The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  Mr. Longdon thought a moment, giving a dab with his pocket-handkerchief. “Very true—you’re quite right. It’s far beyond any identity in the pictures. But why did you tell me,” he added more sharply, “that she isn’t beautiful?”

  “You’ve deprived me,” Vanderbank laughed, “of the power of expressing civilly any surprise at your finding her so. But I said to you, please remember, nothing that qualified a jot my sense of the special stamp of her face. I’ve always positively found in it a recall of the type of the period you must be thinking of. It isn’t a bit modern. It’s a face of Sir Thomas Lawrence—”

  “It’s a face of Gainsborough!” Mr. Longdon returned with spirit. “Lady Julia herself harked back.”

  Vanderbank, clearly, was equally touched and amused. “Let us say at once that it’s a face of Raphael.”

  His old friend’s hand was instantly on his arm. “That’s exactly what I often said to myself of Lady Julia’s.”

  “The forehead’s a little too high,” said Vanderbank.

  “But it’s just that excess that, with the exquisite eyes and the particular disposition round it of the fair hair, makes the individual grace, makes the beauty of the resemblance.”

  Released by Lady Julia’s lover, the young man in turn grasped him as an encouragement to confidence. “It’s a face that should have the long side-ringlets of 1830. It should have the rest of the personal arrangement, the pelisse, the shape of bonnet, the sprigged muslin dress and the cross-laced sandals. It should have arrived in a pea-green ‘tilbury’ and be a reader of Mrs. Radcliffe. And all this to complete the Raphael!”

  Mr. Longdon, who, his discovery proclaimed, had begun, as might have been said, to live with it, looked hard a moment at his companion. “How you’ve observed her!”

  Vanderbank met it without confusion. “Whom haven’t I observed? Do you like her?” he then rather oddly and abruptly asked.

  The old man broke away again. “How can I tell—with such disparities?”

  “The manner must be different,” Vanderbank suggested. “And the things she says.”

  His visitor was before him again. “I don’t know what to make of them. They don’t go with the rest of her. Lady Julia,” said Mr. Longdon, “was rather shy.”

  On this too his host could meet him. “She must have been. And Nanda— yes, certainly—doesn’t give that impression.”

  “On the contrary. But Lady Julia was gay!” he added with an eagerness that made Vanderbank smile.

  “I can also see that. Nanda doesn’t joke. And yet,” Vanderbank continued with his exemplary candour, “we mustn’t speak of her, must we? as if she were bold and grim.”

  Mr. Longdon fixed him. “Do you think she’s sad?”

  They had preserved their lowered tone and might, with their heads together, have been conferring as the party “out” in some game with the couple in the other room. “Yes. Sad.” But Vanderbank broke off. “I’ll send her to you.” Thus it was he had come back to her.

  Nanda, on joining the elder man, went straight to the point. “He says it’s so beautiful—what you feel on seeing me: if that IS what he meant.” Mr. Longdon kept silent again at first, only smiling at her, but less strangely now, and then appeared to look about him for some place where she could sit near him. There was a sofa in this room too, on which, observing it, she quickly sank down, so that they were presently together, placed a little sideways and face to face. She had shown perhaps that she supposed him to have wished to take her hand, but he forbore to touch her, though letting her feel all the kindness of his eyes and their long backward vision. These things she evidently felt soon enough; she went on before he had spoken. “I know how well you knew my grandmother. Mother has told me—and I’m so glad. She told me to say to you that she wants YOU to tell me.” Just a shade, at this, might have appeared to drop over his face, but who was there to know if the girl observed it? It didn’t prevent at any rate her completing her statement. “That’s why she wished me to-day to come alone. She said she wished you to have me all to yourself.”

  No, decidedly, she wasn’t shy: that mute reflexion was in the air an instant. “That, no doubt, is the best way. I thank her very much. I called, after having had the honour of dining—I called, I think, three times,” he went on with a sudden displacement of the question; “but I had the misfortune each time to miss her.”

  She kept looking at him with her crude young clearness. “I didn’t know about that. Mother thinks she’s more at home than almost any one. She does it on purpose: she knows what it is,” Nanda pursued with her perfect gravity, “for people to be disappointed of finding her.”

  “Oh I shall find her yet,” said Mr. Longdon. “And then I hope I shall also find YOU.”

  She appeared simply to consider the possibility and after an instant to think well of it. “I dare say you will now, for now I shall be down.”

  Her companion just blinked. “In the drawing-room, you mean—always?”

  It was quite what she meant. “Always. I shall see all the people who come. It will be a great thing for me. I want to hear all the talk. Mr. Mitchett says I ought to—that it helps to form the young mind. I hoped, for that reason,” she went on with the directness that made her honesty almost violent—”I hoped there would be more people here to-day.”

  “I’m very glad there are not!”—the old man rang equally clear. “Mr. Vanderbank kindly arranged the matter for me just this way. I met him at dinner, at your mother’s, three weeks ago, and he brought me home here that night, when, as knowing you so differently, we took the liberty of talking you all over. It naturally had the effect of making me want to begin with you afresh—only that seemed difficult too without further help. This he good-naturedly offered me; he said”—and Mr. Longdon recovered his spirits to repeat it—“‘Hang it, I’ll have ‘em here for you!’”

  “I see—he knew we’d come.” Then she caught herself up. “But we haven’t come, have we?”

  “Oh it’s all right—it’s all right. To me the occasion’s brilliant and the affluence great. I’ve had such talk with those young men—”

  “I see”—she was again prompt, but beyond any young person he had ever met she might have struck him as literal. “You’re not used to such talk. Neither am I. It’s rather wonderful, isn’t it? They’re thought awfully clever, Mr. Van and Mr. Mitchy. Do you like them?” she pushed on.

  Mr. Longdon, who, as compared with her, might have struck a spectator as infernally subtle, took an instant to think. “I’ve never met Mr. Mitchett before.”

  “Well, he always thinks one doesn’t like him,” Nanda explained. “But one does. One ought to,” she added.

  Her companion had another pause. “He likes YOU.”

  Oh Mr. Longdon needn’t have hesitated! “I know he does. He has told mother. He has told lots of people.”

  “He has told even you,” Mr. Longdon smiled.

  “Yes—but that isn’t the same. I don’t think he’s a bit dreadful,” she pursued. Still, there was a greater interest. “Do you like Mr. Van?”

  This time her interlocutor indeed hung fire. “How can I tell? He dazzles me.”

  “But don’t you like that?” Then before he could really say: “You’re afraid he may be false?”

  At this he fairly laughed. “You go to the point!” She just coloured to have amused him so, but he quickly went on: “I think one has a little natural nervousness at being carried off one’s feet. I’m afraid I’ve always liked too much to see where I’m going.”

  “And you don’t with him?” She spoke with her curious hard interest. “I understand. But I think I like to be dazzled.”

  “Oh you’ve got time—you can come round again; you’ve a margin for accidents, for disappointments and recoveries: you can take one thing with another. But I’ve only my last little scrap.”

  “And you want to make no mistakes—I see.”

  “Well, I’m too easily upset.”

  “Ah so am I,” s
aid Nanda. “I assure you that in spite of what you say I want to make no mistakes either. I’ve seen a great many—though you mightn’t think it,” she persisted; “I really know what they may be. Do you like ME?” she brought forth. But even on this she spared him too; a look appeared to have been enough for her. “How can you say, of course, already?—if you can’t say for Mr. Van. I mean as you’ve seen him so much. When he asked me just now if I liked YOU I told him it was too soon. But it isn’t now; you see it goes fast. I DO like you.” She gave him no time to acknowledge this tribute, but—as if it were a matter of course—tried him quickly with something else. “Can you say if you like mother?”

  He could meet it pretty well now. “There are immense reasons why I should.”

  “Yes—I know about them, as I mentioned: mother has told me.” But what she had to put to him kept up his surprise. “Have reasons anything to do with it? I don’t believe you like her!” she exclaimed. “SHE doesn’t think so,” she added.

  The old man’s face at last, partly bewildered, partly reassured, showed something finer still in the effect she produced. “Into what mysteries you plunge!”

  “Oh we do; that’s what every one says of us. We discuss everything and every one—we’re always discussing each other. I think we must be rather celebrated for it, and it’s a kind of trick—isn’t it?—that’s catching. But don’t you think it’s the most interesting sort of talk? Mother says we haven’t any prejudices. YOU have, probably, quantities—and beautiful ones: so perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you. But you’ll find out for yourself.”

  “Yes—I’m rather slow; but I generally end by finding out. And I’ve got, thank heaven,” said Mr. Longdon, “quite prejudices enough.”

  “Then I hope you’ll tell me some of them,” Nanda replied in a tone evidently marking how much he pleased her.

  “Ah you must do as I do—you must find out for yourself. Your resemblance to your grandmother is quite prodigious,” he immediately added.

  “That’s what I wish you’d tell me about—your recollection of her and your wonderful feeling about her. Mother has told me things, but that I should have something straight from you is exactly what she also wants. My grandmother must have been awfully nice,” the girl rambled on, “and I somehow don’t see myself at all as the same sort of person.”

  “Oh I don’t say you’re in the least the same sort: all I allude to,” Mr. Longdon returned, “is the miracle of the physical heredity. Nothing could be less like her than your manner and your talk.”

  Nanda looked at him with all her honesty. “They’re not so good, you must think.”

  He hung fire an instant, but was as honest as she. “You’re separated from her by a gulf—and not only of time. Personally, you see, you breathe a different air.”

  She thought—she quite took it in. “Of course. And you breathe the same —the same old one, I mean, as my grandmother.”

  “The same old one,” Mr. Longdon smiled, “as much as possible. Some day I’ll tell you more of what you’re curious of. I can’t go into it now.”

  “Because I’ve upset you so?” Nanda frankly asked.

  “That’s one of the reasons.”

  “I think I can see another too,” she observed after a moment. “You’re not sure how much I shall understand. But I shall understand,” she went on, “more, perhaps, than you think. In fact,” she said earnestly, “I PROMISE to understand. I’ve some imagination. Had my grandmother?” she asked. Her actual sequences were not rapid, but she had already anticipated him. “I’ve thought of that before, because I put the same question to mother.”

  “And what did your mother say?”

  “‘Imagination—dear mamma? Not a grain!’”

  The old man showed a faint flush. “Your mother then has a supply that makes up for it.”

  The girl fixed him on this with a deeper attention. “You don’t like her having said that.”

  His colour came stronger, though a slightly strained smile did what it could to diffuse coolness. “I don’t care a single scrap, my dear, in respect to the friend I’m speaking of, for any judgement but my own.”

  “Not even for her daughter’s?”

  “Not even for her daughter’s.” Mr. Longdon had not spoken loud, but he rang as clear as a bell.

  Nanda, for admiration of it, broke almost for the first time into the semblance of a smile. “You feel as if my grandmother were quite YOUR property!”

  “Oh quite.”

  “I say—that’s splendid!”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he answered kindly.

  The very kindness pulled her up. “Pardon my speaking so, but I’m sure you know what I mean. You mustn’t think,” she eagerly continued, “that mother won’t also want to hear you.”

  “On the subject of Lady Julia?” He gently, but very effectively, shook his head. “Your mother shall never hear me.”

  Nanda appeared to wonder at it an instant, and it made her completely grave again. “It will be all for ME?”

  “Whatever there may be of it, my dear.”

  “Oh I shall get it all out of you,” she returned without hesitation. Her mixture of free familiarity and of the vividness of evocation of something, whatever it was, sharply opposed—the little worry of this contradiction, not altogether unpleasant, continued to fill his consciousness more discernibly than anything else. It was really reflected in his quick brown eyes that she alternately drew him on and warned him off, but also that what they were beginning more and more to make out was an emotion of her own trembling there beneath her tension. His glimpse of it widened—his glimpse of it fairly triumphed when suddenly, after this last declaration, she threw off with quite the same accent but quite another effect: “I’m glad to be like any one the thought of whom makes you so good! You ARE good,” she continued; “I see already how I shall feel it.” She stared at him with tears, the sight of which brought his own straight back; so that thus for a moment they sat there together.

  “My dear child!” he at last simply murmured. But he laid his hand on her now, and her own immediately met it.

  “You’ll get used to me,” she said with the same gentleness that the response of her touch had tried to express; “and I shall be so careful with you that—well, you’ll see!” She broke short off with a quaver and the next instant she turned—there was some one at the door. Vanderbank, still not quite at his ease, had come back to smile upon them. Detaching herself from Mr. Longdon she got straight up to meet him. “You were right, Mr. Van. It’s beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!”

  BOOK FOURTH

  MR. CASHMORE

  Harold Brookenham, whom Mr. Cashmore, ushered in and announced, had found in the act of helping himself to a cup of tea at the table apparently just prepared—Harold Brookenham arrived at the point with a dash so direct as to leave the visitor an option between but two suppositions: that of a desperate plunge, to have his shame soon over, or that of the acquired habit of such appeals, which had taught him the easiest way. There was no great sharpness in the face of Mr. Cashmore, who was somehow massive without majesty; yet he mightn’t have been proof against the suspicion that his young friend’s embarrassment was an easy precaution, a conscious corrective to the danger of audacity. It wouldn’t have been impossible to divine that if Harold shut his eyes and jumped it was mainly for the appearance of doing so. Experience was to be taken as showing that one might get a five-pound note as one got a light for a cigarette; but one had to check the friendly impulse to ask for it in the same way. Mr. Cashmore had in fact looked surprised, yet not on the whole so surprised as the young man seemed to have expected of him. There was almost a quiet grace in the combination of promptitude and diffidence with which Harold took over the responsibility of all proprietorship of the crisp morsel of paper that he slipped with slow firmness into the pocket of his waistcoat, rubbing it gently in its passage against the delicately buff-coloured duck of which that garment was composed. “So quite too awfully kind of you th
at I really don’t know what to say”—there was a marked recall, in the manner of this speech, of the sweetness of his mother’s droop and the tenderness of her wail. It was as if he had been moved for the moment to moralise, but the eyes he raised to his benefactor had the oddest effect of marking that personage himself as a theme for the moralist.