by Henry James
“Oh yes, I like some of them.”
Mr. Nash considered her kindly. “I hoped you’d say you like the Academy better.”
“She would if she didn’t think you expected it,” said Nicholas Dormer.
“Oh Nick!” Biddy protested.
“Miss Dormer’s herself an English picture,” their visitor pronounced in the tone of a man whose urbanity was a general solvent.
“That’s a compliment if you don’t like them!” Biddy exclaimed.
“Ah some of them, some of them; there’s a certain sort of thing!” Mr. Nash continued. “We must feel everything, everything that we can. We’re here for that.”
“You do like English art then?” Nick demanded with a slight accent of surprise.
Mr. Nash indulged his wonder. “My dear Dormer, do you remember the old complaint I used to make of you? You had formulas that were like walking in one’s hat. One may see something in a case and one may not.”
“Upon my word,” said Nick, “I don’t know any one who was fonder of a generalisation than you. You turned them off as the man at the street-corner distributes hand-bills.”
“They were my wild oats. I’ve sown them all.”
“We shall see that!”
“Oh there’s nothing of them now: a tame, scanty, homely growth. My only good generalisations are my actions.”
“We shall see them then.”
“Ah pardon me. You can’t see them with the naked eye. Moreover, mine are principally negative. People’s actions, I know, are for the most part the things they do—but mine are all the things I don’t do. There are so many of those, so many, but they don’t produce any effect. And then all the rest are shades—extremely fine shades.”
“Shades of behaviour?” Nick inquired with an interest which surprised his sister, Mr. Nash’s discourse striking her mainly as the twaddle of the under-world.
“Shades of impression, of appreciation,” said the young man with his explanatory smile. “All my behaviour consists of my feelings.”
“Well, don’t you show your feelings? You used to!”
“Wasn’t it mainly those of disgust?” Nash asked. “Those operate no longer. I’ve closed that window.”
“Do you mean you like everything?”
“Dear me, no! But I look only at what I do like.”
“Do you mean that you’ve lost the noble faculty of disgust?”
“I haven’t the least idea. I never try it. My dear fellow,” said Gabriel Nash, “we’ve only one life that we know anything about: fancy taking it up with disagreeable impressions! When then shall we go in for the agreeable?”
“What do you mean by the agreeable?” Nick demanded.
“Oh the happy moments of our consciousness—the multiplication of those moments. We must save as many as possible from the dark gulf.”
Nick had excited surprise on the part of his sister, but it was now Biddy’s turn to make him open his eyes a little. She raised her sweet voice in appeal to the stranger.
“Don’t you think there are any wrongs in the world—any abuses and sufferings?”
“Oh so many, so many! That’s why one must choose.”
“Choose to stop them, to reform them—isn’t that the choice?” Biddy asked. “That’s Nick’s,” she added, blushing and looking at this personage.
“Ah our divergence—yes!” Mr. Nash sighed. “There are all kinds of machinery for that—very complicated and ingenious. Your formulas, my dear Dormer, your formulas!”
“Hang ‘em, I haven’t got any!” Nick now bravely declared.
“To me personally the simplest ways are those that appeal most,” Mr. Nash went on. “We pay too much attention to the ugly; we notice it, we magnify it. The great thing is to leave it alone and encourage the beautiful.”
“You must be very sure you get hold of the beautiful,” said Nick.
“Ah precisely, and that’s just the importance of the faculty of appreciation. We must train our special sense. It’s capable of extraordinary extension. Life’s none too long for that.”
“But what’s the good of the extraordinary extension if there is no affirmation of it, if it all goes to the negative, as you say? Where are the fine consequences?” Dormer asked.
“In one’s own spirit. One is one’s self a fine consequence. That’s the most important one we have to do with. I am a fine consequence,” said Gabriel Nash.
Biddy rose from the bench at this and stepped away a little as to look at a piece of statuary. But she had not gone far before, pausing and turning, she bent her eyes on the speaker with a heightened colour, an air of desperation and the question, after a moment: “Are you then an æsthete?”
“Ah there’s one of the formulas! That’s walking in one’s hat! I’ve no profession, my dear young lady. I’ve no état civil. These things are a part of the complicated ingenious machinery. As I say, I keep to the simplest way. I find that gives one enough to do. Merely to be is such a métier; to live such an art; to feel such a career!”
Bridget Dormer turned her back and examined her statue, and her brother said to his old friend: “And to write?”
“To write? Oh I shall never do it again!”
“You’ve done it almost well enough to be inconsistent. That book of yours is anything but negative; it’s complicated and ingenious.”
“My dear fellow, I’m extremely ashamed of that book,” said Gabriel Nash.
“Ah call yourself a bloated Buddhist and have done with it!” his companion exclaimed.
“Have done with it? I haven’t the least desire to have done with it. And why should one call one’s self anything? One only deprives other people of their dearest occupation. Let me add that you don’t begin to have an insight into the art of life till it ceases to be of the smallest consequence to you what you may be called. That’s rudimentary.”
“But if you go in for shades you must also go in for names. You must distinguish,” Nick objected. “The observer’s nothing without his categories, his types and varieties.”
“Ah trust him to distinguish!” said Gabriel Nash sweetly. “That’s for his own convenience; he has, privately, a terminology to meet it. That’s one’s style. But from the moment it’s for the convenience of others the signs have to be grosser, the shades begin to go. That’s a deplorable hour! Literature, you see, is for the convenience of others. It requires the most abject concessions. It plays such mischief with one’s style that really I’ve had to give it up.”
“And politics?” Nick asked.
“Well, what about them?” was Mr. Nash’s reply with a special cadence as he watched his friend’s sister, who was still examining her statue. Biddy was divided between irritation and curiosity. She had interposed space, but she had not gone beyond ear-shot. Nick’s question made her curiosity throb as a rejoinder to his friend’s words.
“That, no doubt you’ll say, is still far more for the convenience of others—is still worse for one’s style.”
Biddy turned round in time to hear Mr. Nash answer: “It has simply nothing in life to do with shades! I can’t say worse for it than that.”
Biddy stepped nearer at this and drew still further on her courage. “Won’t mamma be waiting? Oughtn’t we to go to luncheon?”
Both the young men looked up at her and Mr. Nash broke out: “You ought to protest! You ought to save him!”
“To save him?” Biddy echoed.
“He had a style, upon my word he had! But I’ve seen it go. I’ve read his speeches.”
“You were capable of that?” Nick laughed.
“For you, yes. But it was like listening to a nightingale in a brass band.”
“I think they were beautiful,” Biddy declared.
Her brother got up at this tribute, and Mr. Nash, rising too, said with his bright colloquial air: “But, Miss Dormer, he had eyes. He was made to see—to see all over, to see everything. There are so few like that.”
“I think he still sees,” Biddy returned
, wondering a little why Nick didn’t defend himself.
“He sees his ‘side,’ his dreadful ‘side,’ dear young lady. Poor man, fancy your having a ‘side’—you, you—and spending your days and your nights looking at it! I’d as soon pass my life looking at an advertisement on a hoarding.”
“You don’t see me some day a great statesman?” said Nick.
“My dear fellow, it’s exactly what I’ve a terror of.”
“Mercy! don’t you admire them?” Biddy cried.
“It’s a trade like another and a method of making one’s way which society certainly condones. But when one can be something better—!”
“Why what in the world is better?” Biddy asked.
The young man gasped and Nick, replying for him, said: “Gabriel Nash is better! You must come and lunch with us. I must keep you—I must!” he added.
“We shall save him yet,” Mr. Nash kept on easily to Biddy while they went and the girl wondered still more what her mother would make of him.
III
After her companions left her Lady Agnes rested for five minutes in silence with her elder daughter, at the end of which time she observed: “I suppose one must have food at any rate,” and, getting up, quitted the place where they had been sitting. “And where are we to go? I hate eating out of doors,” she went on.
“Dear me, when one comes to Paris—!” Grace returned in a tone apparently implying that in so rash an adventure one must be prepared for compromises and concessions. The two ladies wandered to where they saw a large sign of “Buffet” suspended in the air, entering a precinct reserved for little white-clothed tables, straw-covered chairs and long-aproned waiters. One of these functionaries approached them with eagerness and with a “Mesdames sont seules?” receiving in return from her ladyship the slightly snappish announcement “Non; nous sommes beaucoup!” He introduced them to a table larger than most of the others, and under his protection they took their places at it and began rather languidly and vaguely to consider the question of the repast. The waiter had placed a carte in Lady Agnes’s hands and she studied it, through her eye-glass, with a failure of interest, while he enumerated with professional fluency the resources of the establishment and Grace watched the people at the other tables. She was hungry and had already broken a morsel from a long glazed roll.
“Not cold beef and pickles, you know,” she observed to her mother. Lady Agnes gave no heed to this profane remark, but dropped her eye-glass and laid down the greasy document. “What does it signify? I daresay it’s all nasty,” Grace continued; and she added inconsequently: “If Peter comes he’s sure to be particular.”
“Let him first be particular to come!” her ladyship exclaimed, turning a cold eye upon the waiter.
“Poulet chasseur, filets mignons sauce bearnaise,” the man suggested.
“You’ll give us what I tell you,” said Lady Agnes; and she mentioned with distinctness and authority the dishes of which she desired that the meal should be composed. He interjected three or four more suggestions, but as they produced absolutely no impression on her he became silent and submissive, doing justice apparently to her ideas. For Lady Agnes had ideas, and, though it had suited her humour ten minutes before to profess herself helpless in such a case, the manner in which she imposed them on the waiter as original, practical, and economical, showed the high executive woman, the mother of children, the daughter of earls, the consort of an official, the dispenser of hospitality, looking back upon a lifetime of luncheons. She carried many cares, and the feeding of multitudes—she was honourably conscious of having fed them decently, as she had always done everything—had ever been one of them. “Everything’s absurdly dear,” she remarked to her daughter as the waiter went away. To this remark Grace made no answer. She had been used for a long time back to hearing that everything was very dear; it was what one always expected. So she found the case herself, but she was silent and inventive about it, and nothing further passed, in the way of conversation with her mother, while they waited for the latter’s orders to be executed, till Lady Agnes reflected audibly: “He makes me unhappy, the way he talks about Julia.”
“Sometimes I think he does it to torment one. One can’t mention her!” Grace responded.
“It’s better not to mention her, but to leave it alone.”
“Yet he never mentions her of himself.”
“In some cases that’s supposed to show that people like people—though of course something more’s required to prove it,” Lady Agnes continued to meditate. “Sometimes I think he’s thinking of her, then at others I can’t fancy what he’s thinking of.”
“It would be awfully suitable,” said Grace, biting her roll.
Her companion had a pause, as if looking for some higher ground to put it upon. Then she appeared to find this loftier level in the observation: “Of course he must like her—he has known her always.”
“Nothing can be plainer than that she likes him,” Grace opined.
“Poor Julia!” Lady Agnes almost wailed; and her tone suggested that she knew more about that than she was ready to state.
“It isn’t as if she wasn’t clever and well read,” her daughter went on. “If there were nothing else there would be a reason in her being so interested in politics, in everything that he is.”
“Ah what Nick is—that’s what I sometimes wonder!”
Grace eyed her parent in some despair: “Why, mother, isn’t he going to be like papa?” She waited for an answer that didn’t come; after which she pursued: “I thought you thought him so like him already.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Lady Agnes quietly.
“Who is then? Certainly Percy isn’t.”
Lady Agnes was silent a space. “There’s no one like your father.”
“Dear papa!” Grace handsomely concurred. Then with a rapid transition: “It would be so jolly for all of us—she’d be so nice to us.”
“She’s that already—in her way,” said Lady Agnes conscientiously, having followed the return, quick as it was. “Much good does it do her!” And she reproduced the note of her bitterness of a moment before.
“It does her some good that one should look out for her. I do, and I think she knows it,” Grace declared. “One can at any rate keep other women off.”
“Don’t meddle—you’re very clumsy,” was her mother’s not particularly sympathetic rejoinder. “There are other women who are beautiful, and there are others who are clever and rich.”
“Yes, but not all in one: that’s what’s so nice in Julia. Her fortune would be thrown in; he wouldn’t appear to have married her for it.”
“If he does he won’t,” said Lady Agnes a trifle obscurely.
“Yes, that’s what’s so charming. And he could do anything then, couldn’t he?”
“Well, your father had no fortune to speak of.”
“Yes, but didn’t Uncle Percy help him?”
“His wife helped him,” said Lady Agnes.
“Dear mamma!”—the girl was prompt. “There’s one thing,” she added: “that Mr. Carteret will always help Nick.”
“What do you mean by ‘always’?”
“Why whether he marries Julia or not.”
“Things aren’t so easy,” Lady Agnes judged. “It will all depend on Nick’s behaviour. He can stop it to-morrow.”
Grace Dormer stared; she evidently thought Mr. Carteret’s beneficence a part of the scheme of nature. “How could he stop it?”
“By not being serious. It isn’t so hard to prevent people giving you money.”
“Serious?” Grace repeated. “Does he want him to be a prig like Lord Egbert?”
“Yes—that’s exactly what he wants. And what he’ll do for him he’ll do for him only if he marries Julia.”
“Has he told you?” Grace inquired. And then, before her mother could answer, “I’m delighted at that!” she cried.
“He hasn’t told me, but that’s the way things happen.” Lady Agnes was less optimist
ic than her daughter, and such optimism as she cultivated was a thin tissue with the sense of things as they are showing through. “If Nick becomes rich Charles Carteret will make him more so. If he doesn’t he won’t give him a shilling.”
“Oh mamma!” Grace demurred.
“It’s all very well to say that in public life money isn’t as necessary as it used to be,” her ladyship went on broodingly. “Those who say so don’t know anything about it. It’s always intensely necessary.”
Her daughter, visibly affected by the gloom of her manner, felt impelled to evoke as a corrective a more cheerful idea. “I daresay; but there’s the fact—isn’t there?—that poor papa had so little.”