The Real Thing and Other Tales. Генри Джеймс

do you mean—a—the same?”

      “The same?”

      Mrs. Monarch looked at her husband again.

      “Oh, she was just wondering,” he explained, “if the costumes are in general use.”  I had to confess that they were, and I mentioned further that some of them (I had a lot of genuine, greasy last-century things), had served their time, a hundred years ago, on living, world-stained men and women.  “We’ll put on anything that fits,” said the Major.

      “Oh, I arrange that—they fit in the pictures.”

      “I’m afraid I should do better for the modern books.  I would come as you like,” said Mrs. Monarch.

      “She has got a lot of clothes at home: they might do for contemporary life,” her husband continued.

      “Oh, I can fancy scenes in which you’d be quite natural.”  And indeed I could see the slipshod rearrangements of stale properties—the stories I tried to produce pictures for without the exasperation of reading them—whose sandy tracts the good lady might help to people.  But I had to return to the fact that for this sort of work—the daily mechanical grind—I was already equipped; the people I was working with were fully adequate.

      “We only thought we might be more like some characters,” said Mrs. Monarch mildly, getting up.

      Her husband also rose; he stood looking at me with a dim wistfulness that was touching in so fine a man.  “Wouldn’t it be rather a pull sometimes to have—a—to have—?”  He hung fire; he wanted me to help him by phrasing what he meant.  But I couldn’t—I didn’t know.  So he brought it out, awkwardly: “The real thing; a gentleman, you know, or a lady.”  I was quite ready to give a general assent—I admitted that there was a great deal in that.  This encouraged Major Monarch to say, following up his appeal with an unacted gulp: “It’s awfully hard—we’ve tried everything.”  The gulp was communicative; it proved too much for his wife.  Before I knew it Mrs. Monarch had dropped again upon a divan and burst into tears.  Her husband sat down beside her, holding one of her hands; whereupon she quickly dried her eyes with the other, while I felt embarrassed as she looked up at me.  “There isn’t a confounded job I haven’t applied for—waited for—prayed for.  You can fancy we’d be pretty bad first.  Secretaryships and that sort of thing?  You might as well ask for a peerage.  I’d be anything—I’m strong; a messenger or a coalheaver.  I’d put on a gold-laced cap and open carriage-doors in front of the haberdasher’s; I’d hang about a station, to carry portmanteaus; I’d be a postman.  But they won’t look at you; there are thousands, as good as yourself, already on the ground.  Gentlemen, poor beggars, who have drunk their wine, who have kept their hunters!”

      I was as reassuring as I knew how to be, and my visitors were presently on their feet again while, for the experiment, we agreed on an hour.  We were discussing it when the door opened and Miss Churm came in with a wet umbrella.  Miss Churm had to take the omnibus to Maida Vale and then walk half-a-mile.  She looked a trifle blowsy and slightly splashed.  I scarcely ever saw her come in without thinking afresh how odd it was that, being so little in herself, she should yet be so much in others.  She was a meagre little Miss Churm, but she was an ample heroine of romance.  She was only a freckled cockney, but she could represent everything, from a fine lady to a shepherdess; she had the faculty, as she might have had a fine voice or long hair.

      She couldn’t spell, and she loved beer, but she had two or three “points,” and practice, and a knack, and mother-wit, and a kind of whimsical sensibility, and a love of the theatre, and seven sisters, and not an ounce of respect, especially for the h.  The first thing my visitors saw was that her umbrella was wet, and in their spotless perfection they visibly winced at it.  The rain had come on since their arrival.

      “I’m all in a soak; there was a mess of people in the ’bus.  I wish you lived near a stytion,” said Miss Churm.  I requested her to get ready as quickly as possible, and she passed into the room in which she always changed her dress.  But before going out she asked me what she was to get into this time.

      “It’s the Russian princess, don’t you know?” I answered; “the one with the ‘golden eyes,’ in black velvet, for the long thing in the Cheapside.”

      “Golden eyes?  I say!” cried Miss Churm, while my companions watched her with intensity as she withdrew.  She always arranged herself, when she was late, before I could turn round; and I kept my visitors a little, on purpose, so that they might get an idea, from seeing her, what would be expected of themselves.  I mentioned that she was quite my notion of an excellent model—she was really very clever.

      “Do you think she looks like a Russian princess?” Major Monarch asked, with lurking alarm.

      “When I make her, yes.”

      “Oh, if you have to make her—!” he reasoned, acutely.

      “That’s the most you can ask.  There are so many that are not makeable.”

      “Well now, here’s a lady”—and with a persuasive smile he passed his arm into his wife’s—“who’s already made!”

      “Oh, I’m not a Russian princess,” Mrs. Monarch protested, a little coldly.  I could see that she had known some and didn’t like them.  There, immediately, was a complication of a kind that I never had to fear with Miss Churm.

      This young lady came back in black velvet—the gown was rather rusty and very low on her lean shoulders—and with a Japanese fan in her red hands.  I reminded her that in the scene I was doing she had to look over someone’s head.  “I forget whose it is; but it doesn’t matter.  Just look over a head.”

      “I’d rather look over a stove,” said Miss Churm; and she took her station near the fire.  She fell into position, settled herself into a tall attitude, gave a certain backward inclination to her head and a certain forward droop to her fan, and looked, at least to my prejudiced sense, distinguished and charming, foreign and dangerous.  We left her looking so, while I went down-stairs with Major and Mrs. Monarch.

      “I think I could come about as near it as that,” said Mrs. Monarch.

      “Oh, you think she’s shabby, but you must allow for the alchemy of art.”

      However, they went off with an evident increase of comfort, founded on their demonstrable advantage in being the real thing.  I could fancy them shuddering over Miss Churm.  She was very droll about them when I went back, for I told her what they wanted.

      “Well, if she can sit I’ll tyke to bookkeeping,” said my model.

      “She’s very lady-like,” I replied, as an innocent form of aggravation.

      “So much the worse for you.  That means she can’t turn round.”

      “She’ll do for the fashionable novels.”

      “Oh yes, she’ll do for them!” my model humorously declared.  “Ain’t they had enough without her?” I had often sociably denounced them to Miss Churm.

      III

      It was for the elucidation of a mystery in one of these works that I first tried Mrs. Monarch.  Her husband came with her, to be useful if necessary—it was sufficiently clear that as a general thing he would prefer to come with her.  At first I wondered if this were for “propriety’s” sake—if he were going to be jealous and meddling.  The idea was too tiresome, and if it had been confirmed it would speedily have brought our acquaintance to a close.  But I soon saw there was nothing in it and that if he accompanied Mrs. Monarch it was (in addition to the chance of being wanted), simply because he had nothing else to do.  When she was away from him his occupation was gone—she never had been away from him.  I judged, rightly, that in their awkward situation their close union was their main comfort and that this union had no weak spot.  It was a real marriage, an encouragement to the hesitating, a nut for pessimists to crack.  Their address was humble (I remember afterwards