with which, as I have said, I piled brick upon brick. The bricks, for the whole counting-over-putting
for bricks little touches and inventions and enhancements by the way--affect me in truth as
well-nigh innumerable and as ever so scrupulously fitted together and packed-in. It is an effect of
detail, of the minutest; though, if one were in this connexion to say all, one would express the hope
that the general, the ampler air of the modest monument still survives. I do at least seem to catch
the key to a part of this abundance of small anxious, ingenious illustration as I recollect putting my
finger, in my young woman's interest, on the most obvious of her predicates. "What will she 'do'?
Why, the first thing she'll do will be to come to Europe; which in fact will form, and all inevitably,
no small part of her principal adventure. Coming to Europe is even for the 'frail vessels,' in this
wonderful age, a mild adventure; but what is truer than that on one side--the side of their
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independence of flood and field, of the moving accident, of battle and murder and sudden death-her
adventures are to be mild? Without her sense of them, her sense FOR them, as one may say,
they are next to nothing at all; but isn't the beauty and the difficulty just in showing their mystic
conversion by that sense, conversion into the stuff of drama or, even more delightful word still, of
'story'?" It was all as clear, my contention, as a silver bell. Two very good instances, I think, of this
effect of conversion, two cases of the rare chemistry, are the pages in which Isabel, coming into
the drawing-room at Gardencourt, coming in from a wet walk or whatever, that rainy afternoon,
finds Madame Merle in possession of the place, Madame Merle seated, all absorbed but all serene,
at the piano, and deeply recognises, in the striking of such an hour, in the presence there, among
the gathering shades, of this personage, of whom a moment before she had never so much as
heard, a turning-point in her life. It is dreadful to have too much, for any artistic demonstration, to
dot one's i's and insist on one's intentions, and I am not eager to do it now; but the question here
was that of producing the maximum of intensity with the minimum of strain.
The interest was to be raised to its pitch and yet the elements to be kept in their key; so that, should
the whole thing duly impress, I might show what an "exciting" inward life may do for the person
leading it even while it remains perfectly normal. And I cannot think of a more consistent
application of that ideal unless it be in the long statement, just beyond the middle of the book, of
my young woman's extraordinary meditative vigil on the occasion that was to become for her such
a landmark. Reduced to its essence, it is but the vigil of searching criticism; but it throws the action
further forward that twenty "incidents" might have done. It was designed to have all the vivacity of
incidents and all the economy of picture. She sits up, by her dying fire, far into the night, under the
spell of recognitions on which she finds the last sharpness suddenly wait. It is a representation
simply of her motionlessly SEEING, and an attempt withal to make the mere still lucidity of her
act as "interesting" as the surprise of a caravan or the identification of a pirate. It represents, for
that matter, one of the identifications dear to the novelist, and even indispensable to him; but it all
goes on without her being approached by another person and without her leaving her chair. It is
obviously the best thing in the book, but it is only a supreme illustration of the general plan. As to
Henrietta, my apology for whom I just left incomplete, she exemplifies, I fear, in her
superabundance, not an element of my plan, but only an excess of my zeal. So early was to begin
my tendency to OVERTREAT, rather than undertreat (when there was choice or danger) my
subject. (Many members of my craft, I gather, are far from agreeing with me, but I have always
held overtreating the minor disservice.) "Treating" that of "The Portrait" amounted to never
forgetting, by any lapse, that the thing was under a special obligation to be amusing. There was the
danger of the noted "thinness"--which was to be averted, tooth and nail, by cultivation of the
lively. That is at least how I see it to-day. Henrietta must have been at that time a part of my
wonderful notion of the lively. And then there was another matter. I had, within the few preceding
years, come to live in London, and the "international" light lay, in those days, to my sense, thick
and rich upon the scene. It was the light in which so much of the picture hung. But that IS another
matter. There is really too much to say.
HENRY JAMES
THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY
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CHAPTER I
Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to
the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of
the tea or not--some people of course never do,--the situation is in itself delightful. Those that I
have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocent
pastime. The implements of the little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English
country-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of the
afternoon had waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality.
Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air
had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened slowly,
however, and the scene expressed that sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief
source of one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o'clock to eight is on certain
occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this the interval could be only an eternity of
pleasure. The persons concerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not of the
sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have mentioned. The
shadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular; they were the shadows of an old man
sitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and of two
younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him. The old man had his cup in his
hand; it was an unusually large cup, of a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted in
brilliant colours. He disposed of its contents with much circumspection, holding it for a long time
close to his chin, with his face turned to the house. His companions had either finished their tea or
were indifferent to their privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of them,
from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certain attention at the elder man, who, unconscious
of observation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that rose beyond
the lawn was a structure to repay such consideration and was the most characteristic object in the
peculiarly English picture I have attempted to sketch.
It stood upon a low hill, above the river--the river being the Thames at some forty miles from
London. A long gabled front of red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather had
played all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented to the lawn its
patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers. The house had a name
and a history; the old gentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these things:
how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night's hospitality to the great
Elizabeth (whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular
bed which still formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had been a good deal
bruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and much
enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodelled and disfigured in the eighteenth century,
it had passed into the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originally
because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain:
bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the
end of twenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all its
points and would tell you just where to stand to see them in combination and just the hour when
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the shadows of its various protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork-were
of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he could have counted off most of the
successive owners and occupants, several of whom were known to general fame; doing so,
however, with an undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was not the least
honourable. The front of the house overlooking that portion of the lawn with which we are
concerned was not the entrance-front; this was in quite another quarter. Privacy here reigned
supreme, and the wide carpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension of a
luxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as that of velvet
curtains; and the place was furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs,
with the books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at some distance; where the
ground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the less a charming
walk down to the water.
The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty years before, had brought
with him, at the top of his baggage, his American physiognomy; and he had not only brought it
with him, but he had kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have taken it back to
his own country with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to
displace himself; his journeys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest. He
had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an expression of placid
acuteness. It was evidently a face in which the range of representation was not large, so that the air
of contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successful
in life, yet it seemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive and invidious, but had had
much of the inoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience of men, but there
was an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean, spacious cheek and
lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the
table. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees, and
his feet were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near
his chair, watching the master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in the still more
magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultory
attendance upon the other gentlemen.
One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that of
the old gentleman I have just sketched was something else; a noticeably handsome face, freshcoloured,
fair and frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich adornment of a
chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look--the air of a happy
temperament fertilised by a high civilisation--which would have made almost any observer envy
him at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from a long ride; he wore a
white hat, which looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in one of them--a
large, white, well-shaped fist--was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.
His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person of quite a different
pattern, who, although he might have excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other, have
provoked you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly put
together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no means decorated, with a
straggling moustache and whisker. He looked clever and ill--a combination by no means felicitous;
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and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there was something in
the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling, wandering
quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in the
chair he rested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, you
would easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his son's eye at last and gave
him a mild, responsive smile.
"I'm getting on very well," he said.
"Have you drunk your tea?" asked the son.
"Yes, and enjoyed it."
"Shall I give you some more?"
The old man considered, placidly. "Well, I guess I'll wait and see." He had, in speaking, the
American tone.
"Are you cold?" the son enquired.
The father slowly rubbed his legs. "Well, I don't know. I can't tell till I feel."
"Perhaps some one might feel for you," said the younger man, laughing.
"Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me, Lord Warburton?"
"Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton, promptly. "I'm bound to
say you look wonderfully comfortable."
"Well, I suppose I am, in most respects." And the old man looked down at his green shawl and
smoothed it over his knees. "The fact is I've been comfortable so many years that I suppose I've got
so used to it I don't know it."
"Yes, that's the bore of comfort," said Lord Warburton. "We only know when we're
uncomfortable."
"It strikes me we're rather particular," his companion remarked.
"Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular," Lord Warburton murmured. And then the three men
remained silent a while; the two younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presently
asked for more tea. "I should think you would be very unhappy with that shawl," Lord Warburton
resumed while his companion filled the old man's cup again.
"Oh no, he must have the shawl!" cried the gentleman in the velvet coat. "Don't put such ideas as
that into his head."
"It belongs to my wife," said the old man simply.
"Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons--" And Lord Warburton made a gesture of apology.
"I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old man went on.
"You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover your poor old legs."
"Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess they are as good as yours."
"Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied, giving him his tea.
"Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference."
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"I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?"
"Well, it's rather hot."
"That's intended to be a merit."
"Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man, kindly. "He's a very good nurse, Lord
Warburton."
"Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship.
"Oh no, he's not clumsy--considering that he's an invalid himself. He's a very good nurse--for a
sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because he's sick himself."
"Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed.
"Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it."
"I might try: that's an idea," said the young man.
"Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked.
Lord Warburton considered a moment. "Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf."
"He's making light of you, daddy," said the other young man. "That's a sort of joke."
"Well, there seem to be so many sorts now," daddy replied, serenely. "You don't look as if you had
been sick, any way, Lord Warburton."
"He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about it," said Lord Warburton's
friend.
"Is that true, sir?" asked the old man gravely.
"If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow to talk to--a regular cynic. He
doesn't seem to believe in anything."
"That's another sort of joke," said the person accused of cynicism.
"It's because his health is so poor," his father explained to Lord Warburton. "It affects his mind and
colours his way of looking at things; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it's
almost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect his spirits. I've hardly ever seen him
when he wasn't cheerful--about as he is at present. He often cheers me up."
The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. "Is it a glowing eulogy or an
accusation of levity? Should you like me to carry out my theories, daddy?"
"By Jove, we should see some queer things!" cried Lord Warburton.
"I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone," said the old man.
"Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm not in the least bored; I find life
only too interesting."
"Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!"
"I'm never bored when I come here," said Lord Warburton. "One gets such uncommonly good
talk."
"Is that another sort of joke?" asked the old man. "You've no excuse for being bored anywhere.
When I was your age I had never heard of such a thing."
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"You must have developed very late."
"No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twenty years old I was very
highly developed indeed. I was working tooth and nail. You wouldn't be bored if you had
something to do; but all you young men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You're
too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich."
"Oh, I say," cried Lord Warburton, "you're hardly the person to accuse a fellow-creature of being
too rich!"
"Do you mean because I'm a banker?" asked the old man.
"Because of that, if you like; and because you have--haven't you?--such unlimited means."
"He isn't very rich," the other young man mercifully pleaded. "He has given away an immense deal
of money."
"Well, I suppose it was his own," said Lord Warburton; "and in that case could there be a better
proof of wealth? Let not a public benefactor talk of one's being too fond of pleasure."
"Daddy's very fond of pleasure--of other people's."
The old man shook his head. "I don't pretend to have contributed anything to the amusement of my
contemporaries."
"My dear father, you're too modest!"
"That's a kind of joke, sir," said Lord Warburton.
"You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you've nothing left."
"Fortunately there are always more jokes," the ugly young man remarked.
"I don't believe it--I believe things are getting more serious. You young men will find that out."
"The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great opportunity of jokes."
"They'll have to be grim jokes," said the old man. "I'm convinced there will be great changes, and
not all for the better."
"I quite agree with you, sir," Lord Warburton declared. "I'm very sure there will be great changes,
and that all sorts of queer things will happen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying your
advice; you know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold' of something. One hesitates
to take hold of a thing that may the next moment be knocked sky-high."
"You ought to take hold of a pretty woman," said his companion. "He's trying hard to fall in love,"
he added, by way of explanation, to his father.
"The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!" Lord Warburton exclaimed.
"No, no, they'll be firm," the old man rejoined; "they'll not be affected by the social and political
changes I just referred to."
"You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay hands on one as soon as possible and
tie her round my neck as a life-preserver."
"The ladies will save us," said the old man; "that is the best of them will--for I make a difference
between them. Make up to a good one and marry her, and your life will become much more
interesting."
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A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a sense of the magnanimity of this
speech, for it was a secret neither for his son nor for his visitor that his own experiment in
matrimony had not been a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and these words
may have been intended as a confession of personal error; though of course it was not in place for
either of his companions to remark that apparently the lady of his choice had not been one of the
best.
"If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what you say?" Lord Warburton
asked. "I'm not at all keen about marrying--your son misrepresented me; but there's no knowing
what an interesting woman might do with me."
"I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman," said his friend.
"My dear fellow, you can't see ideas--especially such highly ethereal ones as mine. If I could only
see it myself--that would be a great step in advance."
"Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn't fall in love with my
niece," said the old man.
His son broke into a laugh. "He'll think you mean that as a provocation! My dear father, you've
