by Henry James
“Then what you said just now was a speech,” Julia declared.
“A speech?”
“The ‘rot,’ the humbug of the hustings.”
“No, those great truths remain, and a good many others. But an inner voice tells me I’m in for it. And it will be much more graceful to embrace this opportunity, accepting your co-operation, than to wait for some other and forfeit that advantage.”
“I shall be very glad to help you anywhere,” she went on.
“Thanks awfully,” he returned, still standing there with his hands in his pockets. “You’d do it best in your own place, and I’ve no right to deny myself such a help.”
Julia calmly considered. “I don’t do it badly.”
“Ah you’re so political!”
“Of course I am; it’s the only decent thing to be. But I can only help you if you’ll help yourself. I can do a good deal, but I can’t do everything. If you’ll work I’ll work with you; but if you’re going into it with your hands in your pockets I’ll have nothing to do with you.” Nick instantly changed the position of these members and sank into a seat with his elbows on his knees. “You’re very clever, but you must really take a little trouble. Things don’t drop into people’s mouths.”
“I’ll try—I’ll try. I’ve a great incentive,” he admitted.
“Of course you have.”
“My mother, my poor mother.” Julia breathed some vague sound and he went on: “And of course always my father, dear good man. My mother’s even more political than you.”
“I daresay she is, and quite right!” said Mrs. Dallow.
“And she can’t tell me a bit more than you can what she thinks, what she believes, what she wants.”
“Pardon me, I can tell you perfectly. There’s one thing I always immensely want—to keep out a Tory.”
“I see. That’s a great philosophy.”
“It will do very well. And I desire the good of the country. I’m not ashamed of that.”
“And can you give me an idea of what it is—the good of the country?”
“I know perfectly what it isn’t. It isn’t what the Tories want to do.”
“What do they want to do?”
“Oh it would take me long to tell you. All sorts of trash.”
“It would take you long, and it would take them longer! All they want to do is to prevent us from doing. On our side we want to prevent them from preventing us. That’s about as clearly as we all see it. So on both sides it’s a beautiful, lucid, inspiring programme.”
“I don’t believe in you,” Mrs. Dallow replied to this, leaning back on her sofa.
“I hope not, Julia, indeed!” He paused a moment, still with his face toward her and his elbows on his knees; then he pursued: “You’re a very accomplished woman and a very zealous one; but you haven’t an idea, you know—not to call an idea. What you mainly want is to be at the head of a political salon; to start one, to keep it up, to make it a success.”
“Much you know me!” Julia protested; but he could see, through the dimness, that her face spoke differently.
“You’ll have it in time, but I won’t come to it,” Nick went on.
“You can’t come less than you do.”
“When I say you’ll have it I mean you’ve already got it. That’s why I don’t come.”
“I don’t think you know what you mean,” said Mrs. Dallow. “I’ve an idea that’s as good as any of yours, any of those you’ve treated me to this evening, it seems to me—the simple idea that one ought to do something or other for one’s country.”
“‘Something or other’ certainly covers all the ground. There’s one thing one can always do for one’s country, which is not to be afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
Nick Dormer waited a little, as if his idea amused him, but he presently said, “I’ll tell you another time. It’s very well to talk so glibly of standing,” he added; “but it isn’t absolutely foreign to the question that I haven’t got the cash.”
“What did you do before?” she asked.
“The first time my father paid.”
“And the other time?”
“Oh Mr. Carteret.”
“Your expenses won’t be at all large; on the contrary,” said Julia.
“They shan’t be; I shall look out sharp for that. I shall have the great Hutchby.”
“Of course; but you know I want you to do it well.” She paused an instant and then: “Of course you can send the bill to me.”
“Thanks awfully; you’re tremendously kind. I shouldn’t think of that.” Nick Dormer got up as he spoke, and walked to the window again, his companion’s eyes resting on him while he stood with his back to her. “I shall manage it somehow,” he wound up.
“Mr. Carteret will be delighted,” said Julia.
“I daresay, but I hate taking people’s money.”
“That’s nonsense—when it’s for the country. Isn’t it for them?”
“When they get it back!” Nick replied, turning round and looking for his hat. “It’s startlingly late; you must be tired.” Mrs. Dallow made no response to this, and he pursued his quest, successful only when he reached a duskier corner of the room, to which the hat had been relegated by his cousin’s maid. “Mr. Carteret will expect so much if he pays. And so would you.”
“Yes, I’m bound to say I should! I should expect a great deal—everything.” And Mrs. Dallow emphasised this assertion by the way she rose erect. “If you’re riding for a fall, if you’re only going in to miss it, you had better stay out.”
“How can I miss it with you?” the young man smiled. She uttered a word, impatiently but indistinguishably, and he continued: “And even if I do it will have been immense fun.”
“It is immense fun,” said Julia. “But the best fun is to win. If you don’t–-!”
“If I don’t?” he repeated as she dropped.
“I’ll never speak to you again.”
“How much you expect even when you don’t pay!”
Mrs. Dallow’s rejoinder was a justification of this remark, expressing as it did the fact that should they receive on the morrow information on which she believed herself entitled to count, information tending to show how hard the Conservatives meant to fight, she should look to him to be in the field as early as herself. Sunday was a lost day; she should leave Paris on Monday.
“Oh they’ll fight it hard; they’ll put up Kingsbury,” said Nick, smoothing his hat. “They’ll all come down—all that can get away. And Kingsbury has a very handsome wife.”
“She’s not so handsome as your cousin,” Julia smiled.
“Oh dear, no—a cousin sooner than a wife any day!” Nick laughed as soon as he had said this, as if the speech had an awkward side; but the reparation perhaps scarcely mended it, the exaggerated mock-meekness with which he added: “I’ll do any blessed thing you tell me.”
“Come here to-morrow then—as early as ten.” She turned round, moving to the door with him; but before they reached it she brought out: “Pray isn’t a gentleman to do anything, to be anything?”
“To be anything–-?”
“If he doesn’t aspire to serve the State.”
“Aspire to make his political fortune, do you mean? Oh bless me, yes, there are other things.”
“What other things that can compare with that?”
“Well, I for instance, I’m very fond of the arts.”
“Of the arts?” she echoed.
“Did you never hear of them? I’m awfully fond of painting.”
At this Julia stopped short, and her fine grey eyes had for a moment the air of being set further forward in her head. “Don’t be odious! Good-night,” she said, turning away and leaving him to go.
BOOK SECOND
VII
Peter Sherringham reminded Nick the next day that he had promised to be present at Madame Carré’s interview with the ladies introduced to her by Gabriel Nash; and in the afternoon, conformably to this arr
angement, the two men took their way to the Rue de Constantinople. They found Mr. Nash and his friends in the small beflounced drawing-room of the old actress, who, as they learned, had sent in a request for ten minutes’ grace, having been detained at a lesson—a rehearsal of the comédie de salon about to be given for a charity by a fine lady, at which she had consented to be present as an adviser. Mrs. Rooth sat on a black satin sofa with her daughter beside her while Gabriel Nash, wandering about the room, looked at the votive offerings which converted the little panelled box, decorated in sallow white and gold, into a theatrical museum: the presents, the portraits, the wreaths, the diadems, the letters, framed and glazed, the trophies and tributes and relics collected by Madame Carré during half a century of renown. The profusion of this testimony was hardly more striking than the confession of something missed, something hushed, which seemed to rise from it all and make it melancholy, like a reference to clappings which, in the nature of things, could now only be present as a silence: so that if the place was full of history it was the form without the fact, or at the most a redundancy of the one to a pinch of the other—the history of a mask, of a squeak, of a series of vain gestures.
Some of the objects exhibited by the distinguished artist, her early portraits, in lithograph or miniature, represented the costume and embodied the manner of a period so remote that Nick Dormer, as he glanced at them, felt a quickened curiosity to look at the woman who reconciled being alive to-day with having been alive so long ago. Peter Sherringham already knew how she managed this miracle, but every visit he paid her added to his amused, charmed sense that it was a miracle and that his extraordinary old friend had seen things he should never, never see. Those were just the things he wanted to see most, and her duration, her survival, cheated him agreeably and helped him a little to guess them. His appreciation of the actor’s art was so systematic that it had an antiquarian side, and at the risk of representing him as attached to an absurd futility it must be said that he had as yet hardly known a keener regret for anything than for the loss of that antecedent world, and in particular for his having belatedly missed the great comédienne, the light of the French stage in the early years of the century, of whose example and instruction Madame Carré had had the inestimable benefit. She had often described to him her rare predecessor, straight from whose hands she had received her most celebrated parts and of whom her own manner was often a religious imitation; but her descriptions troubled him more than they consoled, only confirming his theory, to which so much of his observation had already ministered, that the actor’s art in general was going down and down, descending a slope with abysses of vulgarity at its foot, after having reached its perfection, more than fifty years ago, in the talent of the lady in question. He would have liked to dwell for an hour beneath the meridian.
Gabriel Nash introduced the new-comers to his companions; but the younger of the two ladies gave no sign of lending herself to this transaction. The girl was very white; she huddled there, silent and rigid, frightened to death, staring, expressionless. If Bridget Dormer had seen her at this moment she might have felt avenged for the discomfiture of her own spirit suffered at the Salon, the day before, under the challenging eyes of Maud Vavasour. It was plain at the present hour that Miss Vavasour would have run away had she not regarded the persons present as so many guards and keepers. Her appearance made Nick feel as if the little temple of art in which they were collected had been the waiting-room of a dentist. Sherringham had seen a great many nervous girls tremble before the same ordeal, and he liked to be kind to them, to say things that would help them to do themselves justice. The probability in a given case was almost overwhelmingly in favour of their having any other talent one could think of in a higher degree than the dramatic; but he could rarely refrain from some care that the occasion shouldn’t be, even as against his conscience, too cruel. There were occasions indeed that could scarce be too cruel to punish properly certain examples of presumptuous ineptitude. He remembered what Mr. Nash had said about this blighted maiden, and perceived that though she might be inept she was now anything but presumptuous. Gabriel fell to talking with Nick Dormer while Peter addressed himself to Mrs. Rooth. There was no use as yet for any direct word to the girl, who was too scared even to hear. Mrs. Rooth, with her shawl fluttering about her, nestled against her daughter, putting out her hand to take one of Miriam’s soothingly. She had pretty, silly, near-sighted eyes, a long thin nose, and an upper lip which projected over the under as an ornamental cornice rests on its support. “So much depends—really everything!” she said in answer to some sociable observation of Sherringham’s. “It’s either this,” and she rolled her eyes expressively about the room, “or it’s—I don’t know what!”
“Perhaps we’re too many,” Peter hazarded to her daughter. “But really you’ll find, after you fairly begin, that you’ll do better with four or five.”
Before she answered she turned her head and lifted her fine eyes. The next instant he saw they were full of tears. The words she spoke, however, though uttered as if she had tapped a silver gong, had not the note of sensibility: “Oh, I don’t care for you!” He laughed at this, declared it was very well said and that if she could give Madame Carré such a specimen as that–-! The actress came in before he had finished his phrase, and he observed the way the girl ruefully rose to the encounter, hanging her head a little and looking out from under her brows. There was no sentiment in her face—only a vacancy of awe and anguish which had not even the merit of being fine of its kind, for it spoke of no spring of reaction. Yet the head was good, he noted at the same moment; it was strong and salient and made to tell at a distance. Madame Carré scarcely heeded her at first, greeting her only in her order among the others and pointing to seats, composing the circle with smiles and gestures, as if they were all before the prompter’s box. The old actress presented herself to a casual glance as a red-faced, raddled woman in a wig, with beady eyes, a hooked nose, and pretty hands; but Nick Dormer, who had a sense for the over-scored human surface, soon observed that these comparatively gross marks included a great deal of delicate detail—an eyebrow, a nostril, a flitting of expressions, as if a multitude of little facial wires were pulled from within. This accomplished artist had in particular a mouth which was visibly a rare instrument, a pair of lips whose curves and fine corners spoke of a lifetime of “points” unerringly made and verses exquisitely spoken, helping to explain the purity of the sound that issued from them. Her whole countenance had the look of long service—of a thing infinitely worn and used, drawn and stretched to excess, with its elasticity overdone and its springs relaxed, yet religiously preserved and kept in repair, even as some valuable old timepiece which might have quivered and rumbled but could be trusted to strike the hour. At the first words she spoke Gabriel Nash exclaimed endearingly: “Ah la voix de Célimène!” Célimène, who wore a big red flower on the summit of her dense wig, had a very grand air, a toss of the head, and sundry little majesties of manner; in addition to which she was strange, almost grotesque, and to some people would have been even terrifying, capable of reappearing, with her hard eyes, as a queer vision of the darkness. She excused herself for having made the company wait, and mouthed and mimicked in the drollest way, with intonations as fine as a flute, the performance and the pretensions of the belles dames to whom she had just been endeavouring to communicate a few of the rudiments. “Mais celles-là, c’est une plaisanterie,” she went on to Mrs. Rooth; “whereas you and your daughter, chère madame—I’m sure you are quite another matter.”
The girl had got rid of her tears, and was gazing at her, and Mrs. Rooth leaned forward and said portentously: “She knows four languages.”
Madame Carré gave one of her histrionic stares, throwing back her head. “That’s three too many. The thing’s to do something proper with one.”
“We’re very much in earnest,” continued Mrs. Rooth, who spoke excellent French.
“I’m glad to hear it—il n’y a que ça. La têt
e est bien—the head’s very good,” she said as she looked at the girl. “But let us see, my dear child, what you’ve got in it!” The young lady was still powerless to speak; she opened her lips, but nothing came. With the failure of this effort she turned her deep sombre eyes to the three men. “Un beau regard—it carries well.” Madame Carré further commented. But even as she spoke Miss Rooth’s fine gaze was suffused again and the next moment she had definitely begun to weep. Nick Dormer sprung up; he felt embarrassed and intrusive—there was such an indelicacy in sitting there to watch a poor working-girl’s struggle with timidity. There was a momentary confusion; Mrs. Rooth’s tears were seen also to flow; Mr. Nash took it gaily, addressing, however, at the same time, the friendliest, most familiar encouragement to his companions, and Peter Sherringham offered to retire with Nick on the spot, should their presence incommode the young lady. But the agitation was over in a minute; Madame Carré motioned Mrs. Rooth out of her seat and took her place beside the girl, and Nash explained judiciously to the other men that she’d be worse should they leave her. Her mother begged them to remain, “so that there should be at least some English”; she spoke as if the old actress were an army of Frenchwomen. The young heroine of the occasion quickly came round, and Madame Carré, on the sofa beside her, held her hand and emitted a perfect music of reassurance. “The nerves, the nerves—they’re half our affair. Have as many as you like, if you’ve got something else too. Voyons—do you know anything?”