The Complete Novels: The Portrait of a Lady + The Wings of the Dove + What Maisie Knew + The American + The Bostonian + The Ambassadors + Washington Square and more (Unabridged) E-Book
Henry James
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- Herausgeber: e-artnow
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
This carefully crafted ebook: "The Complete Novels: The Portrait of a Lady + The Wings of the Dove + What Maisie Knew + The American + The Bostonian + The Ambassadors + Washington Square and more (Unabridged)" is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. Table of Contents: Confidence Roderick Hudson The Ambassadors The American The Awkward Age The Bostonians The Europeans The Golden Bowl The Other House The Outcry The Portrait of a Lady The Princess Casamassima The Reverberator The Sacred Fount The Spoils of Poynton The Tragic Muse The Whole Family The Wings of the Dove Washington Square Watch and Ward What Maisie Knew The Ivory Tower (Unfinished) The Sense of the Past (Unfinished) The Portrait of a Lady is one of James's most popular long novels, and is regarded by critics as one of his finest. The Portrait of a Lady is the story of a spirited young American woman, Isabel Archer, who in "affronting her destiny", finds it overwhelming. She inherits a large amount of money and subsequently becomes the victim of Machiavellian scheming by two American expatriates. "The Wings of the Dove" tells the story of Milly Theale, an American heiress stricken with a serious disease, and her effect on the people around her. Some of these people befriend Milly with honorable motives, while others are more self-interested. "The American" is an uneasy combination of social comedy and melodrama concerning the adventures and misadventures of Christopher Newman, an essentially good-hearted but rather gauche American businessman on his first tour of Europe. Henry James (1843–1916) was an American-British writer who spent most of his writing career in Britain. He is regarded as one of the key figures of 19th-century literary realism.
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The Complete Novels: The Portrait of a Lady + The Wings of the Dove + What Maisie Knew + The American + The Bostonian + The Ambassadors + Washington Square and more (Unabridged)
Table of Contents
Confidence
Chapter I
It was in the early days of April; Bernard Longueville had been spending the winter in Rome. He had travelled northward with the consciousness of several social duties that appealed to him from the further side of the Alps, but he was under the charm of the Italian spring, and he made a pretext for lingering. He had spent five days at Siena, where he had intended to spend but two, and still it was impossible to continue his journey. He was a young man of a contemplative and speculative turn, and this was his first visit to Italy, so that if he dallied by the way he should not be harshly judged. He had a fancy for sketching, and it was on his conscience to take a few pictorial notes. There were two old inns at Siena, both of them very shabby and very dirty. The one at which Longueville had taken up his abode was entered by a dark, pestiferous archway, surmounted by a sign which at a distance might have been read by the travellers as the Dantean injunction to renounce all hope. The other was not far off, and the day after his arrival, as he passed it, he saw two ladies going in who evidently belonged to the large fraternity of Anglo-Saxon tourists, and one of whom was young and carried herself very well. Longueville had his share — or more than his share — of gallantry, and this incident awakened a regret. If he had gone to the other inn he might have had charming company: at his own establishment there was no one but an aesthetic German who smoked bad tobacco in the dining-room. He remarked to himself that this was always his luck, and the remark was characteristic of the man; it was charged with the feeling of the moment, but it was not absolutely just; it was the result of an acute impression made by the particular occasion; but it failed in appreciation of a providence which had sprinkled Longueville’s career with happy accidents — accidents, especially, in which his characteristic gallantry was not allowed to rust for want of exercise. He lounged, however, contentedly enough through these bright, still days of a Tuscan April, drawing much entertainment from the high picturesqueness of the things about him. Siena, a few years since, was a flawless gift of the Middle Ages to the modern imagination. No other Italian city could have been more interesting to an observer fond of reconstructing obsolete manners. This was a taste of Bernard Longueville’s, who had a relish for serious literature, and at one time had made several lively excursions into mediaeval history. His friends thought him very clever, and at the same time had an easy feeling about him which was a tribute to his freedom from pedantry. He was clever indeed, and an excellent companion; but the real measure of his brilliancy was in the success with which he entertained himself. He was much addicted to conversing with his own wit, and he greatly enjoyed his own society. Clever as he often was in talking with his friends, I am not sure that his best things, as the phrase is, were not for his own ears. And this was not on account of any cynical contempt for the understanding of his fellow-creatures: it was simply because what I have called his own society was more of a stimulus than that of most other people. And yet he was not for this reason fond of solitude; he was, on the contrary, a very sociable animal. It must be admitted at the outset that he had a nature which seemed at several points to contradict itself, as will probably be perceived in the course of this narration.
He entertained himself greatly with his reflections and meditations upon Sienese architecture and early Tuscan art, upon Italian street-life and the geological idiosyncrasies of the Apennines. If he had only gone to the other inn, that nice-looking girl whom he had seen passing under the dusky portal with her face turned away from him might have broken bread with him at this intellectual banquet. Then came a day, however, when it seemed for a moment that if she were disposed she might gather up the crumbs of the feast. Longueville, every morning after breakfast, took a turn in the great square of Siena — the vast piazza, shaped like a horseshoe, where the market is held beneath the windows of that crenellated palace from whose overhanging cornice a tall, straight tower springs up with a movement as light as that of a single plume in the bonnet of a captain. Here he strolled about, watching a brown contadino disembarrass his donkey, noting the progress of half an hour’s chaffer over a bundle of carrots, wishing a young girl with eyes like animated agates would let him sketch her, and gazing up at intervals at the beautiful, slim tower, as it played at contrasts with the large blue air. After he had spent the greater part of a week in these grave considerations, he made up his mind to leave Siena. But he was not content with what he had done for his portfolio. Siena was eminently sketchable, but he had not been industrious. On the last morning of his visit, as he stood staring about him in the crowded piazza, and feeling that, in spite of its picturesqueness, this was an awkward place for setting up an easel, he bethought himself, by contrast, of a quiet corner in another part of the town, which he had chanced upon in one of his first walks — an angle of a lonely terrace that abutted upon the city-wall, where three or four superannuated objects seemed to slumber in the sunshine — the open door of an empty church, with a faded fresco exposed to the air in the arch above it, and an ancient beggar-woman sitting beside it on a three-legged stool. The little terrace had an old polished parapet, about as high as a man’s breast, above which was a view of strange, sad-colored hills. Outside, to the left, the wall of the town made an outward bend, and exposed its rugged and rusty complexion. There was a smooth stone bench set into the wall of the church, on which Longueville had rested for an hour, observing the composition of the little picture of which I have indicated the elements, and of which the parapet of the terrace would form the foreground. The thing was what painters call a subject, and he had promised himself to come back with his utensils. This morning he returned to the inn and took possession of them, and then he made his way through a labyrinth of empty streets, lying on the edge of the town, within the wall, like the superfluous folds of a garment whose wearer has shrunken with old age. He reached his little grassgrown terrace, and found it as sunny and as private as before. The old mendicant was mumbling petitions, sacred and profane, at the church door; but save for this the stillness was unbroken. The yellow sunshine warmed the brown surface of the city-wall, and lighted the hollows of the Etruscan hills. Longueville settled himself on the empty bench, and, arranging his little portable apparatus, began to ply his brushes. He worked for some time smoothly and rapidly, with an agreeable sense of the absence of obstacles. It seemed almost an interruption when, in the silent air, he heard a distant bell in the town strike noon. Shortly after this, there was another interruption. The sound of a soft footstep caused him to look up; whereupon he saw a young woman standing there and bending her eyes upon the graceful artist. A second glance assured him that she was that nice girl whom he had seen going into the other inn with her mother, and suggested that she had just emerged from the little church. He suspected, however — I hardly know why — that she had been looking at him for some moments before he perceived her. It would perhaps be impertinent to inquire what she thought of him; but Longueville, in the space of an instant, made two or three reflections upon the young lady. One of them was to the effect that she was a handsome creature, but that she looked rather bold; the burden of the other was that — yes, decidedly — she was a compatriot. She turned away almost as soon as she met his eyes; he had hardly time to raise his hat, as, after a moment’s hesitation, he proceeded to do. She herself appeared to feel a certain hesitation; she glanced back at the church door, as if under the impulse to retrace her steps. She stood there a moment longer — long enough to let him see that she was a person of easy attitudes — and then she walked away slowly to the parapet of the terrace. Here she stationed herself, leaning her arms upon the high stone ledge, presenting her back to Longueville, and gazing at rural Italy. Longueville went on with his sketch, but less attentively than before. He wondered what this young lady was doing there alone, and then it occurred to him that her companion — her mother, presumably — was in the church. The two ladies had been in the church when he arrived; women liked to sit in churches; they had been there more than half an hour, and the mother had not enough of it even yet. The young lady, however, at present preferred the view that Longueville was painting; he became aware that she had placed herself in the very centre of his foreground. His first feeling was that she would spoil it; his second was that she would improve it. Little by little she turned more into profile, leaning only one arm upon the parapet, while the other hand, holding her folded parasol, hung down at her side. She was motionless; it was almost as if she were standing there on purpose to be drawn. Yes, certainly she improved the picture. Her profile, delicate and thin, defined itself against the sky, in the clear shadow of a coquettish hat; her figure was light; she bent and leaned easily; she wore a gray dress, fastened up as was then the fashion, and displaying the broad edge of a crimson petticoat. She kept her position; she seemed absorbed in the view. “Is she posing — is she attitudinizing for my benefit?” Longueville asked of himself. And then it seemed to him that this was a needless assumption, for the prospect was quite beautiful enough to be looked at for itself, and there was nothing impossible in a pretty girl having a love of fine landscape. “But posing or not,” he went on, “I will put her into my sketch. She has simply put herself in. It will give it a human interest. There is nothing like having a human interest.” So, with the ready skill that he possessed, he introduced the young girl’s figure into his foreground, and at the end of ten minutes he had almost made something that had the form of a likeness. “If she will only be quiet for another ten minutes,” he said, “the thing will really be a picture.” Unfortunately, the young lady was not quiet; she had apparently had enough of her attitude and her view. She turned away, facing Longueville again, and slowly came back, as if to reenter the church. To do so she had to pass near him, and as she approached he instinctively got up, holding his drawing in one hand. She looked at him again, with that expression that he had mentally characterized as “bold,” a few minutes before — with dark, intelligent eyes. Her hair was dark and dense; she was a strikingly handsome girl.
“I am so sorry you moved,” he said, confidently, in English. “You were so — so beautiful.”
She stopped, looking at him more directly than ever; and she looked at his sketch, which he held out toward her. At the sketch, however, she only glanced, whereas there was observation in the eye that she bent upon Longueville. He never knew whether she had blushed; he afterward thought she might have been frightened. Nevertheless, it was not exactly terror that appeared to dictate her answer to Longueville’s speech.
“I am much obliged to you. Don’t you think you have looked at me enough?”
“By no means. I should like so much to finish my drawing.”
“I am not a professional model,” said the young lady.
“No. That’s my difficulty,” Longueville answered, laughing. “I can’t propose to remunerate you.”
The young lady seemed to think this joke in indifferent taste. She turned away in silence; but something in her expression, in his feeling at the time, in the situation, incited Longueville to higher play. He felt a lively need of carrying his point.
“You see it will be pure kindness,” he went on,— “a simple act of charity. Five minutes will be enough. Treat me as an Italian beggar.”
She had laid down his sketch and had stepped forward. He stood there, obsequious, clasping his hands and smiling.
His interruptress stopped and looked at him again, as if she thought him a very odd person; but she seemed amused. Now, at any rate, she was not frightened. She seemed even disposed to provoke him a little.
“I wish to go to my mother,” she said.
“Where is your mother?” the young man asked.
“In the church, of course. I didn’t come here alone!”
“Of course not; but you may be sure that your mother is very contented. I have been in that little church. It is charming. She is just resting there; she is probably tired. If you will kindly give me five minutes more, she will come out to you.”
“Five minutes?” the young girl asked.
“Five minutes will do. I shall be eternally grateful.” Longueville was amused at himself as he said this. He cared infinitely less for his sketch than the words appeared to imply; but, somehow, he cared greatly that this graceful stranger should do what he had proposed.
The graceful stranger dropped an eye on the sketch again.
“Is your picture so good as that?” she asked.
“I have a great deal of talent,” he answered, laughing. “You shall see for yourself, when it is finished.”
She turned slowly toward the terrace again.
“You certainly have a great deal of talent, to induce me to do what you ask.” And she walked to where she had stood before. Longueville made a movement to go with her, as if to show her the attitude he meant; but, pointing with decision to his easel, she said —
“You have only five minutes.” He immediately went back to his work, and she made a vague attempt to take up her position. “You must tell me if this will do,” she added, in a moment.
“It will do beautifully,” Longueville answered, in a happy tone, looking at her and plying his brush. “It is immensely good of you to take so much trouble.”
For a moment she made no rejoinder, but presently she said —
“Of course if I pose at all I wish to pose well.”
“You pose admirably,” said Longueville.
After this she said nothing, and for several minutes he painted rapidly and in silence. He felt a certain excitement, and the movement of his thoughts kept pace with that of his brush. It was very true that she posed admirably; she was a fine creature to paint. Her prettiness inspired him, and also her audacity, as he was content to regard it for the moment. He wondered about her — who she was, and what she was — perceiving that the so-called audacity was not vulgar boldness, but the play of an original and probably interesting character. It was obvious that she was a perfect lady, but it was equally obvious that she was irregularly clever. Longueville’s little figure was a success — a charming success, he thought, as he put on the last touches. While he was doing this, his model’s companion came into view. She came out of the church, pausing a moment as she looked from her daughter to the young man in the corner of the terrace; then she walked straight over to the young girl. She was a delicate little gentlewoman, with a light, quick step.
Longueville’s five minutes were up; so, leaving his place, he approached the two ladies, sketch in hand. The elder one, who had passed her hand into her daughter’s arm, looked up at him with clear, surprised eyes; she was a charming old woman. Her eyes were very pretty, and on either side of them, above a pair of fine dark brows, was a band of silvery hair, rather coquettishly arranged.
“It is my portrait,” said her daughter, as Longueville drew near. “This gentleman has been sketching me.”
“Sketching you, dearest?” murmured her mother. “Wasn’t it rather sudden?”
“Very sudden — very abrupt!” exclaimed the young girl with a laugh.
“Considering all that, it’s very good,” said Longueville, offering his picture to the elder lady, who took it and began to examine it. “I can’t tell you how much I thank you,” he said to his model.
“It’s very well for you to thank me now,” she replied. “You really had no right to begin.”
“The temptation was so great.”
“We should resist temptation. And you should have asked my leave.”
“I was afraid you would refuse it; and you stood there, just in my line of vision.”
“You should have asked me to get out of it.”
“I should have been very sorry. Besides, it would have been extremely rude.”
The young girl looked at him a moment.
“Yes, I think it would. But what you have done is ruder.”
“It is a hard case!” said Longueville. “What could I have done, then, decently?”
“It’s a beautiful drawing,” murmured the elder lady, handing the thing back to Longueville. Her daughter, meanwhile, had not even glanced at it.
“You might have waited till I should go away,” this argumentative young person continued.
Longueville shook his head.
“I never lose opportunities!”
“You might have sketched me afterwards, from memory.”
Longueville looked at her, smiling.
“Judge how much better my memory will be now!”
She also smiled a little, but instantly became serious.
“For myself, it’s an episode I shall try to forget. I don’t like the part I have played in it.”
“May you never play a less becoming one!” cried Longueville. “I hope that your mother, at least, will accept a memento of the occasion.” And he turned again with his sketch to her companion, who had been listening to the girl’s conversation with this enterprising stranger, and looking from one to the other with an air of earnest confusion. “Won’t you do me the honor of keeping my sketch?” he said. “I think it really looks like your daughter.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you; I hardly dare,” murmured the lady, with a deprecating gesture.
“It will serve as a kind of amends for the liberty I have taken,” Longueville added; and he began to remove the drawing from its paper block.
“It makes it worse for you to give it to us,” said the young girl.
“Oh, my dear, I am sure it’s lovely!” exclaimed her mother. “It’s wonderfully like you.”
“I think that also makes it worse!”
Longueville was at last nettled. The young lady’s perversity was perhaps not exactly malignant; but it was certainly ungracious. She seemed to desire to present herself as a beautiful tormentress.
“How does it make it worse?” he asked, with a frown.
He believed she was clever, and she was certainly ready. Now, however, she reflected a moment before answering.
“That you should give us your sketch,” she said at last.
“It was to your mother I offered it,” Longueville observed.
But this observation, the fruit of his irritation, appeared to have no effect upon the young girl.
“Isn’t it what painters call a study?” she went on. “A study is of use to the painter himself. Your justification would be that you should keep your sketch, and that it might be of use to you.”
“My daughter is a study, sir, you will say,” said the elder lady in a little, light, conciliating voice, and graciously accepting the drawing again.
“I will admit,” said Longueville, “that I am very inconsistent. Set it down to my esteem, madam,” he added, looking at the mother.
“That’s for you, mamma,” said his model, disengaging her arm from her mother’s hand and turning away.
The mamma stood looking at the sketch with a smile which seemed to express a tender desire to reconcile all accidents.
“It’s extremely beautiful,” she murmured, “and if you insist on my taking it— “
“I shall regard it as a great honor.”
“Very well, then; with many thanks, I will keep it.” She looked at the young man a moment, while her daughter walked away. Longueville thought her a delightful little person; she struck him as a sort of transfigured Quakeress — a mystic with a practical side. “I am sure you think she’s a strange girl,” she said.
“She is extremely pretty.”
“She is very clever,” said the mother.
“She is wonderfully graceful.”
“Ah, but she’s good!” cried the old lady.
“I am sure she comes honestly by that,” said Longueville, expressively, while his companion, returning his salutation with a certain scrupulous grace of her own, hurried after her daughter.
Longueville remained there staring at the view but not especially seeing it. He felt as if he had at once enjoyed and lost an opportunity. After a while he tried to make a sketch of the old beggar-woman who sat there in a sort of palsied immobility, like a rickety statue at a church-door. But his attempt to reproduce her features was not gratifying, and he suddenly laid down his brush. She was not pretty enough — she had a bad profile.
Chapter II
Two months later Bernard Longueville was at Venice, still under the impression that he was leaving Italy. He was not a man who made plans and held to them. He made them, indeed — few men made more — but he made them as a basis for variation. He had gone to Venice to spend a fortnight, and his fortnight had taken the form of eight enchanting weeks. He had still a sort of conviction that he was carrying out his plans; for it must be confessed that where his pleasure was concerned he had considerable skill in accommodating his theory to his practice. His enjoyment of Venice was extreme, but he was roused from it by a summons he was indisposed to resist. This consisted of a letter from an intimate friend who was living in Germany — a friend whose name was Gordon Wright. He had been spending the winter in Dresden, but his letter bore the date of Baden-Baden. As it was not long, I may give it entire.
“I wish very much that you would come to this place. I think you have been here before, so that you know how pretty it is, and how amusing. I shall probably be here the rest of the summer. There are some people I know and whom I want you to know. Be so good as to arrive. Then I will thank you properly for your various Italian rhapsodies. I can’t reply on the same scale — I haven’t the time. Do you know what I am doing? I am making love. I find it a most absorbing occupation. That is literally why I have not written to you before. I have been making love ever since the last of May. It takes an immense amount of time, and everything else has got terribly behindhand. I don’t mean to say that the experiment itself has gone on very fast; but I am trying to push it forward. I haven’t yet had time to test its success; but in this I want your help. You know we great physicists never make an experiment without an ‘assistant’ — a humble individual who burns his fingers and stains his clothes in the cause of science, but whose interest in the problem is only indirect. I want you to be my assistant, and I will guarantee that your burns and stains shall not be dangerous. She is an extremely interesting girl, and I really want you to see her — I want to know what you think of her. She wants to know you, too, for I have talked a good deal about you. There you have it, if gratified vanity will help you on the way. Seriously, this is a real request. I want your opinion, your impression. I want to see how she will affect you. I don’t say I ask for your advice; that, of course, you will not undertake to give. But I desire a definition, a characterization; you know you toss off those things. I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you all this — I have always told you everything. I have never pretended to know anything about women, but I have always supposed that you knew everything. You certainly have always had the tone of that sort of omniscience. So come here as soon as possible and let me see that you are not a humbug. She’s a very handsome girl.”
Longueville was so much amused with this appeal that he very soon started for Germany. In the reader, Gordon Wright’s letter will, perhaps, excite surprise rather than hilarity; but Longueville thought it highly characteristic of his friend. What it especially pointed to was Gordon’s want of imagination — a deficiency which was a matter of common jocular allusion between the two young men, each of whom kept a collection of acknowledged oddities as a playground for the other’s wit. Bernard had often spoken of his comrade’s want of imagination as a bottomless pit, into which Gordon was perpetually inviting him to lower himself. “My dear fellow,” Bernard said, “you must really excuse me; I cannot take these subterranean excursions. I should lose my breath down there; I should never come up alive. You know I have dropped things down — little jokes and metaphors, little fantasies and paradoxes — and I have never heard them touch bottom!” This was an epigram on the part of a young man who had a lively play of fancy; but it was none the less true that Gordon Wright had a firmly-treading, rather than a winged, intellect. Every phrase in his letter seemed, to Bernard, to march in stout-soled walking-boots, and nothing could better express his attachment to the process of reasoning things out than this proposal that his friend should come and make a chemical analysis — a geometrical survey — of the lady of his love. “That I shall have any difficulty in forming an opinion, and any difficulty in expressing it when formed — of this he has as little idea as that he shall have any difficulty in accepting it when expressed.” So Bernard reflected, as he rolled in the train to Munich. “Gordon’s mind,” he went on, “has no atmosphere; his intellectual process goes on in the void. There are no currents and eddies to affect it, no high winds nor hot suns, no changes of season and temperature. His premises are neatly arranged, and his conclusions are perfectly calculable.”
Yet for the man on whose character he so freely exercised his wit Bernard Longueville had a strong affection. It is nothing against the validity of a friendship that the parties to it have not a mutual resemblance. There must be a basis of agreement, but the structure reared upon it may contain a thousand disparities. These two young men had formed an alliance of old, in college days, and the bond between them had been strengthened by the simple fact of its having survived the sentimental revolutions of early life. Its strongest link was a sort of mutual respect. Their tastes, their pursuits were different; but each of them had a high esteem for the other’s character. It may be said that they were easily pleased; for it is certain that neither of them had performed any very conspicuous action. They were highly civilized young Americans, born to an easy fortune and a tranquil destiny, and unfamiliar with the glitter of golden opportunities. If I did not shrink from disparaging the constitution of their native land for their own credit, I should say that it had never been very definitely proposed to these young gentlemen to distinguish themselves. On reaching manhood, they had each come into property sufficient to make violent exertion superfluous. Gordon Wright, indeed, had inherited a large estate. Their wants being tolerably modest, they had not been tempted to strive for the glory of building up commercial fortunes — the most obvious career open to young Americans. They had, indeed, embraced no career at all, and if summoned to give an account of themselves would, perhaps, have found it hard to tell any very impressive story. Gordon Wright was much interested in physical science, and had ideas of his own on what is called the endowment of research. His ideas had taken a practical shape, and he had distributed money very freely among the investigating classes, after which he had gone to spend a couple of years in Germany, supposing it to be the land of laboratories. Here we find him at present, cultivating relations with several learned bodies and promoting the study of various tough branches of human knowledge, by paying the expenses of difficult experiments. The experiments, it must be added, were often of his own making, and he must have the honor of whatever brilliancy attaches, in the estimation of the world, to such pursuits. It was not, indeed, a brilliancy that dazzled Bernard Longueville, who, however, was not easily dazzled by anything. It was because he regarded him in so plain and direct a fashion, that Bernard had an affection for his friend — an affection to which it would perhaps be difficult to assign a definite cause. Personal sympathies are doubtless caused by something; but the causes are remote, mysterious to our daily vision, like those of the particular state of the weather. We content ourselves with remarking that it is fine or that it rains, and the enjoyment of our likes and dislikes is by no means apt to borrow its edge from the keenness of our analysis. Longueville had a relish for fine quality — superior savour; and he was sensible of this merit in the simple, candid, manly, affectionate nature of his comrade, which seemed to him an excellent thing of its kind. Gordon Wright had a tender heart and a strong will — a combination which, when the understanding is not too limited, is often the motive of admirable actions. There might sometimes be a question whether Gordon’s understanding were sufficiently unlimited, but the impulses of a generous temper often play a useful part in filling up the gaps of an incomplete imagination, and the general impression that Wright produced was certainly that of intelligent goodnature. The reasons for appreciating Bernard Longueville were much more manifest. He pleased superficially, as well as fundamentally. Nature had sent him into the world with an armful of good gifts. He was very goodlooking — tall, dark, agile, perfectly finished, so goodlooking that he might have been a fool and yet be forgiven. As has already been intimated, however, he was far from being a fool. He had a number of talents, which, during three or four years that followed his leaving college, had received the discipline of the study of the law. He had not made much of the law; but he had made something of his talents. He was almost always spoken of as “accomplished;” people asked why he didn’t do something. This question was never satisfactorily answered, the feeling being that Longueville did more than many people in causing it to be asked. Moreover, there was one thing he did constantly — he enjoyed himself. This is manifestly not a career, and it has been said at the outset that he was not attached to any of the recognized professions. But without going into details, he was a charming fellow — clever, urbane, freehanded, and with that fortunate quality in his appearance which is known as distinction.
Chapter III
He had not specified, in writing to Gordon Wright, the day on which he should arrive at Baden-Baden; it must be confessed that he was not addicted to specifying days. He came to his journey’s end in the evening, and, on presenting himself at the hotel from which his friend had dated his letter, he learned that Gordon Wright had betaken himself after dinner, according to the custom of Baden-Baden, to the grounds of the Conversation-house. It was eight o’clock, and Longueville, after removing the stains of travel, sat down to dine. His first impulse had been to send for Gordon to come and keep him company at his repast; but on second thought he determined to make it as brief as possible. Having brought it to a close, he took his way to the Kursaal. The great German watering-place is one of the prettiest nooks in Europe, and of a summer evening in the gaming days, five-and-twenty years ago, it was one of the most brilliant scenes. The lighted windows of the great temple of hazard (of as chaste an architecture as if it had been devoted to a much purer divinity) opened wide upon the gardens and groves; the little river that issues from the bosky mountains of the Black Forest flowed, with an air of brook-like innocence, past the expensive hotels and lodging-houses; the orchestra, in a high pavilion on the terrace of the Kursaal, played a discreet accompaniment to the conversation of the ladies and gentlemen who, scattered over the large expanse on a thousand little chairs, preferred for the time the beauties of nature to the shuffle of coin and the calculation of chance; while the faint summer stars, twinkling above the vague black hills and woods, looked down at the indifferent groups without venturing to drop their light upon them.
Longueville, noting all this, went straight into the gaming-rooms; he was curious to see whether his friend, being fond of experiments, was trying combinations at roulette. But he was not to be found in any of the gilded chambers, among the crowd that pressed in silence about the tables; so that Bernard presently came and began to wander about the lamplit terrace, where innumerable groups, seated and strolling, made the place a gigantic conversazione. It seemed to him very agreeable and amusing, and he remarked to himself that, for a man who was supposed not to take especially the Epicurean view of life, Gordon Wright, in coming to Baden, had certainly made himself comfortable. Longueville went his way, glancing from one cluster of talkers to another; and at last he saw a face which brought him to a stop. He stood a moment looking at it; he knew he had seen it before. He had an excellent memory for faces; but it was some time before he was able to attach an identity to this one. Where had he seen a little elderly lady with an expression of timorous vigilance, and a band of hair as softly white as a dove’s wing? The answer to the question presently came — Where but in a grassgrown corner of an old Italian town? The lady was the mother of his inconsequent model, so that this mysterious personage was probably herself not far off. Before Longueville had time to verify this induction, he found his eyes resting upon the broad back of a gentleman seated close to the old lady, and who, turning away from her, was talking to a young girl. It was nothing but the back of this gentleman that he saw, but nevertheless, with the instinct of true friendship, he recognized in this featureless expanse the robust personality of Gordon Wright. In a moment he had stepped forward and laid his hand upon Wright’s shoulder.
His friend looked round, and then sprang up with a joyous exclamation and grasp of the hand.
“My dear fellow — my dear Bernard! What on earth — when did you arrive?”
While Bernard answered and explained a little, he glanced from his friend’s good, gratified face at the young girl with whom Wright had been talking, and then at the lady on the other side, who was giving him a bright little stare. He raised his hat to her and to the young girl, and he became conscious, as regards the latter, of a certain disappointment. She was very pretty; she was looking at him; but she was not the heroine of the little incident of the terrace at Siena.
“It’s just like Longueville, you know,” Gordon Wright went on; “he always comes at you from behind; he’s so awfully fond of surprises.” He was laughing; he was greatly pleased; he introduced Bernard to the two ladies. “You must know Mrs. Vivian; you must know Miss Blanche Evers.”
Bernard took his place in the little circle; he wondered whether he ought to venture upon a special recognition of Mrs. Vivian. Then it seemed to him that he should leave the option of this step with the lady, especially as he had detected recognition in her eye. But Mrs. Vivian ventured upon nothing special; she contented herself with soft generalities — with remarking that she always liked to know when people would arrive; that, for herself, she never enjoyed surprises.
“And yet I imagine you have had your share,” said Longueville, with a smile. He thought this might remind her of the moment when she came out of the little church at Siena and found her daughter posturing to an unknown painter.
But Mrs. Vivian, turning her benignant head about, gave but a superficial reply.
“Oh, I have had my share of everything, good and bad. I don’t complain of anything.” And she gave a little deprecating laugh.
Gordon Wright shook hands with Bernard again; he seemed really very glad to see him. Longueville, remembering that Gordon had written to him that he had been “making love,” began to seek in his countenance for the ravages of passion. For the moment, however, they were not apparent; the excellent, honest fellow looked placid and contented. Gordon Wright had a clear gray eye, short, straight, flaxen hair, and a healthy diffusion of color. His features were thick and rather irregular; but his countenance — in addition to the merit of its expression — derived a certain grace from a powerful yellow moustache, to which its wearer occasionally gave a martial twist. Gordon Wright was not tall, but he was strong, and in his whole person there was something well-planted and sturdy. He almost always dressed in light-colored garments, and he wore round his neck an eternal blue cravat. When he was agitated he grew very red. While he questioned Longueville about his journey and his health, his whereabouts and his intentions, the latter, among his own replies, endeavored to read in Wright’s eyes some account of his present situation. Was that pretty girl at his side the ambiguous object of his adoration, and, in that case, what was the function of the elder lady, and what had become of her argumentative daughter? Perhaps this was another, a younger daughter, though, indeed, she bore no resemblance to either of Longueville’s friends. Gordon Wright, in spite of Bernard’s interrogative glances, indulged in no optical confidences. He had too much to tell. He would keep his story till they should be alone together. It was impossible that they should adjourn just yet to social solitude; the two ladies were under Gordon’s protection. Mrs. Vivian — Bernard felt a satisfaction in learning her name; it was as if a curtain, half pulled up and stopped by a hitch, had suddenly been raised altogether — Mrs. Vivian sat looking up and down the terrace at the crowd of loungers and talkers with an air of tender expectation. She was probably looking for her elder daughter, and Longueville could not help wishing also that this young lady would arrive. Meanwhile, he saw that the young girl to whom Gordon had been devoting himself was extremely pretty, and appeared eminently approachable. Longueville had some talk with her, reflecting that if she were the person concerning whom Gordon had written him, it behooved him to appear to take an interest in her. This view of the case was confirmed by Gordon Wright’s presently turning away to talk with Mrs. Vivian, so that his friend might be at liberty to make acquaintance with their companion.
Though she had not been with the others at Siena, it seemed to Longueville, with regard to her, too, that this was not the first time he had seen her. She was simply the American pretty girl, whom he had seen a thousand times. It was a numerous sisterhood, pervaded by a strong family likeness. This young lady had charming eyes (of the color of Gordon’s cravats), which looked everywhere at once and yet found time to linger in some places, where Longueville’s own eyes frequently met them. She had soft brown hair, with a silky-golden thread in it, beautifully arranged and crowned by a smart little hat that savoured of Paris. She had also a slender little figure, neatly rounded, and delicate, narrow hands, prettily gloved. She moved about a great deal in her place, twisted her little flexible body and tossed her head, fingered her hair and examined the ornaments of her dress. She had a great deal of conversation, Longueville speedily learned, and she expressed herself with extreme frankness and decision. He asked her, to begin with, if she had been long at Baden, but the impetus of this question was all she required. Turning her charming, conscious, coquettish little face upon him, she instantly began to chatter.
“I have been here about four weeks. I don’t know whether you call that long. It doesn’t seem long to me; I have had such a lovely time. I have met ever so many people here I know — every day some one turns up. Now you have turned up to-day.”
“Ah, but you don’t know me,” said Longueville, laughing.
“Well, I have heard a great deal about you!” cried the young girl, with a pretty little stare of contradiction. “I think you know a great friend of mine, Miss Ella Maclane, of Baltimore. She’s travelling in Europe now.” Longueville’s memory did not instantly respond to this signal, but he expressed that rapturous assent which the occasion demanded, and even risked the observation that the young lady from Baltimore was very pretty. “She’s far too lovely,” his companion went on. “I have often heard her speak of you. I think you know her sister rather better than you know her. She has not been out very long. She is just as interesting as she can be. Her hair comes down to her feet. She’s travelling in Norway. She has been everywhere you can think of, and she’s going to finish off with Finland. You can’t go any further than that, can you? That’s one comfort; she will have to turn round and come back. I want her dreadfully to come to Baden-Baden.”
“I wish she would,” said Longueville. “Is she travelling alone?”
“Oh, no. They ‘ve got some Englishman. They say he’s devoted to Ella. Every one seems to have an Englishman, now. We ‘ve got one here, Captain Lovelock, the Honourable Augustus Lovelock. Well, they ‘re awfully handsome. Ella Maclane is dying to come to Baden-Baden. I wish you ‘d write to her. Her father and mother have got some idea in their heads; they think it’s improper — what do you call it? — immoral. I wish you would write to her and tell her it isn’t. I wonder if they think that Mrs. Vivian would come to a place that’s immoral. Mrs. Vivian says she would take her in a moment; she doesn’t seem to care how many she has. I declare, she’s only too kind. You know I’m in Mrs. Vivian’s care. My mother’s gone to Marienbad. She would let me go with Mrs. Vivian anywhere, on account of the influence — she thinks so much of Mrs. Vivian’s influence. I have always heard a great deal about it, haven’t you? I must say it’s lovely; it’s had a wonderful effect upon me. I don’t want to praise myself, but it has. You ask Mrs. Vivian if I haven’t been good. I have been just as good as I can be. I have been so peaceful, I have just sat here this way. Do you call this immoral? You ‘re not obliged to gamble if you don’t want to. Ella Maclane’s father seems to think you get drawn in. I’m sure I haven’t been drawn in. I know what you ‘re going to say — you ‘re going to say I have been drawn out. Well, I have, tonight. We just sit here so quietly — there’s nothing to do but to talk. We make a little party by ourselves — are you going to belong to our party? Two of us are missing — Miss Vivian and Captain Lovelock. Captain Lovelock has gone with her into the rooms to explain the gambling — Miss Vivian always wants everything explained. I am sure I understood it the first time I looked at the tables. Have you ever seen Miss Vivian? She’s very much admired, she’s so very unusual. Black hair’s so uncommon — I see you have got it too — but I mean for young ladies. I am sure one sees everything here. There’s a woman that comes to the tables — a Portuguese countess — who has hair that is positively blue. I can’t say I admire it when it comes to that shade. Blue’s my favorite color, but I prefer it in the eyes,” continued Longueville’s companion, resting upon him her own two brilliant little specimens of the tint.
He listened with that expression of clear amusement which is not always an indication of high esteem, but which even pretty chatterers, who are not the reverse of estimable, often prefer to masculine inattention; and while he listened Bernard, according to his wont, made his reflections. He said to himself that there were two kinds of pretty girls — the acutely conscious and the finely unconscious. Mrs. Vivian’s protege was a member of the former category; she belonged to the genus coquette. We all have our conception of the indispensable, and the indispensable, to this young lady, was a spectator; almost any male biped would serve the purpose. To her spectator she addressed, for the moment, the whole volume of her being — addressed it in her glances, her attitudes, her exclamations, in a hundred little experiments of tone and gesture and position. And these rustling artifices were so innocent and obvious that the directness of her desire to be well with her observer became in itself a grace; it led Bernard afterward to say to himself that the natural vocation and metier of little girls for whom existence was but a shimmering surface, was to prattle and ruffle their plumage; their view of life and its duties was as simple and superficial as that of an Oriental bayadere. It surely could not be with regard to this transparent little flirt that Gordon Wright desired advice; you could literally see the daylight — or rather the Baden gaslight — on the other side of her. She sat there for a minute, turning her little empty head to and fro, and catching Bernard’s eye every time she moved; she had for the instant the air of having exhausted all topics. Just then a young lady, with a gentleman at her side, drew near to the little group, and Longueville, perceiving her, instantly got up from his chair.
“There’s a beauty of the unconscious class!” he said to himself. He knew her face very well; he had spent half an hour in copying it.
“Here comes Miss Vivian!” said Gordon Wright, also getting up, as if to make room for the daughter near the mother.
She stopped in front of them, smiling slightly, and then she rested her eyes upon Longueville. Their gaze at first was full and direct, but it expressed nothing more than civil curiosity. This was immediately followed, however, by the light of recognition — recognition embarrassed, and signalling itself by a blush.
Miss Vivian’s companion was a powerful, handsome fellow, with a remarkable auburn beard, who struck the observer immediately as being uncommonly well dressed. He carried his hands in the pockets of a little jacket, the buttonhole of which was adorned with a blooming rose. He approached Blanche Evers, smiling and dandling his body a little, and making her two or three jocular bows.
“Well, I hope you have lost every penny you put on the table!” said the young girl, by way of response to his obeisances.
He began to laugh and repeat them.
“I don’t care what I lose, so long — so long— “
“So long as what, pray?”
“So long as you let me sit down by you!” And he dropped, very gallantly, into a chair on the other side of her.
“I wish you would lose all your property!” she replied, glancing at Bernard.
“It would be a very small stake,” said Captain Lovelock. “Would you really like to see me reduced to misery?”
While this graceful dialogue rapidly established itself, Miss Vivian removed her eyes from Longueville’s face and turned toward her mother. But Gordon Wright checked this movement by laying his hand on Longueville’s shoulder and proceeding to introduce his friend.
“This is the accomplished creature, Mr. Bernard Longueville, of whom you have heard me speak. One of his accomplishments, as you see, is to drop down from the moon.”
“No, I don’t drop from the moon,” said Bernard, laughing. “I drop from — Siena!” He offered his hand to Miss Vivian, who for an appreciable instant hesitated to extend her own. Then she returned his salutation, without any response to his allusion to Siena.
She declined to take a seat, and said she was tired and preferred to go home. With this suggestion her mother immediately complied, and the two ladies appealed to the indulgence of little Miss Evers, who was obliged to renounce the society of Captain Lovelock. She enjoyed this luxury, however, on the way to Mrs. Vivian’s lodgings, toward which they all slowly strolled, in the sociable Baden fashion. Longueville might naturally have found himself next Miss Vivian, but he received an impression that she avoided him. She walked in front, and Gordon Wright strolled beside her, though Longueville noticed that they appeared to exchange but few words. He himself offered his arm to Mrs. Vivian, who paced along with a little lightly-wavering step, making observations upon the beauties of Baden and the respective merits of the hotels.
Chapter IV
“Which of them is it?” asked Longueville of his friend, after they had bidden goodnight to the three ladies and to Captain Lovelock, who went off to begin, as he said, the evening. They stood, when they had turned away from the door of Mrs. Vivian’s lodgings, in the little, rough-paved German street.
“Which of them is what?” Gordon asked, staring at his companion.
“Oh, come,” said Longueville, “you are not going to begin to play at modesty at this hour! Didn’t you write to me that you had been making violent love?”
“Violent? No.”
“The more shame to you! Has your lovemaking been feeble?”
His friend looked at him a moment rather soberly.
“I suppose you thought it a queer document — that letter I wrote you.”
“I thought it characteristic,” said Longueville smiling.
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Not in the least. I have never thought you a man of oddities.” Gordon stood there looking at him with a serious eye, half appealing, half questioning; but at these last words he glanced away. Even a very modest man may wince a little at hearing himself denied the distinction of a few variations from the common type. Longueville made this reflection, and it struck him, also, that his companion was in a graver mood than he had expected; though why, after all, should he have been in a state of exhilaration? “Your letter was a very natural, interesting one,” Bernard added.
“Well, you see,” said Gordon, facing his companion again, “I have been a good deal preoccupied.”
“Obviously, my dear fellow!”
“I want very much to marry.”
“It’s a capital idea,” said Longueville.
“I think almost as well of it,” his friend declared, “as if I had invented it. It has struck me for the first time.”
These words were uttered with a mild simplicity which provoked Longueville to violent laughter.
“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “you have, after all, your little oddities.”
Singularly enough, however, Gordon Wright failed to appear flattered by this concession.
“I didn’t send for you to laugh at me,” he said.
“Ah, but I haven’t travelled three hundred miles to cry! Seriously, solemnly, then, it is one of these young ladies that has put marriage into your head?”
“Not at all. I had it in my head.”
“Having a desire to marry, you proceeded to fall in love.”
“I am not in love!” said Gordon Wright, with some energy.
“Ah, then, my dear fellow, why did you send for me?”
Wright looked at him an instant in silence.
“Because I thought you were a good fellow, as well as a clever one.”
“A good fellow!” repeated Longueville. “I don’t understand your confounded scientific nomenclature. But excuse me; I won’t laugh. I am not a clever fellow; but I am a good one.” He paused a moment, and then laid his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “My dear Gordon, it’s no use; you are in love.”
“Well, I don’t want to be,” said Wright.
“Heavens, what a horrible sentiment!”
“I want to marry with my eyes open. I want to know my wife. You don’t know people when you are in love with them. Your impressions are colored.”
“They are supposed to be, slightly. And you object to color?”
“Well, as I say, I want to know the woman I marry, as I should know any one else. I want to see her as clearly.”
“Depend upon it, you have too great an appetite for knowledge; you set too high an esteem upon the dry light of science.”
“Ah!” said Gordon promptly; “of course I want to be fond of her.”
Bernard, in spite of his protest, began to laugh again.
“My dear Gordon, you are better than your theories. Your passionate heart contradicts your frigid intellect. I repeat it — you are in love.”
“Please don’t repeat it again,” said Wright.
Bernard took his arm, and they walked along.
“What shall I call it, then? You are engaged in making studies for matrimony.”
“I don’t in the least object to your calling it that. My studies are of extreme interest.”
“And one of those young ladies is the fair volume that contains the precious lesson,” said Longueville. “Or perhaps your textbook is in two volumes?”
“No; there is one of them I am not studying at all. I never could do two things at once.”
“That proves you are in love. One can’t be in love with two women at once, but one may perfectly have two of them — or as many as you please — up for a competitive examination. However, as I asked you before, which of these young ladies is it that you have selected?”
Gordon Wright stopped abruptly, eying his friend.
“Which should you say?”
“Ah, that’s not a fair question,” Bernard urged. “It would be invidious for me to name one rather than the other, and if I were to mention the wrong one, I should feel as if I had been guilty of a rudeness towards the other. Don’t you see?”
Gordon saw, perhaps, but he held to his idea of making his companion commit himself.
“Never mind the rudeness. I will do the same by you some day, to make it up. Which of them should you think me likely to have taken a fancy to? On general grounds, now, from what you know of me?” He proposed this problem with an animated eye.
“You forget,” his friend said, “that though I know, thank heaven, a good deal of you, I know very little of either of those girls. I have had too little evidence.”
“Yes, but you are a man who notices. That’s why I wanted you to come.”
“I spoke only to Miss Evers.”
“Yes, I know you have never spoken to Miss Vivian.” Gordon Wright stood looking at Bernard and urging his point as he pronounced these words. Bernard felt peculiarly conscious of his gaze. The words represented an illusion, and Longueville asked himself quickly whether it were not his duty to dispel it. The answer came more slowly than the question, but still it came, in the shape of a negative. The illusion was but a trifling one, and it was not for him, after all, to let his friend know that he had already met Miss Vivian. It was for the young girl herself, and since she had not done so — although she had the opportunity — Longueville said to himself that he was bound in honor not to speak. These reflections were very soon made, but in the midst of them our young man, thanks to a great agility of mind, found time to observe, tacitly, that it was odd, just there, to see his “honor” thrusting in its nose. Miss Vivian, in her own good time, would doubtless mention to Gordon the little incident of Siena. It was Bernard’s fancy, for a moment, that he already knew it, and that the remark he had just uttered had an ironical accent; but this impression was completely dissipated by the tone in which he added— “All the same, you noticed her.”
“Oh, yes; she is very noticeable.”
“Well, then,” said Gordon, “you will see. I should like you to make it out. Of course, if I am really giving my attention to one to the exclusion of the other, it will be easy to discover.”
Longueville was half amused, half irritated by his friend’s own relish of his little puzzle. “‘The exclusion of the other’ has an awkward sound,” he answered, as they walked on. “Am I to notice that you are very rude to one of the young ladies?”
“Oh dear, no. Do you think there is a danger of that?”
“Well,” said Longueville, “I have already guessed.”
Gordon Wright remonstrated. “Don’t guess yet — wait a few days. I won’t tell you now.”
“Let us see if he doesn’t tell me,” said Bernard, privately. And he meditated a moment. “When I presented myself, you were sitting very close to Miss Evers and talking very earnestly. Your head was bent toward her — it was very loverlike. Decidedly, Miss Evers is the object!”
For a single instant Gordon Wright hesitated, and then— “I hope I haven’t seemed rude to Miss Vivian!” he exclaimed.
Bernard broke into a light laugh. “My dear Gordon, you are very much in love!” he remarked, as they arrived at their hotel.
