THE TRAGIC MUSE. Генри Джеймс

morning I’ve passed for ever so many months!”

      “Oh Nick, Nick!” Lady Agnes cried with a strange depth of feeling.

      “I like them better in London — they’re much less unpleasant,” said Grace Dormer.

      “They’re things you can look at,” her ladyship went on. “We certainly make the better show.”

      “The subject doesn’t matter, it’s the treatment, the treatment!” Biddy protested in a voice like the tinkle of a silver bell.

      “Poor little Bid!”— her brother broke into a laugh.

      “How can I learn to model, mamma dear, if I don’t look at things and if I don’t study them?” the girl continued.

      This question passed unheeded, and Nicholas Dormer said to his mother, more seriously, but with a certain kind explicitness, as if he could make a particular allowance: “This place is an immense stimulus to me; it refreshes me, excites me — it’s such an exhibition of artistic life. It’s full of ideas, full of refinements; it gives one such an impression of artistic experience. They try everything, they feel everything. While you were looking at the murders, apparently, I observed an immense deal of curious and interesting work. There are too many of them, poor devils; so many who must make their way, who must attract attention. Some of them can only taper fort, stand on their heads, turn somersaults or commit deeds of violence, to make people notice them. After that, no doubt, a good many will be quieter. But I don’t know; today I’m in an appreciative mood — I feel indulgent even to them: they give me an impression of intelligence, of eager observation. All art is one — remember that, Biddy dear,” the young man continued, smiling down from his height. “It’s the same great many-headed effort, and any ground that’s gained by an individual, any spark that’s struck in any province, is of use and of suggestion to all the others. We’re all in the same boat.”

      “‘We,’ do you say, my dear? Are you really setting up for an artist?” Lady Agnes asked.

      Nick just hesitated. “I was speaking for Biddy.”

      “But you are one, Nick — you are!” the girl cried.

      Lady Agnes looked for an instant as if she were going to say once more “Don’t be vulgar!” But she suppressed these words, had she intended them, and uttered sounds, few in number and not completely articulate, to the effect that she hated talking about art. While her son spoke she had watched him as if failing to follow; yet something in the tone of her exclamation hinted that she had understood him but too well.

      “We’re all in the same boat,” Biddy repeated with cheerful zeal.

      “Not me, if you please!” Lady Agnes replied. “It’s horrid messy work, your modelling.”

      “Ah but look at the results!” said the girl eagerly — glancing about at the monuments in the garden as if in regard even to them she were, through that unity of art her brother had just proclaimed, in some degree an effective cause.

      “There’s a great deal being done here — a real vitality,” Nicholas Dormer went on to his mother in the same reasonable informing way. “Some of these fellows go very far.”

      “They do indeed!” said Lady Agnes.

      “I’m fond of young schools — like this movement in sculpture,” Nick insisted with his slightly provoking serenity.

      “They’re old enough to know better!”

      “Mayn’t I look, mamma? It is necessary to my development,” Biddy declared.

      “You may do as you like,” said Lady Agnes with dignity.

      “She ought to see good work, you know,” the young man went on.

      “I leave it to your sense of responsibility.” This statement was somewhat majestic, and for a moment evidently it tempted Nick, almost provoked him, or at any rate suggested to him an occasion for some pronouncement he had had on his mind. Apparently, however, he judged the time on the whole not quite right, and his sister Grace interposed with the inquiry —

      “Please, mamma, are we never going to lunch?”

      “Ah mother, mother!” the young man murmured in a troubled way, looking down at her with a deep fold in his forehead.

      For Lady Agnes also, as she returned his look, it seemed an occasion; but with this difference that she had no hesitation in taking advantage of it. She was encouraged by his slight embarrassment, for ordinarily Nick was not embarrassed. “You used to have so much sense of responsibility,” she pursued; “but sometimes I don’t know what has become of it — it seems all, all gone!”

      “Ah mother, mother!” he exclaimed again — as if there were so many things to say that it was impossible to choose. But now he stepped closer, bent over her and in spite of the publicity of their situation gave her a quick expressive kiss. The foreign observer whom I took for granted in beginning to sketch this scene would have had to admit that the rigid English family had after all a capacity for emotion. Grace Dormer indeed looked round her to see if at this moment they were noticed. She judged with satisfaction that they had escaped.

      II

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      Nick Dormer walked away with Biddy, but he had not gone far before he stopped in front of a clever bust, where his mother, in the distance, saw him playing in the air with his hand, carrying out by this gesture, which presumably was applausive, some critical remark he had made to his sister. Lady Agnes raised her glass to her eyes by the long handle to which rather a clanking chain was attached, perceiving that the bust represented an ugly old man with a bald head; at which her ladyship indefinitely sighed, though it was not apparent in what way such an object could be detrimental to her daughter. Nick passed on and quickly paused again; this time, his mother discerned, before the marble image of a strange grimacing woman. Presently she lost sight of him; he wandered behind things, looking at them all round.

      “I ought to get plenty of ideas for my modelling, oughtn’t I, Nick?” his sister put to him after a moment.

      “Ah my poor child, what shall I say?”

      “Don’t you think I’ve any capacity for ideas?” the girl continued ruefully.

      “Lots of them, no doubt. But the capacity for applying them, for putting them into practice — how much of that have you?”

      “How can I tell till I try?”

      “What do you mean by trying, Biddy dear?”

      “Why you know — you’ve seen me.”

      “Do you call that trying?” her brother amusedly demanded.

      “Ah Nick!” she said with sensibility. But then with more spirit: “And please what do you call it?”

      “Well, this for instance is a good case.” And her companion pointed to another bust — a head of a young man in terra-cotta, at which they had just arrived; a modern young man to whom, with his thick neck, his little cap and his wide ring of dense curls, the artist had given the air of some sturdy Florentine of the time of Lorenzo.

      Biddy looked at the image a moment. “Ah that’s not trying; that’s succeeding.”

      “Not altogether; it’s only trying seriously.”

      “Well, why shouldn’t I be serious?”

      “Mother wouldn’t like it. She has inherited the fine old superstition that art’s pardonable only so long as it’s bad — so long as it’s done at odd hours, for a little distraction, like a game of tennis or of whist. The only thing that can justify it, the effort to carry it as far as one can (which you can’t do