by Henry James
His only new impression of the heroine of the scene was that of this same high assurance—her coolness, her complacency, her eagerness to go on. She had been deadly afraid of the old actress but was not a bit afraid of a cluster of femmes du monde, of Julia, of Lady Agnes, of the smart women of the embassy. It was positively these personages who were rather in fear; there was certainly a moment when even Julia was scared for the first time he had ever remarked it. The space was too small, the cries, the convulsions and rushes of the dishevelled girl were too near. Lady Agnes wore much of the time the countenance she might have shown at the theatre during a play in which pistols were fired; and indeed the manner of the young reciter had become more spasmodic and more explosive. It appeared, however, that the company in general thought her very clever and successful; which showed, to Sherringham’s sense, how little they understood the matter. Poor Biddy was immensely struck; she grew flushed and absorbed in proportion as Miriam, at her best moments, became pale and fatal. It was she who spoke to her first, after it was agreed that they had better not fatigue her any more; she advanced a few steps, happening to be nearest—she murmured: “Oh thank you so much. I never saw anything so beautiful, so grand.”
She looked very red and very pretty as she said this, and Peter Sherringham liked her enough to notice her more and like her better when she looked prettier than usual. As he turned away he heard Miriam make answer with no great air of appreciation of her tribute: “I’ve seen you before—two days ago at the Salon with Mr. Dormer. Yes, I know he’s your brother. I’ve made his acquaintance since. He wants to paint my portrait. Do you think he’ll do it well?” He was afraid the girl was something of a brute—also somewhat grossly vain. This impression would perhaps have been confirmed if a part of the rest of the short conversation of the two young women had reached his ear. Biddy ventured to observe that she herself had studied modelling a little and that she could understand how any artist would think Miss Rooth a splendid subject. If indeed she could attempt her head, that would be a chance indeed.
“Thank you,” said Miriam with a laugh as of high comedy. “I think I had rather not passer par toute la famille!” Then she added: “If your brother’s an artist I don’t understand how he’s in Parliament.”
“Oh he isn’t in Parliament now—we only hope he will be.”
“Ah I see.”
“And he isn’t an artist either,” Biddy felt herself conscientiously bound to state.
“Then he isn’t anything,” said Miss Rooth.
“Well—he’s immensely clever.”
“Ah I see,” Miss Rooth again replied. “Mr. Nash has puffed him up so.”
“I don’t know Mr. Nash,” said Biddy, guilty of a little dryness as well as of a little misrepresentation, and feeling rather snubbed.
“Well, you needn’t wish to.”
Biddy stood with her a moment longer, still looking at her and not knowing what to say next, but not finding her any less handsome because she had such odd manners. Biddy had an ingenious little mind, which always tried as much as possible to keep different things separate. It was pervaded now by the reflexion, attended with some relief, that if the girl spoke to her with such unexpected familiarity of Nick she said nothing at all about Peter. Two gentlemen came up, two of Peter’s friends, and made speeches to Miss Rooth of the kind Biddy supposed people learned to make in Paris. It was also doubtless in Paris, the girl privately reasoned, that they learned to listen to them as this striking performer listened. She received their advances very differently from the way she had received Biddy’s. Sherringham noticed his young kinswoman turn away, still very red, to go and sit near her mother again, leaving Miriam engaged with the two men. It appeared to have come over her that for a moment she had been strangely spontaneous and bold, and that she had paid a little of the penalty. The seat next her mother was occupied by Mrs. Rooth, toward whom Lady Agnes’s head had inclined itself with a preoccupied tolerance. He had the conviction Mrs. Rooth was telling her about the Neville-Nugents of Castle Nugent and that Lady Agnes was thinking it odd she never had heard of them. He said to himself that Biddy was generous. She had urged Julia to come in order that they might see how bad the strange young woman would be, but now that the event had proved dazzling she forgot this calculation and rejoiced in what she innocently supposed to be the performer’s triumph. She kept away from Julia, however; she didn’t even look at her to invite her also to confess that, in vulgar parlance, they had been sold. He himself spoke to his sister, who was leaning back with a detached air in the corner of a sofa, saying something which led her to remark in reply: “Ah I daresay it’s extremely fine, but I don’t care for tragedy when it treads on one’s toes. She’s like a cow who has kicked over the milking-pail. She ought to be tied up.”
“My poor Julia, it isn’t extremely fine; it isn’t fine at all,” Sherringham returned with some irritation.
“Pardon me then. I thought that was why you invited us.”
“I imagined she was different,” Peter said a little foolishly.
“Ah if you don’t care for her so much the better. It has always seemed to me you make too awfully much of those people.”
“Oh I do care for her too—rather. She’s interesting.” His sister gave him a momentary, mystified glance and he added: “And she’s dreadful.” He felt stupidly annoyed and was ashamed of his annoyance, as he could have assigned no reason for it. It didn’t grow less for the moment from his seeing Gabriel Nash approach Julia, introduced by Nick Dormer. He gave place to the two young men with some alacrity, for he had a sense of being put in the wrong in respect to their specimen by Nash’s very presence. He remembered how it had been a part of their bargain, as it were, that he should present that gentleman to his sister. He was not sorry to be relieved of the office by Nick, and he even tacitly and ironically wished his kinsman’s friend joy of a colloquy with Mrs. Dallow. Sherringham’s life was spent with people, he was used to people, and both as host and as guest he carried the social burden in general lightly. He could observe, especially in the former capacity, without uneasiness and take the temperature without anxiety. But at present his company oppressed him; he felt worried and that he showed it—which was the thing in the world he had ever held least an honour to a gentleman dedicated to diplomacy. He was vexed with the levity that had made him call his roomful together on so poor a pretext, and yet was vexed with the stupidity that made the witnesses so evidently find the pretext sufficient. He inwardly groaned at the delusion under which he had saddled himself with the Tragic Muse—a tragic muse who was strident and pert—and yet wished his visitors would go away and leave him alone with her.
Nick Dormer said to Mrs. Dallow that he wanted her to know an old friend of his, one of the cleverest men he knew; and he added the hope that she would be gentle and encouraging with him; he was so timid and so easily disconcerted. Mr. Nash hereupon dropped into a chair by the arm of her sofa, their companion went away, and Mrs. Dallow turned her glance upon her new acquaintance without a perceptible change of position. Then she emitted with rapidity the remark: “It’s very awkward when people are told one’s clever.”
“It’s only awkward if one isn’t,” Gabriel smiled.
“Yes, but so few people are—enough to be talked about.”
“Isn’t that just the reason why such a matter, such an exception, ought to be mentioned to them?” he asked. “They mightn’t find it out for themselves. Of course, however, as you say, there ought to be a certainty; then they’re surer to know it. Dormer’s a dear fellow, but he’s rash and superficial.”
Mrs. Dallow, at this incitement, turned her glance a second time on her visitor; but during the rest of the conversation she rarely repeated the movement. If she liked Nick Dormer extremely—and it may without more delay be communicated to the reader that she did—her liking was of a kind that opposed no difficulty whatever to her not liking, in case of such a complication, a person attached or otherwise belonging to him. It was not in
her nature to “put up” with others for the sake of an individual she loved: the putting up was usually consumed in the loving, and with nothing left over. If the affection that isolates and simplifies its object may be distinguished from the affection that seeks communications and contracts for it, Julia Dallow’s was quite of the encircling, not to say the narrowing sort. She was not so much jealous as essentially exclusive. She desired no experience for the familiar and yet partly unsounded kinsman in whom she took an interest that she wouldn’t have desired for herself; and indeed the cause of her interest in him was partly the vision of his helping her to the particular extensions she did desire—the taste and thrill of great affairs and of public action. To have such ambitions for him appeared to her the highest honour she could do him; her conscience was in it as well as her inclination, and her scheme, to her sense, was noble enough to varnish over any disdain she might feel for forces drawing him another way. She had a prejudice, in general, against his existing connexions, a suspicion of them, and a supply of off-hand contempt in waiting. It was a singular circumstance that she was sceptical even when, knowing her as well as he did, he thought them worth recommending to her: the recommendation indeed mostly confirmed the suspicion.
This was a law from which Gabriel Nash was condemned to suffer, if suffering could on any occasion be predicated of Gabriel Nash. His pretension was in truth that he had purged his life of such possibilities of waste, though probably he would have admitted that if that fair vessel should spring a leak the wound in its side would have been dealt by a woman’s hand. In dining two evenings before with her brother and with the Dormers Mrs. Dallow had been moved to exclaim that Peter and Nick knew the most extraordinary people. As regards Peter the attitudinising girl and her mother now pointed that moral with sufficient vividness; so that there was little arrogance in taking a similar quality for granted of the conceited man at her elbow, who sat there as if he might be capable from one moment to another of leaning over the arm of her sofa. She had not the slightest wish to talk with him about himself, and was afraid for an instant that he was on the point of passing from the chapter of his cleverness to that of his timidity. It was a false alarm, however, for he only animadverted on the pleasures of the elegant extract hurled—literally hurlé in general—from the centre of the room at one’s defenceless head. He intimated that in his opinion these pleasures were all for the performers. The auditors had at any rate given Miss Rooth a charming afternoon; that of course was what Mrs. Dallow’s kind brother had mainly intended in arranging the little party. (Julia hated to hear him call her brother “kind”: the term seemed offensively patronising.) But he himself, he related, was now constantly employed in the same beneficence, listening two-thirds of his time to “intonations” and shrieks. She had doubtless observed it herself, how the great current of the age, the adoration of the mime, was almost too strong for any individual; how it swept one along and dashed one against the rocks. As she made no response to this proposition Gabriel Nash asked her if she hadn’t been struck with the main sign of the time, the preponderance of the mountebank, the glory and renown, the personal favour, he enjoyed. Hadn’t she noticed what an immense part of the public attention he held in London at least? For in Paris society was not so pervaded with him, and the women of the profession, in particular, were not in every drawing-room.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs. Dallow said. “I know nothing of any such people.”
“Aren’t they under your feet wherever you turn—their performances, their portraits, their speeches, their autobiographies, their names, their manners, their ugly mugs, as the people say, and their idiotic pretensions?”
“I daresay it depends on the places one goes to. If they’re everywhere”—and she paused a moment—”I don’t go everywhere.”
“I don’t go anywhere, but they mount on my back at home like the Old Man of the Sea. Just observe a little when you return to London,” Mr. Nash went on with friendly instructiveness. Julia got up at this—she didn’t like receiving directions; but no other corner of the room appeared to offer her any particular reason for crossing to it: she never did such a thing without a great inducement. So she remained standing there as if she were quitting the place in a moment, which indeed she now determined to do; and her interlocutor, rising also, lingered beside her unencouraged but unperturbed. He proceeded to remark that Mr. Sherringham was quite right to offer Miss Rooth an afternoon’s sport; she deserved it as a fine, brave, amiable girl. She was highly educated, knew a dozen languages, was of illustrious lineage, and was immensely particular.
“Immensely particular?” Mrs. Dallow repeated.
“Perhaps I should say rather that her mother’s so on her behalf. Particular about the sort of people they meet—the tone, the standard. I’m bound to say they’re like you: they don’t go everywhere. That spirit’s not so common in the mob calling itself good society as not to deserve mention.”
She said nothing for a moment; she looked vaguely round the room, but not at Miriam Rooth. Nevertheless she presently dropped as in forced reference to her an impatient shake. “She’s dreadfully vulgar.”
“Ah don’t say that to my friend Dormer!” Mr. Nash laughed.
“Are you and he such great friends?” Mrs. Dallow asked, meeting his eyes.
“Great enough to make me hope we shall be greater.”
Again for a little she said nothing, but then went on: “Why shouldn’t I say to him that she’s vulgar?”
“Because he admires her so much. He wants to paint her.”
“To paint her?”
“To paint her portrait.”
“Oh I see. I daresay she’d do for that.”
Mr. Nash showed further amusement. “If that’s your opinion of her you’re not very complimentary to the art he aspires to practise.”
“He aspires to practise?” she echoed afresh.
“Haven’t you talked with him about it? Ah you must keep him up to it!”
Julia Dallow was conscious for a moment of looking uncomfortable; but it relieved her to be able to demand of her neighbour with a certain manner: “Are you an artist?”
“I try to be,” Nash smiled, “but I work in such difficult material.”
He spoke this with such a clever suggestion of mysterious things that she was to hear herself once more pay him the attention of taking him up. “Difficult material?”
“I work in life!”
At this she turned away, leaving him the impression that she probably misunderstood his speech, thinking he meant that he drew from the living model or some such platitude: as if there could have been any likelihood he would have dealings with the dead. This indeed would not fully have explained the abruptness with which she dropped their conversation. Gabriel, however, was used to sudden collapses and even to sudden ruptures on the part of those addressed by him, and no man had more the secret of remaining gracefully with his conversational wares on his hands. He saw Mrs. Dallow approach Nick Dormer, who was talking with one of the ladies of the embassy, and apparently signify that she wished to speak to him. He got up and they had a minute’s talk, after which he turned and took leave of his fellow-visitors. She said a word to her brother, Nick joined her, and they then came together to the door. In this movement they had to pass near Nash, and it gave her an opportunity to nod good-bye to him, which he was by no means sure she would have done if Nick hadn’t been with her. The young man just stopped; he said to Nash: “I should like to see you this evening late. You must meet me somewhere.”
“Well take a walk—I should like that,” Nash replied. “I shall smoke a cigar at the café on the corner of the Place de l’Opéra—you’ll find me there.” He prepared to compass his own departure, but before doing so he addressed himself to the duty of a few civil words to Lady Agnes. This effort proved vain, for on one side she was defended by the wall of the room and on the other rendered inaccessible by Miriam’s mother, who clung to her with a quickly-rooted fidelity, showing no sympt
om of desistance. Nash declined perforce upon her daughter Grace, who said to him: “You were talking with my cousin Mrs. Dallow.”
“To her rather than with her,” he smiled.
“Ah she’s very charming,” Grace said.
“She’s very beautiful.”
“And very clever,” the girl continued.
“Very, very intelligent.” His conversation with Miss Dormer went little beyond this, and he presently took leave of Peter Sherringham, remarking to him as they shook hands that he was very sorry for him. But he had courted his fate.
