Henry James: Complete Stories 1864-1874 (96 page)

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Authors: Henry James

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Page 570
little man of letters; she's for the world, the bright rich world of bribes and rewards. And the world will take hold of herit will carry her away.
It will try; but it's just a case in which there may be a fight. It would be worth fighting, for a man who had it in him, with youth and talent on his side.
These words rang not a little in Paul Overt's consciousnessthey held him silent a moment. It's a wonder she has remained as she isgiving herself away so, with so much to give away.
Do you mean so ingenuousso natural? Oh, she doesn't care a strawshe gives away because she overflows. She has her own feelings, her own standards; she doesn't keep remembering that she must be proud. And then she hasn't been here long enough to be spoiled; she has picked up a fashion or two, but only the amusing ones. She's a provinciala provincial of genius; her very blunders are charming, her mistakes are interesting. She has come back from Asia with all sorts of excited curiosities and unappeased appetites. She's first-rate herself and she expends herself on the second-rate. She's life herself and she takes a rare interest in imitations. She mixes all things up, but there are none in regard to which she hasn't perceptions. She sees things in a perspectiveas if from the top of the Himalayasand she enlarges everything she touches. Above all she exaggeratesto herself, I mean. She exaggerates you and me!
There was nothing in this description to allay the excitement produced in the mind of our younger friend by such a sketch of a fine subject. It seemed to him to show the art of St. George's admired hand, and he lost himself in it, gazing at the vision (it hovered there before him,) of a woman's figure which should be part of the perfection of a novel. At the end of a moment he became aware that it had turned into smoke, and out of the smokethe last puff of a big cigarproceeded the voice of General Fancourt, who had left the others and come and planted himself before the gentlmen on the sofa. I suppose that when you fellows get talking you sit up half the night.
Half the night?
jamais de la vie!
I follow a hygiene, St. George replied, rising to his feet.
 
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I see, you're hothouse plants, laughed the General. That's the way you produce your flowers.
I produce mine between ten and one every morning; I bloom with a regularity! St. George went on.
And with a splendour! added the polite General, while Paul Overt noted how little the author of
Shadowmere
minded, as he phrased it to himself, when he was addressed as a celebrated story-teller. The young man had an idea that
he
should never get used to thatit would always make him uncomfortable (from the suspicion that people would think they had to,) and he would want to prevent it. Evidently his more illustrious congener had toughened and hardenedhad made himself a surface. The group of men had finished their cigars and taken up their bedroom candlesticks; but before they all passed out Lord Watermouth invited St. George and Paul Overt to drink something. It happened that they both declined, upon which General Fancourt said: Is that the hygiene? You don't sprinkle the flowers?
Oh, I should drown them! St. George replied; but leaving the room beside Overt he added whimsically, for the latter's benefit, in a lower tone: My wife doesn't let me.
Well, I'm glad I'm not one of you fellows! the General exclaimed.
The nearness of Summersoft to London had this consequence, chilling to a person who had had a vision of sociability in a railway-carriage, that most of the company, after breakfast, drove back to town, entering their own vehicles, which had come out to fetch them, while their servants returned by train with their luggage. Three or four young men, among whom was Paul Overt, also availed themselves of the common convenience; but they stood in the portico of the house and saw the others roll away. Miss Fancourt got into a victoria with her father, after she had shaken hands with Paul Overt and said, smiling in the frankest way in the worldI
must
see you more. Mrs. St. George is so nice: she has promised to ask us both to dinner together. This lady and her husband took their places in a perfectly-appointed brougham (she required a closed carriage,) and as our young man waved his hat to them in response to their nods and flourishes he reflected that, taken together, they were an honourable image of success, of
 
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the material rewards and the social credit of literature. Such things were not the full measure, but all the same he felt a little proud for literature.
IV.
Before a week had elapsed Paul Overt met Miss Fancourt in Bond Street, at a private view of the works of a young artist in black and white who had been so good as to invite him to the stuffy scene. The drawings were admirable, but the crowd in the one little room was so dense that he felt as if he were up to his neck in a big sack of wool. A fringe of people at the outer edge endeavoured by curving forward their backs and presenting, below them, a still more convex surface of resistance to the pressure of the mass, to preserve an interval between their noses and the glazed mounts of the pictures; while the central body, in the comparative gloom projected by a wide horizontal screen, hung under the skylight and allowing only a margin for the day, remained upright, dense and vague, lost in the contemplation of its own ingredients. This contemplation sat especially in the sad eyes of certain female heads, surmounted with hats of strange convolution and plumage, which rose on long necks above the others. One of the heads, Paul Overt perceived, was much the most beautiful of the collection, and his next discovery was that it belonged to Miss Fancourt. Its beauty was enhanced by the glad smile that she sent him across surrounding obstructions, a smile which drew him to her as fast as he could make his way. He had divined at Summersoft that the last thing her nature contained was an affectation of indifference; yet even with this circumspection he had a freshness of pleasure in seeing that she did not pretend to await his arrival with composure. She smiled as radiantly as if she wished to make him hurry, and as soon as he came within earshot she said to him, in her voice of joy: He's herehe's herehe's coming back in a moment!
Ah, your father? Paul responded, as she offered him her hand.
Oh dear no, this isn't in my poor father's line. I mean Mr.
 
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St. George. He has just left me to speak to some onehe's coming back. It's he who brought mewasn't it charming?
Ah, that gives him a pull over meI couldn't have brought you, could I?
If you had been so kind as to propose itwhy not you as well as he? the girl asked, with a face which expressed no cheap coquetry, but simply affirmed a happy fact.
Why, he's a
père de famille.
They have privileges, Paul Overt explained. And then, quickly: Will you go to see places with
me?
he broke out.
Anything you like! she smiled. I know what you mean, that girls have to have a lot of people She interrupted herself to say: I don't know; I'm free. I have always been like that, she went on; I can go anywhere with any one. I'm so glad to meet you, she added, with a sweet distinctness that made the people near her turn round.
Let me at least repay that speech by taking you out of this squash, said Paul Overt. Surely people are not happy here!
No, they are
mornes,
aren't they? But I am very happy indeed, and I promised Mr. St. George to remain in this spot till he comes back. He's going to take me away. They send him invitations for things of this sortmore than he wants. It was so kind of him to think of me.
They also send me invitations of this kindmore than I want. And if thinking of
you
will do it! Paul went on.
Oh, I delight in themeverything that's lifeeverything that's London!
They don't have private views in Asia, I suppose. But what a pity that for this year, in this fertile city, they are pretty well over.
Well, next year will do, for I hope you believe we are going to be friends always. Here he comes! Miss Fancourt continued, before Paul had time to respond.
He made out St. George in the gaps of the crowd, and this perhaps led to his hurrying a little to say: I hope that doesn't mean that I'm to wait till next year to see you.
No, no; are we not to meet at dinner on the 25th? she answered, with an eagerness greater even than his own.
That's almost next year. Is there no means of seeing you before?
 
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She stared, with all her brightness. Do you mean that you would
come?
Like a shot, if you'll be so good as to ask me!
On Sunday, thenthis next Sunday?
What have I done that you should doubt it? the young man demanded, smiling.
Miss Fancourt turned instantly to St. George, who had now joined them, and announced triumphantly: He's coming on Sundaythis next Sunday!
Ah, my daymy day too! said the famous novelist, laughing at Paul Overt.
Yes, but not yours only. You shall meet in Manchester Square; you shall talkyou shall be wonderful!
We don't meet often enough, St. George remarked, shaking hands with his disciple. Too many thingsah, too many things! But we must make it up in the country in September. You won't forget that you've promised me that?
Why, he's coming on the 25th; you'll see him then, said Marian Fancourt.
On the 25th? St. George asked, vaguely.
We dine with you; I hope you haven't forgotten. He's dining out, she added gaily to Paul Overt.
Oh, bless me, yes; that's charming! And you're coming? My wife didn't tell me, St. George said to Paul. Too many thingstoo many things! he repeated.
Too many peopletoo many people! Paul exclaimed, giving ground before the penetration of an elbow.
You oughtn't to say that; they all read you.
Me? I should like to see them! Only two or three at most, the young man rejoined.
Did you ever hear anything like that? he knows how good he is! St. George exclaimed, laughing, to Miss Fancourt. They read
me,
but that doesn't make me like them any better. Come away from them, come away! And he led the way out of the exhibition.
He's going to take me to the Park, the girl said, with elation, to Paul Overt, as they passed along the corridor which led to the street.
Ah, does he go there? Paul asked, wondering at the idea as a somewhat unexpected illustration of St. George's
moeurs.
 
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It's a beautiful day; there will be a great crowd. We're going to look at the people, to look at types, the girl went on. We shall sit under the trees; we shall walk by the Row.
I go once a year, on business, said St. George, who had overheard Paul's question.
Or with a country cousin, didn't you tell me? I'm the country cousin! she went on, over her shoulder, to Paul, as her companion drew her toward a hansom to which he had signalled. The young man watched them get in; he returned, as he stood there, the friendly wave of the hand with which, ensconced in the vehicle beside Miss Fancourt, St. George took leave of him. He even lingered to see the vehicle start away and lose itself in the confusion of Bond Street. He followed it with his eyes; it was embarrassingly suggestive. She's not for me! the great novelist had said emphatically at Summersoft; but his manner of conducting himself toward her appeared not exactly in harmony with such a conviction. How could he have behaved differently if she
had
been for him? An indefinite envy rose in Paul Overt's heart as he took his way on foot alone, and the singular part of it was that it was directed to each of the occupants of the hansom. How much he should like to rattle about London with such a girl! How much he should like to go and look at types with St. George!
The next Sunday, at four o'clock, he called in Manchester Square, where his secret wish was gratified by his finding Miss Fancourt alone. She was in a large, bright, friendly, occupied room, which was painted red all over, draped with the quaint, cheap, florid stuffs that are represented as coming from southern and eastern countries, where they are fabled to serve as the counterpanes of the peasantry, and bedecked with pottery of vivid hues, ranged on casual shelves, and with many water-colour drawings from the hand (as the visitor learned,) of the young lady, commemorating, with courage and skill, the sunsets, the mountains, the temples and palaces of India. Overt sat there an hourmore than an hour, two hoursand all the while no one came in. Miss Fancourt was so good as to remark, with her liberal humanity, that it was delightful they were not interrupted; it was so rare in London, especially at that season, that people got a good talk. But fortunately

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