Great Short Novels of Henry James

by Henry James

  The young Englishmen spent the whole of that day and the whole of many successive days in what the French call the intimité of their new friends. They agreed that it was extremely jolly, that they had never known anything more agreeable. It is not proposed to narrate minutely the incidents of their sojourn on this charming shore; though if it were convenient I might present a record of impressions nonetheless delectable that they were not exhaustively analyzed. Many of them still linger in the minds of our travelers, attended by a train of harmonious images—images of brilliant mornings on lawns and piazzas that overlooked the sea; of innumerable pretty girls; of infinite lounging and talking and laughing and flirting and lunching and dining; of universal friendliness and frankness; of occasions on which they knew everyone and everything and had an extraordinary sense of ease; of drives and rides in the late afternoon over gleaming beaches, on long sea roads, beneath a sky lighted up by marvelous sunsets; of suppers, on the return, informal, irregular, agreeable; of evenings at open windows or on the perpetual verandas, in the summer starlight, above the warm Atlantic. The young Englishmen were introduced to everybody, entertained by everybody, intimate with everybody. At the end of three days they had removed their luggage from the hotel and had gone to stay with Mrs. Westgate—a step to which Percy Beaumont at first offered some conscientious opposition. I call his opposition conscientious, because it was founded upon some talk that he had had, on the second day, with Bessie Alden. He had indeed had a good deal of talk with her, for she was not literally always in conversation with Lord Lambeth. He had meditated upon Mrs. Westgate’s account of her sister, and he discovered for himself that the young lady was clever, and appeared to have read a great deal. She seemed very nice, though he could not make out, as Mrs. Westgate had said, she was shy. If she was shy, she carried it off very well.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” she had said, “please tell me something about Lord Lambeth’s family. How would you say it in England—his position?”

  “His position?” Percy Beaumont repeated.

  “His rank, or whatever you call it. Unfortunately we haven’t got a peerage, like the people in Thackeray.”

  “That’s a great pity,” said Beaumont. “You would find it all set forth there so much better than I can do it.”

  “He is a peer, then?”

  “Oh, yes, he is a peer.”

  “And has he any other title than Lord Lambeth?”

  “His title is the Marquis of Lambeth,” said Beaumont; and then he was silent. Bessie Alden appeared to be looking at him with interest. “He is the son of the Duke of Bayswater,” he added presently.

  “The eldest son?”

  “The only son.”

  “And are his parents living?”

  “Oh yes; if his father were not living he would be a duke.”

  “So that when his father dies,” pursued Bessie Alden with more simplicity than might have been expected in a clever girl, “he will become Duke of Bayswater?”

  “Of course,” said Percy Beaumont. “But his father is in excellent health.”

  “And his mother?”

  Beaumont smiled a little. “The duchess is uncommonly robust.”

  “And has he any sisters?”

  “Yes, there are two.”

  “And what are they called?”

  “One of them is married. She is the Countess of Pimlico.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other is unmarried; she is plain Lady Julia.”

  Bessie Alden looked at him a moment. “Is she very plain?”

  Beaumont began to laugh again. “You would not find her so handsome as her brother,” he said; and it was after this that he attempted to dissuade the heir of the Duke of Bayswater from accepting Mrs. Westgate’s invitation. “Depend upon it,” he said, “that girl means to try for you.”

  “It seems to me you are doing your best to make a fool of me,” the modest young nobleman answered.

  “She has been asking me,” said Beaumont, “all about your people and your possessions.”

  “I am sure it is very good of her!” Lord Lambeth rejoined.

  “Well, then,” observed his companion, “If you go, you go with your eyes open.”

  “Damn my eyes!” exclaimed Lord Lambeth. “If one is to be a dozen times a day at the house, it is a great deal more convenient to sleep there. I am sick of traveling up and down this beastly avenue.”

  Since he had determined to go, Percy Beaumont would, of course, have been very sorry to allow him to go alone; he was a man of conscience, and he remembered his promise to the duchess. It was obviously the memory of this promise that made him say to his companion a couple of days later that he rather wondered he should be so fond of that girl.

  “In the first place, how do you know how fond I am of her?” asked Lord Lambeth. “And, in the second place, why shouldn’t I be fond of her?”

  “I shouldn’t think she would be in your line.”

  “What do you call my ‘line?’ You don’t set her down as ‘fast?’”

  “Exactly so. Mrs. Westgate tells me that there is no such thing as the ‘fast girl’ in America; that it’s an English invention, and that the term has no meaning here.”

  “All the better. It’s an animal I detest.”

  “You prefer a bluestocking.”

  “Is that what you call Miss Alden?”

  “Her sister tells me,” said Percy Beaumont, “that she is tremendously literary.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. She is certainly very clever.”

  “Well,” said Beaumont, “I should have supposed you would have found that sort of thing awfully slow.”

  “In point of fact,” Lord Lambeth rejoined, “I find it uncommonly lively.”

  After this, Percy Beaumont held his tongue; but on the 10th of August he wrote to the Duchess of Bayswater. He was, as I have said, a man of conscience, and he had a strong, incorruptible sense of the proprieties of life. His kinsman, meanwhile, was having a great deal of talk with Bessie Alden—on the red sea rocks beyond the lawn; in the course of long island rides, with a slow return in the glowing twilight; on the deep veranda late in the evening. Lord Lambeth, who had stayed at many houses, had never stayed at a house in which it was possible for a young man to converse so frequently with a young lady. This young lady no longer applied to Percy Beaumont for information concerning his lordship. She addressed herself directly to the young nobleman. She asked him a great many questions, some of which bored him a little; for he took no pleasure in talking about himself.

  “Lord Lambeth,” said Bessie Alden, “are you a hereditary legislator?”

  “Oh, I say!” cried Lord Lambeth, “don’t make me call myself such names as that.”

  “But you are a member of Parliament,” said the young girl.

  “I don’t like the sound of that, either.”

  “Don’t you sit in the House of Lords?” Bessie Alden went on.

  “Very seldom,” said Lord Lambeth.

  “Is it an important position?” she asked.

  “Oh, dear, no,” said Lord Lambeth.

  “I should think it would be very grand,” said Bessie Alden, “to possess, simply by an accident of birth, the right to make laws for a great nation.”

  “Ah, but one doesn’t make laws. It’s a great humbug.”

  “I don’t believe that,” the young girl declared. “It must be a great privilege, and I should think that if one thought of it in the right way—from a high point of view—it would be very inspiring.”

  “The less one thinks of it, the better,” Lord Lambeth affirmed.

  “I think it’s tremendous,” said Bessie Alden; and on another occasion she asked him if he had any tenantry. Hereupon it was that, as I have said, he was a little bored.

  “Do you want to buy up their leases?” he asked.

  “Well, have you got any livings?” she demanded.

  “Oh, I say!” he cried. “Have you got a clergyman that is looking out?” Bu
t she made him tell her that he had a castle; he confessed to but one. It was the place in which he had been born and brought up, and, as he had an old-time liking for it, he was beguiled into describing it a little and saying it was really very jolly. Bessie Alden listened with great interest and declared that she would give the world to see such a place. Whereupon—“It would be awfully kind of you to come and stay there,” said Lord Lambeth. He took a vague satisfaction in the circumstance that Percy Beaumont had not heard him make the remark I have just recorded.

  Mr. Westgate all this time had not, as they said at Newport, “come on.” His wife more than once announced that she expected him on the morrow; but on the morrow she wandered about a little, with a telegram in her jeweled fingers, declaring it was very tiresome that his business detained him in New York; that he could only hope the Englishmen were having a good time. “I must say,” said Mrs. Westgate, “that it is no thanks to him if you are.” And she went on to explain, while she continued that slow-paced promenade which enabled her well-adjusted skirts to display themselves so advantageously, that unfortunately in America there was no leisure class. It was Lord Lambeth’s theory, freely propounded when the young men were together, that Percy Beaumont was having a very good time with Mrs. Westgate, and that, under the pretext of meeting for the purpose of animated discussion, they were indulging in practices that imparted a shade of hypocrisy to the lady’s regret for her husband’s absence.

  “I assure you we are always discussing and differing,” said Percy Beaumont. “She is awfully argumentative. American ladies certainly don’t mind contradicting you. Upon my word I don’t think I was ever treated so by a woman before. She’s so devilish positive.”

  Mrs. Westgate’s positive quality, however, evidently had its attractions, for Beaumont was constantly at his hostess’s side. He detached himself one day to the extent of going to New York to talk over the Tennessee Central with Mr. Westgate; but he was absent only forty-eight hours, during which, with Mr. Westgate’s assistance, he completely settled this piece of business. “They certainly do things quickly in New York,” he observed to his cousin; and he added that Mr. Westgate had seemed very uneasy lest his wife should miss her visitor—he had been in such an awful hurry to send him back to her. “I’m afraid you’ll never come up to an American husband, if that’s what the wives expect,” he said to Lord Lambeth.

  Mrs. Westgate, however, was not to enjoy much longer the entertainment with which an indulgent husband had desired to keep her provided. On the 21st of August Lord Lambeth received a telegram from his mother, requesting him to return immediately to England; his father had been taken ill, and it was his filial duty to come to him.

  The young Englishman was visibly annoyed. “What the deuce does it mean?” he asked of his kinsman. “What am I to do?”

  Percy Beaumont was annoyed as well; he had deemed it his duty, as I have narrated, to write to the duchess, but he had not expected that this distinguished woman would act so promptly upon his hint. “It means,” he said, “that your father is laid up. I don’t suppose it’s anything serious; but you have no option. Take the first steamer; but don’t be alarmed.”

  Lord Lambeth made his farewells; but the few last words that he exchanged with Bessie Alden are the only ones that have a place in our record. “Of course I needn’t assure you,” he said, “that if you should come to England next year, I expect to be the first person that you inform of it.”

  Bessie Alden looked at him a little, and she smiled. “Oh, if we come to London,” she answered, “I should think you would hear of it.”

  Percy Beaumont returned with his cousin, and his sense of duty compelled him, one windless afternoon, in mid-Atlantic, to say to Lord Lambeth that he suspected that the duchess’s telegram was in part the result of something he himself had written to her. “I wrote to her—as I explicitly notified you I had promised to do—that you were extremely interested in a little American girl.”

  Lord Lambeth was extremely angry, and he indulged for some moments in the simple language of indignation. But I have said that he was a reasonable young man, and I can give no better proof of it than the fact that he remarked to his companion at the end of half an hour, “You were quite right, after all. I am very much interested in her. Only, to be fair,” he added, “you should have told my mother also that she is not—seriously—interested in me.”

  Percy Beaumont gave a little laugh. “There is nothing so charming as modesty in a young man in your position. That speech is a capital proof that you are sweet on her.”

  “She is not interested—she is not!” Lord Lambeth repeated.

  “My dear fellow,” said his companion, “you are very far gone.”

  PART II

  IN POINT of fact, as Percy Beaumont would have said, Mrs. Westgate disembarked on the 18th of May on the British coast. She was accompanied by her sister, but she was not attended by any other member of her family. To the deprivation of her husband’s society Mrs. Westgate was, however, habituated; she had made half a dozen journeys to Europe without him, and she now accounted for his absence, to interrogative friends on this side of the Atlantic, by allusion to the regrettable but conspicuous fact that in America there was no leisure class. The two ladies came up to London and alighted at Jones’s Hotel, where Mrs. Westgate, who had made on former occasions the most agreeable impression at this establishment, received an obsequious greeting. Bessie Alden had felt much excited about coming to England; she had expected the “associations” would be very charming, that it would be an infinite pleasure to rest her eyes upon the things she had read about in the poets and historians. She was very fond of the poets and historians, of the picturesque, of the past, of retrospect, of mementos and reverberations of greatness; so that on coming into the English world, where strangeness and familiarity would go hand in hand, she was prepared for a multitude of fresh emotions. They began very promptly—these tender, fluttering sensations; they began with the sight of the beautiful English landscape, whose dark richness was quickened and brightened by the season; with the carpeted fields and flowering hedgerows, as she looked at them from the window of the train; with the spires of the rural churches peeping above the rook-haunted treetops; with the oak-studded parks, the ancient homes, the cloudy light, the speech, the manners, the thousand differences. Mrs. Westgate’s impressions had, of course, much less novelty and keenness, and she gave but a wandering attention to her sister’s ejaculations and rhapsodies.

  “You know my enjoyment of England is not so intellectual as Bessie’s,” she said to several of her friends in the course of her visit to this country. “And yet if it is not intellectual, I can’t say it is physical. I don’t think I can quite say what it is, my enjoyment of England.” When once it was settled that the two ladies should come abroad and should spend a few weeks in England on their way to the Continent, they of course exchanged a good many allusions to their London acquaintance.

  “It will certainly be much nicer having friends there,” Bessie Alden had said one day as she sat on the sunny deck of the steamer at her sister’s feet on a large blue rug.

  “Whom do you mean by friends?” Mrs. Westgate asked.

  “All those English gentlemen whom you have known and entertained. Captain Littledale, for instance. And Lord Lambeth and Mr. Beaumont,” added Bessie Alden.

  “Do you expect them to give us a very grand reception?”

  Bessie reflected a moment; she was addicted, as we know, to reflection. “Well, yes.”

  “My poor, sweet child,” murmured her sister.

  “What have I said that is so silly?” asked Bessie.

  “You are a little too simple; just a little. It is very becoming, but it pleases people at your expense.”

  “I am certainly too simple to understand you,” said Bessie.

  “Shall I tell you a story?” asked her sister.

  “If you would be so good. That is what they do to amuse simple people.”

  Mrs. Westgate co
nsulted her memory, while her companion sat gazing at the shining sea. “Did you ever hear of the Duke of Green-Erin?”

  “I think not,” said Bessie.

  “Well, it’s no matter,” her sister went on.

  “It’s a proof of my simplicity.”

  “My story is meant to illustrate that of some other people,” said Mrs. Westgate. “The Duke of Green-Erin is what they call in England a great swell, and some five years ago he came to America. He spent most of his time in New York, and in New York he spent his days and his nights at the Butterworths’. You have heard, at least, of the Butterworths. Bien. They did everything in the world for him—they turned themselves inside out. They gave him a dozen dinner parties and balls and were the means of his being invited to fifty more. At first he used to come into Mrs. Butterworth’s box at the opera in a tweed traveling suit; but someone stopped that. At any rate, he had a beautiful time, and they parted the best friends in the world. Two years elapse, and the Butterworths come abroad and go to London. The first thing they see in all the papers—in England those things are in the most prominent place—is that the Duke of Green-Erin has arrived in town for the Season. They wait a little, and then Mr. Butterworth—as polite as ever—goes and leaves a card. They wait a little more; the visit is not returned; they wait three weeks—silence de mort—the Duke gives no sign. The Butterworths see a lot of other people, put down the Duke of Green-Erin as a rude, ungrateful man, and forget all about him. One fine day they go to Ascot Races, and there they meet him face to face. He stares a moment and then comes up to Mr. Butterworth, taking something from his pocketbook—something which proves to be a banknote. ‘I’m glad to see you, Mr. Butterworth,’ he says, ‘so that I can pay you that ten pounds I lost to you in New York. I saw the other day you remembered our bet; here are the ten pounds, Mr. Butterworth. Goodbye, Mr. Butterworth.’ And off he goes, and that’s the last they see of the Duke of Green-Erin.”

  “Is that your story?” asked Bessie Alden.