The Europeans. Генри Джеймс

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СКАЧАТЬ But he saw the admonition was superfluous. Eugenia was prepared to be gracious as only Eugenia could be. Felix knew no keener pleasure than to be able to admire his sister unrestrictedly; for if the opportunity was frequent, it was not inveterate. When she desired to please she was to him, as to everyone else, the most charming woman in the world. Then he forgot that she was ever anything else; that she was sometimes hard and perverse; that he was occasionally afraid of her. Now, as she took his arm to pass into the garden, he felt that she desired, that she proposed, to please, and this situation made him very happy. Eugenia would please.

      The tall gentleman came to meet her, looking very rigid and grave. But it was a rigidity that had no illiberal meaning. Mr. Wentworth’s manner was pregnant, on the contrary, with a sense of grand responsibility, of the solemnity of the occasion, of its being difficult to show sufficient deference to a lady at once so distinguished and so unhappy. Felix had observed on the day before his characteristic pallor; and now he perceived that there was something almost cadaverous in his uncle’s high-featured white face. But so clever were this young man’s quick sympathies and perceptions that he already learned that in these semi-mortuary manifestations there was no cause for alarm. His light imagination had gained a glimpse of Mr. Wentworth’s spiritual mechanism, and taught him that, the old man being infinitely conscientious, the special operation of conscience within him announced itself by several of the indications of physical faintness.

      The Baroness took her uncle’s hand, and stood looking at him with her ugly face and her beautiful smile. “Have I done right to come?” she asked.

      “Very right, very right,” said Mr. Wentworth, solemnly. He had arranged in his mind a little speech; but now it quite faded away. He felt almost frightened. He had never been looked at in just that way—with just that fixed, intense smile—by any woman; and it perplexed and weighed upon him, now, that the woman who was smiling so and who had instantly given him a vivid sense of her possessing other unprecedented attributes, was his own niece, the child of his own father’s daughter. The idea that his niece should be a German Baroness, married “morganatically” to a Prince, had already given him much to think about. Was it right, was it just, was it acceptable? He always slept badly, and the night before he had lain awake much more even than usual, asking himself these questions. The strange word “morganatic” was constantly in his ears; it reminded him of a certain Mrs. Morgan whom he had once known and who had been a bold, unpleasant woman. He had a feeling that it was his duty, so long as the Baroness looked at him, smiling in that way, to meet her glance with his own scrupulously adjusted, consciously frigid organs of vision; but on this occasion he failed to perform his duty to the last. He looked away toward his daughters. “We are very glad to see you,” he had said. “Allow me to introduce my daughters—Miss Charlotte Wentworth, Miss Gertrude Wentworth.”

      The Baroness thought she had never seen people less demonstrative. But Charlotte kissed her and took her hand, looking at her sweetly and solemnly. Gertrude seemed to her almost funereal, though Gertrude might have found a source of gaiety in the fact that Felix, with his magnificent smile, had been talking to her; he had greeted her as a very old friend. When she kissed the Baroness she had tears in her eyes. Madame Münster took each of these young women by the hand, and looked at them all over. Charlotte thought her very strange-looking and singularly dressed; she could not have said whether it was well or ill. She was glad, at any rate, that they had put on their silk gowns—especially Gertrude. “My cousins are very pretty,” said the Baroness, turning her eyes from one to the other. “Your daughters are very handsome, sir.”

      Charlotte blushed quickly; she had never yet heard her personal appearance alluded to in a loud, expressive voice. Gertrude looked away—not at Felix; she was extremely pleased. It was not the compliment that pleased her; she did not believe it; she thought herself very plain. She could hardly have told you the source of her satisfaction; it came from something in the way the Baroness spoke, and it was not diminished—it was rather deepened, oddly enough—by the young girl’s disbelief. Mr. Wentworth was silent; and then he asked, formally, “Won’t you come into the house?”

      “These are not all; you have some other children,” said the Baroness.

      “I have a son,” Mr. Wentworth answered.

      “And why doesn’t he come to meet me?” Eugenia cried. “I am afraid he is not so charming as his sisters.”

      “I don’t know; I will see about it,” the old man declared.

      “He is rather afraid of ladies,” Charlotte said, softly.

      “He is very handsome,” said Gertrude, as loud as she could.

      “We will go in and find him. We will draw him out of his cachette.” And the Baroness took Mr. Wentworth’s arm, who was not aware that he had offered it to her, and who, as they walked toward the house, wondered whether he ought to have offered it and whether it was proper for her to take it if it had not been offered. “I want to know you well,” said the Baroness, interrupting these meditations, “and I want you to know me.”

      “It seems natural that we should know each other,” Mr. Wentworth rejoined. “We are near relatives.”

      “Ah, there comes a moment in life when one reverts, irresistibly, to one’s natural ties—to one’s natural affections. You must have found that!” said Eugenia.

      Mr. Wentworth had been told the day before by Felix that Eugenia was very clever, very brilliant, and the information had held him in some suspense. This was the cleverness, he supposed; the brilliancy was beginning. “Yes, the natural affections are very strong,” he murmured.

      “In some people,” the Baroness declared. “Not in all.” Charlotte was walking beside her; she took hold of her hand again, smiling always. “And you, cousine, where did you get that enchanting complexion?” she went on; “such lilies and roses?” The roses in poor Charlotte’s countenance began speedily to predominate over the lilies, and she quickened her step and reached the portico. “This is the country of complexions,” the Baroness continued, addressing herself to Mr. Wentworth. “I am convinced they are more delicate. There are very good ones in England—in Holland; but they are very apt to be coarse. There is too much red.”

      “I think you will find,” said Mr. Wentworth, “that this country is superior in many respects to those you mention. I have been to England and Holland.”

      “Ah, you have been to Europe?” cried the Baroness. “Why didn’t you come and see me? But it’s better, after all, this way,” she said. They were entering the house; she paused and looked round her. “I see you have arranged your house—your beautiful house—in the—in the Dutch taste!”

      “The house is very old,” remarked Mr. Wentworth. “General Washington once spent a week here.”

      “Oh, I have heard of Washington,” cried the Baroness. “My father used to tell me of him.”

      Mr. Wentworth was silent a moment, and then, “I found he was very well known in Europe,” he said.

      Felix had lingered in the garden with Gertrude; he was standing before her and smiling, as he had done the day before. What had happened the day before seemed to her a kind of dream. He had been there and he had changed everything; the others had seen him, they had talked with him; but that he should come again, that he should be part of the future, part of her small, familiar, much-meditating life—this needed, afresh, the evidence of her senses. The evidence had come to her senses now; and her senses seemed to rejoice in it. “What do you think of Eugenia?” Felix asked. “Isn’t she charming?”

      “She is very brilliant,” said Gertrude. “But I can’t tell yet. She seems to me like a singer singing an air. You can’t tell till the song is СКАЧАТЬ