7 best short stories by Henry James E-Book

Henry James

• Herausgeber: Tacet Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: 7 best short stories
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 448

Beschreibung

Henry James was an American-British author regarded as a key transitional figure between literary realism and literary modernism, and is considered by many to be among the greatest novelists in the English language. He is best known for a number of novels dealing with the social and marital interplay between emigre Americans, English people, and continental Europeans. His later works were increasingly experimental. In describing the internal states of mind and social dynamics of his characters, James often made use of a style in which ambiguous or contradictory motives and impressions were overlaid or juxtaposed in the discussion of a character's psyche. For their unique ambiguity, as well as for other aspects of their composition, his late works have been compared to impressionist painting.This selection specially chosen by the literary critic August Nemo, contains the following stories:The Beast ih the JungleThe Figure in the CarpetPasteThe Romance of Certain Old ClothesThe Story of a YearThe Altar of the DeadMarried Son

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

The Author

The Beast in the Jungle

The Figure in the Carpet

Paste

The Romance of Certain Old Clothes

The Story of a Year

The Altar of the Dead

Married Son

About the Publisher

The Author

Henry James (1843-1916) was born on April 15, 1843 to Henry James, Sr., and his wife, Mary Walsh Robertson. His older brother William was born in 1842, and younger siblings Garth Wilkinson, Robertson, and Alice were born in 1845, 1846, and 1848, respectively.

Henry Sr., the son of an Irish immigrant, was one of thirteen children, born in Albany, New York. By the time his own children were born, he had inherited a great deal of wealth from his father, and the James family. At the time of Henry Jr.'s birth, the family lived in New York City, where Henry Sr. devoted his time to the study of theology, philosophy, and mysticism, rejecting his father's Presbyterian Church to follow the teachings of Swedish Christian mystic Emanuel Swedenborg.

The James children were educated in a variety of unorthodox circumstances—sometimes at schools, sometimes with private tutors, always with access to books and new experiences. Margaret Fuller, Washington Irving, William Makepeace Thackeray, and George Ripley visited the James home during Henry Jr.'s boyhood. In 1855, the James family embarked on a three-year-long trip to Geneva, London, and Paris, an experience that influenced Henry Jr.'s decision, as an adult, to live and write in Europe rather than his native America.

Upon their return from Europe, Henry Sr. moved the family to Cambridge, Massachusetts, allowing for continued contact with prominent writers and thinkers, including nearby Concord's Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Bronson Alcott. Henry Jr. was a voracious reader and spent his teenage years divided between Cambridge, Europe, and Newport, Rhode Island, where he studied for a time with painter William Morris Hunt. His brother William was found to be a more adept artist, and Henry soon discontinued his lessons, turning instead to writing.

In 1861, Henry suffered a back injury. The injury would cause lingering pain throughout his life, and it prevented him from enlisting and serving in the American Civil War. He began publishing reviews and short fiction in various journals in the early 1860s; he also produced travel writing based on his independent travels in Europe between 1869 and 1870. After a few unsuccessful attempts at settling in Europe, he moved to Paris in 1875, quickly followed by a move to London. With the exception of a few brief trips, he would remain in Europe for the rest of his life.

Henry cultivated acquaintances with many of the major artistic and literary figures in both

Henry remained active late into his life, both producing new works of fiction and editing the "New York Edition," a twenty-four-volume collection of his works. He finally became a British subject in 1915, and died in London in 1916.

The Beast in the Jungle

CHAPTER I

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WHAT DETERMINED THE speech that startled him in the course of their encounter scarcely matters, being probably but some words spoken by himself quite without intention—spoken as they lingered and slowly moved together after their renewal of acquaintance.  He had been conveyed by friends an hour or two before to the house at which she was staying; the party of visitors at the other house, of whom he was one, and thanks to whom it was his theory, as always, that he was lost in the crowd, had been invited over to luncheon.  There had been after luncheon much dispersal, all in the interest of the original motive, a view of Weatherend itself and the fine things, intrinsic features, pictures, heirlooms, treasures of all the arts, that made the place almost famous; and the great rooms were so numerous that guests could wander at their will, hang back from the principal group and in cases where they took such matters with the last seriousness give themselves up to mysterious appreciations and measurements.  There were persons to be observed, singly or in couples, bending toward objects in out-of-the-way corners with their hands on their knees and their heads nodding quite as with the emphasis of an excited sense of smell.  When they were two they either mingled their sounds of ecstasy or melted into silences of even deeper import, so that there were aspects of the occasion that gave it for Marcher much the air of the “look round,” previous to a sale highly advertised, that excites or quenches, as may be, the dream of acquisition.  The dream of acquisition at Weatherend would have had to be wild indeed, and John Marcher found himself, among such suggestions, disconcerted almost equally by the presence of those who knew too much and by that of those who knew nothing.  The great rooms caused so much poetry and history to press upon him that he needed some straying apart to feel in a proper relation with them, though this impulse was not, as happened, like the gloating of some of his companions, to be compared to the movements of a dog sniffing a cupboard.  It had an issue promptly enough in a direction that was not to have been calculated.

It led, briefly, in the course of the October afternoon, to his closer meeting with May Bartram, whose face, a reminder, yet not quite a remembrance, as they sat much separated at a very long table, had begun merely by troubling him rather pleasantly.  It affected him as the sequel of something of which he had lost the beginning.  He knew it, and for the time quite welcomed it, as a continuation, but didn’t know what it continued, which was an interest or an amusement the greater as he was also somehow aware—yet without a direct sign from her—that the young woman herself hadn’t lost the thread.  She hadn’t lost it, but she wouldn’t give it back to him, he saw, without some putting forth of his hand for it; and he not only saw that, but saw several things more, things odd enough in the light of the fact that at the moment some accident of grouping brought them face to face he was still merely fumbling with the idea that any contact between them in the past would have had no importance.  If it had had no importance he scarcely knew why his actual impression of her should so seem to have so much; the answer to which, however, was that in such a life as they all appeared to be leading for the moment one could but take things as they came.  He was satisfied, without in the least being able to say why, that this young lady might roughly have ranked in the house as a poor relation; satisfied also that she was not there on a brief visit, but was more or less a part of the establishment—almost a working, a remunerated part.  Didn’t she enjoy at periods a protection that she paid for by helping, among other services, to show the place and explain it, deal with the tiresome people, answer questions about the dates of the building, the styles of the furniture, the authorship of the pictures, the favourite haunts of the ghost?  It wasn’t that she looked as if you could have given her shillings—it was impossible to look less so.  Yet when she finally drifted toward him, distinctly handsome, though ever so much older—older than when he had seen her before—it might have been as an effect of her guessing that he had, within the couple of hours, devoted more imagination to her than to all the others put together, and had thereby penetrated to a kind of truth that the others were too stupid for.  She was there on harder terms than any one; she was there as a consequence of things suffered, one way and another, in the interval of years; and she remembered him very much as she was remembered—only a good deal better.

By the time they at last thus came to speech they were alone in one of the rooms—remarkable for a fine portrait over the chimney-place—out of which their friends had passed, and the charm of it was that even before they had spoken they had practically arranged with each other to stay behind for talk.  The charm, happily, was in other things too—partly in there being scarce a spot at Weatherend without something to stay behind for.  It was in the way the autumn day looked into the high windows as it waned; the way the red light, breaking at the close from under a low sombre sky, reached out in a long shaft and played over old wainscots, old tapestry, old gold, old colour.  It was most of all perhaps in the way she came to him as if, since she had been turned on to deal with the simpler sort, he might, should he choose to keep the whole thing down, just take her mild attention for a part of her general business.  As soon as he heard her voice, however, the gap was filled up and the missing link supplied; the slight irony he divined in her attitude lost its advantage.  He almost jumped at it to get there before her.  “I met you years and years ago in Rome.  I remember all about it.”  She confessed to disappointment—she had been so sure he didn’t; and to prove how well he did he began to pour forth the particular recollections that popped up as he called for them.  Her face and her voice, all at his service now, worked the miracle—the impression operating like the torch of a lamplighter who touches into flame, one by one, a long row of gas-jets.  Marcher flattered himself the illumination was brilliant, yet he was really still more pleased on her showing him, with amusement, that in his haste to make everything right he had got most things rather wrong.  It hadn’t been at Rome—it had been at Naples; and it hadn’t been eight years before—it had been more nearly ten.  She hadn’t been, either, with her uncle and aunt, but with her mother and brother; in addition to which it was not with the Pembles he had been, but with the Boyers, coming down in their company from Rome—a point on which she insisted, a little to his confusion, and as to which she had her evidence in hand.  The Boyers she had known, but didn’t know the Pembles, though she had heard of them, and it was the people he was with who had made them acquainted.  The incident of the thunderstorm that had raged round them with such violence as to drive them for refuge into an excavation—this incident had not occurred at the Palace of the Caesars, but at Pompeii, on an occasion when they had been present there at an important find.

He accepted her amendments, he enjoyed her corrections, though the moral of them was, she pointed out, that he really didn’t remember the least thing about her; and he only felt it as a drawback that when all was made strictly historic there didn’t appear much of anything left.  They lingered together still, she neglecting her office—for from the moment he was so clever she had no proper right to him—and both neglecting the house, just waiting as to see if a memory or two more wouldn’t again breathe on them.  It hadn’t taken them many minutes, after all, to put down on the table, like the cards of a pack, those that constituted their respective hands; only what came out was that the pack was unfortunately not perfect—that the past, invoked, invited, encouraged, could give them, naturally, no more than it had.  It had made them anciently meet—her at twenty, him at twenty-five; but nothing was so strange, they seemed to say to each other, as that, while so occupied, it hadn’t done a little more for them.  They looked at each other as with the feeling of an occasion missed; the present would have been so much better if the other, in the far distance, in the foreign land, hadn’t been so stupidly meagre.  There weren’t, apparently, all counted, more than a dozen little old things that had succeeded in coming to pass between them; trivialities of youth, simplicities of freshness, stupidities of ignorance, small possible germs, but too deeply buried—too deeply (didn’t it seem?) to sprout after so many years.  Marcher could only feel he ought to have rendered her some service—saved her from a capsized boat in the bay or at least recovered her dressing-bag, filched from her cab in the streets of Naples by a lazzarone with a stiletto.  Or it would have been nice if he could have been taken with fever all alone at his hotel, and she could have come to look after him, to write to his people, to drive him out in convalescence.  Then they would be in possession of the something or other that their actual show seemed to lack.  It yet somehow presented itself, this show, as too good to be spoiled; so that they were reduced for a few minutes more to wondering a little helplessly why—since they seemed to know a certain number of the same people—their reunion had been so long averted.  They didn’t use that name for it, but their delay from minute to minute to join the others was a kind of confession that they didn’t quite want it to be a failure.  Their attempted supposition of reasons for their not having met but showed how little they knew of each other.  There came in fact a moment when Marcher felt a positive pang.  It was vain to pretend she was an old friend, for all the communities were wanting, in spite of which it was as an old friend that he saw she would have suited him.  He had new ones enough—was surrounded with them for instance on the stage of the other house; as a new one he probably wouldn’t have so much as noticed her.  He would have liked to invent something, get her to make-believe with him that some passage of a romantic or critical kind had originally occurred.  He was really almost reaching out in imagination—as against time—for something that would do, and saying to himself that if it didn’t come this sketch of a fresh start would show for quite awkwardly bungled.  They would separate, and now for no second or no third chance.  They would have tried and not succeeded.  Then it was, just at the turn, as he afterwards made it out to himself, that, everything else failing, she herself decided to take up the case and, as it were, save the situation.  He felt as soon as she spoke that she had been consciously keeping back what she said and hoping to get on without it; a scruple in her that immensely touched him when, by the end of three or four minutes more, he was able to measure it.  What she brought out, at any rate, quite cleared the air and supplied the link—the link it was so odd he should frivolously have managed to lose.

“You know you told me something I’ve never forgotten and that again and again has made me think of you since; it was that tremendously hot day when we went to Sorrento, across the bay, for the breeze.  What I allude to was what you said to me, on the way back, as we sat under the awning of the boat enjoying the cool.  Have you forgotten?”

He had forgotten, and was even more surprised than ashamed.  But the great thing was that he saw in this no vulgar reminder of any “sweet” speech.  The vanity of women had long memories, but she was making no claim on him of a compliment or a mistake.  With another woman, a totally different one, he might have feared the recall possibly even some imbecile “offer.”  So, in having to say that he had indeed forgotten, he was conscious rather of a loss than of a gain; he already saw an interest in the matter of her mention.  “I try to think—but I give it up.  Yet I remember the Sorrento day.”

“I’m not very sure you do,” May Bartram after a moment said; “and I’m not very sure I ought to want you to.  It’s dreadful to bring a person back at any time to what he was ten years before.  If you’ve lived away from it,” she smiled, “so much the better.”

“Ah if you haven’t why should I?” he asked.

“Lived away, you mean, from what I myself was?”

“From what I was.  I was of course an ass,” Marcher went on; “but I would rather know from you just the sort of ass I was than—from the moment you have something in your mind—not know anything.”

Still, however, she hesitated.  “But if you’ve completely ceased to be that sort—?”

“Why I can then all the more bear to know.  Besides, perhaps I haven’t.”

“Perhaps.  Yet if you haven’t,” she added, “I should suppose you’d remember.  Not indeed that I in the least connect with my impression the invidious name you use.  If I had only thought you foolish,” she explained, “the thing I speak of wouldn’t so have remained with me.  It was about yourself.”  She waited as if it might come to him; but as, only meeting her eyes in wonder, he gave no sign, she burnt her ships.  “Has it ever happened?”

Then it was that, while he continued to stare, a light broke for him and the blood slowly came to his face, which began to burn with recognition.

“Do you mean I told you—?”  But he faltered, lest what came to him shouldn’t be right, lest he should only give himself away.

“It was something about yourself that it was natural one shouldn’t forget—that is if one remembered you at all.  That’s why I ask you,” she smiled, “if the thing you then spoke of has ever come to pass?”

Oh then he saw, but he was lost in wonder and found himself embarrassed.  This, he also saw, made her sorry for him, as if her allusion had been a mistake.  It took him but a moment, however, to feel it hadn’t been, much as it had been a surprise.  After the first little shock of it her knowledge on the contrary began, even if rather strangely, to taste sweet to him.  She was the only other person in the world then who would have it, and she had had it all these years, while the fact of his having so breathed his secret had unaccountably faded from him.  No wonder they couldn’t have met as if nothing had happened.  “I judge,” he finally said, “that I know what you mean.  Only I had strangely enough lost any sense of having taken you so far into my confidence.”

“Is it because you’ve taken so many others as well?”

“I’ve taken nobody.  Not a creature since then.”

“So that I’m the only person who knows?”

“The only person in the world.”

“Well,” she quickly replied, “I myself have never spoken.  I’ve never, never repeated of you what you told me.”  She looked at him so that he perfectly believed her.  Their eyes met over it in such a way that he was without a doubt.  “And I never will.”

She spoke with an earnestness that, as if almost excessive, put him at ease about her possible derision.  Somehow the whole question was a new luxury to him—that is from the moment she was in possession.  If she didn’t take the sarcastic view she clearly took the sympathetic, and that was what he had had, in all the long time, from no one whomsoever.  What he felt was that he couldn’t at present have begun to tell her, and yet could profit perhaps exquisitely by the accident of having done so of old.  “Please don’t then.  We’re just right as it is.”

“Oh I am,” she laughed, “if you are!”  To which she added: “Then you do still feel in the same way?”

It was impossible he shouldn’t take to himself that she was really interested, though it all kept coming as a perfect surprise.  He had thought of himself so long as abominably alone, and lo he wasn’t alone a bit.  He hadn’t been, it appeared, for an hour—since those moments on the Sorrento boat.  It was she who had been, he seemed to see as he looked at her—she who had been made so by the graceless fact of his lapse of fidelity.  To tell her what he had told her—what had it been but to ask something of her? something that she had given, in her charity, without his having, by a remembrance, by a return of the spirit, failing another encounter, so much as thanked her.  What he had asked of her had been simply at first not to laugh at him.  She had beautifully not done so for ten years, and she was not doing so now.  So he had endless gratitude to make up.  Only for that he must see just how he had figured to her.  “What, exactly, was the account I gave—?”

“Of the way you did feel?  Well, it was very simple.  You said you had had from your earliest time, as the deepest thing within you, the sense of being kept for something rare and strange, possibly prodigious and terrible, that was sooner or later to happen to you, that you had in your bones the foreboding and the conviction of, and that would perhaps overwhelm you.”

“Do you call that very simple?” John Marcher asked.

She thought a moment.  “It was perhaps because I seemed, as you spoke, to understand it.”

“You do understand it?” he eagerly asked.

Again she kept her kind eyes on him.  “You still have the belief?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed helplessly.  There was too much to say.

“Whatever it’s to be,” she clearly made out, “it hasn’t yet come.”

He shook his head in complete surrender now.  “It hasn’t yet come.  Only, you know, it isn’t anything I’m to do, to achieve in the world, to be distinguished or admired for.  I’m not such an ass as that.  It would be much better, no doubt, if I were.”

“It’s to be something you’re merely to suffer?”

“Well, say to wait for—to have to meet, to face, to see suddenly break out in my life; possibly destroying all further consciousness, possibly annihilating me; possibly, on the other hand, only altering everything, striking at the root of all my world and leaving me to the consequences, however they shape themselves.”

She took this in, but the light in her eyes continued for him not to be that of mockery.  “Isn’t what you describe perhaps but the expectation—or at any rate the sense of danger, familiar to so many people—of falling in love?”

John Marcher thought.  “Did you ask me that before?”

“No—I wasn’t so free-and-easy then.  But it’s what strikes me now.”

“Of course,” he said after a moment, “it strikes you.  Of course it strikes me.  Of course what’s in store for me may be no more than that.  The only thing is,” he went on, “that I think if it had been that I should by this time know.”

“Do you mean because you’ve been in love?”  And then as he but looked at her in silence: “You’ve been in love, and it hasn’t meant such a cataclysm, hasn’t proved the great affair?”

“Here I am, you see.  It hasn’t been overwhelming.”

“Then it hasn’t been love,” said May Bartram.

“Well, I at least thought it was.  I took it for that—I’ve taken it till now.  It was agreeable, it was delightful, it was miserable,” he explained.  “But it wasn’t strange.  It wasn’t what my affair’s to be.”

“You want something all to yourself—something that nobody else knows or has known?”

“It isn’t a question of what I ‘want’—God knows I don’t want anything.  It’s only a question of the apprehension that haunts me—that I live with day by day.”

He said this so lucidly and consistently that he could see it further impose itself.  If she hadn’t been interested before she’d have been interested now.

“Is it a sense of coming violence?”

Evidently now too again he liked to talk of it.  “I don’t think of it as—when it does come—necessarily violent.  I only think of it as natural and as of course above all unmistakeable.  I think of it simply as the thing.  The thing will of itself appear natural.”

“Then how will it appear strange?”

Marcher bethought himself.  “It won’t—to me.”

“To whom then?”

“Well,” he replied, smiling at last, “say to you.”

“Oh then I’m to be present?”

“Why you are present—since you know.”

“I see.”  She turned it over.  “But I mean at the catastrophe.”

At this, for a minute, their lightness gave way to their gravity; it was as if the long look they exchanged held them together.  “It will only depend on yourself—if you’ll watch with me.”

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Don’t leave me now,” he went on.

“Are you afraid?” she repeated.

“Do you think me simply out of my mind?” he pursued instead of answering.  “Do I merely strike you as a harmless lunatic?”

“No,” said May Bartram.  “I understand you.  I believe you.”

“You mean you feel how my obsession—poor old thing—may correspond to some possible reality?”

“To some possible reality.”

“Then you will watch with me?”

She hesitated, then for the third time put her question.  “Are you afraid?”

“Did I tell you I was—at Naples?”

“No, you said nothing about it.”

“Then I don’t know.  And I should like to know,” said John Marcher.  “You’ll tell me yourself whether you think so.  If you’ll watch with me you’ll see.”

“Very good then.”  They had been moving by this time across the room, and at the door, before passing out, they paused as for the full wind-up of their understanding.  “I’ll watch with you,” said May Bartram.

CHAPTER II

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THE FACT THAT SHE “KNEW”—KNEW and yet neither chaffed him nor betrayed him—had in a short time begun to constitute between them a goodly bond, which became more marked when, within the year that followed their afternoon at Weatherend, the opportunities for meeting multiplied.  The event that thus promoted these occasions was the death of the ancient lady her great-aunt, under whose wing, since losing her mother, she had to such an extent found shelter, and who, though but the widowed mother of the new successor to the property, had succeeded—thanks to a high tone and a high temper—in not forfeiting the supreme position at the great house.  The deposition of this personage arrived but with her death, which, followed by many changes, made in particular a difference for the young woman in whom Marcher’s expert attention had recognised from the first a dependent with a pride that might ache though it didn’t bristle.  Nothing for a long time had made him easier than the thought that the aching must have been much soothed by Miss Bartram’s now finding herself able to set up a small home in London.  She had acquired property, to an amount that made that luxury just possible, under her aunt’s extremely complicated will, and when the whole matter began to be straightened out, which indeed took time, she let him know that the happy issue was at last in view.  He had seen her again before that day, both because she had more than once accompanied the ancient lady to town and because he had paid another visit to the friends who so conveniently made of Weatherend one of the charms of their own hospitality.  These friends had taken him back there; he had achieved there again with Miss Bartram some quiet detachment; and he had in London succeeded in persuading her to more than one brief absence from her aunt.  They went together, on these latter occasions, to the National Gallery and the South Kensington Museum, where, among vivid reminders, they talked of Italy at large—not now attempting to recover, as at first, the taste of their youth and their ignorance.  That recovery, the first day at Weatherend, had served its purpose well, had given them quite enough; so that they were, to Marcher’s sense, no longer hovering about the head-waters of their stream, but had felt their boat pushed sharply off and down the current.

They were literally afloat together; for our gentleman this was marked, quite as marked as that the fortunate cause of it was just the buried treasure of her knowledge.  He had with his own hands dug up this little hoard, brought to light—that is to within reach of the dim day constituted by their discretions and privacies—the object of value the hiding-place of which he had, after putting it into the ground himself, so strangely, so long forgotten.  The rare luck of his having again just stumbled on the spot made him indifferent to any other question; he would doubtless have devoted more time to the odd accident of his lapse of memory if he hadn’t been moved to devote so much to the sweetness, the comfort, as he felt, for the future, that this accident itself had helped to keep fresh.  It had never entered into his plan that any one should “know”, and mainly for the reason that it wasn’t in him to tell any one.  That would have been impossible, for nothing but the amusement of a cold world would have waited on it.  Since, however, a mysterious fate had opened his mouth betimes, in spite of him, he would count that a compensation and profit by it to the utmost.  That the right person should know tempered the asperity of his secret more even than his shyness had permitted him to imagine; and May Bartram was clearly right, because—well, because there she was.  Her knowledge simply settled it; he would have been sure enough by this time had she been wrong.  There was that in his situation, no doubt, that disposed him too much to see her as a mere confidant, taking all her light for him from the fact—the fact only—of her interest in his predicament; from her mercy, sympathy, seriousness, her consent not to regard him as the funniest of the funny.  Aware, in fine, that her price for him was just in her giving him this constant sense of his being admirably spared, he was careful to remember that she had also a life of her own, with things that might happen to her, things that in friendship one should likewise take account of.  Something fairly remarkable came to pass with him, for that matter, in this connexion—something represented by a certain passage of his consciousness, in the suddenest way, from one extreme to the other.

He had thought himself, so long as nobody knew, the most disinterested person in the world, carrying his concentrated burden, his perpetual suspense, ever so quietly, holding his tongue about it, giving others no glimpse of it nor of its effect upon his life, asking of them no allowance and only making on his side all those that were asked.  He hadn’t disturbed people with the queerness of their having to know a haunted man, though he had had moments of rather special temptation on hearing them say they were forsooth “unsettled.”  If they were as unsettled as he was—he who had never been settled for an hour in his life—they would know what it meant.  Yet it wasn’t, all the same, for him to make them, and he listened to them civilly enough.  This was why he had such good—though possibly such rather colourless—manners; this was why, above all, he could regard himself, in a greedy world, as decently—as in fact perhaps even a little sublimely—unselfish.  Our point is accordingly that he valued this character quite sufficiently to measure his present danger of letting it lapse, against which he promised himself to be much on his guard.  He was quite ready, none the less, to be selfish just a little, since surely no more charming occasion for it had come to him.  “Just a little,” in a word, was just as much as Miss Bartram, taking one day with another, would let him.  He never would be in the least coercive, and would keep well before him the lines on which consideration for her—the very highest—ought to proceed.  He would thoroughly establish the heads under which her affairs, her requirements, her peculiarities—he went so far as to give them the latitude of that name—would come into their intercourse.  All this naturally was a sign of how much he took the intercourse itself for granted.  There was nothing more to be done about that.  It simply existed; had sprung into being with her first penetrating question to him in the autumn light there at Weatherend.  The real form it should have taken on the basis that stood out large was the form of their marrying.  But the devil in this was that the very basis itself put marrying out of the question.  His conviction, his apprehension, his obsession, in short, wasn’t a privilege he could invite a woman to share; and that consequence of it was precisely what was the matter with him.  Something or other lay in wait for him, amid the twists and the turns of the months and the years, like a crouching Beast in the Jungle.  It signified little whether the crouching Beast were destined to slay him or to be slain.  The definite point was the inevitable spring of the creature; and the definite lesson from that was that a man of feeling didn’t cause himself to be accompanied by a lady on a tiger-hunt.  Such was the image under which he had ended by figuring his life.

They had at first, none the less, in the scattered hours spent together, made no allusion to that view of it; which was a sign he was handsomely alert to give that he didn’t expect, that he in fact didn’t care, always to be talking about it.  Such a feature in one’s outlook was really like a hump on one’s back.  The difference it made every minute of the day existed quite independently of discussion.  One discussed of course like a hunchback, for there was always, if nothing else, the hunchback face.  That remained, and she was watching him; but people watched best, as a general thing, in silence, so that such would be predominantly the manner of their vigil.  Yet he didn’t want, at the same time, to be tense and solemn; tense and solemn was what he imagined he too much showed for with other people.  The thing to be, with the one person who knew, was easy and natural—to make the reference rather than be seeming to avoid it, to avoid it rather than be seeming to make it, and to keep it, in any case, familiar, facetious even, rather than pedantic and portentous.  Some such consideration as the latter was doubtless in his mind for instance when he wrote pleasantly to Miss Bartram that perhaps the great thing he had so long felt as in the lap of the gods was no more than this circumstance, which touched him so nearly, of her acquiring a house in London.  It was the first allusion they had yet again made, needing any other hitherto so little; but when she replied, after having given him the news, that she was by no means satisfied with such a trifle as the climax to so special a suspense, she almost set him wondering if she hadn’t even a larger conception of singularity for him than he had for himself.  He was at all events destined to become aware little by little, as time went by, that she was all the while looking at his life, judging it, measuring it, in the light of the thing she knew, which grew to be at last, with the consecration of the years, never mentioned between them save as “the real truth” about him.  That had always been his own form of reference to it, but she adopted the form so quietly that, looking back at the end of a period, he knew there was no moment at which it was traceable that she had, as he might say, got inside his idea, or exchanged the attitude of beautifully indulging for that of still more beautifully believing him.

It was always open to him to accuse her of seeing him but as the most harmless of maniacs, and this, in the long run—since it covered so much ground—was his easiest description of their friendship.  He had a screw loose for her but she liked him in spite of it and was practically, against the rest of the world, his kind wise keeper, unremunerated but fairly amused and, in the absence of other near ties, not disreputably occupied.  The rest of the world of course thought him queer, but she, she only, knew how, and above all why, queer; which was precisely what enabled her to dispose the concealing veil in the right folds.  She took his gaiety from him—since it had to pass with them for gaiety—as she took everything else; but she certainly so far justified by her unerring touch his finer sense of the degree to which he had ended by convincing her.  She at least never spoke of the secret of his life except as “the real truth about you,” and she had in fact a wonderful way of making it seem, as such, the secret of her own life too.  That was in fine how he so constantly felt her as allowing for him; he couldn’t on the whole call it anything else.  He allowed for himself, but she, exactly, allowed still more; partly because, better placed for a sight of the matter, she traced his unhappy perversion through reaches of its course into which he could scarce follow it.  He knew how he felt, but, besides knowing that, she knew how he looked as well; he knew each of the things of importance he was insidiously kept from doing, but she could add up the amount they made, understand how much, with a lighter weight on his spirit, he might have done, and thereby establish how, clever as he was, he fell short.  Above all she was in the secret of the difference between the forms he went through—those of his little office under Government, those of caring for his modest patrimony, for his library, for his garden in the country, for the people in London whose invitations he accepted and repaid—and the detachment that reigned beneath them and that made of all behaviour, all that could in the least be called behaviour, a long act of dissimulation.  What it had come to was that he wore a mask painted with the social simper, out of the eye-holes of which there looked eyes of an expression not in the least matching the other features.  This the stupid world, even after years, had never more than half discovered.  It was only May Bartram who had, and she achieved, by an art indescribable, the feat of at once—or perhaps it was only alternately—meeting the eyes from in front and mingling her own vision, as from over his shoulder, with their peep through the apertures.

So while they grew older together she did watch with him, and so she let this association give shape and colour to her own existence.  Beneath her forms as well detachment had learned to sit, and behaviour had become for her, in the social sense, a false account of herself.  There was but one account of her that would have been true all the while and that she could give straight to nobody, least of all to John Marcher.  Her whole attitude was a virtual statement, but the perception of that only seemed called to take its place for him as one of the many things necessarily crowded out of his consciousness.  If she had moreover, like himself, to make sacrifices to their real truth, it was to be granted that her compensation might have affected her as more prompt and more natural.  They had long periods, in this London time, during which, when they were together, a stranger might have listened to them without in the least pricking up his ears; on the other hand the real truth was equally liable at any moment to rise to the surface, and the auditor would then have wondered indeed what they were talking about.  They had from an early hour made up their mind that society was, luckily, unintelligent, and the margin allowed them by this had fairly become one of their commonplaces.  Yet there were still moments when the situation turned almost fresh—usually under the effect of some expression drawn from herself.  Her expressions doubtless repeated themselves, but her intervals were generous.  “What saves us, you know, is that we answer so completely to so usual an appearance: that of the man and woman whose friendship has become such a daily habit—or almost—as to be at last indispensable.”  That for instance was a remark she had frequently enough had occasion to make, though she had given it at different times different developments.  What we are especially concerned with is the turn it happened to take from her one afternoon when he had come to see her in honour of her birthday.  This anniversary had fallen on a Sunday, at a season of thick fog and general outward gloom; but he had brought her his customary offering, having known her now long enough to have established a hundred small traditions.  It was one of his proofs to himself, the present he made her on her birthday, that he hadn’t sunk into real selfishness.  It was mostly nothing more than a small trinket, but it was always fine of its kind, and he was regularly careful to pay for it more than he thought he could afford.  “Our habit saves you, at least, don’t you see? because it makes you, after all, for the vulgar, indistinguishable from other men.  What’s the most inveterate mark of men in general?  Why the capacity to spend endless time with dull women—to spend it I won’t say without being bored, but without minding that they are, without being driven off at a tangent by it; which comes to the same thing.  I’m your dull woman, a part of the daily bread for which you pray at church.  That covers your tracks more than anything.”

“And what covers yours?” asked Marcher, whom his dull woman could mostly to this extent amuse.  “I see of course what you mean by your saving me, in this way and that, so far as other people are concerned—I’ve seen it all along.  Only what is it that saves you?  I often think, you know, of that.”

She looked as if she sometimes thought of that too, but rather in a different way.  “Where other people, you mean, are concerned?”

“Well, you’re really so in with me, you know—as a sort of result of my being so in with yourself.  I mean of my having such an immense regard for you, being so tremendously mindful of all you’ve done for me.  I sometimes ask myself if it’s quite fair.  Fair I mean to have so involved and—since one may say it—interested you.  I almost feel as if you hadn’t really had time to do anything else.”

“Anything else but be interested?” she asked.  “Ah what else does one ever want to be?  If I’ve been ‘watching’ with you, as we long ago agreed I was to do, watching’s always in itself an absorption.”

“Oh certainly,” John Marcher said, “if you hadn’t had your curiosity—!  Only doesn’t it sometimes come to you as time goes on that your curiosity isn’t being particularly repaid?”

May Bartram had a pause.  “Do you ask that, by any chance, because you feel at all that yours isn’t?  I mean because you have to wait so long.”

Oh he understood what she meant!  “For the thing to happen that never does happen?  For the Beast to jump out?  No, I’m just where I was about it.  It isn’t a matter as to which I can choose, I can decide for a change.  It isn’t one as to which there can be a change.  It’s in the lap of the gods.  One’s in the hands of one’s law—there one is.  As to the form the law will take, the way it will operate, that’s its own affair.”

“Yes,” Miss Bartram replied; “of course one’s fate’s coming, of course it has come in its own form and its own way, all the while.  Only, you know, the form and the way in your case were to have been—well, something so exceptional and, as one may say, so particularly your own.”

Something in this made him look at her with suspicion.  “You say ‘were to have been,’ as if in your heart you had begun to doubt.”

“Oh!” she vaguely protested.

“As if you believed,” he went on, “that nothing will now take place.”

She shook her head slowly but rather inscrutably.  “You’re far from my thought.”

He continued to look at her.  “What then is the matter with you?”

“Well,” she said after another wait, “the matter with me is simply that I’m more sure than ever my curiosity, as you call it, will be but too well repaid.”

They were frankly grave now; he had got up from his seat, had turned once more about the little drawing-room to which, year after year, he brought his inevitable topic; in which he had, as he might have said, tasted their intimate community with every sauce, where every object was as familiar to him as the things of his own house and the very carpets were worn with his fitful walk very much as the desks in old counting-houses are worn by the elbows of generations of clerks.  The generations of his nervous moods had been at work there, and the place was the written history of his whole middle life.  Under the impression of what his friend had just said he knew himself, for some reason, more aware of these things; which made him, after a moment, stop again before her.  “Is it possibly that you’ve grown afraid?”

“Afraid?”  He thought, as she repeated the word, that his question had made her, a little, change colour; so that, lest he should have touched on a truth, he explained very kindly: “You remember that that was what you asked me long ago—that first day at Weatherend.”

“Oh yes, and you told me you didn’t know—that I was to see for myself.  We’ve said little about it since, even in so long a time.”

“Precisely,” Marcher interposed—“quite as if it were too delicate a matter for us to make free with.  Quite as if we might find, on pressure, that I am afraid.  For then,” he said, “we shouldn’t, should we? quite know what to do.”

She had for the time no answer to this question.  “There have been days when I thought you were.  Only, of course,” she added, “there have been days when we have thought almost anything.”

“Everything.  Oh!” Marcher softly groaned, as with a gasp, half spent, at the face, more uncovered just then than it had been for a long while, of the imagination always with them.  It had always had it’s incalculable moments of glaring out, quite as with the very eyes of the very Beast, and, used as he was to them, they could still draw from him the tribute of a sigh that rose from the depths of his being.  All they had thought, first and last, rolled over him; the past seemed to have been reduced to mere barren speculation.  This in fact was what the place had just struck him as so full of—the simplification of everything but the state of suspense.  That remained only by seeming to hang in the void surrounding it.  Even his original fear, if fear it as had been, had lost itself in the desert.  “I judge, however,” he continued, “that you see I’m not afraid now.”

“What I see, as I make it out, is that you’ve achieved something almost unprecedented in the way of getting used to danger.  Living with it so long and so closely you’ve lost your sense of it; you know it’s there, but you’re indifferent, and you cease even, as of old, to have to whistle in the dark.  Considering what the danger is,” May Bartram wound up, “I’m bound to say I don’t think your attitude could well be surpassed.”

John Marcher faintly smiled.  “It’s heroic?”

“Certainly—call it that.”

It was what he would have liked indeed to call it.  “I am then a man of courage?”

“That’s what you were to show me.”

He still, however, wondered.  “But doesn’t the man of courage know what he’s afraid of—or not afraid of?  I don’t know that, you see.  I don’t focus it.  I can’t name it.  I only know I’m exposed.”

“Yes, but exposed—how shall I say?—so directly.  So intimately.  That’s surely enough.”

“Enough to make you feel then—as what we may call the end and the upshot of our watch—that I’m not afraid?”

“You’re not afraid.  But it isn’t,” she said, “the end of our watch.  That is it isn’t the end of yours.  You’ve everything still to see.”

“Then why haven’t you?” he asked.  He had had, all along, to-day, the sense of her keeping something back, and he still had it.  As this was his first impression of that it quite made a date.  The case was the more marked as she didn’t at first answer; which in turn made him go on.  “You know something I don’t.”  Then his voice, for that of a man of courage, trembled a little.  “You know what’s to happen.”  Her silence, with the face she showed, was almost a confession—it made him sure.  “You know, and you’re afraid to tell me.  It’s so bad that you’re afraid I’ll find out.”

All this might be true, for she did look as if, unexpectedly to her, he had crossed some mystic line that she had secretly drawn round her.  Yet she might, after all, not have worried; and the real climax was that he himself, at all events, needn’t.  “You’ll never find out.”

CHAPTER III

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IT WAS ALL TO HAVE made, none the less, as I have said, a date; which came out in the fact that again and again, even after long intervals, other things that passed between them were in relation to this hour but the character of recalls and results.  Its immediate effect had been indeed rather to lighten insistence—almost to provoke a reaction; as if their topic had dropped by its own weight and as if moreover, for that matter, Marcher had been visited by one of his occasional warnings against egotism.  He had kept up, he felt, and very decently on the whole, his consciousness of the importance of not being selfish, and it was true that he had never sinned in that direction without promptly enough trying to press the scales the other way.  He often repaired his fault, the season permitting, by inviting his friend to accompany him to the opera; and it not infrequently thus happened that, to show he didn’t wish her to have but one sort of food for her mind, he was the cause of her appearing there with him a dozen nights in the month.  It even happened that, seeing her home at such times, he occasionally went in with her to finish, as he called it, the evening, and, the better to make his point, sat down to the frugal but always careful little supper that awaited his pleasure.  His point was made, he thought, by his not eternally insisting with her on himself; made for instance, at such hours, when it befell that, her piano at hand and each of them familiar with it, they went over passages of the opera together.  It chanced to be on one of these occasions, however, that he reminded her of her not having answered a certain question he had put to her during the talk that had taken place between them on her last birthday.  “What is it that saves you?”—saved her, he meant, from that appearance of variation from the usual human type.  If he had practically escaped remark, as she pretended, by doing, in the most important particular, what most men do—find the answer to life in patching up an alliance of a sort with a woman no better than himself—how had she escaped it, and how could the alliance, such as it was, since they must suppose it had been more or less noticed, have failed to make her rather positively talked about?

“I never said,” May Bartram replied, “that it hadn’t made me a good deal talked about.”

“Ah well then you’re not ‘saved.’”

“It hasn’t been a question for me.  If you’ve had your woman I’ve had,” she said, “my man.”

“And you mean that makes you all right?”

Oh it was always as if there were so much to say!

“I don’t know why it shouldn’t make me—humanly, which is what we’re speaking of—as right as it makes you.”

“I see,” Marcher returned.  “‘Humanly,’ no doubt, as showing that you’re living for something.  Not, that is, just for me and my secret.”

May Bartram smiled.  “I don’t pretend it exactly shows that I’m not living for you.  It’s my intimacy with you that’s in question.”

He laughed as he saw what she meant.  “Yes, but since, as you say, I’m only, so far as people make out, ordinary, you’re—aren’t you? no more than ordinary either.  You help me to pass for a man like another.  So if I am, as I understand you, you’re not compromised.  Is that it?”

She had another of her waits, but she spoke clearly enough.  “That’s it.  It’s all that concerns me—to help you to pass for a man like another.”

He was careful to acknowledge the remark handsomely.  “How kind, how beautiful, you are to me!  How shall I ever repay you?”

She had her last grave pause, as if there might be a choice of ways.  But she chose.  “By going on as you are.”