The Real Thing and Other Tales. Генри Джеймс

but just come to light.  Peter suffered himself to be conducted into an interminable dusky rear, where he presently found himself bending over one of those square substantial desks of old mahogany, raised, with the aid of front legs, on a sort of retreating pedestal which is fitted with small drawers, contracted conveniences known immemorially to the knowing as davenports.  This specimen had visibly seen service, but it had an old-time solidity and to Peter Baron it unexpectedly appealed.

      He would have said in advance that such an article was exactly what he didn’t want, but as the shopman pushed up a chair for him and he sat down with his elbows on the gentle slope of the large, firm lid, he felt that such a basis for literature would be half the battle.  He raised the lid and looked lovingly into the deep interior; he sat ominously silent while his companion dropped the striking words: “Now that’s an article I personally covet!”  Then when the man mentioned the ridiculous price (they were literally giving it away), he reflected on the economy of having a literary altar on which one could really kindle a fire.  A davenport was a compromise, but what was all life but a compromise?  He could beat down the dealer, and at Mrs. Bundy’s he had to write on an insincere card-table.  After he had sat for a minute with his nose in the friendly desk he had a queer impression that it might tell him a secret or two—one of the secrets of form, one of the sacrificial mysteries—though no doubt its career had been literary only in the sense of its helping some old lady to write invitations to dull dinners.  There was a strange, faint odour in the receptacle, as if fragrant, hallowed things had once been put away there.  When he took his head out of it he said to the shopman: “I don’t mind meeting you halfway.”  He had been told by knowing people that that was the right thing.  He felt rather vulgar, but the davenport arrived that evening at Jersey Villas.

      II

      “I daresay it will be all right; he seems quiet now,” said the poor lady of the “parlours” a few days later, in reference to their litigious neighbour and the precarious piano.  The two lodgers had grown regularly acquainted, and the piano had had much to do with it.  Just as this instrument served, with the gentleman at No. 4, as a theme for discussion, so between Peter Baron and the lady of the parlours it had become a basis of peculiar agreement, a topic, at any rate, of conversation frequently renewed.  Mrs. Ryves was so prepossessing that Peter was sure that even if they had not had the piano he would have found something else to thresh out with her.  Fortunately however they did have it, and he, at least, made the most of it, knowing more now about his new friend, who when, widowed and fatigued, she held her beautiful child in her arms, looked dimly like a modern Madonna.  Mrs. Bundy, as a letter of furnished lodgings, was characterised in general by a familiar domestic severity in respect to picturesque young women, but she had the highest confidence in Mrs. Ryves.  She was luminous about her being a lady, and a lady who could bring Mrs. Bundy back to a gratified recognition of one of those manifestations of mind for which she had an independent esteem.  She was professional, but Jersey Villas could be proud of a profession that didn’t happen to be the wrong one—they had seen something of that.  Mrs. Ryves had a hundred a year (Baron wondered how Mrs. Bundy knew this; he thought it unlikely Mrs. Ryves had told her), and for the rest she depended on her lovely music.  Baron judged that her music, even though lovely, was a frail dependence; it would hardly help to fill a concert-room, and he asked himself at first whether she played country-dances at children’s parties or gave lessons to young ladies who studied above their station.

      Very soon, indeed, he was sufficiently enlightened; it all went fast, for the little boy had been almost as great a help as the piano.  Sidney haunted the doorstep of No.  3 he was eminently sociable, and had established independent relations with Peter, a frequent feature of which was an adventurous visit, upstairs, to picture books criticised for not being all geegees and walking sticks happily more conformable.  The young man’s window, too, looked out on their acquaintance; through a starched muslin curtain it kept his neighbour before him, made him almost more aware of her comings and goings than he felt he had a right to be.  He was capable of a shyness of curiosity about her and of dumb little delicacies of consideration.  She did give a few lessons; they were essentially local, and he ended by knowing more or less what she went out for and what she came in from.  She had almost no visitors, only a decent old lady or two, and, every day, poor dingy Miss Teagle, who was also ancient and who came humbly enough to governess the infant of the parlours.  Peter Baron’s window had always, to his sense, looked out on a good deal of life, and one of the things it had most shown him was that there is nobody so bereft of joy as not to be able to command for twopence the services of somebody less joyous.  Mrs. Ryves was a struggler (Baron scarcely liked to think of it), but she occupied a pinnacle for Miss Teagle, who had lived on—and from a noble nursery—into a period of diplomas and humiliation.

      Mrs. Ryves sometimes went out, like Baron himself, with manuscripts under her arm, and, still more like Baron, she almost always came back with them.  Her vain approaches were to the music-sellers; she tried to compose—to produce songs that would make a hit.  A successful song was an income, she confided to Peter one of the first times he took Sidney, blasé and drowsy, back to his mother.  It was not on one of these occasions, but once when he had come in on no better pretext than that of simply wanting to (she had after all virtually invited him), that she mentioned how only one song in a thousand was successful and that the terrible difficulty was in getting the right words.  This rightness was just a vulgar “fluke”—there were lots of words really clever that were of no use at all.  Peter said, laughing, that he supposed any words he should try to produce would be sure to be too clever; yet only three weeks after his first encounter with Mrs. Ryves he sat at his delightful davenport (well aware that he had duties more pressing), trying to string together rhymes idiotic enough to make his neighbour’s fortune.  He was satisfied of the fineness of her musical gift—it had the touching note.  The touching note was in her person as well.

      The davenport was delightful, after six months of its tottering predecessor, and such a re-enforcement to the young man’s style was not impaired by his sense of something lawless in the way it had been gained.  He had made the purchase in anticipation of the money he expected from Mr. Locket, but Mr. Locket’s liberality was to depend on the ingenuity of his contributor, who now found himself confronted with the consequence of a frivolous optimism.  The fruit of his labour presented, as he stared at it with his elbows on his desk, an aspect uncompromising and incorruptible.  It seemed to look up at him reproachfully and to say, with its essential finish: “How could you promise anything so base; how could you pass your word to mutilate and dishonour me?”  The alterations demanded by Mr. Locket were impossible; the concessions to the platitude of his conception of the public mind were degrading.  The public mind!—as if the public had a mind, or any principle of perception more discoverable than the stare of huddled sheep!  Peter Baron felt that it concerned him to determine if he were only not clever enough or if he were simply not abject enough to rewrite his story.  He might in truth have had less pride if he had had more skill, and more discretion if he had had more practice.  Humility, in the profession of letters, was half of practice, and resignation was half of success.  Poor Peter actually flushed with pain as he recognised that this was not success, the production of gelid prose which his editor could do nothing with on the one side and he himself could do nothing with on the other.  The truth about his luckless tale was now the more bitter from his having managed, for some days, to taste it as sweet.

      As he sat there, baffled and sombre, biting his pen and wondering what was meant by the “rewards” of literature, he generally ended by tossing away the composition deflowered by Mr. Locket and trying his hand at the sort of twaddle that Mrs. Ryves might be able to set to music.  Success in these experiments wouldn’t be a reward of literature, but it might very well become a labour of love.  The experiments would be pleasant enough for him if they were pleasant for his inscrutable neighbour.  That was the way he thought of her now, for he had learned enough about her, little by little, to guess how much there was still to learn.  To spend his mornings over cheap rhymes for her was certainly to shirk the immediate question; but there were hours when he judged this question to be altogether too arduous, reflecting that he might quite as well perish by the sword as by famine.  Besides, he did meet it obliquely when he considered that he shouldn’t be an utter failure if he were to produce some songs to which Mrs. Ryves’s accompaniments would