The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  The hour was so early for general commerce that Nick immediately guessed his visitor had come on some rare errand; but this inference yielded to the reflexion that Peter might after all only wish to make up by present zeal for not having been near him before. He forgot that, as he had subsequently learned from Biddy, their foreign, or all but foreign, cousin had spent an hour in Rosedale Road, missing him there but pulling out Miriam’s portrait, the day of his own last visit to Beauclere. These young men were not on a ceremonious footing and it was not in Nick’s nature to keep a record of civilities rendered or omitted; nevertheless he had been vaguely conscious that during a stay in London elastic enough on Peter’s part he and his kinsman had foregathered less than of yore. It was indeed an absorbing moment in the career of each, but even while recognising such a truth Nick judged it not impossible that Julia’s brother might have taken upon himself to resent some suppositions failure of consideration for that lady; though this indeed would have been stupid and the newly appointed minister (to he had forgotten where) didn’t often make mistakes. Nick held that as he had treated Julia with studious generosity she had nothing whatever to visit on him—wherefore Peter had still less. It was at any rate none of that gentleman’s business. There were only two abatements to disposing in a few frank words of all this: one of them Nick’s general hatred of talking of his private affairs (a reluctance in which he and Peter were well matched); and the other a truth involving more of a confession—the subtle truth that the most definite and even most soothing result of the collapse of his engagement was, as happened, an unprecedented consciousness of freedom. Nick’s observation was of a different sort from his cousin’s; he noted much less the signs of the hour and kept throughout a looser register of life; nevertheless, just as one of our young men had during these days in London found the air peopled with personal influences, the concussion of human atoms, so the other, though only asking to live without too many questions and work without too many rubs, to be glad and sorry in short on easy terms, had become aware of a certain social tightness, of the fact that life is crowded and passion restless, accident and community inevitable. Everybody with whom one had relations had other relations too, and even indifference was a mixture and detachment a compromise. The only wisdom was to consent to the loss, if necessary, of everything but one’s temper and to the ruin, if necessary, of everything but one’s work. It must be added that Peter’s relative took precautions against irritation perhaps in excess of the danger, as departing travellers about to whiz through foreign countries mouth in phrase-books combinations of words they will never use. He was at home in clear air and disliked to struggle either for breath or for light. He had a dim sense that Peter felt some discomfort from him and might have come now to tell him so; in which case he should be sorry for the sufferer in various ways. But as soon as that aspirant began to speak suspicion reverted to mere ancient kindness, and this in spite of the fact that his speech had a slightly exaggerated promptitude, like the promptitude of business, which might have denoted self-consciousness. To Nick it quickly appeared better to be glad than to be sorry: this simple argument was more than sufficient to make him glad Peter was there.

  “My dear fellow, it’s an unpardonable hour, isn’t it? I wasn’t even sure you’d be up, yet had to risk it, because my hours are numbered. I’m going away to-morrow,” Peter went on; “I’ve a thousand things to do. I’ve had no talk with you this time such as we used to have of old (it’s an irreparable loss, but it’s your fault, you know), and as I’ve got to rush about all day I thought I’d just catch you before any one else does.”

  “Some one has already caught me, but there’s plenty of time,” Nick returned.

  Peter all but asked a question—it fell short. “I see, I see. I’m sorry to say I’ve only a few minutes at best.”

  “Man of crushing responsibilities, you’ve come to humiliate me!” his companion cried. “I know all about it.”

  “It’s more than I do then. That’s not what I’ve come for, but I shall be delighted if I humiliate you a little by the way. I’ve two things in mind, and I’ll mention the most difficult first. I came here the other day—the day after my arrival in town.”

  “Ah yes, so you did; it was very good of you”—Nick remembered. “I ought to have returned your visit or left a card or written my name—to have done something in Great Stanhope Street, oughtn’t I? You hadn’t got this new thing then, or I’d have ‘called.’”

  Peter eyed him a moment. “I say, what’s the matter with you? Am I really unforgivable for having taken that liberty?”

  “What liberty?” Nick looked now quite innocent of care, and indeed his visitor’s allusion was not promptly clear. He was thinking for the instant all of Biddy, of whom and whose secret inclinations Grace had insisted on talking to him. They were none of his business, and if he wouldn’t for the world have let the girl herself suspect he had violent lights on what was most screened and curtained in her, much less would he have made Peter a clumsy present of this knowledge. Grace had a queer theory that Peter treated Biddy badly—treated them all somehow badly; but Grace’s zeal (she had plenty of it, though she affected all sorts of fine indifference) almost always took the form of her being unusually wrong. Nick wanted to do only what Biddy would thank him for, and he knew very well what she wouldn’t. She wished him and Peter to be great friends, and the only obstacle to this was that Peter was too much of a diplomatist. Peter made him for an instant think of her and of the hour they had lately spent together in the studio in his absence—an hour of which Biddy had given him a history full of items and omissions; and this in turn brought Nick’s imagination back to his visitor’s own side of the matter. That general human complexity of which the sense had lately increased with him, and to which it was owing that any thread one might take hold of would probably be the extremely wrong end of something, was illustrated by the fact that while poor Biddy was thinking of Peter it was ten to one poor Peter was thinking of Miriam Rooth. All of which danced before Nick’s intellectual vision for a space briefer than my too numerous words.

  “I pitched into your treasures—I rummaged among your canvases,” Peter said. “Biddy had nothing whatever to do with it—she maintained an attitude of irreproachable reserve. It has been on my conscience all these days and I ought to have done penance before. I’ve been putting it off partly because I’m so ashamed of my indiscretion. Que voulez-vous, my dear chap? My provocation was great. I heard you had been painting Miss Rooth, so that I couldn’t restrain my curiosity. I simply went into that corner and struck out there—a trifle wildly no doubt. I dragged the young lady to the light—your sister turned pale as she saw me. It was a good deal like breaking open one of your letters, wasn’t it? However, I assure you it’s all right, for I congratulate you both on your style and on your correspondent.”

  “You’re as clever, as witty, as humorous as ever, old boy,” Nick pronounced, going himself into the corner designated by his companion and laying his hands on the same canvas. “Your curiosity’s the highest possible tribute to my little attempt and your sympathy sets me right with myself. There she is again,” Nick went on, thrusting the picture into an empty frame; “you shall see her whether you wish to or not.”

  “Right with yourself? You don’t mean to say you’ve been wrong!” Peter returned, standing opposite the portrait.

  “Oh I don’t know. I’ve been kicking up such a row. Anything’s better than a row.”

  “She’s awfully good—she’s awfully true,” said Peter. “You’ve done more to her since the other day. You’ve put in several things.”

  “Yes, but I’ve worked distractedly. I’ve not altogether conformed to the good rule about being off with the old love.”

  “With the old love?”—and the visitor looked hard at the picture.

  “Before you’re on with the new!” Nick had no sooner uttered these words than he coloured: it occurred to him his friend would probably infer an allusion to Julia. He ther
efore added quickly: “It isn’t so easy to cease to represent an affectionate constituency. Really most of my time for a fortnight has been given to letter-writing. They’ve all been unexpectedly charming. I should have thought they’d have loathed and despised me. But not a bit of it; they cling to me fondly—they struggle with me tenderly. I’ve been down to talk with them about it, and we’ve passed the most sociable, delightful hours. I’ve designated my successor; I’ve felt a good deal like the Emperor Charles the Fifth when about to retire to the monastery of Yuste. The more I’ve seen of them in this way the more I’ve liked them, and they declare it has been the same with themselves about me. We spend our time assuring each other we hadn’t begun to know each other till now. In short it’s all wonderfully jolly, but it isn’t business. C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre.”

  “They’re not so charming as they might be if they don’t offer to keep you and let you paint.”

  “They do, almost—it’s fantastic,” said Nick. “Remember they haven’t yet seen a daub of my brush.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for you; we live in too enlightened an age,” Peter returned. “You can’t suffer for art—that grand romance is over. Your experience is interesting; it seems to show that at the tremendous pitch of civilisation we’ve reached you can’t suffer from anything but hunger.”

  “I shall doubtless,” Nick allowed, “do that enough to make up for the rest.”

  “Never, never, when you paint so well as this.”

  “Oh come, you’re too good to be true,” Nick said. “But where did you learn that one’s larder’s full in proportion as one’s work’s fine?”

  Peter waived this curious point—he only continued to look at the picture; after which he roundly brought out: “I’ll give you your price for it on the spot.”

  “Ah you’re so magnanimous that you shall have it for nothing!” And Nick, touched to gratitude, passed his arm into his visitor’s.

  Peter had a pause. “Why do you call me magnanimous?”

  “Oh bless my soul, it’s hers—I forgot!” laughed Nick, failing in his turn to answer the other’s inquiry. “But you shall have another.”

  “Another? Are you going to do another?”

  “This very morning. That is, I shall begin it. I’ve heard from her; she’s coming to sit—a short time hence.”

  Peter turned away a little at this, releasing himself, and, as if the movement had been an effect of his host’s words, looked at his watch earnestly to dissipate that appearance. He fell back to consider the work from further off. “The more you do her the better—she has all the qualities of a great model. From that point of view it’s a pity she has another trade: she might make so good a thing of this one. But how shall you do her again?” he asked ingenuously.

  “Oh I can scarcely say; we’ll arrange something; we’ll talk it over. It’s extraordinary how well she enters into what one wants: she knows more than one does one’s self. She isn’t, as you Frenchmen say, the first comer. However, you know all about that, since you invented her, didn’t you? That’s what she says; she’s awfully sweet on you,” Nick kindly pursued. “What I ought to do is to try something as different as possible from that thing; not the sibyl, the muse, the tremendous creature, but the charming woman, the person one knows, differently arranged as she appears en ville, she calls it. I’ll do something really serious and send it to you out there with my respects. It will remind you of home and perhaps a little even of me. If she knows it’s for you she’ll throw herself into it in the right spirit. Leave it to us, my dear fellow; we’ll turn out something splendid.”

  “It’s jolly to hear you, but I shall send you a cheque,” said Peter very stoutly.

  “I suppose it’s all right in your position, but you’re too proud,” his kinsman answered.

  “What do you mean by my position?”

  “Your exaltation, your high connexion with the country, your treating with sovereign powers as the representative of a sovereign power. Isn’t that what they call ‘em?”

  Peter, who had turned round again, listened to this with his eyes fixed on Nick’s face while he once more drew forth his watch. “Brute!” he exclaimed familiarly, at the same time dropping his eyes on the watch. “When did you say you expect your sitter?”

  “Oh we’ve plenty of time; don’t be afraid of letting me see you agitated by her presence.”

  “Brute!” Peter again ejaculated.

  This friendly personal note cleared the air, made their communication closer. “Stay with me and talk to me,” said Nick; “I daresay it’s good for me. It may be the last time I shall see you without having before anything else to koo-too.”

  “Beast!” his kinsman once more, and a little helplessly, threw off; though next going on: “Haven’t you something more to show me then—some other fruit of your genius?”

  “Must I bribe you by setting my sign-boards in a row? You know what I’ve done; by which I mean of course you know what I haven’t. My genius, as you’re so good as to call it, has hitherto been dreadfully sterile. I’ve had no time, no opportunity, no continuity. I must go and sit down in a corner and learn my alphabet. That thing isn’t good; what I shall do for you won’t be good. Don’t protest, my dear fellow; nothing will be fit to look at for a long time.” After which poor Nick wound up: “And think of my ridiculous age! As the good people say (or don’t they say it?), it’s a rum go. It won’t be amusing.”

  “Ah you’re so clever you’ll get on fast,” Peter returned, trying to think how he could most richly defy the injunction not to protest.

  “I mean it won’t be amusing for others,” said Nick, unperturbed by this levity. “They want results, and small blame to them.”

  “Well, whatever you do, don’t talk like Mr. Gabriel Nash,” Peter went on. “Sometimes I think you’re just going to.”

  Nick stared a moment. “Ah he never would have said that ‘They want results, the damned asses’—that would have been more in his key.”

  “It’s the difference of a nuance! And are you extraordinarily happy?” Peter added as his host now obliged him by arranging half-a-dozen canvases so that he could look at them.

  “Not so much so, doubtless, as the artistic life ought to make one: because all one’s people are not so infatuated as one’s electors. But little by little I’m learning the charm of pig-headedness.”

  “Your mother’s very bad,” Peter allowed—”I lunched with her day before yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know, I know”—Nick had such reason to know; “but it’s too late, too late. I must just peg away here and not mind. I’ve after all a great advantage in my life.”

  His companion waited impartially to hear. “And that would be—?”

  “Well, knowing what I want to do. That’s everything, you know.”

  “It’s an advantage, however, that you’ve only just come in for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but the delay and the probation only make me prize it the more. I’ve got it now; and it makes up for the absence of some other things.”

  Again Peter had a pause. “That sounds a little flat,” he remarked at last.

  “It depends on what you compare it with. It has more point than I sometimes found in the House of Commons.”

  “Oh I never thought I should like that!”

  There was another drop during which Nick moved about the room turning up old sketches to see if he had anything more to show, while his visitor continued to look at the unfinished and in some cases, as seemed, unpromising productions already exposed. They were far less interesting than the portrait of Miriam Rooth and, it would have appeared, less significant of ability. For that particular effort Nick’s talent had taken an inspired flight. So much Peter thought, as he had thought it intensely before; but the words he presently uttered had no visible connexion with it. They only consisted of the abrupt inquiry; “Have you heard anything from Julia?”

  “Not a syllable. Have you?”

  “Dear no; she n
ever writes to me.”

  “But won’t she on the occasion of your promotion?”

  “I daresay not,” said Peter; and this was the only reference to Mrs. Dallow that passed between her brother and her late intended. It left a slight stir of the air which Peter proceeded to allay by an allusion comparatively speaking more relevant. He expressed disappointment that Biddy shouldn’t have come in, having had an idea she was always in Rosedale Road of a morning. That was the other branch of his present errand—the wish to see her and give her a message for Lady Agnes, upon whom, at so early an hour, he had not presumed to intrude in Calcutta Gardens. Nick replied that Biddy did in point of fact almost always turn up, and for the most part early: she came to wish him good-morning and start him for the day. She was a devoted Electra, laying a cool, healing hand on a distracted, perspiring Orestes. He reminded Peter, however, that he would have a chance of seeing her that evening, and of seeing Lady Agnes; for wasn’t he to do them the honour of dining in Calcutta Gardens? Biddy, the day before, had arrived full of that excitement. Peter explained that this was exactly the sad subject of his actual démarche: the project of the dinner in Calcutta Gardens had, to his exceeding regret, fallen to pieces. The fact was (didn’t Nick know it?) the night had been suddenly and perversely fixed for Miriam’s première, and he was under a definite engagement with her not to stay away from it. To add to the bore of the thing he was obliged to return to Paris the very next morning. He was quite awfully sorry, for he had promised Lady Agnes: he didn’t understand then about Miriam’s affair, in regard to which he had given a previous pledge. He was more grieved than he could say, but he could never fail Miss Rooth: he had professed from the first an interest in her which he must live up to a little more. This was his last chance—he hadn’t been near her at the trying time of her first braving of the public. And the second night of the play wouldn’t do—it must be the first or nothing. Besides, he couldn’t wait over till Monday.