Henry James: The Portrait of a Lady, The Bostonians, The Tragic Muse & Daisy Miller (4 Books in One Edition). Henry Foss James

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СКАЧАТЬ of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry, those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angular specimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, those perverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept terms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had been made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the chairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a writing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London and the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines and newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture in silence.

      Silence — absolute silence — had not fallen upon her companions; but their talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sisters had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitude expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner than her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which apparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her hat — an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her plain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must already have been “let out.” The gentleman who might have been supposed to be entertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of his function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the very meek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly much occupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man of forty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense, but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow, extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just this effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to which the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish, gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a gentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyes at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one. If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he was, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a special occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure, and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man dresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar things.

      “Well, my dear, what do you think of it?” he asked of the young girl. He used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would not have convinced you he was Italian.

      The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. “It’s very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?”

      “Certainly I made it. Don’t you think I’m clever?”

      “Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures.” And she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and intensely sweet smile.

      “You should have brought me a specimen of your powers.”

      “I’ve brought a great many; they’re in my trunk.”

      “She draws very — very carefully,” the elder of the nuns remarked, speaking in French.

      “I’m glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?”

      “Happily no,” said the good sister, blushing a little. “Ce n’est pas ma partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We’ve an excellent drawing-master, Mr.— Mr.— what is his name?” she asked of her companion.

      Her companion looked about at the carpet. “It’s a German name,” she said in Italian, as if it needed to be translated.

      “Yes,” the other went on, “he’s a German, and we’ve had him many years.”

      The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden. “And you, my sister, are French,” said the gentleman.

      “Yes, sir,” the visitor gently replied. “I speak to the pupils in my own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other countries — English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper language.”

      The gentleman gave a smile. “Has my daughter been under the care of one of the Irish ladies?” And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected a joke, though failing to understand it, “You’re very complete,” he instantly added.

      “Oh, yes, we’re complete. We’ve everything, and everything’s of the best.”

      “We have gymnastics,” the Italian sister ventured to remark. “But not dangerous.”

      “I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?” A question which provoked much candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown.

      “Yes, but I think she has finished. She’ll remain — not big,” said the French sister.

      “I’m not sorry. I prefer women like books — very good and not too long. But I know,” the gentleman said, “no particular reason why my child should be short.”

      The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might be beyond our knowledge. “She’s in very good health; that’s the best thing.”

      “Yes, she looks sound.” And the young girl’s father watched her a moment. “What do you see in the garden?” he asked in French.

      “I see many flowers,” she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an accent as good as his own.

      “Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and gather some for ces dames.”

      The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. “May I, truly?”

      “Ah, when I tell you,” said her father.

      The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. “May I, truly, ma mere?”

      “Obey monsieur your father, my child,” said the sister, blushing again.

      The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the threshold and was presently lost to sight. “You don’t spoil them,” said her father gaily.

      “For everything they must ask leave. That’s our system. Leave is freely granted, but they must ask it.”

      “Oh, I don’t quarrel with your system; I’ve no doubt it’s excellent. I sent you my СКАЧАТЬ