The Portrait of a Lady Volume 1 - Генри Джеймс 10 стр.


It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose acquaintance she had made shortly before her fathers death, who offered so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability; she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence ephemeral, but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of viewan enterprise the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once; thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation, no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign ones self to being frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work to ones hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it. From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself, in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded person of another sex. The girls prayer was very sufficiently answered; something pure and proud that there was in hersomething cold and dry an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called ithad hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them should present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience. Deep in her soulit was the deepest thing therelay a belief that if a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabels thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of ones spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places which were not gardens at allonly dusky pestiferous tracts, planted thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were less happy than herselfa thought which for the moment made her fine, full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for ones self? It must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life. This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject of special attention.

England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not London, was her fathers Mecca, and into many of his interests there his children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncles house seemed a picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a propertya place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talkthese things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspectedthe effect she produced upon people was often different from what she supposedand he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which had much of the point observable in that of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speakso many characteristics of her niecethat he had fallen in love with Mrs. Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house; and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the British constitution, the English character, the state of politics, the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs.

The books? he once said; well, I dont know much about the books. You must ask Ralph about that. Ive always ascertained for myselfgot my information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even; I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course Ive had very good opportunitiesbetter than what a young lady would naturally have. Im of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightnt think it if you were to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you more. Ive been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years, and I dont hesitate to say that Ive acquired considerable information. Its a very fine country on the wholefiner perhaps than what we give it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to see introduced; but the necessity of them doesnt seem to be generally felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose its because Ive had a considerable degree of success. When youre successful you naturally feel more at home.

Do you suppose that if Im successful I shall feel at home? Isabel asked.

I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful. They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them a great deal of kindness. But you mustnt feel too much at home, you know.

Oh, Im by no means sure it will satisfy me, Isabel judicially emphasised. I like the place very much, but Im not sure I shall like the people.

The people are very good people; especially if you like them.

Ive no doubt theyre good, Isabel rejoined; but are they pleasant in society? They wont rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves agreeable to me? Thats what I like people to do. I dont hesitate to say so, because I always appreciate it. I dont believe theyre very nice to girls; theyre not nice to them in the novels.

I dont know about the novels, said Mr. Touchett. I believe the novels have a great deal but I dont suppose theyre very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend of Ralphs and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancyI suppose that was it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given a representationsomething in the nature of a caricature, as you might sayof my unworthy self. I didnt read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldnt have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didnt like the idea that she hadnt taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an AmericanI cant talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, Ive made them understand me pretty well over here. But I dont talk like the old gentleman in that ladys novel. He wasnt an American; we wouldnt have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you that theyre not always accurate. Of course, as Ive no daughters, and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I havent had much chance to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle.

Gracious, Isabel exclaimed; how many classes have they? About fifty, I suppose.

Well, I dont know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice of the classes. Thats the advantage of being an American here; you dont belong to any class.

I hope so, said Isabel. Imagine ones belonging to an English class!

Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortableespecially towards the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and the people I dont. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the first.

Im much obliged to you, said the girl quickly. Her way of taking compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much. Im sure the English are very conventional, she added.

Theyve got everything pretty well fixed, Mr. Touchett admitted. Its all settled beforehandthey dont leave it to the last moment.

I dont like to have everything settled beforehand, said the girl. I like more unexpectedness.

Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. Well, its settled beforehand that youll have great success, he rejoined. I suppose youll like that.

I shall not have success if theyre too stupidly conventional. Im not in the least stupidly conventional. Im just the contrary. Thats what they wont like.

No, no, youre all wrong, said the old man. You cant tell what theyll like. Theyre very inconsistent; thats their principal interest.

Ah well, said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the lawnthat will suit me perfectly!

CHAPTER VII

The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having cultivated relations with her husbands neighbours, was not warranted in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions to her husbands adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the singular situation of defending the British constitution against her aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use of her sharpness. She was very critical herselfit was incidental to her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchetts dryness that set her own moral fountains flowing.

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