The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  Another person present might have felt rather taxed either to determine the degree of provocation represented by Vanderbank’s considerate smile, or to say if there was an appreciable interval before he rang out: “I think, you know, you oughtn’t to do anything of the sort. Let that alone, please. The great thing is the interest—the great thing is the wish you express. It represents a view of me, an attitude toward me—!” He pulled up, dropping his arms and turning away before the complete image.

  “There’s nothing in those things that need overwhelm you. It would be odd if you hadn’t yourself, about your value and your future a feeling quite as lively as any feeling of mine. There IS mine at all events. I can’t help it. Accept it. Then of the other feeling—how SHE moves me—I won’t speak.”

  “You sufficiently show it!”

  Mr. Longdon continued to watch the bright circle on the table, lost in which a moment he let his friend’s answer pass. “I won’t begin to you on Nanda.”

  “Don’t,” said Vanderbank. But in the pause that ensued each, in one way or another, might have been thinking of her for himself.

  It was broken by Mr. Longdon’s presently going on: “Of course what it superficially has the air of is my offering to pay you for taking a certain step. It’s open to you to be grand and proud—to wrap yourself in your majesty and ask if I suppose you bribeable. I haven’t spoken without having thought of that.”

  “Yes,” said Vanderbank all responsively, “but it isn’t as if you proposed to me, is it, anything dreadful? If one cares for a girl one’s deucedly glad she has money. The more of anything good she has the better. I may assure you,” he added with the brightness of his friendly intelligence and quite as if to show his companion the way to be least concerned—”I may assure you that once I were disposed to act on your suggestion I’d make short work of any vulgar interpretation of my motive. I should simply try to be as fine as yourself.” He smoked, he moved about, then came up in another place. “I dare say you know that dear old Mitchy, under whose blessed roof we’re plotting this midnight treason, would marry her like a shot and without a penny.”

  “I think I know everything—I think I’ve thought of everything. Mr. Mitchett,” Mr. Longdon added, “is impossible.”

  Vanderbank appeared for an instant to wonder. “Wholly then through HER attitude?”

  “Altogether.”

  Again he hesitated. “You’ve asked her?”

  “I’ve asked her.”

  Once more Vanderbank faltered. “And that’s how you know?”

  “About YOUR chance? That’s how I know.”

  The young man, consuming his cigarette with concentration, took again several turns. “And your idea IS to give one time?”

  Mr. Longdon had for a minute to turn his idea over. “How much time do you want?”

  Vanderbank gave a headshake that was both restrictive and indulgent. “I must live into it a little. Your offer has been before me only these few minutes, and it’s too soon for me to commit myself to anything whatever. Except,” he added gallantly, “to my gratitude.”

  Mr. Longdon, at this, on the divan, got up, as Vanderbank had previously done, under the spring of emotion; only, unlike Vanderbank, he still stood there, his hands in his pockets and his face, a little paler, directed straight. There was disappointment in him even before he spoke. “You’ve no strong enough impulse—?”

  His friend met him with admirable candour. “Wouldn’t it seem that if I had I would by this time have taken the jump?”

  “Without waiting, you mean, for anybody’s money?” Mr. Longdon cultivated for a little a doubt. “Of course she has struck one as—till now— tremendously young.”

  Vanderbank looked about once more for matches and occupied a time with relighting. “Till now—yes. But it’s not,” he pursued, “only because she’s so young that—for each of us, and for dear old Mitchy too—she’s so interesting.” Mr. Longdon had restlessly stepped down, and Vanderbank’s eyes followed him till he stopped again. “I make out that in spite of what you said to begin with you’re conscious of a certain pressure.”

  “In the matter of time? Oh yes, I do want it DONE. That,” Nanda’s patron simply explained, “is why I myself put on the screw.” He spoke with the ring of impatience. “I want her got out.”

  “‘Out’?”

  “Out of her mother’s house.”

  Vanderbank laughed though—more immediately—he had coloured. “Why, her mother’s house is just where I see her!”

  “Precisely; and if it only weren’t we might get on faster.”

  Vanderbank, for all his kindness, looked still more amused. “But if it only weren’t, as you say, I seem to understand you wouldn’t have your particular vision of urgency.”

  Mr. Longdon, through adjusted glasses, took him in with a look that was sad as well as sharp, then jerked the glasses off. “Oh you do understand.”

  “Ah,” said Vanderbank, “I’m a mass of corruption!”

  “You may perfectly be, but you shall not,” Mr. Longdon returned with decision, “get off on any such plea. If you’re good enough for me you’re good enough, as you thoroughly know, on whatever head, for any one.”

  “Thank you.” But Vanderbank, for all his happy appreciation, thought again. “We ought at any rate to remember, oughtn’t we? that we should have Mrs. Brook against us.”

  His companion faltered but an instant. “Ah that’s another thing I know. But it’s also exactly why. Why I want Nanda away.”

  “I see, I see.”

  The response had been prompt, yet Mr. Longdon seemed suddenly to show that he suspected the superficial. “Unless it’s with Mrs. Brook you’re in love.” Then on his friend’s taking the idea with a mere headshake of negation, a repudiation that might even have astonished by its own lack of surprise, “Or unless Mrs. Brook’s in love with you,” he amended.

  Vanderbank had for this any decent gaiety. “Ah that of course may perfectly be!”

  “But IS it? That’s the question.”

  He continued light. “If she had declared her passion shouldn’t I rather compromise her—?”

  “By letting me know?” Mr. Longdon reflected. “I’m sure I can’t say—it’s a sort of thing for which I haven’t a measure or a precedent. In my time women didn’t declare their passion. I’m thinking of what the meaning is of Mrs. Brookenham’s wanting you—as I’ve heard it called—herself.”

  Vanderbank, still with his smile, smoked a minute. “That’s what you’ve heard it called?”

  “Yes, but you must excuse me from telling you by whom.”

  He was amused at his friend’s discretion. “It’s unimaginable. But it doesn’t matter. We all call everything—anything. The meaning of it, if you and I put it so, is—well, a modern shade.”

  “You must deal then yourself,” said Mr. Longdon, “with your modern shades.” He spoke now as if the case simply awaited such dealing.

  But at this his young friend was more grave. “YOU could do nothing?—to bring, I mean, Mrs. Brook round.”

  Mr. Longdon fairly started. “Propose on your behalf for her daughter? With your authority—tomorrow. Authorise me and I instantly act.”

  Vanderbank’s colour again rose—his flush was complete. “How awfully you want it!”

  Mr. Longdon, after a look at him, turned away. “How awfully YOU don’t!”

  The young man continued to blush. “No—you must do me justice. You’ve not made a mistake about me—I see in your proposal, I think, all you can desire I should. Only YOU see it much more simply—and yet I can’t just now explain. If it WERE so simple I should say to you in a moment ‘do speak to them for me’—I should leave the matter with delight in your hands. But I require time, let me remind you, and you haven’t yet told me how much I may take.”

  This appeal had brought them again face to face, and Mr. Longdon’s first reply to it was a look at his watch. “It’s one o’clock.”

  “Oh I require”—Vande
rbank had recovered his pleasant humour—”more than to-night!”

  Mr. Longdon went off to the smaller table that still offered to view two bedroom candles. “You must take of course the time you need. I won’t trouble you—I won’t hurry you. I’m going to bed.”

  Vanderbank, overtaking him, lighted his candle for him; after which, handing it and smiling: “Shall we have conduced to your rest?”

  Mr. Longdon looked at the other candle. “You’re not coming to bed?”

  “To MY rest we shall not have conduced. I stay up a while longer.”

  “Good.” Mr. Longdon was pleased. “You won’t forget then, as we promised, to put out the lights?”

  “If you trust me for the greater you can trust me for the less. Good- night.”

  Vanderbank had offered his hand. “Good-night.” But Mr. Longdon kept him a moment. “You DON’T care for my figure?”

  “Not yet—not yet. PLEASE.” Vanderbank seemed really to fear it, but on Mr. Longdon’s releasing him with a little drop of disappointment they went together to the door of the room, where they had another pause.

  “She’s to come down to me—alone—in September.”

  Vanderbank appeared to debate and conclude. “Then may I come?”

  His friend, on this footing, had to consider. “Shall you know by that time?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t promise—if you must regard my coming as a pledge.”

  Mr. Longdon thought on; then raising his eyes: “I don’t quite see why you won’t suffer me to tell you—!”

  “The detail of your intention? I do then. You’ve said quite enough. If my visit must commit me,” Vanderbank pursued, “I’m afraid I can’t come.”

  Mr. Longdon, who had passed into the corridor, gave a dry sad little laugh. “Come then—as the ladies say—’as you are’!”

  On which, rather softly closing the door, the young man remained alone in the great emptily lighted billiard-room.

  BOOK SIXTH

  MRS. BROOK

  Presenting himself at Buckingham Crescent three days after the Sunday spent at Mertle, Vanderbank found Lady Fanny Cashmore in the act of taking leave of Mrs. Brook and found Mrs. Brook herself in the state of muffled exaltation that was the mark of all her intercourse—and most of all perhaps of her farewells—with Lady Fanny. This splendid creature gave out, as it were, so little that Vanderbank was freshly struck with all Mrs. Brook could take in, though nothing, for that matter, in Buckingham Crescent, had been more fully formulated on behalf of the famous beauty than the imperturbable grandeur of her almost total absence of articulation. Every aspect of the phenomenon had been freely discussed there and endless ingenuity lavished on the question of how exactly it was that so much of what the world would in another case have called complete stupidity could be kept by a mere wonderful face from boring one to death. It was Mrs. Brook who, in this relation as in many others, had arrived at the supreme expression of the law, had thrown off, happily enough, to whomever it might have concerned: “My dear thing, it all comes back, as everything always does, simply to personal pluck. It’s only a question, no matter when or where, of having enough. Lady Fanny has the courage of all her silence—so much therefore that it sees her completely through and is what really makes her interesting. Not to be afraid of what may happen to you when you’ve no more to say for yourself than a steamer without a light—that truly is the highest heroism, and Lady Fanny’s greatness is that she’s never afraid. She takes the risk every time she goes out—takes, as you may say, her life in her hand. She just turns that glorious mask upon you and practically says: ‘No, I won’t open my lips—to call it really open—for the forty minutes I shall stay; but I calmly defy you, all the same, to kill me for it.’ And we don’t kill her—we delight in her; though when either of us watches her in a circle of others it’s like seeing a very large blind person in the middle of Oxford Street. One fairly looks about for the police.” Vanderbank, before his fellow visitor withdrew it, had the benefit of the glorious mask and could scarce have failed to be amused at the manner in which Mrs. Brook alone showed the stress of thought. Lady Fanny, in the other scale, sat aloft and Olympian, so that though visibly much had happened between the two ladies it had all happened only to the hostess. The sense in the air in short was just of Lady Fanny herself, who came to an end like a banquet or a procession. Mrs. Brook left the room with her and, on coming back, was full of it. “She’ll go, she’ll go!”

  “Go where?” Vanderbank appeared to have for the question less attention than usual.

  “Well, to the place her companion will propose. Probably—like Anna Karenine—to one of the smaller Italian towns.”

  “Anna Karenine? She isn’t a bit like Anna.”

  “Of course she isn’t so clever,” said Mrs. Brook. “But that would spoil her. So it’s all right.”

  “I’m glad it’s all right,” Vanderbank laughed. “But I dare say we shall still have her with us a while.”

  “We shall do that, I trust, whatever happens. She’ll come up again— she’ll remain, I feel, one of those enormous things that fate seems somehow to have given me as the occupation of my odd moments. I don’t see,” Mrs. Brook added, “what still keeps her on the edge, which isn’t an inch wide.”

  Vanderbank looked this time as if he only tried to wonder. “Isn’t it YOU?”

  Mrs. Brook mused more deeply. “Sometimes I think so. But I don’t know.”

  “Yes, how CAN you of course know, since she can’t tell you?”

  “Oh if I depended on her telling—!” Mrs. Brook shook out with this a sofa-cushion or two and sank into the corner she had arranged. The August afternoon was hot and the London air heavy; the room moreover, though agreeably bedimmed, gave out the staleness of the season’s end. “If you hadn’t come to-day,” she went on, “you’d have missed me till I don’t know when, for we’ve let the Hovel again—wretchedly, but still we’ve let it—and I go down on Friday to see that it isn’t too filthy. Edward, who’s furious at what I’ve taken for it, had his idea that we should go there this year ourselves.”

  “And now”—Vanderbank took her up—”that fond fancy has become simply the ghost of a dead thought, a ghost that, in company with a thousand predecessors, haunts the house in the twilight and pops at you out of odd corners.”

  “Oh Edward’s dead thoughts are indeed a cheerful company and worthy of the perpetual mental mourning we seem to go about in. They’re worse than the relations we’re always losing without seeming to have any fewer, and I expect every day to hear that the Morning Post regrets to have to announce in that line too some new bereavement. The apparitions following the deaths of so many thoughts ARE particularly awful in the twilight, so that at this season, while the day drags and drags, I’m glad to have any one with me who may keep them at a distance.”

  Vanderbank had not sat down; slowly, familiarly he turned about. “And where’s Nanda?”

  “Oh SHE doesn’t help—she attracts rather the worst of the bogies. Edward and Nanda and Harold and I seated together are fairly a case for that—what do you call it?—investigating Society. Deprived of the sweet resource of the Hovel,” Mrs. Brook continued, “we shall each, from about the tenth on, forage somehow or other for ourselves. Mitchy perhaps,” she added, “will insist on taking us to Baireuth.”

  “That will be the form, you mean, of his own forage?”

  Mrs. Brook just hesitated. “Unless you should prefer to take it as the form of yours.”

  Vanderbank appeared for a moment obligingly enough to turn this over, but with the effect of noting an objection. “Oh I’m afraid I shall have to grind straight through the month and that by the time I’m free every Ring at Baireuth will certainly have been rung. Is it your idea to take Nanda?” he asked.

  She reached out for another cushion. “If it’s impossible for you to manage what I suggest why should that question interest you?”

  “My dear woman”—and her visitor dropped into a chair—”do you
suppose my interest depends on such poverties as what I can ‘manage’? You know well enough,” he went on in another tone, “why I care for Nanda and enquire about her.”

  She was perfectly ready. “I know it, but only as a bad reason. Don’t be too sure!”

  For a moment they looked at each other. “Don’t be so sure, you mean, that the elation of it may go to my head? Are you really warning me against vanity?”

  “Your ‘reallys,’ my dear Van, are a little formidable, but it strikes me that before I tell you there’s something I’ve a right to ask. Are you ‘really’ what they call thinking of my daughter?”

  “Your asking,” Vanderbank returned, “exactly shows the state of your knowledge of the matter. I don’t quite see moreover why you speak as if I were paying an abrupt and unnatural attention. What have I done the last three months but talk to you about her? What have you done but talk to ME about her? From the moment you first spoke to me—’monstrously,’ I remember you called it—of the difference made in your social life by her finally established, her perpetual, her inexorable participation: from that moment what have we both done but put our heads together over the question of keeping the place tidy, as you called it—or as I called it, was it?—for the young female mind?”