THE TRAGIC MUSE. Генри Джеймс

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СКАЧАТЬ daresay, but he was not unworthy of it. No such enlightened collection of beautiful objects has been made in England in our time.”

      “You think too much of beautiful objects!” Lady Agnes sighed.

      “I thought you were just now lamenting that I think too little.”

      “It’s very nice — his having left Julia so well off,” Biddy interposed soothingly, as if she foresaw a tangle.

      “He treated her en grand seigneur, absolutely,” Nick went on.

      “He used to look greasy, all the same”— Grace bore on it with a dull weight. “His name ought to have been Tallow.”

      “You’re not saying what Julia would like, if that’s what you are trying to say,” her brother observed.

      “Don’t be vulgar, Grace,” said Lady Agnes.

      “I know Peter Sherringham’s birthday!” Biddy broke out innocently, as a pacific diversion. She had passed her hand into Nick’s arm, to signify her readiness to go with him, while she scanned the remoter reaches of the garden as if it had occurred to her that to direct their steps in some such sense might after all be the shorter way to get at Peter.

      “He’s too much older than you, my dear,” Grace answered without encouragement.

      “That’s why I’ve noticed it — he’s thirty-four. Do you call that too old? I don’t care for slobbering infants!” Biddy cried.

      “Don’t be vulgar,” Lady Agnes enjoined again.

      “Come, Bid, we’ll go and be vulgar together; for that’s what we are, I’m afraid,” her brother said to her. “We’ll go and look at all these low works of art.”

      “Do you really think it’s necessary to the child’s development?” Lady Agnes demanded as the pair turned away. And then while her son, struck as by a challenge, paused, lingering a moment with his little sister on his arm: “What we’ve been through this morning in this place, and what you’ve paraded before our eyes — the murders, the tortures, all kinds of disease and indecency!”

      Nick looked at his mother as if this sudden protest surprised him, but as if also there were lurking explanations of it which he quickly guessed. Her resentment had the effect not so much of animating her cold face as of making it colder, less expressive, though visibly prouder. “Ah dear mother, don’t do the British matron!” he replied good-humouredly.

      “British matron’s soon said! I don’t know what they’re coming to.”

      “How odd that you should have been struck only with the disagreeable things when, for myself, I’ve felt it to be most interesting, the most suggestive morning I’ve passed for ever so many months!”

      “Oh Nick, Nick!” Lady Agnes cried with a strange depth of feeling.

      “I like them better in London — they’re much less unpleasant,” said Grace Dormer.

      “They’re things you can look at,” her ladyship went on. “We certainly make the better show.”

      “The subject doesn’t matter, it’s the treatment, the treatment!” Biddy protested in a voice like the tinkle of a silver bell.

      “Poor little Bid!”— her brother broke into a laugh.

      “How can I learn to model, mamma dear, if I don’t look at things and if I don’t study them?” the girl continued.

      This question passed unheeded, and Nicholas Dormer said to his mother, more seriously, but with a certain kind explicitness, as if he could make a particular allowance: “This place is an immense stimulus to me; it refreshes me, excites me — it’s such an exhibition of artistic life. It’s full of ideas, full of refinements; it gives one such an impression of artistic experience. They try everything, they feel everything. While you were looking at the murders, apparently, I observed an immense deal of curious and interesting work. There are too many of them, poor devils; so many who must make their way, who must attract attention. Some of them can only taper fort, stand on their heads, turn somersaults or commit deeds of violence, to make people notice them. After that, no doubt, a good many will be quieter. But I don’t know; today I’m in an appreciative mood — I feel indulgent even to them: they give me an impression of intelligence, of eager observation. All art is one — remember that, Biddy dear,” the young man continued, smiling down from his height. “It’s the same great many-headed effort, and any ground that’s gained by an individual, any spark that’s struck in any province, is of use and of suggestion to all the others. We’re all in the same boat.”

      “‘We,’ do you say, my dear? Are you really setting up for an artist?” Lady Agnes asked.

      Nick just hesitated. “I was speaking for Biddy.”

      “But you are one, Nick — you are!” the girl cried.

      Lady Agnes looked for an instant as if she were going to say once more “Don’t be vulgar!” But she suppressed these words, had she intended them, and uttered sounds, few in number and not completely articulate, to the effect that she hated talking about art. While her son spoke she had watched him as if failing to follow; yet something in the tone of her exclamation hinted that she had understood him but too well.

      “We’re all in the same boat,” Biddy repeated with cheerful zeal.

      “Not me, if you please!” Lady Agnes replied. “It’s horrid messy work, your modelling.”

      “Ah but look at the results!” said the girl eagerly — glancing about at the monuments in the garden as if in regard even to them she were, through that unity of art her brother had just proclaimed, in some degree an effective cause.

      “There’s a great deal being done here — a real vitality,” Nicholas Dormer went on to his mother in the same reasonable informing way. “Some of these fellows go very far.”

      “They do indeed!” said Lady Agnes.

      “I’m fond of young schools — like this movement in sculpture,” Nick insisted with his slightly provoking serenity.

      “They’re old enough to know better!”

      “Mayn’t I look, mamma? It is necessary to my development,” Biddy declared.

      “You may do as you like,” said Lady Agnes with dignity.

      “She ought to see good work, you know,” the young man went on.

      “I leave it to your sense of responsibility.” This statement was somewhat majestic, and for a moment evidently it tempted Nick, almost provoked him, or at any rate suggested to him an occasion for some pronouncement he had had on his mind. Apparently, however, he judged the time on the whole not quite right, and his sister Grace interposed with the inquiry —

      “Please, mamma, are we never going to lunch?”

      “Ah mother, mother!” the young man murmured in a troubled way, looking down at her with a deep fold in his forehead.

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