Pandora. Генри Джеймс

plea for his rank; there were others of which he might have made use.  The precious piece of furniture which on the Atlantic voyage is trusted never to flinch among universal concussions was emblazoned simply with his title and name.  It happened, however, that the blazonry was huge; the back of the chair was covered with enormous German characters.  This time there can be no doubt: it was modesty that caused the secretary of legation, in placing himself, to turn this portion of his seat outward, away from the eyes of his companions—to present it to the balustrade of the deck.  The ship was passing the Needles—the beautiful uttermost point of the Isle of Wight.  Certain tall white cones of rock rose out of the purple sea; they flushed in the afternoon light and their vague rosiness gave them a human expression in face of the cold expanse toward which the prow was turned; they seemed to say farewell, to be the last note of a peopled world.  Vogelstein saw them very comfortably from his place and after a while turned his eyes to the other quarter, where the elements of air and water managed to make between them so comparatively poor an opposition.  Even his American novelist was more amusing than that, and he prepared to return to this author.  In the great curve which it described, however, his glance was arrested by the figure of a young lady who had just ascended to the deck and who paused at the mouth of the companionway.

      This was not in itself an extraordinary phenomenon; but what attracted Vogelstein’s attention was the fact that the young person appeared to have fixed her eyes on him.  She was slim, brightly dressed, rather pretty; Vogelstein remembered in a moment that he had noticed her among the people on the wharf at Southampton.  She was soon aware he had observed her; whereupon she began to move along the deck with a step that seemed to indicate a purpose of approaching him.  Vogelstein had time to wonder whether she could be one of the girls he had known at Dresden; but he presently reflected that they would now be much older than that.  It was true they were apt to advance, like this one, straight upon their victim.  Yet the present specimen was no longer looking at him, and though she passed near him it was now tolerably clear she had come above but to take a general survey.  She was a quick handsome competent girl, and she simply wanted to see what one could think of the ship, of the weather, of the appearance of England, from such a position as that; possibly even of one’s fellow-passengers.  She satisfied herself promptly on these points, and then she looked about, while she walked, as if in keen search of a missing object; so that Vogelstein finally arrived at a conviction of her real motive.  She passed near him again and this time almost stopped, her eyes bent upon him attentively.  He thought her conduct remarkable even after he had gathered that it was not at his face, with its yellow moustache, she was looking, but at the chair on which he was seated.  Then those words of his friend came back to him—the speech about the tendency of the people, especially of the ladies, on the American steamers to take to themselves one’s little belongings.  Especially the ladies, he might well say; for here was one who apparently wished to pull from under him the very chair he was sitting on.  He was afraid she would ask him for it, so he pretended to read, systematically avoiding her eye.  He was conscious she hovered near him, and was moreover curious to see what she would do.  It seemed to him strange that such a nice-looking girl—for her appearance was really charming—should endeavour by arts so flagrant to work upon the quiet dignity of a secretary of legation.  At last it stood out that she was trying to look round a corner, as it were—trying to see what was written on the back of his chair.  “She wants to find out my name; she wants to see who I am!”  This reflexion passed through his mind and caused him to raise his eyes.  They rested on her own—which for an appreciable moment she didn’t withdraw.  The latter were brilliant and expressive, and surmounted a delicate aquiline nose, which, though pretty, was perhaps just a trifle too hawk-like.  It was the oddest coincidence in the world; the story Vogelstein had taken up treated of a flighty forward little American girl who plants herself in front of a young man in the garden of an hotel.  Wasn’t the conduct of this young lady a testimony to the truthfulness of the tale, and wasn’t Vogelstein himself in the position of the young man in the garden?  That young man—though with more, in such connexions in general, to go upon—ended by addressing himself to his aggressor, as she might be called, and after a very short hesitation Vogelstein followed his example.  “If she wants to know who I am she’s welcome,” he said to himself; and he got out of the chair, seized it by the back and, turning it round, exhibited the superscription to the girl.  She coloured slightly, but smiled and read his name, while Vogelstein raised his hat.

      “I’m much obliged to you.  That’s all right,” she remarked as if the discovery had made her very happy.

      It affected him indeed as all right that he should be Count Otto Vogelstein; this appeared even rather a flippant mode of disposing of the fact.  By way of rejoinder he asked her if she desired of him the surrender of his seat.

      “I’m much obliged to you; of course not.  I thought you had one of our chairs, and I didn’t like to ask you.  It looks exactly like one of ours; not so much now as when you sit in it.  Please sit down again.  I don’t want to trouble you.  We’ve lost one of ours, and I’ve been looking for it everywhere.  They look so much alike; you can’t tell till you see the back.  Of course I see there will be no mistake about yours,” the young lady went on with a smile of which the serenity matched her other abundance.  “But we’ve got such a small name—you can scarcely see it,” she added with the same friendly intention.  “Our name’s just Day—you mightn’t think it was a name, might you? if we didn’t make the most of it.  If you see that on anything, I’d be so obliged if you’d tell me.  It isn’t for myself, it’s for my mother; she’s so dependent on her chair, and that one I’m looking for pulls out so beautifully.  Now that you sit down again and hide the lower part it does look just like ours.  Well, it must be somewhere.  You must excuse me; I wouldn’t disturb you.”

      This was a long and even confidential speech for a young woman, presumably unmarried, to make to a perfect stranger; but Miss Day acquitted herself of it with perfect simplicity and self-possession.  She held up her head and stepped away, and Vogelstein could see that the foot she pressed upon the clean smooth deck was slender and shapely.  He watched her disappear through the trap by which she had ascended, and he felt more than ever like the young man in his American tale.  The girl in the present case was older and not so pretty, as he could easily judge, for the image of her smiling eyes and speaking lips still hovered before him.  He went back to his book with the feeling that it would give him some information about her.  This was rather illogical, but it indicated a certain amount of curiosity on the part of Count Vogelstein.  The girl in the book had a mother, it appeared, and so had this young lady; the former had also a brother, and he now remembered that he had noticed a young man on the wharf—a young man in a high hat and a white overcoat—who seemed united to Miss Day by this natural tie.  And there was some one else too, as he gradually recollected, an older man, also in a high hat, but in a black overcoat—in black altogether—who completed the group and who was presumably the head of the family.  These reflexions would indicate that Count Vogelstein read his volume of Tauchnitz rather interruptedly.  Moreover they represented but the loosest economy of consciousness; for wasn’t he to be afloat in an oblong box for ten days with such people, and could it be doubted he should see at least enough of them?

      It may as well be written without delay that he saw a great deal of them.  I have sketched in some detail the conditions in which he made the acquaintance of Miss Day, because the event had a certain importance for this fair square Teuton; but I must pass briefly over the incidents that immediately followed it.  He wondered what it was open to him, after such an introduction, to do in relation to her, and he determined he would push through his American tale and discover what the hero did.  But he satisfied himself in a very short time that Miss Day had nothing in common with the heroine of that work save certain signs of habitat and climate—and save, further, the fact that the male sex wasn’t terrible to her.  The local stamp sharply, as he gathered, impressed upon her he estimated indeed rather in a borrowed than in a natural light, for if she was native to a small town in the interior of the American continent one of their fellow-passengers, a lady from New York with whom he had a good deal of conversation, pronounced her “atrociously” provincial.  How the lady arrived at this certitude didn’t appear, for Vogelstein observed that she held no communication with the girl.  It was true she gave it the support of her laying