THE TRAGIC MUSE. Генри Джеймс

I give my voice for the scène anglaise. You did the English things best.”

      “Did I do them well?” asked the girl.

      “You’ve a great deal to learn; but you’ve rude force. The main things sont encore a dégager, but they’ll come. You must work.”

      “I think she has ideas,” said Mrs. Rooth.

      “She gets them from you,” Madame Carré replied.

      “I must say that if it’s to be our theatre I’m relieved. I do think ours safer,” the good lady continued.

      “Ours is dangerous, no doubt.”

      “You mean you’re more severe,” said the girl.

      “Your mother’s right,” the actress smiled; “you have ideas.”

      “But what shall we do then — how shall we proceed?” Mrs. Rooth made this appeal, plaintively and vaguely, to the three gentlemen; but they had collected a few steps off and were so occupied in talk that it failed to reach them.

      “Work — work — work!” exclaimed the actress.

      “In English I can play Shakespeare. I want to play Shakespeare,” Miriam made known.

      “That’s fortunate, as in English you haven’t any one else to play.”

      “But he’s so great — and he’s so pure!” said Mrs. Rooth.

      “That indeed seems the saving of you,” Madame Carré returned.

      “You think me actually pretty bad, don’t you?” the girl demanded with her serious face.

      “Mon Dieu, que vous dirai-je? Of course you’re rough; but so was I at your age. And if you find your voice it may carry you far. Besides, what does it matter what I think? How can I judge for your English public?”

      “How shall I find my voice?” asked Miriam Rooth.

      “By trying. Il n’y a que ça. Work like a horse, night and day. Besides, Mr. Sherringham, as he says, will help you.”

      That gentleman, hearing his name, turned round and the girl appealed to him. “Will you help me really?”

      “To find her voice,” said Madame Carré.

      “The voice, when it’s worth anything, comes from the heart; so I suppose that’s where to look for it,” Gabriel Nash suggested.

      “Much you know; you haven’t got any!” Miriam retorted with the first scintillation of gaiety she had shown on this occasion.

      “Any voice, my child?” Mr. Nash inquired.

      “Any heart — or any manners!”

      Peter Sherringham made the secret reflexion that he liked her better lugubrious, as the note of pertness was not totally absent from her mode of emitting these few words. He was irritated, moreover, for in the brief conference he had just had with the young lady’s introducer he had had to meet the rather difficult call of speaking of her hopefully. Mr. Nash had said with his bland smile, “And what impression does my young friend make?”— in respect to which Peter’s optimism felt engaged by an awkward logic. He answered that he recognised promise, though he did nothing of the sort; — at the same time that the poor girl, both with the exaggerated “points” of her person and the vanity of her attempt at expression, constituted a kind of challenge, struck him as a subject for inquiry, a problem, an explorable tract. She was too bad to jump at and yet too “taking”— perhaps after all only vulgarly — to overlook, especially when resting her tragic eyes on him with the trust of her deep “Really?” This note affected him as addressed directly to his honour, giving him a chance to brave verisimilitude, to brave ridicule even a little, in order to show in a special case what he had always maintained in general, that the direction of a young person’s studies for the stage may be an interest of as high an order as any other artistic appeal.

      “Mr. Nash has rendered us the great service of introducing us to Madame Carré, and I’m sure we’re immensely indebted to him,” Mrs. Rooth said to her daughter with an air affectionately corrective.

      “But what good does that do us?” the girl asked, smiling at the actress and gently laying her finger-tips upon her hand. “Madame Carré listens to me with adorable patience, and then sends me about my business — ah in the prettiest way in the world.”

      “Mademoiselle, you’re not so rough; the tone of that’s very juste. A la bonne heure; work — work!” the actress cried. “There was an inflexion there — or very nearly. Practise it till you’ve got it.”

      “Come and practise it to me, if your mother will be so kind as to bring you,” said Peter Sherringham.

      “Do you give lessons — do you understand?” Miriam asked.

      “I’m an old play-goer and I’ve an unbounded belief in my own judgement.”

      “‘Old,’ sir, is too much to say,” Mrs. Rooth remonstrated. “My daughter knows your high position, but she’s very direct. You’ll always find her so. Perhaps you’ll say there are less honourable faults. We’ll come to see you with pleasure. Oh I’ve been at the embassy when I was her age. Therefore why shouldn’t she go today? That was in Lord Davenant’s time.”

      “A few people are coming to tea with me tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll come then at five o’clock.”

      “It will remind me of the dear old times,” said Mrs. Rooth.

      “Thank you; I’ll try and do better tomorrow,” Miriam professed very sweetly.

      “You do better every minute!” Sherringham returned — and he looked at their hostess in support of this declaration.

      “She’s finding her voice,” Madame Carré acknowledged.

      “She’s finding a friend!” Mrs. Rooth threw in.

      “And don’t forget, when you come to London, my hope that you’ll come and see me,” Nick Dormer said to the girl. “To try and paint you — that would do me good!”

      “She’s finding even two,” said Madame Carré.

      “It’s to make up for one I’ve lost!” And Miriam looked with very good stage-scorn at Gabriel Nash. “It’s he who thinks I’m bad.”

      “You say that to make me drive you home; you know it will,” Nash returned.

      “We’ll all take you home; why not?” Sherringham asked.

      Madame Carré looked at the handsome girl, handsomer than ever at this moment, and at the three young men who had taken their hats and stood ready to accompany her. A deeper expression came for an instant into her hard, bright eyes. “Ah la jeunesse!” she sighed. “You’d always have that, my child, if you were the greatest goose on earth!”

      VIII

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      At Peter Sherringham’s the next day Miriam had so evidently come with the expectation of “saying” something that it was impossible such a patron of the drama should forbear to invite her, little as the exhibition at Madame Carré‘s could have contributed to render the invitation prompt. His curiosity had been more appeased than stimulated, but he felt none the less that he had “taken up” the dark-browed girl and her reminiscential mother and must face the immediate consequences of the act. This responsibility weighed upon him during the twenty-four hours that followed the ultimate dispersal of the little party at the door of the Hôtel de la Garonne.

      On quitting Madame Carré the two ladies had definitely declined