered whether after a

while this might not fatigue on e’s attention; th en m eeting her charm-

ing eyes, I said, Not for a long time. She was very clever, and, asPickering had said, she spoke English admirably. I told her, as I

took my seat beside her, of the fine things I had heard about her

from my friend, and she listened, letting me go on some time, and

exaggerate a little, with her fine eyes fixed full upon me. “Really?”

she suddenly said, tu rning short round upon Pickering, who stood

behind us, and looking at him in the same way. “Is that the way you

talk about me?”H e blushed to his eyes, and I repented. She suddenly began to

laugh; it was then I observed how sweet her voice was in laughter.

We talked after this of various matters, and in a little while I

complimented her on her excellent English, and asked if she had

learnt it in England.

“H eaven forbid!” she cried. “I h ave never been there and wish

never to go. I shou ld never get on with th e—” I won dered what she

was going to say; the fogs, the smoke, or whist with sixpenny

stakes?—”I should never get on,” she said, “with the aristocracy! I

am a fierce democrat—I am not ashamed of it. I hold opinions

which wou ld make my ancestors turn in their graves. I was born in

the lap of feudalism. I am a daughter of the crusaders. But I am a

revolut ionist! I have a passion for freedom — my idea of happ iness is

to die on a great barricade! It’s to your great country I should like to

go. I should like to see the wonderful spectacle of a great people free

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to d o everything it chooses, and yet never doing anything wrong!”

I replied, m odestly, that, after all, both our freedom and our good

conduct had their limits, and she turned quickly about and shook

her fan with a dramatic gesture at Pickering. “No matter, no m at-

ter!” she cried; “I should like to see the country which produced

that wonderful youn g man . I th ink of it as a sort of Arcadia—a land

of the golden age. H e’s so d elightfully inn ocent! In th is stupid old

Germany, if a young man is inn ocent he’s a fool; he has no b rains;

he’s not a bit interesting. But M r. Pickering says th e freshest things,

and after I h ave laughed five minu tes at their freshness it sudd enlyoccurs to me that they are very wise, and I think them over for a

week. “True!” she went on, nodding at him. “I call them inspired

solecisms, and I treasure them u p. Remember that when I n ext laugh

at you!”

Glancing at Pickering, I was prompted to believe that h e was in a

state of beatific exaltation which weighed Madame Blumenthal’s

smiles and frowns in an equal balance. T hey were equally hers; theywere links alike in the golden chain. H e looked at m e with eyes that

seemed to say, “Did you ever hear such wit? Did you ever see such

grace?” It seemed to me that he was but vaguely conscious of the

meaning of her words; her gestu res, her voice and glance, made an

absorbing harmony. There is something painful in the spectacle of

absolut e enth ralment, even to an excellent cause. I gave no response

to Pickering’s challenge, but made som e remark upon the charm of

Adelina Patti’s singing. Madame Blumenthal, as became a “revolu-

tion ist,” was obliged to confess that she could see no charm in it ; it

was meagre, it was trivial, it lacked soul. “You must kn ow th at in

music, too,” she said, “I think for myself!” And she began with a

great m any flourishes of her fan to explain what it was she thought .

Remarkable things, doubtless; but I cannot answer for it, for in the

midst of the explanat ion th e curtain rose again. “You can’t be a great

artist without a great passion!” Madame Blum enthal was affirming.



328

Before I had t ime to assent M adam e Patti’s voice rose wheeling like

a skylark, and rained down its silver notes. “Ah, give me that art ,” I

whispered, “and I will leave you your passion!” And I departed for

my own place in the orchestra. I wondered afterwards whether the

speech had seemed rud e, and inferred that it h ad not on receiving a

friendly nod from the lady, in the lobby, as the theatre was empty-

ing itself. She was on Pickering’s arm, and he was taking her to her

carriage. Distances are short in Homburg, but the night was rainy,

and M adame Blumenthal exhibited a very pretty satin-shod foot as

a reason why, though but a penniless widow, she should not walkhome. Pickering left us together a moment while he went to hail

the vehicle, and m y com pan ion seized the opportu nity, as she said,

to beg me to be so very kind as to come and see her. It was for a

part icular reason! It was reason enough for me, of course, I answered,

that she had given me leave. She looked at me a mom ent with that

extraordinary gaze of hers which seemed so absolutely audacious in

its candour, and rejoined that I paid more compliments than ouryoun g friend there, bu t that she was sure I was not half so sincere.

“But it’s about him I want to talk,” she said. “I want to ask you

many things; I want you t o tell me all about him . H e interests me;

but you see my sympathies are so intense, my imagination is so

lively, th at I d on’t t rust m y own im pressions. They have misled me

more than once!” And she gave a litt le tragic shud der.

I prom ised to com e and com pare notes with her, and we bade her

farewell at her carriage door. Pickering and I remained a while, walk-

ing up and down the long glazed gallery of the Kursaal. I had not

taken many steps before I became aware that I was beside a man in

th e very extremity of love. “Isn’t she wonderful?” he asked, with an

implicit confidence in my sympathy which it cost m e some ingenu-

ity to elude. If he were really in love, well and good! For although,

now th at I had seen her, I stood ready to con fess to large possibili-

ties of fascination on Madame Blum enthal’s part , and even to cer-

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tain possibilities of sincerity of which my appreciation was vague,

yet it seemed to me less ominous that he should be simply smitten

than that h is adm iration should p ique itself on being discriminat-

ing. It was on his fund amental simplicity that I coun ted for a happy

termination of his experiment, and the former of these alternatives

seemed to m e the simpler. I resolved to hold my tongue and let him

run his course. H e had a great deal to say about h is happiness, about

the days passing like hou rs, the hou rs like minu tes, and about Ma-

dam e Blumenthal being a “revelation.” “She was noth ing to-n ight,”

he said; “nothing to what she som etimes is in the way of brilliancy—in the way of repartee. If you could on ly hear her when she tells her

adventures!”

“Adventu res?” I inqu ired. “H as she had adventures?”

“O f the most wonderful sort!” cried Pickering, with rapture. “She

hasn’t vegetated, like me! She has lived in the tumult of life. When I

listen to her reminiscences, it’s like hearing the opening tumult of

on e of Beethoven’s symphon ies as it loses itself in a triumphant har-mony of beauty and faith!”

I could only lift my eyebrows, but I desired to know before we

separated what he had done with that troublesome conscience of

his. “I suppose you know, my dear fellow,” I said, “that you are

simp ly in love. T hat’s what they happen to call your state of mind.”

H e replied with a brightening eye, as if he were delighted t o hear

it— ”So M adame Blumenth al told m e only th is morning!” And see-

ing, I suppose, that I was slightly puzzled, “ I went to drive with

her,” he continued; “we drove to Konigstein, to see the old castle.

We scrambled up into the heart of the ruin and sat for an hour in

one of the crum bling old courts. Som ething in the solemn stillness

of the place unloosed my tongue; and while she sat on an ivied

stone, on the edge of the plunging wall, I stood there and made a

speech. She listened to m e, looking at m e, breaking off litt le bits of

ston e and letting them drop down into the valley. At last she got up



330

and nodded at m e two or three times silent ly, with a smile, as if she

were applauding me for a solo on the violin. ‘You are in love,’ she

said. ‘It’s a perfect case!’ And for some tim e she said n othing more.

But before we left the place she told m e that she owed m e an answer

to my speech. She thanked m e heartily, bu t she was afraid that if she

took me at m y word she would be taking advantage of my inexperi-

ence. I had known few women; I was too easily pleased; I thought

her better than she really was. She had great faults; I m ust kn ow her

longer and find them out; I m ust compare her with other women—

women younger, simpler, more innocent , more ignorant ; and thenif I still did her the honour to think well of her, she would listen to

me again. I told her that I was not afraid of preferring any woman

in the world to her, and th en she repeated, ‘H appy man, happy

man! you are in love, you are in love!’”

I called upon M adame Blum enthal a coup le of days later, in som e

agitation of thought. It has been proved that there are, here and

there, in the world, such people as sincere impostors; certain char-acters who cultivate fictitious emotion s in perfect good faith. Even

if this clever lady enjoyed poor Pickering’s bedazzlement , it was con-

ceivable that, taking vanity and charity together, she should care

more for his welfare than for her own entertainment; and her offer

to abide by the result of hazardous comparison with other women

was a finer stroke than her reputation had led me to expect. She

received m e in a shabby little sitting-room littered with un cut books

and newspapers, many of which I saw at a glance were French. O ne

side of it was occupied by an open piano, surmounted by a jar full

of white roses. They perfum ed th e air; they seemed to me to exhale

the pure arom a of Pickering’s devotion. Buried in an arm-chair, the

object of this devotion was reading the Revue des Deux Mondes.

T he purpose of my visit was not to admire M adame Blumenth al on

my own accoun t, but to ascertain how far I might safely leave her to

work her will upon my friend. She had impugned m y sincerity the

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evening of the opera, and I was careful on th is occasion to abstain

from compliments, and not to place her on her guard against my

penetration . It is needless to n arrate our interview in detail; indeed,

to tell the perfect truth, I was punished for my rash attempt to

surprise her by a temporary eclipse of my own perspicacity. She sat

there so question ing, so percept ive, so genial, so generous, and so

pretty withal, that I was quite ready at the end of half an hour to

subscribe to the most com prehensive of Pickering’s rhapsodies. She

was certainly a wonderful woman. I have never liked to linger, in

memory, on that half-hou r. T he result of it was to prove that therewere many more things in the composition of a woman who, as

Niedermeyer said, had lodged her imagination in the place of her

heart than were dreamt of in my ph ilosophy. Yet, as I sat there strok-

ing my hat and balancing the account between n ature and art in m y

affable hostess, I felt like a very competent philosopher. She had

said she wished m e to tell her everything abou t ou r friend, and she

questioned m e as to h is family, his fortune, his ant eceden ts, and h ischaracter. All this was natural in a woman who had received a pas-

sionate declaration of love, and it was expressed with an air of charmed

solicitude, a radiant con fidence that there was really no mistake about

his being a most d istinguished youn g man, and that if I chose to be

explicit, I m ight deepen her conviction to disinterested ecstasy, which

might have almost provoked me to invent a good opinion, if I had

not had one ready made. I told her that she really knew Pickering

better than I d id, and that un til we met at H omburg I had not seen

him since he was a boy.

“But he talks to you freely,” she answered; “I know you are his

confidant. H e has told m e certainly a great m any th ings, but I al-

ways feel as if he were keeping something back; as if he were hold-

ing something behind him, and showing me only one hand at once.

H e seems often to be hovering on the edge of a secret. I h ave had

several friendships in my life—thank Heaven! but I have had none



332

more dear to m e than th is one. Yet in th e midst of it I have the

painful sense of my friend being half afraid of me; of his thinking

me terrible, strange, perhaps a trifle out of my wits. Poor me! If he

only knew what a plain good soul I am, and how I only want to

know him and befriend h im!”

These words were full of a plaintive magnanimity which made

mistru st seem cruel. H ow much better I might play providence over

Pickering’s experiment s with life if I could engage the fine instincts

of th is charm ing woman on the providential side! Pickering’s secret

was, of course, his engagement to Miss Vernor; it was natural enoughthat he should have been unable to bring himself to talk of it to

M adame Blum enthal. The simp le sweetn ess of this young girl’s face

had not faded from my memory; I could n ot rid m yself of the sus-

picion that in going further Pickering m ight fare much worse. Ma-

dame Blumenthal’s professions seemed a virtual promise to agree

with me, and, after some hesitation, I said that my friend had, in

fact, a substant ial secret, and that perhaps I might do him a goodtu rn by put ting her in possession of it. In as few words as possible I

told her th at Pickering stood pledged by filial piety to m arry a young

lady at Smyrna. She listened intently to my story; when I had fin-

ished it there was a faint flush of excitement in each of her cheeks.

She broke out into a dozen exclamations of admiration and com-

passion. “What a wonderful tale—what a romantic situation! No

wonder poor M r. Pickering seemed restless and un satisfied; no won -

der he wished to put off the day of submission. And the poor little

girl at Smyrna, waiting there for the young Western prince like the

heroine of an Eastern tale! She would give the world to see her pho-

tograph; did I think M r. Pickering would show it to her? But n ever

fear; she would ask nothing ind iscreet! Yes, it was a marvellous story,

and if she had invented it herself, people would have said it was

absurdly improbable.” She left her seat and took several turn s abou t

the room, smiling to herself, and uttering little German cries of

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wonderment. Suddenly she stopped before the piano and broke into

a little laugh; the next moment she buried her face in the great

bouquet of roses. It was time I should go, but I was indisposed to

leave her without obtaining some definite assurance that, as far as

pity was concerned, she pitied the young girl at Smyrna more than

the young man at H ombu rg.

“O f course you know what I wished in t elling you th is,” I said,

rising. “She is evidently a charm ing creatu re, and the best thing he

can do is to m arry her. I wished to interest you in that view of it.”

She had taken one of the roses from the vase and was arranging itin the front of her dress. Suddenly, looking up, “Leave it to me,

leave it to me!” she cried. “I am interested!” And with h er litt le blue-

gemmed hand she tapped her forehead. “I am deeply interested!”

And with this I had to content myself. But more than once the

next day I repent ed of my zeal, and wond ered whether a providence

with a white rose in her bosom might not turn out a trifle too hu-

man. In the evening, at the Kursaal, I looked for Pickering, bu t h ewas not visible, and I reflected that m y revelation had not as yet, at

any rate, seemed to M adame Blumenthal a reason for prescribing a

cooling-term to his passion. Very late, as I was turning away, I saw

him arrive—with no small satisfaction, for I had determined to let

him know immediately in what way I had att empted to serve him.

But h e straightway passed his arm through my own and led me off

towards the gardens. I saw that he was too excited to allow me to

speak first.

“I have burn t m y ships!” he cried, when we were out of earshot of

the crowd. “I have told h er everything. I have insisted that it’s simple

torture for m e to wait with th is idle view of loving her less. It’s well

enough for her to ask it, bu t I feel strong enough now to override

her reluctance. I have cast off the millstone from round m y neck. I

care for nothing, I know nothing, but that I love her with every

pulse of my being—and that everything else has been a hideous



334

dream, from which she m ay wake me into b lissful morn ing with a

single word!”

I held him off at arm’s-length and looked at h im gravely. “You

have told h er, you m ean, of your engagement to Miss Vernor?”

“The whole story! I have given it up—I have thrown it to the

winds. I have broken utterly with the past. It may rise in its grave

and give me its curse, bu t it can’t frighten m e now. I have a right to

be happy, I have a right to be free, I have a right n ot to bu ry myself

alive. It was not I who promised— I was not born t hen. I myself, my

soul, my mind, my option—all this is but a month old! Ah,” hewent on, “if you kn ew the difference it m akes— th is having chosen

and broken an d spoken! I am twice the man I was yesterday! Yester-

day I was afraid of her; there was a kind of mocking mystery of

knowledge and cleverness about her, which oppressed me in the

midst of my love. But now I am afraid of noth ing but of being too

happy!”

I stood silent, to let him spend his eloquence. But he paused amoment, and took off his hat and fann ed himself. “Let m e perfectly

un derstand ,” I said at last. “You have asked M adam e Blumenthal to

be your wife?”

“The wife of my intelligent choice!”

“And does she consent?”

“She asks three days to decide.”

“Call it four! She has known your secret since this morning. I am

boun d t o let you kn ow I told her.”

“So m uch the better!” cried Pickering, without apparent resent-

ment or surprise. “It’s not a brilliant offer for such a wom an, an d in

spite of what I have at stake, I feel that it would be brutal to press

her.”

“W hat does she say to your breaking your promise?” I asked in a

moment.

Pickering was too m uch in love for false sham e. “She tells me that

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H enry Jam es

she loves me too m uch to find courage to condemn me. She agrees

with m e that I have a right to be happy. I ask no exemption from

the common law. What I claim is simply freedom to try to be!”

O f course I was pu zzled; it was not in that fashion that I had

expected M adame Blum enth al to m ake use of my information. But

the matter now was quite out of my hands, and all I could do was to

bid my companion not work himself into a fever over either for-

tune.

T he n ext day I had a visit from N iedermeyer, on whom , after our

talk at the opera, I had left a card. We gossiped a while, and at lasthe said suddenly, “By the way, I have a sequel to the history of

C lorind a. T he m ajor is at H omburg!”

“Indeed!” said I. “Since when?”

“T hese th ree days.”

“And what is he doing?”

“H e seems,” said N iederm eyer, with a laugh, “to be chiefly occu-

pied in sending flowers to Madame Blumenthal. That is, I wentwith h im the morning of his arrival to choose a nosegay, and noth-

ing would suit h im but a small haystack of white roses. I hope it was

received.”

“I can assure you it was,” I cried. “I saw the lady fairly nestling her

head in it. But I advise the major not to build u pon that. H e has a

rival.”

“D o you m ean the soft young man of the other night?”

“Pickering is soft, if you will, but h is softn ess seems to have served

him. H e has offered her everything, and she has not yet refused it.”

I had h and ed m y visitor a cigar, and he was puffing it in silence. At

last he abruptly asked if I had been introduced to Madame

Blumenthal, and, on my affirmative, inquired what I thought of

her. “I will not t ell you,” I said, “or you’ll call M E soft.”

H e knocked away his ashes, eyeing me askance. “I have noticed

your friend about,” he said, “and even if you had not told me, I



336

should have known he was in love. After he has left his adored, h is

face wears for the rest of the day the expression with which he h as

risen from her feet, and more than once I have felt like touching his

elbow, as you would that of a man who has inadverten tly come into

a drawing-room in his overshoes. You say he has offered our friend

everything; but , m y dear fellow, he has not everything to offer her.

H e eviden tly is as amiable as the morning, but the lady has no taste

for daylight .”

“I assure you Pickering is a very interestin g fellow,” I said.

“Ah, there it is! H as he not some story or oth er? Isn’t he an or-phan, or a natural child, or consumpt ive, or contingent h eir to great

estates? She will read his little story to the end, and close the book

very tenderly and smooth down the cover; and then, when he least

expects it, she will toss it into the dusty limbo of her other romances.

She will let him dangle, but she will let him drop !”

“Upon my word,” I cried, with heat, “if she does, she will be a

very unprincipled litt le creature!”N iederm eyer shrugged his shoulders. “I never said she was a saint!”

Shrewd as I felt N iederm eyer to be, I was not p repared to t ake his

simp le word for this event , and in the evening I received a commu-

nication which fortified my doubts. It was a note from Pickering,

and it ran as follows:—

“My D ear Friend— I have every hope of being happy, but I am to

go to W iesbaden to learn my fate. Madam e Blumenthal goes th ither

th is afternoon to spend a few days, and she allows me to accom pan y

her. Give me your good wishes; you shall hear of the result. E. P.”

O ne of the diversions of H omburg for new-comers is to d ine in

rotation at th e different t ables d’hot e. It so happ ened that, a couple

of days later, N iedermeyer took pot-luck at my hotel, and secured a

seat beside my own. As we took our places I found a letter on my

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H enry Jam es

plate, and, as it was postmarked W iesbaden, I lost n o tim e in open-

ing it. It contained but three lines— ”I am happy—I am accepted—

an hour ago. I can hardly believe it’s your poor friend. E. P.”

I placed the note before Niedermeyer; not exactly in trium ph , but

with the alacrity of all felicitous confutation. H e looked at it much

longer th an was needful to read it, stroking down his beard gravely,

and I felt it was not so easy to confute a pupil of the school of

Metternich. At last, folding the note and handing it back, “Has

your friend mentioned M adame Blumenthal’s errand at Wiesbaden?”he asked.

“You look very wise. I give it up!” said I.

“She is gone there to make the major follow her. H e went by the

next t rain.”

“And has the major, on his side, dropped you a line?”

“H e is not a letter-writer.”

“Well,” said I, pocketing my letter, “with this document in myhand I am bound to reserve my judgm ent. We will have a bott le of

Johann isberg, and drink to the trium ph of virtue.”

For a whole week more I heard n oth ing from Pickering—some-

what to my surprise, and, as the days went by, not a little to my

discom posure. I had expected that his bliss would cont inue to over-

flow in brief bulletins, and his silence was possibly an indication

that it had been clouded. At last I wrote to h is hot el at W iesbaden,

bu t received n o answer; whereupon , as my next resource, I repaired

to his former lodging at Homburg, where I thought it possible he

had left property which he would sooner or later send for. Th ere I

learned that he had indeed just telegraphed from Cologne for his

luggage. To Cologne I immediately despatched a line of inquiry as

to his prosperity and the cause of his silence. The next day I re-

ceived th ree words in answer—a simple uncomm ented request that

I would come to him. I lost no time, and reached him in the course



338

of a few hours. It was dark when I arrived, and the city was sheeted

in a cold autumnal rain. P ickering had stumbled, with an indiffer-

ence which was itself a symp tom of distress, on a certain m usty old

Mainzerhof, and I found him sitting over a smouldering fire in a

vast dingy cham ber which looked as if it had grown gray with watch-

ing th e ennui of ten generation s of travellers. Looking at him, as he

rose on my entrance, I saw that he was in extreme tribulation. H e

was pale and haggard; his face was five years older. Now, at least, in

all conscience, he had tasted of the cup of life! I was anxious to

know what had t urn ed it so suddenly to bitterness; but I spared himall importu nate curiosity, and let h im take his time. I accepted tac-

itly his tacit confession of distress, and we made for a while a feeble

effort to d iscuss the picturesqueness of Cologne. At last h e rose and

stood a long time looking into the fire, while I slowly paced the

length of the dusky room .

“Well!” he said, as I came back; “I wanted knowledge, and I cer-

tainly know someth ing I didn’t a month ago.” And herewith, calmlyand succinctly enough, as if dismay had worn itself out , he related

the history of the foregoing days. H e touched lightly on details; he

evidently never was to gush as freely again as he had done during

the prosperity of his suit. He had been accepted one evening, as

explicitly as his imagination could d esire, and had gone forth in his

rapture and roamed abou t till nearly morn ing in the gardens of the

C onversation-house, taking the stars and the perfum es of the sum -

mer night into his confidence. “It is worth it all, almost,” he said,

“to have been woun d up for an hour to that celestial pitch. N o m an,

I am sure, can ever know it but once.” The next morning he had

repaired to M adame Blum enthal’s lodging and h ad been m et, to h is

amazement, by a naked refusal to see him. H e had strode abou t for

a couple of hours—in another mood—and then had returned to

the charge. T he servant handed h im a th ree-cornered n ote; it con-

tained these words: “Leave me alone to-day; I will give you ten min-

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utes to-m orrow evening.” O f the next th irty-six hours he could give

no coherent account, bu t at the appointed t ime Madame Blum enthal

had received h im. Almost before she spoke there had come to h im a

sense of the depth of his folly in supposing he knew her. “One has

heard all one’s days,” he said, “of peop le removing the mask; it’s one

of the stock phrases of romance. Well, there she stood with her

mask in her hand. H er face,” he went on gravely, after a pause—

”her face was horrible!” … “I give you ten minu tes,” she had said,

pointing to the clock. “Make your scene, tear your hair, brandish

your dagger!” And she had sat down and folded her arm s. “It’s not a joke,” she cried, “it’s d ead earnest; let us h ave it over. You are dis-

missed— have you noth ing to say?” H e had stammered some fran-

tic demand for an explanation; and she had risen and come near

him, looking at him from head to feet, very pale, and evidently

more excited than she wished him to see. “I have done with you!”

she said, with a smile; “you ou ght to have don e with m e! It has all

been delightful, but there are excellent reasons why it should com eto an end .” “You have been playing a part, then ,” he had gasped

out; “you never cared for me?” “Yes; till I kn ew you; till I saw how

far you would go. But now th e story’s finished; we have reached the

denoument. We will close the book and be good friends.” “To see

how far I would go?” he had repeated. “You led me on, meaning all

the while to do this!” “I led you on , if you will. I received you r visits,

in season and out! Sometimes they were very entertaining; some-

tim es th ey bored m e fearfully. But you were such a very curious case

of—what shall I call it?— of sincerity, that I determined to take good

and bad together. I wanted to m ake you comm it yourself un mistak-

ably. I should have preferred not to bring you to this place; bu t that

too was necessary. O f course I can’t m arry you; I can do better. So

can you, for that m atter; thank your fate for it. You have thought

wond ers of me for a month , but your good-hu mour wou ldn’t last. I

am too old and too wise; you are too young and too foolish. It



340

seems to me that I have been very good to you; I have entertained

you to the top of your bent, and, except perhaps that I am a little

brusque just now, you have noth ing to complain of. I would have

let you down m ore gently if I could have taken another month to it;

bu t circum stances have forced my hand. Abuse me, curse me, if you

like. I will make every allowance!” Pickering listened to all this in-

tently enough to perceive that, as if by some sudden natural cata-

clysm, the ground had broken away at his feet, and that he must

recoil. H e turned away in dumb amazement . “I don’t kn ow how I

seemed to be taking it,” he said, “bu t she seemed really to desire—I don’t kn ow why—som ething in the way of reproach and vitupera-

tion. But I couldn’t, in that way, have uttered a syllable. I was sick-

ened; I wanted to get away into the air—to shake her off and com e

to m y senses. ‘H ave you noth ing, noth ing, noth ing to say?’ she cried,

as if she were disappointed, while I stood with my hand on the

door. ‘H aven’t I t reated you to talk enough?’ I believed I answered.

‘You will write to m e then, when you get h om e?’ ‘I think n ot,’ saidI. ‘Six months hence, I fancy, you will come and see me!’ ‘Never!’

said I. ‘That’s a confession of stupidity,’ she answered. ‘It means

that, even on reflection, you will never understand the ph ilosoph y

of my conduct.’ The word ‘philosophy’ seemed so strange that I

verily believe I smiled. ‘I have given you all that you gave me,’ she

went on . ‘Your passion was an affair of th e head.’ ‘I only wish you

had told me sooner that you considered it so!’ I exclaimed. And I

went m y way. T he next day I came down the Rhine. I sat all day on

the boat, n ot knowing where I was going, where to get off. I was in

a kind of ague of terror; it seemed to me I had seen something

infernal. At last I saw the cathedral towers here looming over the

city. They seemed to say something to me, and when the boat

stop ped, I came ashore. I have been here a week. I have not slept at

night— and yet it has been a week of rest!”

It seemed to me that he was in a fair way to recover, and that his

Eugene Pickering



341

H enry Jam es

own philosophy, if left to take its time, was adequate to the occa-

sion. After his story was once told I referred to his grievance but

once— that evening, later, as we were about to separate for the n ight .

“Suffer me to say that there was some truth in her account of your

relations,” I said. “You were using her intellectually, and all the while,

without your knowing it, she was using you. It was diamond cut

diamond. H er needs were the m ore superficial, and she got t ired of

the game first.” H e frowned and turned un easily away, bu t without

contradicting me. I waited a few moments, to see if he would re-

member, before we parted, that he had a claim to make upon me.But he seemed to have forgotten it.

The next day we strolled about the picturesque old city, and of

course, before long, went into the cathedral. Pickering said litt le; he

seemed intent upon his own t hou ghts. H e sat down beside a pillar

near a chapel, in front of a gorgeous window, and, leaving him to

his meditations, I wand ered through the church. W hen I came back

I saw he had something to say. But before he had spoken I laid myhand on his shoulder and looked at h im with a significant smile. He

slowly bent his head and d ropped his eyes, with a mixture of assent

and humility. I drew forth from where it had lain un touched for a

month the letter he had given m e to keep, placed it silently on h is

knee, and left h im to deal with it alone.

H alf an h our later I returned to the same place, but he had gone,

and one of the sacristans, hovering about and seeing me looking for

Pickering, said he thought he had left the church. I found him in

his gloom y cham ber at the inn, pacing slowly up and down . I should

doubt less have been at a loss to say just wh at effect I expected the

letter from Smyrna to produce; but his actual aspect surp rised m e.

H e was flushed, excited, a trifle irritated.

“Evidently,” I said, “you have read your letter.”

“It is proper I should tell you what is in it,” he answered. “W hen

I gave it to you a month ago, I did my friends injustice.”



342

“You called it a ‘summon s,’ I remember.”

“I was a great fool! It’s a release!”

“From your engagement?”

“From everything! T he letter, of course, is from M r. Vernor. H e

desires to let me know at the earliest moment that his daughter,

inform ed for the first t ime a week before of what had been expected

of her, positively refuses to be bound by the con tract or to assent to

my being bound. She had been given a week to reflect, and had

spent it in incon solable tears. She had resisted every form of persua-

sion! from compulsion, writes M r. Vernor, he naturally shrinks. Theyoung lady considers the arrangement ‘horrible.’ After accepting

her duties cut and dried all her life, she pretends at last to have a

taste of her own. I confess I am surprised; I had been given to be-

lieve that she was stupidly submissive, and would remain so to the

end of the chapter. Not a bit of it. She has insisted on my being

formally dismissed, and her father intimates that in case of non-

compliance she threatens him with an attack of brain fever. Mr.Vernor condoles with me handsomely, and lets me know that the

young lady’s att itud e has been a great shock to h is nerves. H e adds

that he will not aggravate such regret as I m ay do him the hon our t o

entertain, by any allusions to his daughter’s charm s and to the m ag-

nitude of my loss, and he concludes with the hope that, for the

comfort of all concerned, I m ay already have amused my fancy with

other ‘views.’ H e remind s me in a postscript that, in spite of th is

painful occurrence, th e son of his most valued friend will always be

a welcom e visitor at h is house. I am free, he observes; I have my life

before me; he recommends an extensive course of travel. Should m y

wanderings lead me to the East, he hopes that no false embarrass-

ment will deter me from presenting myself at Smyrna. H e can prom-

ise me at least a friendly reception . It’s a very polite letter.”

Polite as the letter was, Pickering seemed to find no great exhila-

ration in having this famous burden so handsomely lifted from his

Eugene Pickering



343

H enry Jam es

spirit. H e began to brood over his liberation in a m ann er which you

might have deemed proper to a renewed sense of bondage. “Bad

news,” he had called h is letter originally; and yet, n ow th at its con-

tent s proved to be in flat con tradiction to h is foreboding, th ere was

no impu lsive voice to reverse the form ula and declare the news was

good. The wings of impulse in the poor fellow had of late been

terribly clipped. It was an obvious reflection, of course, that if he

had not been so stiffly certain of the matter a month before, and

had gone through the form of breaking Mr. Vernor’s seal, he might

have escaped th e purgatory of Madame Blum enthal’s sub-acid blan-dishm ents. But I left h im to moralise in private; I had n o desire, as

the phrase is, to rub it in. My thoughts, moreover, were following

another train; I was saying to m yself that if to those gentle graces of

which her youn g visage had offered to m y fancy the blooming prom -

ise, Miss Vernor added in th is striking measure the capacity for mag-

nanimous action, t he amendm ent t o m y friend’s career had been

less happy than t he rough draught. Presently, tu rning about , I sawhim looking at the young lady’s photograph. “Of course, now,” he

said, “I have no right to keep it !” And before I could ask for anoth er

glimpse of it, he had thrust it int o the fire.

“I am sorry to be saying it just now,” I observed after a while, “but

I shou ldn’t wonder if Miss Vernor were a charm ing creature.”

“Go and find out,” he answered, gloom ily. “T he coast is clear. My

part is to forget her,” he presently added. “It ou ght n ot to be hard.

But don’t you think,” he went on suddenly, “that for a poor fellow

who asked noth ing of fortune but leave to sit down in a quiet cor-

ner, it has been rather a cruel pu shing abou t?”

Cruel indeed, I declared, and he certainly had the right to de-

mand a clean page on the book of fate and a fresh start. M r. Vernor’s

advice was sound; he should amuse himself with a long journey. If it

would be any comfort to him, I would go with him on his way.

Pickering assented without enthusiasm; he had the embarrassed look



344

of a man who, having gone to some cost to m ake a good appearance

in a drawing-room , shou ld find the door suddenly slammed in his

face. We started on our journey, however, and litt le by little his en-

thusiasm returned. H e was too capable of enjoying fine things to

remain perman ently irresponsive, and after a fortnight spent among

pictures and monuments and antiquities, I felt that I was seeing

him for the first tim e in his best and health iest m ood. H e had had a

fever, and then he had had a chill; the pendulum had swung right

and left in a mann er rather trying to th e machine; but now, at last,

it was working back to an even, n atural beat. H e recovered in ameasure the generous eloquence with which he had fanned his flame

at H omburg, and t alked about things with something of the same

passionate freshn ess. O ne day when I was laid up at the inn at Bruges

with a lame foot, he came home and t reated m e to a rhapsody about

a certain m eek-faced virgin of H ans Memling, which seemed to me

soun der sense than his compliments to M adame Blum enthal. He

had his dull days and his sombre moods—hours of irresistible ret-rospect; but I let them come and go without remonstrance, because

I fancied they always left him a trifle more alert and resolute. O ne

evening, however, he sat hanging his head in so doleful a fashion

that I took the bull by the horn s and told him h e had by this time

surely paid his debt to penitence, and that he owed it to himself to

banish that wom an for ever from his thoughts.

He looked up, staring; and then with a deep blush—”That

woman?” he said. “I was not th inking of M adame Blumenth al!”

After th is I gave anot her con stru ction to his melancholy. Taking

him with his hopes and fears, at the end of six weeks of active obser-

vation and keen sensation , Pickering was as fine a fellow as need be.

We made our way down to Italy and spent a fortnight at Venice.

There something happened which I had been confidently expect-

ing; I had said to m yself that it was merely a question of time. We

had passed the day at Torcello, and came floating back in the glow

Eugene Pickering

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