The Tragic Muse E-Book

Henry James

• Herausgeber: Greenbooks editore
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

This wide, cheerful panorama of English life follows the fortunes of two would-be artists: Nick Dormer, who throws over a political career in his efforts to become a painter, and Miriam Rooth, an actress striving for artistic and commercial success. A cast of supporting characters help and hinder their pursuits.

Leseprobe

Henry James

Henry James

THE TRAGIC MUSE – BOOK I

ISBN 979-12-5971-950-8

Greenbooks editore

Digital edition

July 2021

www.greenbooks-editore.com

ISBN: 979-12-5971-950-8

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Index

THE TRAGIC MUSE – BOOK I

THE TRAGIC MUSE – BOOK I

BOOK FIRST

I

The people of France have made it no secret that those of England, as a general thing, are to their perception an inexpressive and speechless race, perpendicular and unsociable, unaddicted to enriching any bareness of contact with verbal or other embroidery. This view might have derived encouragement, a few years ago, in Paris, from the manner in which four persons sat together in silence, one fine day about noon, in the garden, as it is called, of the Palais de l’Industrie

—the central court of the great glazed bazaar where, among plants and parterres, gravelled walks and thin fountains, are ranged the figures and groups, the monuments and busts, which form in the annual exhibition of the Salon the department of statuary. The spirit of observation is naturally high at the Salon, quickened by a thousand artful or artless appeals, but it need have put forth no great intensity to take in the characters I mention. As a solicitation of the eye on definite grounds these visitors too constituted a successful plastic fact; and even the most superficial observer would have marked them as products of an insular neighbourhood, representatives of that tweed-and-waterproof class with which, on the recurrent occasions when the English turn out for a holiday—Christmas and Easter, Whitsuntide and the autumn

—Paris besprinkles itself at a night’s notice. They had about them the indefinable professional look of the British traveller abroad; the air of preparation for exposure, material and moral, which is so oddly combined with the serene revelation of

security and of persistence, and which excites, according to individual susceptibility, the ire or the admiration of foreign communities. They were the more unmistakable as they presented mainly the happier aspects of the energetic race to which they had the honour to belong. The fresh diffused light of the Salon made them clear and important; they were finished creations, in their way, and, ranged there motionless on their green bench, were almost as much on exhibition as if they had been hung on the line.

Three ladies and a young man, they were obviously a family

—a mother, two daughters and a son; a circumstance which had the effect at once of making each member of the group doubly typical and of helping to account for their fine taciturnity. They were not, with each other, on terms of ceremony, and also were probably fatigued with their course among the pictures, the rooms on the upper floor. Their attitude, on the part of visitors who had superior features even if they might appear to some passers-by to have neglected a fine opportunity for completing these features with an expression, was after all a kind of tribute to the state of exhaustion, of bewilderment, to which the genius of France is still capable of reducing the proud.

“En v’là des abrutis!” more than one of their fellow-gazers might have been heard to exclaim; and certain it is that there was something depressed and discouraged in this interesting group, who sat looking vaguely before them, not noticing the life of the place, somewhat as if each had a private anxiety. It might have been finely guessed, however, that though on many questions they were closely united this present anxiety was not the same for each. If they looked grave, moreover, this was doubtless partly the result of their all being dressed in such mourning as told of a recent bereavement. The eldest of the three ladies had indeed a face of a fine austere mould which would have been moved to gaiety only by some force more insidious than any she was likely to recognise in Paris. Cold, still, and considerably worn, it was neither stupid nor hard—it was firm, narrow and sharp. This competent matron,

acquainted evidently with grief but not weakened by it, had a high forehead to which the quality of the skin gave a singular polish—it glittered even when seen at a distance; a nose which achieved a high free curve; and a tendency to throw back her head and carry it well above her, as if to disengage it from the possible entanglements of the rest of her person. If you had seen her walk you would have felt her to tread the earth after a fashion suggesting that in a world where she had long since discovered that one couldn’t have one’s own way one could never tell what annoying aggression might take place, so that it was well, from hour to hour, to save what one could. Lady Agnes saved her head, her white triangular forehead, over which her close-crinkled flaxen hair, reproduced in different shades in her children, made a looped silken canopy like the marquee at a garden-party. Her daughters were as tall as herself—that was visible even as they sat there—and one of them, the younger evidently, altogether pretty; a straight, slender, grey-eyed English girl of the sort who show “good” figures and fresh complexions. The sister, who was not pretty, was also straight and slender and grey-eyed. But the grey in this case was not so pure, nor were the straightness and the slenderness so maidenly. The brother of these young ladies had taken off his hat as if he felt the air of the summer day heavy in the great pavilion. He was a lean, strong, clear-faced youth, with a formed nose and thick light-brown hair which lay continuously and profusely back from his forehead, so that to smooth it from the brow to the neck but a single movement of the hand was required. I cannot describe him better than by saying that he was the sort of young Englishman who looks particularly well in strange lands and whose general aspect— his inches, his limbs, his friendly eyes, the modulation of his voice, the cleanness of his flesh-tints and the fashion of his garments—excites on the part of those who encounter him in far countries on the ground of a common speech a delightful sympathy of race. This sympathy may sometimes be qualified by the seen limits of his apprehension, but it almost revels as such horizons recede. We shall see quickly enough how accurate a measure it might have taken of Nicholas Dormer.

There was food for suspicion perhaps in the wandering blankness that sat at moments in his eyes, as if he had no attention at all, not the least in the world, at his command; but it is no more than just to add without delay that this discouraging symptom was known among those who liked him by the indulgent name of dreaminess. By his mother and sisters, for instance, his dreaminess was constantly noted. He is the more welcome to the benefit of such an interpretation as there is always held to be something engaging in the combination of the muscular and the musing, the mildness of strength.

After some time, an interval during which these good people might have appeared to have come, individually, to the Palais de l’Industrie much less to see the works of art than to think over their domestic affairs, the young man, rousing himself from his reverie, addressed one of the girls.

“I say, Biddy, why should we sit moping here all day? Come and take a turn about with me.”

His younger sister, while he got up, leaned forward a little, looking round her, but she gave for the moment no further sign of complying with his invitation.

“Where shall we find you, then, if Peter comes?” asked the other Miss Dormer, making no movement at all.

“I daresay Peter won’t come. He’ll leave us here to cool our heels.”

“Oh Nick dear!” Biddy exclaimed in a small sweet voice of protest. It was plainly her theory that Peter would come, and even a little her fond fear that she might miss him should she quit that spot.

“We shall come back in a quarter of an hour. Really I must look at these things,” Nick declared, turning his face to a marble group which stood near them on the right—a man with the skin of a beast round his loins, tussling with a naked woman in some primitive effort of courtship or capture.

Lady Agnes followed the direction of her son’s eyes and then observed: “Everything seems very dreadful. I should think Biddy had better sit still. Hasn’t she seen enough horrors up above?”

“I daresay that if Peter comes Julia’ll be with him,” the elder girl remarked irrelevantly.

“Well then he can take Julia about. That will be more proper,” said Lady Agnes.

“Mother dear, she doesn’t care a rap about art. It’s a fearful bore looking at fine things with Julia,” Nick returned.

“Won’t you go with him, Grace?”—and Biddy appealed to her sister.

“I think she has awfully good taste!” Grace exclaimed, not answering this inquiry.

“Don’t say nasty things about her!” Lady Agnes broke out solemnly to her son after resting her eyes on him a moment with an air of reluctant reprobation.

“I say nothing but what she’d say herself,” the young man urged. “About some things she has very good taste, but about this kind of thing she has no taste at all.”

“That’s better, I think,” said Lady Agnes, turning her eyes again to the “kind of thing” her son appeared to designate.

“She’s awfully clever—awfully!” Grace went on with decision.

“Awfully, awfully!” her brother repeated, standing in front of her and smiling down at her.

“You are nasty, Nick. You know you are,” said the young lady, but more in sorrow than in anger.

Biddy got up at this, as if the accusatory tone prompted her to place herself generously at his side. “Mightn’t you go and order lunch—in that place, you know?” she asked of her mother. “Then we’d come back when it was ready.”

“My dear child, I can’t order lunch,” Lady Agnes replied with a cold impatience which seemed to intimate that she had problems far more important than those of victualling to contend with.

“Then perhaps Peter will if he comes. I’m sure he’s up in everything of that sort.”

“Oh hang Peter!” Nick exclaimed. “Leave him out of account, and do order lunch, mother; but not cold beef and pickles.”

“I must say—about him—you’re not nice,” Biddy ventured to remark to her brother, hesitating and even blushing a little.

“You make up for it, my dear,” the young man answered, giving her chin—a very charming, rotund, little chin—a friendly whisk with his forefinger.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve got against him,” her ladyship said gravely.

“Dear mother, it’s disappointed fondness,” Nick argued. “They won’t answer one’s notes; they won’t let one know where they are nor what to expect. ‘Hell has no fury like a woman scorned’; nor like a man either.”

“Peter has such a tremendous lot to do—it’s a very busy time at the embassy; there are sure to be reasons,” Biddy explained with her pretty eyes.

“Reasons enough, no doubt!” said Lady Agnes—who accompanied these words with an ambiguous sigh, however, as if in Paris even the best reasons would naturally be bad ones.

“Doesn’t Julia write to you, doesn’t she answer you the very day?” Grace asked, looking at Nick as if she were the bold one.

He waited, returning her glance with a certain severity. “What do you know about my correspondence? No doubt I ask too much,” he went on; “I’m so attached to them. Dear old Peter, dear old Julia!”

“She’s younger than you, my dear!” cried the elder girl, still resolute.

“Yes, nineteen days.”

“I’m glad you know her birthday.”

“She knows yours; she always gives you something,” Lady Agnes reminded her son.

“Her taste is good then, isn’t it, Nick?” Grace Dormer continued.

“She makes charming presents; but, dear mother, it isn’t her

taste. It’s her husband’s.” “How her husband’s?”

“The beautiful objects of which she disposes so freely are the things he collected for years laboriously, devotedly, poor man!”

“She disposes of them to you, but not to others,” said Lady Agnes. “But that’s all right,” she added, as if this might have been taken for a complaint of the limitations of Julia’s bounty. “She has to select among so many, and that’s a proof of taste,” her ladyship pursued.

“You can’t say she doesn’t choose lovely ones,” Grace remarked to her brother in a tone of some triumph.

“My dear, they’re all lovely. George Dallow’s judgement was so sure, he was incapable of making a mistake,” Nicholas Dormer returned.

“I don’t see how you can talk of him, he was dreadful,” said Lady Agnes.

“My dear, if he was good enough for Julia to marry he’s good enough for us to talk of.”

“She did him a very great honour.”

“I daresay, but he was not unworthy of it. No such enlightened collection of beautiful objects has been made in England in our time.”

“You think too much of beautiful objects!” Lady Agnes sighed.

“I thought you were just now lamenting that I think too little.”

“It’s very nice—his having left Julia so well off,” Biddy interposed soothingly, as if she foresaw a tangle.

“He treated her en grand seigneur, absolutely,” Nick went on.

“He used to look greasy, all the same”—Grace bore on it with a dull weight. “His name ought to have been Tallow.”

“You’re not saying what Julia would like, if that’s what you are trying to say,” her brother observed.

“Don’t be vulgar, Grace,” said Lady Agnes.

“I know Peter Sherringham’s birthday!” Biddy broke out innocently, as a pacific diversion. She had passed her hand into Nick’s arm, to signify her readiness to go with him, while she scanned the remoter reaches of the garden as if it had occurred to her that to direct their steps in some such sense might after all be the shorter way to get at Peter.

“He’s too much older than you, my dear,” Grace answered without encouragement.

“That’s why I’ve noticed it—he’s thirty-four. Do you call that too old? I don’t care for slobbering infants!” Biddy cried.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Lady Agnes enjoined again.

“Come, Bid, we’ll go and be vulgar together; for that’s what we are, I’m afraid,” her brother said to her. “We’ll go and look at all these low works of art.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary to the child’s development?” Lady Agnes demanded as the pair turned away. And then while her son, struck as by a challenge, paused, lingering a moment with his little sister on his arm: “What we’ve been through this morning in this place, and what

you’ve paraded before our eyes—the murders, the tortures, all kinds of disease and indecency!”

Nick looked at his mother as if this sudden protest surprised him, but as if also there were lurking explanations of it which he quickly guessed. Her resentment had the effect not so much of animating her cold face as of making it colder, less expressive, though visibly prouder. “Ah dear mother, don’t do the British matron!” he replied good-humouredly.

“British matron’s soon said! I don’t know what they’re coming to.”

“How odd that you should have been struck only with the disagreeable things when, for myself, I’ve felt it to be most interesting, the most suggestive morning I’ve passed for ever so many months!”

“Oh Nick, Nick!” Lady Agnes cried with a strange depth of feeling.

“I like them better in London—they’re much less unpleasant,” said Grace Dormer.

“They’re things you can look at,” her ladyship went on. “We certainly make the better show.”

“The subject doesn’t matter, it’s the treatment, the treatment!” Biddy protested in a voice like the tinkle of a silver bell.

“Poor little Bid!”—her brother broke into a laugh.

“How can I learn to model, mamma dear, if I don’t look at things and if I don’t study them?” the girl continued.

This question passed unheeded, and Nicholas Dormer said to his mother, more seriously, but with a certain kind explicitness, as if he could make a particular allowance: “This place is an immense stimulus to me; it refreshes me, excites me—it’s such an exhibition of artistic life. It’s full of ideas, full of refinements; it gives one such an impression of artistic experience. They try everything, they feel everything. While you were looking at the murders, apparently, I observed an

immense deal of curious and interesting work. There are too many of them, poor devils; so many who must make their way, who must attract attention. Some of them can only taper fort, stand on their heads, turn somersaults or commit deeds of violence, to make people notice them. After that, no doubt, a good many will be quieter. But I don’t know; to-day I’m in an appreciative mood—I feel indulgent even to them: they give me an impression of intelligence, of eager observation. All art is one—remember that, Biddy dear,” the young man continued, smiling down from his height. “It’s the same great many-headed effort, and any ground that’s gained by an individual, any spark that’s struck in any province, is of use and of suggestion to all the others. We’re all in the same boat.”

“‘We,’ do you say, my dear? Are you really setting up for an artist?” Lady Agnes asked.

Nick just hesitated. “I was speaking for Biddy.” “But you are one, Nick—you are!” the girl cried.

Lady Agnes looked for an instant as if she were going to say once more “Don’t be vulgar!” But she suppressed these words, had she intended them, and uttered sounds, few in number and not completely articulate, to the effect that she hated talking about art. While her son spoke she had watched him as if failing to follow; yet something in the tone of her exclamation hinted that she had understood him but too well.

“We’re all in the same boat,” Biddy repeated with cheerful zeal.

“Not me, if you please!” Lady Agnes replied. “It’s horrid messy work, your modelling.”

“Ah but look at the results!” said the girl eagerly—glancing about at the monuments in the garden as if in regard even to them she were, through that unity of art her brother had just proclaimed, in some degree an effective cause.

“There’s a great deal being done here—a real vitality,” Nicholas Dormer went on to his mother in the same reasonable informing way. “Some of these fellows go very far.”

“They do indeed!” said Lady Agnes.

“I’m fond of young schools—like this movement in sculpture,” Nick insisted with his slightly provoking serenity.

“They’re old enough to know better!”

“Mayn’t I look, mamma? It is necessary to my development,” Biddy declared.

“You may do as you like,” said Lady Agnes with dignity.

“She ought to see good work, you know,” the young man went on.

“I leave it to your sense of responsibility.” This statement was somewhat majestic, and for a moment evidently it tempted Nick, almost provoked him, or at any rate suggested to him an occasion for some pronouncement he had had on his mind. Apparently, however, he judged the time on the whole not quite right, and his sister Grace interposed with the inquiry

—

“Please, mamma, are we never going to lunch?”

“Ah mother, mother!” the young man murmured in a troubled way, looking down at her with a deep fold in his forehead.

For Lady Agnes also, as she returned his look, it seemed an occasion; but with this difference that she had no hesitation in taking advantage of it. She was encouraged by his slight embarrassment, for ordinarily Nick was not embarrassed. “You used to have so much sense of responsibility,” she pursued; “but sometimes I don’t know what has become of it

—it seems all, all gone!”

“Ah mother, mother!” he exclaimed again—as if there were so many things to say that it was impossible to choose. But now he stepped closer, bent over her and in spite of the publicity of their situation gave her a quick expressive kiss. The foreign observer whom I took for granted in beginning to sketch this scene would have had to admit that the rigid English family had after all a capacity for emotion. Grace Dormer indeed looked round her to see if at this moment they

were noticed. She judged with satisfaction that they had escaped.

II

Nick Dormer walked away with Biddy, but he had not gone far before he stopped in front of a clever bust, where his mother, in the distance, saw him playing in the air with his hand, carrying out by this gesture, which presumably was applausive, some critical remark he had made to his sister. Lady Agnes raised her glass to her eyes by the long handle to which rather a clanking chain was attached, perceiving that the bust represented an ugly old man with a bald head; at which her ladyship indefinitely sighed, though it was not apparent in what way such an object could be detrimental to her daughter. Nick passed on and quickly paused again; this time, his mother discerned, before the marble image of a strange grimacing woman. Presently she lost sight of him; he wandered behind things, looking at them all round.

“I ought to get plenty of ideas for my modelling, oughtn’t I, Nick?” his sister put to him after a moment.

“Ah my poor child, what shall I say?”

“Don’t you think I’ve any capacity for ideas?” the girl continued ruefully.

“Lots of them, no doubt. But the capacity for applying them, for putting them into practice—how much of that have you?”

“How can I tell till I try?”

“What do you mean by trying, Biddy dear?” “Why you know—you’ve seen me.”

“Do you call that trying?” her brother amusedly demanded.

“Ah Nick!” she said with sensibility. But then with more spirit: “And please what do you call it?”

“Well, this for instance is a good case.” And her companion pointed to another bust—a head of a young man in terra-cotta, at which they had just arrived; a modern young man to whom, with his thick neck, his little cap and his wide ring of dense curls, the

artist had given the air of some sturdy Florentine of the time of Lorenzo.

Biddy looked at the image a moment. “Ah that’s not trying; that’s succeeding.”

“Not altogether; it’s only trying seriously.” “Well, why shouldn’t I be serious?”

“Mother wouldn’t like it. She has inherited the fine old superstition that art’s pardonable only so long as it’s bad—so long as it’s done at odd hours, for a little distraction, like a game of tennis or of whist. The only thing that can justify it, the effort to carry it as far as one can (which you can’t do without time and singleness of purpose), she regards as just the dangerous, the criminal element. It’s the oddest hind-part-before view, the drollest immorality.”

“She doesn’t want one to be professional,” Biddy returned as if she could do justice to every system.

“Better leave it alone then. There are always duffers enough.”

“I don’t want to be a duffer,” Biddy said. “But I thought you encouraged me.”

“So I did, my poor child. It was only to encourage myself.” “With your own work—your painting?”

“With my futile, my ill-starred endeavours. Union is strength— so that we might present a wider front, a larger surface of resistance.”

Biddy for a while said nothing and they continued their tour of observation. She noticed how he passed over some things quickly, his first glance sufficing to show him if they were worth another, and then recognised in a moment the figures that made some appeal. His tone puzzled but his certainty of eye impressed her, and she felt what a difference there was yet between them— how much longer in every case she would have taken to discriminate. She was aware of how little she could judge of the value of a thing till she had looked at it ten minutes; indeed modest little Biddy was compelled privately to add “And often not even then.” She was mystified, as I say—Nick was often

mystifying, it was his only fault—but one thing was definite: her brother had high ability. It was the consciousness of this that made her bring out at last: “I don’t so much care whether or no I please mamma, if I please you.”

“Oh don’t lean on me. I’m a wretched broken reed—I’m no use

really!” he promptly admonished her.

“Do you mean you’re a duffer?” Biddy asked in alarm. “Frightful, frightful!”

“So that you intend to give up your work—to let it alone, as you advise me?”

“It has never been my work, all that business, Biddy. If it had it would be different. I should stick to it.”

“And you won’t stick to it?” the girl said, standing before him open-eyed.

Her brother looked into her eyes a moment, and she had a compunction; she feared she was indiscreet and was worrying him. “Your questions are much simpler than the elements out of which my answer should come.”

“A great talent—what’s simpler than that?”

“One excellent thing, dear Biddy: no talent at all!” “Well, yours is so real you can’t help it.”

“We shall see, we shall see,” said Nick Dormer. “Let us go look at that big group.”

“We shall see if your talent’s real?” Biddy went on as she accompanied him.

“No; we shall see if, as you say, I can’t help it. What nonsense Paris makes one talk!” the young man added as they stopped in front of the composition. This was true perhaps, but not in a sense he could find himself tempted to deplore. The present was far from his first visit to the French capital: he had often quitted England and usually made a point of “putting in,” as he called it, a few days there on the outward journey to the Continent or on the return; but at present the feelings, for the most part agreeable, attendant upon a change of air and of scene had been more

punctual and more acute than for a long time before, and stronger the sense of novelty, refreshment, amusement, of the hundred appeals from that quarter of thought to which on the whole his attention was apt most frequently, though not most confessedly, to stray. He was fonder of Paris than most of his countrymen, though not so fond perhaps as some other captivated aliens: the place had always had the virtue of quickening in him sensibly the life of reflexion and observation. It was a good while since his impressions had been so favourable to the city by the Seine; a good while at all events since they had ministered so to excitement, to exhilaration, to ambition, even to a restlessness that was not prevented from being agreeable by the excess of agitation in it. Nick could have given the reason of this unwonted glow, but his preference was very much to keep it to himself. Certainly to persons not deeply knowing, or at any rate not deeply curious, in relation to the young man’s history the explanation might have seemed to beg the question, consisting as it did of the simple formula that he had at last come to a crisis. Why a crisis—what was it and why had he not come to it before? The reader shall learn these things in time if he cares enough for them.

Our young man had not in any recent year failed to see the Salon, which the general voice this season pronounced not particularly good. None the less it was the present exhibition that, for some cause connected with his “crisis,” made him think fast, produced that effect he had spoken of to his mother as a sense of artistic life. The precinct of the marbles and bronzes spoke to him especially to-day; the glazed garden, not florally rich, with its new productions alternating with perfunctory plants and its queer, damp smell, partly the odour of plastic clay, of the studios of sculptors, put forth the voice of old associations, of other visits, of companionships now ended—an insinuating eloquence which was at the same time somehow identical with the general sharp contagion of Paris. There was youth in the air, and a multitudinous newness, for ever reviving, and the diffusion of a hundred talents, ingenuities, experiments. The summer clouds made shadows on the roof of the great building; the white images, hard in their crudity, spotted the place with provocations; the rattle of plates at the restaurant sounded

sociable in the distance, and our young man congratulated himself more than ever that he had not missed his chance. He felt how it would help him to settle something. At the moment he made this reflexion his eye fell upon a person who appeared— just in the first glimpse—to carry out the idea of help. He uttered a lively ejaculation, which, however, in its want of finish, Biddy failed to understand; so pertinent, so relevant and congruous, was the other party to this encounter.

The girl’s attention followed her brother’s, resting with it on a young man who faced them without seeing them, engaged as he was in imparting to two companions his ideas about one of the works exposed to view. What Biddy remarked was that this young man was fair and fat and of the middle stature; he had a round face and a short beard and on his crown a mere reminiscence of hair, as the fact that he carried his hat in his hand permitted to be observed. Bridget Dormer, who was quick, placed him immediately as a gentleman, but as a gentleman unlike any other gentleman she had ever seen. She would have taken him for very foreign but that the words proceeding from his mouth reached her ear and imposed themselves as a rare variety of English. It was not that a foreigner might not have spoken smoothly enough, nor yet that the speech of this young man was not smooth. It had in truth a conspicuous and aggressive perfection, and Biddy was sure no mere learner would have ventured to play such tricks with the tongue. He seemed to draw rich effects and wandering airs from it—to modulate and manipulate it as he would have done a musical instrument. Her view of the gentleman’s companions was less operative, save for her soon making the reflexion that they were people whom in any country, from China to Peru, you would immediately have taken for natives. One of them was an old lady with a shawl; that was the most salient way in which she presented herself. The shawl was an ancient much-used fabric of embroidered cashmere, such as many ladies wore forty years ago in their walks abroad and such as no lady wears to-day. It had fallen half off the back of the wearer, but at the moment Biddy permitted herself to consider her she gave it a violent jerk and brought it up to her shoulders again, where she continued to arrange and settle it, with a good deal of jauntiness and elegance,

while she listened to the talk of the gentleman. Biddy guessed that this little transaction took place very frequently, and was not unaware of its giving the old lady a droll, factitious, faded appearance, as if she were singularly out of step with the age. The other person was very much younger—she might have been a daughter—and had a pale face, a low forehead, and thick dark hair. What she chiefly had, however, Biddy rapidly discovered, was a pair of largely-gazing eyes. Our young friend was helped to the discovery by the accident of their resting at this moment for a time—it struck Biddy as very long—on her own. Both these ladies were clad in light, thin, scant gowns, giving an impression of flowered figures and odd transparencies, and in low shoes which showed a great deal of stocking and were ornamented with large rosettes. Biddy’s slightly agitated perception travelled directly to their shoes: they suggested to her vaguely that the wearers were dancers—connected possibly with the old-fashioned exhibition of the shawl-dance. By the time she had taken in so much as this the mellifluous young man had perceived and addressed himself to her brother. He came on with an offered hand. Nick greeted him and said it was a happy chance—he was uncommonly glad to see him.

“I never come across you—I don’t know why,” Nick added while the two, smiling, looked each other up and down like men reunited after a long interval.

“Oh it seems to me there’s reason enough: our paths in life are so different.” Nick’s friend had a great deal of manner, as was evinced by his fashion of saluting Biddy without knowing her.

“Different, yes, but not so different as that. Don’t we both live in London, after all, and in the nineteenth century?”

“Ah my dear Dormer, excuse me: I don’t live in the nineteenth century. Jamais de la vie!” the gentleman declared.

“Nor in London either?”

“Yes—when I’m not at Samarcand! But surely we’ve diverged since the old days. I adore what you burn, you burn what I adore.” While the stranger spoke he looked cheerfully, hospitably, at Biddy; not because it was she, she easily guessed, but because it was in his nature to desire a second auditor—a

kind of sympathetic gallery. Her life was somehow filled with shy people, and she immediately knew she had never encountered any one who seemed so to know his part and recognise his cues.

“How do you know what I adore?” Nicholas Dormer asked. “I know well enough what you used to.”

“That’s more than I do myself. There were so many things.”

“Yes, there are many things—many, many: that’s what makes life so amusing.”

“Do you find it amusing?”

“My dear fellow, c’est à se tordre. Don’t you think so? Ah it was high time I should meet you—I see. I’ve an idea you need me.”

“Upon my word I think I do!” Nick said in a tone which struck his sister and made her wonder still more why, if the gentleman was so important as that, he didn’t introduce him.

“There are many gods and this is one of their temples,” the mysterious personage went on. “It’s a house of strange idols— isn’t it?—and of some strange and unnatural sacrifices.”

To Biddy as much as to her brother this remark might have been offered; but the girl’s eyes turned back to the ladies who for the moment had lost their companion. She felt irresponsive and feared she should pass with this easy cosmopolite for a stiff, scared, English girl, which was not the type she aimed at; but wasn’t even ocular commerce overbold so long as she hadn’t a sign from Nick? The elder of the strange women had turned her back and was looking at some bronze figure, losing her shawl again as she did so; but the other stood where their escort had quitted her, giving all her attention to his sudden sociability with others. Her arms hung at her sides, her head was bent, her face lowered, so that she had an odd appearance of raising her eyes from under her brows; and in this attitude she was striking, though her air was so unconciliatory as almost to seem dangerous. Did it express resentment at having been abandoned for another girl? Biddy, who began to be frightened—there was a moment when the neglected creature resembled a tigress about to

spring—was tempted to cry out that she had no wish whatever to appropriate the gentleman. Then she made the discovery that the young lady too had a manner, almost as much as her clever guide, and the rapid induction that it perhaps meant no more than his. She only looked at Biddy from beneath her eyebrows, which were wonderfully arched, but there was ever so much of a manner in the way she did it. Biddy had a momentary sense of being a figure in a ballet, a dramatic ballet—a subordinate motionless figure, to be dashed at to music or strangely capered up to. It would be a very dramatic ballet indeed if this young person were the heroine. She had magnificent hair, the girl reflected; and at the same moment heard Nick say to his interlocutor: “You’re not in London—one can’t meet you there?”

“I rove, drift, float,” was the answer; “my feelings direct me— if such a life as mine may be said to have a direction. Where there’s anything to feel I try to be there!” the young man continued with his confiding laugh.

“I should like to get hold of you,” Nick returned.

“Well, in that case there would be no doubt the intellectual adventure. Those are the currents—any sort of personal relation

—that govern my career.”

“I don’t want to lose you this time,” Nick continued in a tone that excited Biddy’s surprise. A moment before, when his friend had said that he tried to be where there was anything to feel, she had wondered how he could endure him.

“Don’t lose me, don’t lose me!” cried the stranger after a fashion which affected the girl as the highest expression of irresponsibility she had ever seen. “After all why should you? Let us remain together unless I interfere”—and he looked, smiling and interrogative, at Biddy, who still remained blank, only noting again that Nick forbore to make them acquainted. This was an anomaly, since he prized the gentleman so. Still, there could be no anomaly of Nick’s that wouldn’t impose itself on his younger sister.

“Certainly, I keep you,” he said, “unless on my side I deprive those ladies—!”

“Charming women, but it’s not an indissoluble union. We meet, we communicate, we part! They’re going—I’m seeing them to the door. I shall come back.” With this Nick’s friend rejoined his companions, who moved away with him, the strange fine eyes of the girl lingering on Biddy’s brother as well as on Biddy herself as they receded.

“Who is he—who are they?” Biddy instantly asked.

“He’s a gentleman,” Nick made answer—insufficiently, she thought, and even with a shade of hesitation. He spoke as if she might have supposed he was not one, and if he was really one why didn’t he introduce him? But Biddy wouldn’t for the world have put this question, and he now moved to the nearest bench and dropped upon it as to await the other’s return. No sooner, however, had his sister seated herself than he said: “See here, my dear, do you think you had better stay?”

“Do you want me to go back to mother?” the girl asked with a lengthening visage.

“Well, what do you think?” He asked it indeed gaily enough. “Is your conversation to be about—about private affairs?”

“No, I can’t say that. But I doubt if mother would think it the sort of thing that’s ‘necessary to your development.’”

This assertion appeared to inspire her with the eagerness with which she again broke out: “But who are they—who are they?”

“I know nothing of the ladies. I never saw them before. The man’s a fellow I knew very well at Oxford. He was thought immense fun there. We’ve diverged, as he says, and I had almost lost sight of him, but not so much as he thinks, because I’ve read him—read him with interest. He has written a very clever book.”

“What kind of a book?” “A sort of novel.” “What sort of novel?”

“Well, I don’t know—with a lot of good writing.” Biddy listened to this so receptively that she thought it perverse her

brother should add: “I daresay Peter will have come if you return to mother.”

“I don’t care if he has. Peter’s nothing to me. But I’ll go if you wish it.”

Nick smiled upon her again and then said: “It doesn’t signify. We’ll all go.”

“All?” she echoed.

“He won’t hurt us. On the contrary he’ll do us good.”