The Europeans

by Henry James

  CHAPTER V

  Mr. Wentworth, with his cane and his gloves in his hand, went everyafternoon to call upon his niece. A couple of hours later she came overto the great house to tea. She had let the proposal that she shouldregularly dine there fall to the ground; she was in the enjoyment ofwhatever satisfaction was to be derived from the spectacle of anold negress in a crimson turban shelling peas under the apple-trees.Charlotte, who had provided the ancient negress, thought it must bea strange household, Eugenia having told her that Augustine managedeverything, the ancient negress included--Augustine who was naturallydevoid of all acquaintance with the expurgatory English tongue. By farthe most immoral sentiment which I shall have occasion to attribute toCharlotte Wentworth was a certain emotion of disappointment at findingthat, in spite of these irregular conditions, the domestic arrangementsat the small house were apparently not--from Eugenia's peculiar point ofview--strikingly offensive. The Baroness found it amusing to go to tea;she dressed as if for dinner. The tea-table offered an anomalous andpicturesque repast; and on leaving it they all sat and talked in thelarge piazza, or wandered about the garden in the starlight, with theirears full of those sounds of strange insects which, though they aresupposed to be, all over the world, a part of the magic of summernights, seemed to the Baroness to have beneath these western skies anincomparable resonance.

  Mr. Wentworth, though, as I say, he went punctiliously to call upon her,was not able to feel that he was getting used to his niece. It taxed hisimagination to believe that she was really his half-sister's child. Hissister was a figure of his early years; she had been only twenty whenshe went abroad, never to return, making in foreign parts a willful andundesirable marriage. His aunt, Mrs. Whiteside, who had taken her toEurope for the benefit of the tour, gave, on her return, so lamentablean account of Mr. Adolphus Young, to whom the headstrong girl had unitedher destiny, that it operated as a chill upon family feeling--especiallyin the case of the half-brothers. Catherine had done nothingsubsequently to propitiate her family; she had not even written tothem in a way that indicated a lucid appreciation of their suspendedsympathy; so that it had become a tradition in Boston circles that thehighest charity, as regards this young lady, was to think it well toforget her, and to abstain from conjecture as to the extent to whichher aberrations were reproduced in her descendants. Over these youngpeople--a vague report of their existence had come to his ears--Mr.Wentworth had not, in the course of years, allowed his imagination tohover. It had plenty of occupation nearer home, and though he had manycares upon his conscience the idea that he had been an unnatural unclewas, very properly, never among the number. Now that his nephew andniece had come before him, he perceived that they were the fruit ofinfluences and circumstances very different from those under which hisown familiar progeny had reached a vaguely-qualified maturity. He feltno provocation to say that these influences had been exerted for evil;but he was sometimes afraid that he should not be able to likehis distinguished, delicate, lady-like niece. He was paralyzed andbewildered by her foreignness. She spoke, somehow, a different language.There was something strange in her words. He had a feeling that anotherman, in his place, would accommodate himself to her tone; would askher questions and joke with her, reply to those pleasantries of herown which sometimes seemed startling as addressed to an uncle. But Mr.Wentworth could not do these things. He could not even bring himselfto attempt to measure her position in the world. She was the wife ofa foreign nobleman who desired to repudiate her. This had a singularsound, but the old man felt himself destitute of the materials fora judgment. It seemed to him that he ought to find them in his ownexperience, as a man of the world and an almost public character; butthey were not there, and he was ashamed to confess to himself--muchmore to reveal to Eugenia by interrogations possibly too innocent--theunfurnished condition of this repository.

  It appeared to him that he could get much nearer, as he would have said,to his nephew; though he was not sure that Felix was altogether safe. Hewas so bright and handsome and talkative that it was impossible not tothink well of him; and yet it seemed as if there were something almostimpudent, almost vicious--or as if there ought to be--in a young manbeing at once so joyous and so positive. It was to be observed thatwhile Felix was not at all a serious young man there was somehow more ofhim--he had more weight and volume and resonance--than a number of youngmen who were distinctly serious. While Mr. Wentworth meditated upon thisanomaly his nephew was admiring him unrestrictedly. He thought him amost delicate, generous, high-toned old gentleman, with a very handsomehead, of the ascetic type, which he promised himself the profit ofsketching. Felix was far from having made a secret of the fact that hewielded the paint-brush, and it was not his own fault if it failed to begenerally understood that he was prepared to execute the most strikinglikenesses on the most reasonable terms. "He is an artist--my cousin isan artist," said Gertrude; and she offered this information to every onewho would receive it. She offered it to herself, as it were, by wayof admonition and reminder; she repeated to herself at odd moments,in lonely places, that Felix was invested with this sacred character.Gertrude had never seen an artist before; she had only read about suchpeople. They seemed to her a romantic and mysterious class, whose lifewas made up of those agreeable accidents that never happened to otherpersons. And it merely quickened her meditations on this point thatFelix should declare, as he repeatedly did, that he was really not anartist. "I have never gone into the thing seriously," he said. "I havenever studied; I have had no training. I do a little of everything, andnothing well. I am only an amateur."

  It pleased Gertrude even more to think that he was an amateur than tothink that he was an artist; the former word, to her fancy, had an evensubtler connotation. She knew, however, that it was a word to usemore soberly. Mr. Wentworth used it freely; for though he had notbeen exactly familiar with it, he found it convenient as a help towardclassifying Felix, who, as a young man extremely clever and active andapparently respectable and yet not engaged in any recognized business,was an importunate anomaly. Of course the Baroness and her brother--shewas always spoken of first--were a welcome topic of conversation betweenMr. Wentworth and his daughters and their occasional visitors.

  "And the young man, your nephew, what is his profession?" asked anold gentleman--Mr. Broderip, of Salem--who had been Mr. Wentworth'sclassmate at Harvard College in the year 1809, and who came into hisoffice in Devonshire Street. (Mr. Wentworth, in his later years, used togo but three times a week to his office, where he had a large amount ofhighly confidential trust-business to transact.)

  "Well, he 's an amateur," said Felix's uncle, with folded hands, andwith a certain satisfaction in being able to say it. And Mr. Broderiphad gone back to Salem with a feeling that this was probably a"European" expression for a broker or a grain exporter.

  "I should like to do your head, sir," said Felix to his uncle oneevening, before them all--Mr. Brand and Robert Acton being also present."I think I should make a very fine thing of it. It 's an interestinghead; it 's very mediaeval."

  Mr. Wentworth looked grave; he felt awkwardly, as if all the company hadcome in and found him standing before the looking-glass. "The Lord madeit," he said. "I don't think it is for man to make it over again."

  "Certainly the Lord made it," replied Felix, laughing, "and he madeit very well. But life has been touching up the work. It is a veryinteresting type of head. It 's delightfully wasted and emaciated.The complexion is wonderfully bleached." And Felix looked round at thecircle, as if to call their attention to these interesting points.Mr. Wentworth grew visibly paler. "I should like to do you as an oldprelate, an old cardinal, or the prior of an order."

  "A prelate, a cardinal?" murmured Mr. Wentworth. "Do you refer to theRoman Catholic priesthood?"

  "I mean an old ecclesiastic who should have led a very pure, abstinentlife. Now I take it that has been the case with you, sir; one sees it inyour face," Felix proceeded. "You have been very--a very moderate. Don'tyou think one always sees that in a man's face?
"

  "You see more in a man's face than I should think of looking for," saidMr. Wentworth coldly.

  The Baroness rattled her fan, and gave her brilliant laugh. "It is arisk to look so close!" she exclaimed. "My uncle has some peccadilloeson his conscience." Mr. Wentworth looked at her, painfully at a loss;and in so far as the signs of a pure and abstinent life were visible inhis face they were then probably peculiarly manifest. "You are a beauvieillard, dear uncle," said Madame Munster, smiling with herforeign eyes.

  "I think you are paying me a compliment," said the old man.

  "Surely, I am not the first woman that ever did so!" cried the Baroness.

  "I think you are," said Mr. Wentworth gravely. And turning to Felix headded, in the same tone, "Please don't take my likeness. My childrenhave my daguerreotype. That is quite satisfactory."

  "I won't promise," said Felix, "not to work your head into something!"

  Mr. Wentworth looked at him and then at all the others; then he got upand slowly walked away.

  "Felix," said Gertrude, in the silence that followed, "I wish you wouldpaint my portrait."

  Charlotte wondered whether Gertrude was right in wishing this; and shelooked at Mr. Brand as the most legitimate way of ascertaining. WhateverGertrude did or said, Charlotte always looked at Mr. Brand. It was astanding pretext for looking at Mr. Brand--always, as Charlotte thought,in the interest of Gertrude's welfare. It is true that she felt atremulous interest in Gertrude being right; for Charlotte, in her small,still way, was an heroic sister.

  "We should be glad to have your portrait, Miss Gertrude," said Mr.Brand.

  "I should be delighted to paint so charming a model," Felix declared.

  "Do you think you are so lovely, my dear?" asked Lizzie Acton, with herlittle inoffensive pertness, biting off a knot in her knitting.

  "It is not because I think I am beautiful," said Gertrude, looking allround. "I don't think I am beautiful, at all." She spoke with a sortof conscious deliberateness; and it seemed very strange to Charlotte tohear her discussing this question so publicly. "It is because I think itwould be amusing to sit and be painted. I have always thought that."

  "I am sorry you have not had better things to think about, my daughter,"said Mr. Wentworth.

  "You are very beautiful, cousin Gertrude," Felix declared.

  "That 's a compliment," said Gertrude. "I put all the compliments Ireceive into a little money-jug that has a slit in the side. I shakethem up and down, and they rattle. There are not many yet--only two orthree."

  "No, it 's not a compliment," Felix rejoined. "See; I am careful not togive it the form of a compliment. I did n't think you were beautiful atfirst. But you have come to seem so little by little."

  "Take care, now, your jug does n't burst!" exclaimed Lizzie.

  "I think sitting for one's portrait is only one of the various forms ofidleness," said Mr. Wentworth. "Their name is legion."

  "My dear sir," cried Felix, "you can't be said to be idle when you aremaking a man work so!"

  "One might be painted while one is asleep," suggested Mr. Brand, as acontribution to the discussion.

  "Ah, do paint me while I am asleep," said Gertrude to Felix, smiling.And she closed her eyes a little. It had by this time become a matter ofalmost exciting anxiety to Charlotte what Gertrude would say or would donext.

  She began to sit for her portrait on the following day--in the openair, on the north side of the piazza. "I wish you would tell me what youthink of us--how we seem to you," she said to Felix, as he sat beforehis easel.

  "You seem to me the best people in the world," said Felix.

  "You say that," Gertrude resumed, "because it saves you the trouble ofsaying anything else."

  The young man glanced at her over the top of his canvas. "What elseshould I say? It would certainly be a great deal of trouble to sayanything different."

  "Well," said Gertrude, "you have seen people before that you have liked,have you not?"

  "Indeed I have, thank Heaven!"

  "And they have been very different from us," Gertrude went on.

  "That only proves," said Felix, "that there are a thousand differentways of being good company."

  "Do you think us good company?" asked Gertrude.

  "Company for a king!"

  Gertrude was silent a moment; and then, "There must be a thousanddifferent ways of being dreary," she said; "and sometimes I think wemake use of them all."

  Felix stood up quickly, holding up his hand. "If you could only keepthat look on your face for half an hour--while I catch it!" he said. "Itis uncommonly handsome."

  "To look handsome for half an hour--that is a great deal to ask of me,"she answered.

  "It would be the portrait of a young woman who has taken some vow, somepledge, that she repents of," said Felix, "and who is thinking it overat leisure."

  "I have taken no vow, no pledge," said Gertrude, very gravely; "I havenothing to repent of."

  "My dear cousin, that was only a figure of speech. I am very sure thatno one in your excellent family has anything to repent of."

  "And yet we are always repenting!" Gertrude exclaimed. "That is what Imean by our being dreary. You know it perfectly well; you only pretendthat you don't."

  Felix gave a quick laugh. "The half hour is going on, and yet you arehandsomer than ever. One must be careful what one says, you see."

  "To me," said Gertrude, "you can say anything."

  Felix looked at her, as an artist might, and painted for some time insilence.

  "Yes, you seem to me different from your father and sister--from most ofthe people you have lived with," he observed.

  "To say that one's self," Gertrude went on, "is like saying--byimplication, at least--that one is better. I am not better; I am muchworse. But they say themselves that I am different. It makes themunhappy."

  "Since you accuse me of concealing my real impressions, I may admit thatI think the tendency--among you generally--is to be made unhappy tooeasily."

  "I wish you would tell that to my father," said Gertrude.

  "It might make him more unhappy!" Felix exclaimed, laughing.

  "It certainly would. I don't believe you have seen people like that."

  "Ah, my dear cousin, how do you know what I have seen?" Felix demanded."How can I tell you?"

  "You might tell me a great many things, if you only would. You haveseen people like yourself--people who are bright and gay and fond ofamusement. We are not fond of amusement."

  "Yes," said Felix, "I confess that rather strikes me. You don't seem tome to get all the pleasure out of life that you might. You don't seem tome to enjoy..... Do you mind my saying this?" he asked, pausing.

  "Please go on," said the girl, earnestly.

  "You seem to me very well placed for enjoying. You have money andliberty and what is called in Europe a 'position.' But you take apainful view of life, as one may say."

  "One ought to think it bright and charming and delightful, eh?" askedGertrude.

  "I should say so--if one can. It is true it all depends upon that,"Felix added.

  "You know there is a great deal of misery in the world," said his model.

  "I have seen a little of it," the young man rejoined. "But it was allover there--beyond the sea. I don't see any here. This is a paradise."

  Gertrude said nothing; she sat looking at the dahlias and thecurrant-bushes in the garden, while Felix went on with his work. "To'enjoy,'" she began at last, "to take life--not painfully, must one dosomething wrong?"

  Felix gave his long, light laugh again. "Seriously, I think not. And forthis reason, among others: you strike me as very capable of enjoying,if the chance were given you, and yet at the same time as incapable ofwrong-doing."

  "I am sure," said Gertrude, "that you are very wrong in telling a personthat she is incapable of that. We are never nearer to evil than when webelieve that."

  "You are handsomer than ever," observed Felix, irrelevantly.

  Gertrude had got used to h
earing him say this. There was not so muchexcitement in it as at first. "What ought one to do?" she continued. "Togive parties, to go to the theatre, to read novels, to keep late hours?"

  "I don't think it 's what one does or one does n't do that promotesenjoyment," her companion answered. "It is the general way of looking atlife."

  "They look at it as a discipline--that 's what they do here. I haveoften been told that."

  "Well, that 's very good. But there is another way," added Felix,smiling: "to look at it as an opportunity."

  "An opportunity--yes," said Gertrude. "One would get more pleasure thatway."

  "I don't attempt to say anything better for it than that it has been myown way--and that is not saying much!" Felix had laid down his paletteand brushes; he was leaning back, with his arms folded, to judgethe effect of his work. "And you know," he said, "I am a very pettypersonage."

  "You have a great deal of talent," said Gertrude.

  "No--no," the young man rejoined, in a tone of cheerful impartiality,"I have not a great deal of talent. It is nothing at all remarkable.I assure you I should know if it were. I shall always be obscure. Theworld will never hear of me." Gertrude looked at him with a strangefeeling. She was thinking of the great world which he knew and which shedid not, and how full of brilliant talents it must be, since it couldafford to make light of his abilities. "You need n't in general attachmuch importance to anything I tell you," he pursued; "but you maybelieve me when I say this,--that I am little better than a good-naturedfeather-head."

  "A feather-head?" she repeated.

  "I am a species of Bohemian."

  "A Bohemian?" Gertrude had never heard this term before, save as ageographical denomination; and she quite failed to understand thefigurative meaning which her companion appeared to attach to it. But itgave her pleasure.

  Felix had pushed back his chair and risen to his feet; he slowly cametoward her, smiling. "I am a sort of adventurer," he said, looking downat her.

  She got up, meeting his smile. "An adventurer?" she repeated. "I shouldlike to hear your adventures."

  For an instant she believed that he was going to take her hand; but hedropped his own hands suddenly into the pockets of his painting-jacket."There is no reason why you should n't," he said. "I have been anadventurer, but my adventures have been very innocent. They have allbeen happy ones; I don't think there are any I should n't tell. Theywere very pleasant and very pretty; I should like to go over them inmemory. Sit down again, and I will begin," he added in a moment, withhis naturally persuasive smile.

  Gertrude sat down again on that day, and she sat down on several otherdays. Felix, while he plied his brush, told her a great many stories,and she listened with charmed avidity. Her eyes rested upon his lips;she was very serious; sometimes, from her air of wondering gravity, hethought she was displeased. But Felix never believed for more than asingle moment in any displeasure of his own producing. This would havebeen fatuity if the optimism it expressed had not been much more a hopethan a prejudice. It is beside the matter to say that he had a goodconscience; for the best conscience is a sort of self-reproach, and thisyoung man's brilliantly healthy nature spent itself in objective goodintentions which were ignorant of any test save exactness in hittingtheir mark. He told Gertrude how he had walked over France and Italywith a painter's knapsack on his back, paying his way often by knockingoff a flattering portrait of his host or hostess. He told her how hehad played the violin in a little band of musicians--not of highcelebrity--who traveled through foreign lands giving provincialconcerts. He told her also how he had been a momentary ornament of atroupe of strolling actors, engaged in the arduous task of interpretingShakespeare to French and German, Polish and Hungarian audiences.

  While this periodical recital was going on, Gertrude lived in afantastic world; she seemed to herself to be reading a romance thatcame out in daily numbers. She had known nothing so delightful sincethe perusal of "Nicholas Nickleby." One afternoon she went to see hercousin, Mrs. Acton, Robert's mother, who was a great invalid, neverleaving the house. She came back alone, on foot, across the fields--thisbeing a short way which they often used. Felix had gone to Boston withher father, who desired to take the young man to call upon some of hisfriends, old gentlemen who remembered his mother--remembered her, butsaid nothing about her--and several of whom, with the gentle ladiestheir wives, had driven out from town to pay their respects at thelittle house among the apple-trees, in vehicles which reminded theBaroness, who received her visitors with discriminating civility, ofthe large, light, rattling barouche in which she herself had made herjourney to this neighborhood. The afternoon was waning; in the westernsky the great picture of a New England sunset, painted in crimsonand silver, was suspended from the zenith; and the stony pastures, asGertrude traversed them, thinking intently to herself, were covered witha light, clear glow. At the open gate of one of the fields she saw fromthe distance a man's figure; he stood there as if he were waiting forher, and as she came nearer she recognized Mr. Brand. She had a feelingas of not having seen him for some time; she could not have said forhow long, for it yet seemed to her that he had been very lately at thehouse.

  "May I walk back with you?" he asked. And when she had said that hemight if he wanted, he observed that he had seen her and recognized herhalf a mile away.

  "You must have very good eyes," said Gertrude.

  "Yes, I have very good eyes, Miss Gertrude," said Mr. Brand. Sheperceived that he meant something; but for a long time past Mr. Brandhad constantly meant something, and she had almost got used to it. Shefelt, however, that what he meant had now a renewed power to disturbher, to perplex and agitate her. He walked beside her in silence for amoment, and then he added, "I have had no trouble in seeing that you arebeginning to avoid me. But perhaps," he went on, "one need n't have hadvery good eyes to see that."

  "I have not avoided you," said Gertrude, without looking at him.

  "I think you have been unconscious that you were avoiding me," Mr. Brandreplied. "You have not even known that I was there."

  "Well, you are here now, Mr. Brand!" said Gertrude, with a little laugh."I know that very well."

  He made no rejoinder. He simply walked beside her slowly, as they wereobliged to walk over the soft grass. Presently they came to anothergate, which was closed. Mr. Brand laid his hand upon it, but he made nomovement to open it; he stood and looked at his companion. "You are verymuch interested--very much absorbed," he said.

  Gertrude glanced at him; she saw that he was pale and that he lookedexcited. She had never seen Mr. Brand excited before, and she feltthat the spectacle, if fully carried out, would be impressive, almostpainful. "Absorbed in what?" she asked. Then she looked away at theilluminated sky. She felt guilty and uncomfortable, and yet she wasvexed with herself for feeling so. But Mr. Brand, as he stood therelooking at her with his small, kind, persistent eyes, represented animmense body of half-obliterated obligations, that were rising againinto a certain distinctness.

  "You have new interests, new occupations," he went on. "I don't knowthat I can say that you have new duties. We have always old ones,Gertrude," he added.

  "Please open the gate, Mr. Brand," she said; and she felt as if, insaying so, she were cowardly and petulant. But he opened the gate, andallowed her to pass; then he closed it behind himself. Before she hadtime to turn away he put out his hand and held her an instant by thewrist.

  "I want to say something to you," he said.

  "I know what you want to say," she answered. And she was on the point ofadding, "And I know just how you will say it;" but these words she keptback.

  "I love you, Gertrude," he said. "I love you very much; I love you morethan ever."

  He said the words just as she had known he would; she had heard thembefore. They had no charm for her; she had said to herself before thatit was very strange. It was supposed to be delightful for a woman tolisten to such words; but these seemed to her flat and mechanical. "Iwish you would forget that," she declared.

&n
bsp; "How can I--why should I?" he asked.

  "I have made you no promise--given you no pledge," she said, looking athim, with her voice trembling a little.

  "You have let me feel that I have an influence over you. You have openedyour mind to me."

  "I never opened my mind to you, Mr. Brand!" Gertrude cried, with somevehemence.

  "Then you were not so frank as I thought--as we all thought."

  "I don't see what any one else had to do with it!" cried the girl.

  "I mean your father and your sister. You know it makes them happy tothink you will listen to me."

  She gave a little laugh. "It does n't make them happy," she said."Nothing makes them happy. No one is happy here."

  "I think your cousin is very happy--Mr. Young," rejoined Mr. Brand, in asoft, almost timid tone.

  "So much the better for him!" And Gertrude gave her little laugh again.

  The young man looked at her a moment. "You are very much changed," hesaid.

  "I am glad to hear it," Gertrude declared.

  "I am not. I have known you a long time, and I have loved you as youwere."

  "I am much obliged to you," said Gertrude. "I must be going home."

  He on his side, gave a little laugh.

  "You certainly do avoid me--you see!"

  "Avoid me, then," said the girl.

  He looked at her again; and then, very gently, "No I will not avoidyou," he replied; "but I will leave you, for the present, to yourself.I think you will remember--after a while--some of the things you haveforgotten. I think you will come back to me; I have great faith inthat."

  This time his voice was very touching; there was a strong, reproachfulforce in what he said, and Gertrude could answer nothing. He turnedaway and stood there, leaning his elbows on the gate and looking at thebeautiful sunset. Gertrude left him and took her way home again; butwhen she reached the middle of the next field she suddenly burst intotears. Her tears seemed to her to have been a long time gathering, andfor some moments it was a kind of glee to shed them. But they presentlypassed away. There was something a little hard about Gertrude; and shenever wept again.