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Henry James: Complete Stories 1864-1874 (93 page)

BOOK: Henry James: Complete Stories 1864-1874

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Page 552

gentleman didn't look like an artist. St. George was not one of the exceptions; that circumstance he definitely apprehended before the great man had turned his back to walk off with Miss Fancourt. He certainly looked better behind than any foreign man of letters, and beautifully correct in his tall black hat and his superior frock coat. Somehow, all the same, these very garments (he wouldn't have minded them so much on a weekday,) were disconcerting to Paul Overt, who forgot for the moment that the head of the profession was not a bit better dressed than himself. He had caught a glimpse of a regular face, with a fresh colour, a brown moustache and a pair of eyes surely never visited by a fine frenzy, and he promised himself to study it on the first occasion. His temporary opinion was that St. George looked like a lucky stock-brokera gentleman driving eastward every morning from a sanitary suburb in a smart dog-cart. That carried out the impression already derived from his wife. Paul Overt's glance, after a moment, travelled back to this lady, and he saw that her own had followed her husband as he moved off with Miss Fancourt. Overt permitted himself to wonder a little whether she were jealous when another woman took him away. Then he seemed to perceive that Mrs. St. George was not glaring at the indifferent maidenher eyes rested only on her husband, and with unmistakable serenity. That was the way she wanted him to beshe liked his conventional uniform. Overt had a great desire to hear more about the book she had induced him to destroy.

II..

As they all came out from luncheon General Fancourt took hold of Paul Overt and exclaimed, I say, I want you to know my girl! as if the idea had just occurred to him and he had not spoken of it before. With the other hand he possessed himself of the young lady and said: You know all about him. I've seen you with his books. She reads everythingeverything! he added to the young man. The girl smiled at him and then laughed at her father. The General turned away and his daughter said:

Isn't papa delightful?

Page 553

He is indeed, Miss Fancourt.

As if I read you because I read everything!

Oh, I don't mean for saying that, said Paul Overt. I liked him from the moment he spoke to me. Then he promised me this privilege.

It isn't for you he means it, it's for me. If you flatter yourself that he thinks of anything in life but me you'll find you are mistaken. He introduces every one to me. He thinks me insatiable.

You speak like him, said Paul Overt, laughing.

Ah, but sometimes I want to, the girl replied, colouring.

I don't read everythingI read very little. But I
have
read you.

Suppose we go into the gallery, said Paul Overt. She pleased him greatly, not so much because of this last remark (though that of course was not disagreeable to him,) as because, seated opposite to him at luncheon, she had given him for half an hour the impression of her beautiful face. Something else had come with ita sense of generosity, of an enthusiasm which, unlike many enthusiasms, was not all manner. That was not spoiled for him by the circumstance that the repast had placed her again in familiar contact with Henry St. George. Sitting next to her he was also opposite to our young man, who had been able to observe that he multiplied the attentions which his wife had brought to the General's notice. Paul Overt had been able to observe further that this lady was not in the least discomposed by these demonstrations and that she gave every sign of an unclouded spirit. She had Lord Masham on one side of her and on the other the accomplished Mr. Mulliner, editor of the new high-class, lively evening paper which was expected to meet a want felt in circles increasingly conscious that Conservatism must be made amusing, and unconvinced when assured by those of another political colour that it was already amusing enough. At the end of an hour spent in her company Paul Overt thought her still prettier than she had appeared to him at first, and if her profane allusions to her husband's work had not still rung in his ears he should have liked herso far as it could be a question of that in connection with a woman to whom he had not yet spoken and to whom probably he should never speak if it were

Page 554

left to her. Pretty women evidently were necessary to Henry St. George, and for the moment it was Miss Fancourt who was most indispensable. If Overt had promised himself to take a better look at him the opportunity now was of the best, and it brought consequences which the young man felt to be important. He saw more in his face, and he liked it the better for its not telling its whole story in the first three minutes. That story came out as one read, in little instalments (it was excusable that Overt's mental comparisons should be somewhat professional,) and the text was a style considerably involveda language not easy to translate at sight. There were shades of meaning in it and a vague perspective of history which receded as you advanced. Of two facts Paul Overt had taken especial notice. The first of these was that he liked the countenance of the illustrious novelist much better when it was in repose than when it smiled; the smile displeased him (as much as anything from that source could,) whereas the quiet face had a charm which increased in proportion as it became completely quiet. The change to the expression of gaiety excited on Overt's part a private protest which resembled that of a person sitting in the twilight and enjoying it, when the lamp is brought in too soon. His second reflection was that, though generally he disliked the sight of a man of that age using arts to make himself agreeable to a pretty girl, he was not struck in this case by the ugliness of the thing, which seemed to prove that St. George had a light hand or the air of being younger than he was, or else that Miss Fancourt showed that
she
was not conscious of an anomaly.

Overt walked with her into the gallery, and they strolled to the end of it, looking at the pictures, the cabinets, the charming vista, which harmonised with the prospect of the summer afternoon, resembling it in its long brightness, with great divans and old chairs like hours of rest. Such a place as that had the added merit of giving persons who came into it plenty to talk about. Miss Fancourt sat down with Paul Overt on a flowered sofa, the cushions of which, very numerous, were tight, ancient cubes, of many sizes, and presently she said:

I'm so glad to have a chance to thank you.

To thank me?

I liked your book so much. I think it's splendid.

Page 555

She sat there smiling at him, and he never asked himself which book she meant; for after all he had written three or four. That seemed a vulgar detail, and he was not even gratified by the idea of the pleasure she told himher bright, handsome face told himhe had given her. The feeling she appealed to, or at any rate the feeling she excited, was something largersomething that had little to do with any quickened pulsation of his own vanity. It was responsive admiration of the life she embodied, the young purity and richness of which appeared to imply that real success was to resemble
that,
to live, to bloom, to present the perfection of a fine type, not to have hammered out headachy fancies with a bent back at an ink-stained table. While her grey eyes rested on him (there was a wideish space between them, and the division of her rich-coloured hair, which was so thick that it ventured to be smooth, made a free arch above them,) he was almost ashamed of that exercise of the pen which it was her present inclination to eulogise. He was conscious that he should have liked better to please her in some other way. The lines of her face were those of a woman grown, but there was something childish in her complexion and the sweetness of her mouth. Above all she was naturalthat was indubitable nowmore natural than he had supposed at first, perhaps on account of her æsthetic drapery, which was conventionally unconventional, suggesting a tortuous spontaneity. He had feared that sort of thing in other cases, and his fears had been justified; though he was an artist to the essence, the modern reactionary nymph, with the brambles of the woodland caught in her folds and a look as if the satyrs had toyed with her hair, was apt to make him uncomfortable. Miss Fancourt was really more candid than her costume, and the best proof of it was her supposing that such garments suited her liberal character. She was robed like a pessimist, but Overt was sure she liked the taste of life. He thanked her for her appreciationaware at the same time that he didn't appear to thank her enough and that she might think him ungracious. He was afraid she would ask him to explain something that he had written, and he always shrank from that (perhaps too timidly,) for to his own ear the explanation of a work of art sounded fatuous. But he liked her so much as to feel a confidence that in the long run he

Page 556

should be able to show her that he was not rudely evasive. Moreover it was very certain that she was not quick to take offence; she was not irritable, she could be trusted to wait. So when he said to her, Ah! don't talk of anything I have done,
here;
there is another man in the house who is the actuality! when he uttered this short, sincere protest, it was with the sense that she would see in the words neither mock humility nor the ungraciousness of a successful man bored with praise.

You mean Mr. St. Georgeisn't he delightful?

Paul Overt looked at her a moment; there was a species of morning-light in her eyes.

Alas, I don't know him. I only admire him at a distance.

Oh, you must know himhe wants so to talk to you, rejoined Miss Fancourt, who evidently had the habit of saying the things that, by her quick calculation, would give people pleasure. Overt divined that she would always calculate on everything's being simple between others.

I shouldn't have supposed he knew anything about me, Paul said, smiling.

He does theneverything. And if he didn't, I should be able to tell him.

To tell him everything?

You talk just like the people in your book! the girl exclaimed.

Then they must all talk alike.

Well, it must be so difficult. Mr. St. George tells me it is, terribly. I've tried too and I find it so. I've tried to write a novel.

Mr. St. George oughtn't to discourage you, said Paul Overt.

You do much morewhen you wear that expression.

Well, after all, why try to be an artist? the young man went on. It's so poorso poor!

I don't know what you mean, said Marian Fancourt, looking grave.

I mean as compared with being a person of actionas living your works.

But what is art but a lifeif it be real? asked the girl. I think it's the only oneeverything else is so clumsy! Paul

Page 557

Overt laughed, and she continued: It's so interesting, meeting so many celebrated people.

So I should think; but surely it isn't new to you.

Why, I have never seen any oneany one: living always in Asia.

But doesn't Asia swarm with personages? Haven't you administered provinces in India and had captive rajahs and tributary princes chained to your car?

I was with my father, after I left school to go out there. It was delightful being with himwe are alone together in the world, he and Ibut there was none of the society I like best. One never heard of a picturenever of a book, except bad ones.

Never of a picture? Why, wasn't all life a picture?

Miss Fancourt looked over the delightful place where they sat. Nothing to compare with this. I adore England! she exclaimed.

Ah, of course I don't deny that we must do something with it yet.

It hasn't been touched, really, said the girl.

Did Henry St. George say that?

There was a small and, as he felt it, venial intention of irony in his question; which, however, the girl took very simply, not noticing the insinuation. Yes, he says it has not been touchednot touched comparatively, she answered, eagerly. He's so interesting about it. To listen to him makes one want so to do something.

He's so interesting about it. To listen to him makes one want so to do something.

It would make me want to, said Paul Overt, feeling strongly, on the instant, the suggestion of what she said and of the emotion with which she said it, and what an incentive, on St. George's lips, such a speech might be.

Oh, youas if you hadn't! I should like so to hear you talk together, the girl added, ardently.

That's very genial of you; but he would have it all his own way. I'm prostrate before him.

Marian Fancourt looked earnest for a moment. Do you think then he's so perfect?

Far from it. Some of his later books seem to me awfully queer.

BOOK: Henry James: Complete Stories 1864-1874

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