THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. Генри Джеймс

she usually enquired whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs.

      “The books?” he once said; “well, I don’t know much about the books. You must ask Ralph about that. I’ve always ascertained for myself — got my information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even; I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I’ve had very good opportunities — better than what a young lady would naturally have. I’m of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn’t think it if you were to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you more. I’ve been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years, and I don’t hesitate to say that I’ve acquired considerable information. It’s a very fine country on the whole — finer perhaps than what we give it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn’t seem to be generally felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it’s because I’ve had a considerable degree of success. When you’re successful you naturally feel more at home.”

      “Do you suppose that if I’m successful I shall feel at home?” Isabel asked.

      “I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful. They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them a great deal of kindness. But you mustn’t feel too much at home, you know.”

      “Oh, I’m by no means sure it will satisfy me,” Isabel judicially emphasised. “I like the place very much, but I’m not sure I shall like the people.”

      “The people are very good people; especially if you like them.”

      “I’ve no doubt they’re good,” Isabel rejoined; “but are they pleasant in society? They won’t rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves agreeable to me? That’s what I like people to do. I don’t hesitate to say so, because I always appreciate it. I don’t believe they’re very nice to girls; they’re not nice to them in the novels.”

      “I don’t know about the novels,” said Mr. Touchett. “I believe the novels have a great deal but I don’t suppose they’re very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend of Ralph’s and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy — I suppose that was it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given a representation — something in the nature of a caricature, as you might say — of my unworthy self. I didn’t read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn’t have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn’t like the idea that she hadn’t taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an American — I can’t talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I’ve made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don’t talk like the old gentleman in that lady’s novel. He wasn’t an American; we wouldn’t have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you that they’re not always accurate. Of course, as I’ve no daughters, and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven’t had much chance to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle.”

      “Gracious,” Isabel exclaimed; “how many classes have they? About fifty, I suppose.”

      “Well, I don’t know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice of the classes. That’s the advantage of being an American here; you don’t belong to any class.”

      “I hope so,” said Isabel. “Imagine one’s belonging to an English class!”

      “Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable — especially towards the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and the people I don’t. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the first.”

      “I’m much obliged to you,” said the girl quickly. Her way of taking compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much. “I’m sure the English are very conventional,” she added.

      “They’ve got everything pretty well fixed,” Mr. Touchett admitted. “It’s all settled beforehand — they don’t leave it to the last moment.”

      “I don’t like to have everything settled beforehand,” said the girl. “I like more unexpectedness.”

      Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. “Well, it’s settled beforehand that you’ll have great success,” he rejoined. “I suppose you’ll like that.”

      “I shall not have success if they’re too stupidly conventional. I’m not in the least stupidly conventional. I’m just the contrary. That’s what they won’t like.”

      “No, no, you’re all wrong,” said the old man. “You can’t tell what they’ll like. They’re very inconsistent; that’s their principal interest.”

      “Ah well,” said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the lawn— “that will suit me perfectly!”

Chapter VII

       Table of Contents

      The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having cultivated relations with her husband’s neighbours, was not warranted in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions to her husband’s adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the singular situation of defending the British constitution against her aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use of her sharpness. She was very critical herself — it was incidental to her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett’s dryness that set her own moral fountains flowing.

      “Now what’s your point of view?” she asked of her aunt. “When you criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn’t seem to be American — you thought everything over there so disagreeable. When I criticise I have mine; it’s thoroughly American!”

      “My dear young lady,”