Glasses. Генри Джеймс

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СКАЧАТЬ which made the endless variety of her garments, as a painter could take heed, strike one always as the same obscure elegance.  She seated herself on the floor of my mother’s chair, a little too much on her right instep as I afterwards gathered, caressing her still hand, smiling up into her cold face, commending and approving her without a reserve and without a doubt.  She told her immediately, as if it were something for her to hold on by, that she was soon to sit to me for a “likeness,” and these words gave me a chance to enquire if it would be the fate of the picture, should I finish it, to be presented to the young man in the knickerbockers.  Her lips, at this, parted in a stare; her eyes darkened to the purple of one of the shadow-patches on the sea.  She showed for the passing instant the face of some splendid tragic mask, and I remembered for the inconsequence of it what Mrs. Meldrum had said about her sight.  I had derived from this lady a worrying impulse to catechise her, but that didn’t seem exactly kind; so I substituted another question, inquiring who the pretty young man in knickerbockers might happen to be.

      “Oh a gentleman I met at Boulogne.  He has come over to see me.”  After a moment she added: “Lord Iffield.”

      I had never heard of Lord Iffield, but her mention of his having been at Boulogne helped me to give him a niche.  Mrs. Meldrum had incidentally thrown a certain light on the manners of Mrs. Floyd-Taylor, Flora’s recent hostess in that charming town, a lady who, it appeared, had a special vocation for helping rich young men to find a use for their leisure.  She had always one or other in hand and had apparently on this occasion pointed her lesson at the rare creature on the opposite coast.  I had a vague idea that Boulogne was not a resort of the world’s envied; at the same time there might very well have been a strong attraction there even for one of the darlings of fortune.  I could perfectly understand in any case that such a darling should be drawn to Folkestone by Flora Saunt.  But it was not in truth of these things I was thinking; what was uppermost in my mind was a matter which, though it had no sort of keeping, insisted just then on coming out.

      “Is it true, Miss Saunt,” I suddenly demanded, “that you’re so unfortunate as to have had some warning about your beautiful eyes?”

      I was startled by the effect of my words; the girl threw back her head, changing colour from brow to chin.  “True?  Who in the world says so?”  I repented of my question in a flash; the way she met it made it seem cruel, and I felt my mother look at me in some surprise.  I took care, in answer to Flora’s challenge, not to incriminate Mrs. Meldrum.  I answered that the rumour had reached me only in the vaguest form and that if I had been moved to put it to the test my very real interest in her must be held responsible.  Her blush died away, but a pair of still prettier tears glistened in its track.  “If you ever hear such a thing said again you can say it’s a horrid lie!”  I had brought on a commotion deeper than any I was prepared for; but it was explained in some degree by the next words she uttered: “I’m happy to say there’s nothing the matter with any part of me whatever, not the least little thing!”  She spoke with her habitual complacency, with triumphant assurance; she smiled again, and I could see how she wished that she hadn’t so taken me up.  She turned it off with a laugh.  “I’ve good eyes, good teeth, a good digestion and a good temper.  I’m sound of wind and limb!”  Nothing could have been more characteristic than her blush and her tears, nothing less acceptable to her than to be thought not perfect in every particular.  She couldn’t submit to the imputation of a flaw.  I expressed my delight in what she told me, assuring her I should always do battle for her; and as if to rejoin her companions she got up from her place on my mother’s toes.  The young men presented their backs to us; they were leaning on the rail of the cliff.  Our incident had produced a certain awkwardness, and while I was thinking of what next to say she exclaimed irrelevantly: “Don’t you know?  He’ll be Lord Considine.”  At that moment the youth marked for this high destiny turned round, and she spoke to my mother.  “I’ll introduce him to you—he’s awfully nice.”  She beckoned and invited him with her parasol; the movement struck me as taking everything for granted.  I had heard of Lord Considine and if I had not been able to place Lord Iffield it was because I didn’t know the name of his eldest son.  The young man took no notice of Miss Saunt’s appeal; he only stared a moment and then on her repeating it quietly turned his back.  She was an odd creature: she didn’t blush at this; she only said to my mother apologetically, but with the frankest sweetest amusement, “You don’t mind, do you?  He’s a monster of shyness!”  It was as if she were sorry for every one—for Lord Iffield, the victim of a complaint so painful, and for my mother, the subject of a certain slight.  “I’m sure I don’t want him!” said my mother, but Flora added some promise of how she would handle him for his rudeness.  She would clearly never explain anything by any failure of her own appeal.  There rolled over me while she took leave of us and floated back to her friends a wave of superstitious dread.  I seemed somehow to see her go forth to her fate, and yet what should fill out this orb of a high destiny if not such beauty and such joy?  I had a dim idea that Lord Considine was a great proprietor, and though there mingled with it a faint impression that I shouldn’t like his son the result of the two images was a whimsical prayer that the girl mightn’t miss her possible fortune.

      CHAPTER IV

      One day in the course of the following June there was ushered into my studio a gentleman whom I had not yet seen but with whom I had been very briefly in correspondence.  A letter from him had expressed to me some days before his regret on learning that my “splendid portrait” of Miss Flora Louisa Saunt, whose full name figured by her own wish in the catalogue of the exhibition of the Academy, had found a purchaser before the close of the private view.  He took the liberty of inquiring whether I might have at his service some other memorial of the same lovely head, some preliminary sketch, some study for the picture.  I had replied that I had indeed painted Miss Saunt more than once and that if he were interested in my work I should be happy to show him what I had done.  Mr. Geoffrey Dawling, the person thus introduced to me, stumbled into my room with awkward movements and equivocal sounds—a long, lean, confused, confusing young man, with a bad complexion and large protrusive teeth.  He bore in its most indelible pressure the postmark, as it were, of Oxford, and as soon as he opened his mouth I perceived, in addition to a remarkable revelation of gums, that the text of the queer communication matched the registered envelope.  He was full of refinements and angles, of dreary and distinguished knowledge.  Of his unconscious drollery his dress freely partook; it seemed, from the gold ring into which his red necktie was passed to the square toe-caps of his boots, to conform with a high sense of modernness to the fashion before the last.  There were moments when his overdone urbanity, all suggestive stammers and interrogative quavers, made him scarcely intelligible; but I felt him to be a gentleman and I liked the honesty of his errand and the expression of his good green eyes.

      As a worshipper at the shrine of beauty, however, he needed explaining, especially when I found he had no acquaintance with my brilliant model; had on the mere evidence of my picture taken, as he said, a tremendous fancy to her looks.  I ought doubtless to have been humiliated by the simplicity of his judgment of them, a judgment for which the rendering was lost in the subject, quite leaving out the element of art.  He was like the innocent reader for whom the story is “really true” and the author a negligible quantity.  He had come to me only because he wanted to purchase, and I remember being so amused at his attitude, which I had never seen equally marked in a person of education, that I asked him why, for the sort of enjoyment he desired, it wouldn’t be more to the point to deal directly with the lady.  He stared and blushed at this; the idea clearly alarmed him.  He was an extraordinary case—personally so modest that I could see it had never occurred to him.  He had fallen in love with a painted sign and seemed content just to dream of what it stood for.  He was the young prince in the legend or the comedy who loses his heart to the miniature of the princess beyond seas.  Until I knew him better this puzzled me much—the link was so missing between his sensibility and his type.  He was of course bewildered by my sketches, which implied in the beholder some sense of intention and quality; but for one of them, a comparative failure, he ended by conceiving a preference so arbitrary and so lively that, taking no second look at the others, he expressed his СКАЧАТЬ