THE TRAGIC MUSE. Генри Джеймс

her other guest and, to signify that she at least had finished eating, had gone to sit by her son, whom she held, with some importunity, in conversation. But hearing the theatre talked of she threw across an impersonal challenge to the paradoxical young man. “Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?”

      “Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn’t the actor more honest?”

      Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: “Think of your great father, Nicholas!”

      “He was an honest man,” said Nicholas. “That’s perhaps why he couldn’t stand it.”

      Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick’s queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: “May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English — Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn’t that the rather odd name?”

      “The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some nom de guerre before she has even been able to enlist.”

      “And what does she call herself?” Bridget Dormer asked.

      “Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane — some rubbish of that sort.”

      “What then is her own name?”

      “Miriam — Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that — to the best of my belief at least — she’s more than half a Jewess.”

      “It is as good as Rachel Felix,” Sherringham said.

      “The name’s as good, but not the talent. The girl’s splendidly stupid.”

      “And more than half a Jewess? Don’t you believe it!” Sherringham laughed.

      “Don’t believe she’s a Jewess?” Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth.

      “No, no — that she’s stupid, really. If she is she’ll be the first.”

      “Ah you may judge for yourself,” Nash rejoined, “if you’ll come tomorrow afternoon to Madame Carré, Rue de Constantinople, à l’entresol.”

      “Madame Carré? Why, I’ve already a note from her — I found it this morning on my return to Paris — asking me to look in at five o’clock and listen to a jeune Anglaise.”

      “That’s my arrangement — I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carré has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement.”

      Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. “She wishes to make her a little audience — she says she’ll do better with that — and she asks me because I’m English. I shall make a point of going.”

      “And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?” Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend —“will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?”

      Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. “I’ll go anywhere with you so that, as I’ve told you, I mayn’t lose sight of you — may keep hold of you.”

      “Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?” Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire.

      “He steadies me, mother.”

      “Oh I wish you’d take me, Peter,” Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin.

      “To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do you want to go upon the stage?” the young man asked.

      “No, but I want to see something — to know something.”

      “Madame Carré‘s wonderful in her way, but she’s hardly company for a little English girl.”

      “I’m not little, I’m only too big; and she goes, the person you speak of.”

      “For a professional purpose and with her good mother,” smiled Mr. Nash. “I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture ——!”

      “Oh I’ve seen her good mother!” said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be.

      “Yes, but you haven’t heard her. It’s then that you measure her.”

      Biddy was wistful still. “Is it the famous Honorine Carré, the great celebrity?”

      “Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!” said Peter Sherringham. “The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and ‘say’ things — which she does sometimes still dans le monde as no one else can —— in my rooms.”

      “Make her come then. We can go there!”

      “One of these days!”

      “And the young lady — Miriam, Maud, Gladys — make her come too.”

      Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. “Oh you’ll have no difficulty. She’ll jump at it!”

      “Very good. I’ll give a little artistic tea — with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash.” This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: “But if, as you say, you’re not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?”

      “Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine.”

      “Unfortunate creature!” said Biddy. “I think you’re cruel.”

      “Never mind — I’ll look after them,” Sherringham laughed.

      “And how can Madame Carré judge if the girl recites English?”

      “She’s so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese,” Peter declared.

      “That’s true, but the jeune Anglaise recites also in French,” said Gabriel Nash.

      “Then she isn’t stupid.”

      “And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know.”

      Sherringham was visibly interested. “Very good — we’ll put her through them all.”

      “She must be most clever,” Biddy went on yearningly.

      “She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things.”

      “And is she a lady?” Biddy asked.

      “Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother’s side. On the father’s, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City.”

      “Then they’re rich — or ought to be,” Sherringham suggested.

      “Ought to be-ah there’s the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go — he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till today — this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that’s common, as you know, among ces messieurs. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a brocanteur. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this