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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it back to his own country with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to displace himself; his journeys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently a face in which the range of representation was not large, so that the air of contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successful in life, yet it seemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive and invidious, but had had much of the inoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience of men, but there was an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean, spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the table. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees, and his feet were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near his chair, watching the master’s face almost as tenderly as the master took in the still more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultory attendance upon the other gentlemen.

      One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched was something else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair and frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich adornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look — the air of a happy temperament fertilised by a high civilisation — which would have made almost any observer envy him at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from a long ride; he wore a white hat, which looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in one of them — a large, white, well-shaped fist — was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.

      His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person of quite a different pattern, who, although he might have excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly put together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no means decorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. He looked clever and ill — a combination by no means felicitous; and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there was something in the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling, wandering quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in the chair he rested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, you would easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his son’s eye at last and gave him a mild, responsive smile.

      “I’m getting on very well,” he said.

      “Have you drunk your tea?” asked the son.

      “Yes, and enjoyed it.”

      “Shall I give you some more?”

      The old man considered, placidly. “Well, I guess I’ll wait and see.” He had, in speaking, the American tone.

      “Are you cold?” the son enquired.

      The father slowly rubbed his legs. “Well, I don’t know. I can’t tell till I feel.”

      “Perhaps some one might feel for you,” said the younger man, laughing.

      “Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don’t you feel for me, Lord Warburton?”

      “Oh yes, immensely,” said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton, promptly. “I’m bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable.”

      “Well, I suppose I am, in most respects.” And the old man looked down at his green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. “The fact is I’ve been comfortable so many years that I suppose I’ve got so used to it I don’t know it.”

      “Yes, that’s the bore of comfort,” said Lord Warburton. “We only know when we’re uncomfortable.”

      “It strikes me we’re rather particular,” his companion remarked.

      “Oh yes, there’s no doubt we’re particular,” Lord Warburton murmured. And then the three men remained silent a while; the two younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presently asked for more tea. “I should think you would be very unhappy with that shawl,” Lord Warburton resumed while his companion filled the old man’s cup again.

      “Oh no, he must have the shawl!” cried the gentleman in the velvet coat. “Don’t put such ideas as that into his head.”

      “It belongs to my wife,” said the old man simply.

      “Oh, if it’s for sentimental reasons —” And Lord Warburton made a gesture of apology.

      “I suppose I must give it to her when she comes,” the old man went on.

      “You’ll please to do nothing of the kind. You’ll keep it to cover your poor old legs.”

      “Well, you mustn’t abuse my legs,” said the old man. “I guess they are as good as yours.”

      “Oh, you’re perfectly free to abuse mine,” his son replied, giving him his tea.

      “Well, we’re two lame ducks; I don’t think there’s much difference.”

      “I’m much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How’s your tea?”

      “Well, it’s rather hot.”

      “That’s intended to be a merit.”

      “Ah, there’s a great deal of merit,” murmured the old man, kindly. “He’s a very good nurse, Lord Warburton.”

      “Isn’t he a bit clumsy?” asked his lordship.

      “Oh no, he’s not clumsy — considering that he’s an invalid himself. He’s a very good nurse — for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because he’s sick himself.”

      “Oh, come, daddy!” the ugly young man exclaimed.

      “Well, you are; I wish you weren’t. But I suppose you can’t help it.”

      “I might try: that’s an idea,” said the young man.

      “Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?” his father asked.

      Lord Warburton considered a moment. “Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf.”

      “He’s making light of you, daddy,” said the other young man. “That’s a sort of joke.”

      “Well, there seem to be so many sorts now,” daddy replied, serenely. “You don’t look as if you had been sick, any way, Lord Warburton.”

      “He’s sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about it,” said Lord Warburton’s friend.

      “Is that true, sir?” asked the old man gravely.

      “If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He’s a wretched fellow to talk to — a regular cynic. He doesn’t seem to believe in anything.”

      “That’s another sort of joke,” said the person accused of cynicism.

      “It’s СКАЧАТЬ