The Lesson of the Master. Генри Джеймс

apprehended before the great man had turned his back to walk off with Miss Fancourt.  He certainly looked better behind than any foreign man of letters—showed for beautifully correct in his tall black hat and his superior frock coat.  Somehow, all the same, these very garments—he wouldn’t have minded them so much on a weekday—were disconcerting to Paul Overt, who forgot for the moment that the head of the profession was not a bit better dressed than himself.  He had caught a glimpse of a regular face, a fresh colour, a brown moustache and a pair of eyes surely never visited by a fine frenzy, and he promised himself to study these denotements on the first occasion.  His superficial sense was that their owner might have passed for a lucky stockbroker—a gentleman driving eastward every morning from a sanitary suburb in a smart dog-cart.  That carried out the impression already derived from his wife.  Paul’s glance, after a moment, travelled back to this lady, and he saw how her own had followed her husband as he moved off with Miss Fancourt.  Overt permitted himself to wonder a little if she were jealous when another woman took him away.  Then he made out that Mrs. St. George wasn’t glaring at the indifferent maiden.  Her eyes rested but on her husband, and with unmistakeable serenity.  That was the way she wanted him to be—she liked his conventional uniform.  Overt longed to hear more about the book she had induced him to destroy.

      II

      As they all came out from luncheon General Fancourt took hold of him with an “I say, I want you to know my girl!” as if the idea had just occurred to him and he hadn’t spoken of it before.  With the other hand he possessed himself all paternally of the young lady.  “You know all about him.  I’ve seen you with his books.  She reads everything—everything!” he went on to Paul.  The girl smiled at him and then laughed at her father.  The General turned away and his daughter spoke—“Isn’t papa delightful?”

      “He is indeed, Miss Fancourt.”

      “As if I read you because I read ‘everything’!”

      “Oh I don’t mean for saying that,” said Paul Overt.  “I liked him from the moment he began to be kind to me.  Then he promised me this privilege.”

      “It isn’t for you he means it—it’s for me.  If you flatter yourself that he thinks of anything in life but me you’ll find you’re mistaken.  He introduces every one.  He thinks me insatiable.”

      “You speak just like him,” laughed our youth.

      “Ah but sometimes I want to”—and the girl coloured.  “I don’t read everything—I read very little.  But I have read you.”

      “Suppose we go into the gallery,” said Paul Overt.  She pleased him greatly, not so much because of this last remark—though that of course was not too disconcerting—as because, seated opposite to him at luncheon, she had given him for half an hour the impression of her beautiful face.  Something else had come with it—a sense of generosity, of an enthusiasm which, unlike many enthusiasms, was not all manner.  That was not spoiled for him by his seeing that the repast had placed her again in familiar contact with Henry St. George.  Sitting next her this celebrity was also opposite our young man, who had been able to note that he multiplied the attentions lately brought by his wife to the General’s notice.  Paul Overt had gathered as well that this lady was not in the least discomposed by these fond excesses and that she gave every sign of an unclouded spirit.  She had Lord Masham on one side of her and on the other the accomplished Mr. Mulliner, editor of the new high-class lively evening paper which was expected to meet a want felt in circles increasingly conscious that Conservatism must be made amusing, and unconvinced when assured by those of another political colour that it was already amusing enough.  At the end of an hour spent in her company Paul Overt thought her still prettier than at the first radiation, and if her profane allusions to her husband’s work had not still rung in his ears he should have liked her—so far as it could be a question of that in connexion with a woman to whom he had not yet spoken and to whom probably he should never speak if it were left to her.  Pretty women were a clear need to this genius, and for the hour it was Miss Fancourt who supplied the want.  If Overt had promised himself a closer view the occasion was now of the best, and it brought consequences felt by the young man as important.  He saw more in St. George’s face, which he liked the better for its not having told its whole story in the first three minutes.  That story came out as one read, in short instalments—it was excusable that one’s analogies should be somewhat professional—and the text was a style considerably involved, a language not easy to translate at sight.  There were shades of meaning in it and a vague perspective of history which receded as you advanced.  Two facts Paul had particularly heeded.  The first of these was that he liked the measured mask much better at inscrutable rest than in social agitation; its almost convulsive smile above all displeased him (as much as any impression from that source could), whereas the quiet face had a charm that grew in proportion as stillness settled again.  The change to the expression of gaiety excited, he made out, very much the private protest of a person sitting gratefully in the twilight when the lamp is brought in too soon.  His second reflexion was that, though generally averse to the flagrant use of ingratiating arts by a man of age “making up” to a pretty girl, he was not in this case too painfully affected: which seemed to prove either that St. George had a light hand or the air of being younger than he was, or else that Miss Fancourt’s own manner somehow made everything right.

      Overt walked with her into the gallery, and they strolled to the end of it, looking at the pictures, the cabinets, the charming vista, which harmonised with the prospect of the summer afternoon, resembling it by a long brightness, with great divans and old chairs that figured hours of rest.  Such a place as that had the added merit of giving those who came into it plenty to talk about.  Miss Fancourt sat down with her new acquaintance on a flowered sofa, the cushions of which, very numerous, were tight ancient cubes of many sizes, and presently said: “I’m so glad to have a chance to thank you.”

      “To thank me—?”  He had to wonder.

      “I liked your book so much.  I think it splendid.”

      She sat there smiling at him, and he never asked himself which book she meant; for after all he had written three or four.  That seemed a vulgar detail, and he wasn’t even gratified by the idea of the pleasure she told him—her handsome bright face told him—he had given her.  The feeling she appealed to, or at any rate the feeling she excited, was something larger, something that had little to do with any quickened pulsation of his own vanity.  It was responsive admiration of the life she embodied, the young purity and richness of which appeared to imply that real success was to resemble that, to live, to bloom, to present the perfection of a fine type, not to have hammered out headachy fancies with a bent back at an ink-stained table.  While her grey eyes rested on him—there was a wideish space between these, and the division of her rich-coloured hair, so thick that it ventured to be smooth, made a free arch above them—he was almost ashamed of that exercise of the pen which it was her present inclination to commend.  He was conscious he should have liked better to please her in some other way.  The lines of her face were those of a woman grown, but the child lingered on in her complexion and in the sweetness of her mouth.  Above all she was natural—that was indubitable now; more natural than he had supposed at first, perhaps on account of her æsthetic toggery, which was conventionally unconventional, suggesting what he might have called a tortuous spontaneity.  He had feared that sort of thing in other cases, and his fears had been justified; for, though he was an artist to the essence, the modern reactionary nymph, with the brambles of the woodland caught in her folds and a look as if the satyrs had toyed with her hair, made him shrink not as a man of starch and patent leather, but as a man potentially himself a poet or even a faun.  The girl was really more candid than her costume, and the best proof of it was her supposing her liberal character suited by any uniform.  This was a fallacy, since if she was draped as a pessimist he was sure she liked the taste of life.  He thanked her for her appreciation—aware at the same time that he didn’t appear to thank her enough and that she might think him ungracious.  He was afraid she would ask him to explain something he had written, and he always winced at that—perhaps too timidly—for to his own ear the explanation of a work of art sounded fatuous.  But he liked her so much as to feel a confidence that in the long run he should be able to show