Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Free Classic E-books

The Ambassadors by Henry James

Part 8 out of 9

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 1.1 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

different consciousness from any he had yet betrayed, and actually
rendered by it almost insinuating. He lacked only time for full
persuasion, and Strether was to see in a moment why. Meantime,
however, our friend perceived, he was announcing a step of some
magnanimity on Mrs. Pocock's part, so that he could deprecate a
sharp question. It was his own high purpose in fact to have
smoothed sharp questions to rest. He looked his old comrade very
straight in the eyes, and he had never conveyed to him in so mute a
manner so much kind confidence and so much good advice. Everything
that was between them was again in his face, but matured and
shelved and finally disposed of. "At any rate," he added, "she's
coming now."

Considering how many pieces had to fit themselves, it all fell, in
Strether's brain, into a close rapid order. He saw on the spot
what had happened, and what probably would yet; and it was all
funny enough. It was perhaps just this freedom of appreciation
that wound him up to his flare of high spirits. "What is she
coming FOR?--to kill me?"

"She's coming to be very VERY kind to you, and you must let me say
that I greatly hope you'll not be less so to herself."

This was spoken by Waymarsh with much gravity of admonition, and as
Strether stood there he knew he had but to make a movement to take
the attitude of a man gracefully receiving a present. The present
was that of the opportunity dear old Waymarsh had flattered himself
he had divined in him the slight soreness of not having yet
thoroughly enjoyed; so he had brought it to him thus, as on a
little silver breakfast-tray, familiarly though delicately--without
oppressive pomp; and he was to bend and smile and acknowledge, was
to take and use and be grateful. He was not--that was the beauty
of it--to be asked to deflect too much from his dignity. No wonder
the old boy bloomed in this bland air of his own distillation.
Strether felt for a moment as if Sarah were actually walking up and
down outside. Wasn't she hanging about the porte-cochere while
her friend thus summarily opened a way? Strether would meet her
but to take it, and everything would be for the best in the best of
possible worlds. He had never so much known what any one meant as,
in the light of this demonstration, he knew what Mrs. Newsome did.
It had reached Waymarsh from Sarah, but it had reached Sarah from
her mother, and there was no break in the chain by which it reached
HIM. "Has anything particular happened," he asked after a minute--
"so suddenly to determine her? Has she heard anything unexpected
from home?"

Waymarsh, on this, it seemed to him, looked at him harder than
ever. "'Unexpected'?" He had a brief hesitation; then, however,
he was firm. "We're leaving Paris."

"Leaving? That IS sudden."

Waymarsh showed a different opinion. "Less so than it may seem.
The purpose of Mrs. Pocock's visit is to explain to you in fact
that it's NOT."

Strether didn't at all know if he had really an advantage--
anything that would practically count as one; but he enjoyed for
the moment--as for the first time in his life--the sense of so
carrying it off. He wondered--it was amusing--if he felt as the
impudent feel. "I shall take great pleasure, I assure you, in any
explanation. I shall be delighted to receive Sarah."

The sombre glow just darkened in his comrade's eyes; but he was
struck with the way it died out again. It was too mixed with
another consciousness--it was too smothered, as might be said, in
flowers. He really for the time regretted it--poor dear old sombre
glow! Something straight and simple, something heavy and empty, had
been eclipsed in its company; something by which he had best known
his friend. Waymarsh wouldn't BE his friend, somehow, without the
occasional ornament of the sacred rage, and the right to the sacred
rage--inestimably precious for Strether's charity--he also seemed
in a manner, and at Mrs. Pocock's elbow, to have forfeited.
Strether remembered the occasion early in their stay when on that
very spot he had come out with his earnest, his ominous "Quit it!"--
and, so remembering, felt it hang by a hair that he didn't
himself now utter the same note. Waymarsh was having a good time--
this was the truth that was embarrassing for him, and he was having
it then and there, he was having it in Europe, he was having it
under the very protection of circumstances of which he didn't in
the least approve; all of which placed him in a false position,
with no issue possible--none at least by the grand manner. It was
practically in the manner of any one--it was all but in poor
Strether's own--that instead of taking anything up he merely made
the most of having to be himself explanatory. "I'm not leaving for
the United States direct. Mr. and Mrs. Pocock and Miss Mamie are
thinking of a little trip before their own return, and we've been
talking for some days past of our joining forces. We've settled it
that we do join and that we sail together the end of next month.
But we start to-morrow for Switzerland. Mrs. Pocock wants some
scenery. She hasn't had much yet."

He was brave in his way too, keeping nothing back, confessing all
there was, and only leaving Strether to make certain connexions.
"Is what Mrs. Newsome had cabled her daughter an injunction to
break off short?"

The grand manner indeed at this just raised its head a little.
"I know nothing about Mrs. Newsome's cables."

Their eyes met on it with some intensity--during the few seconds of
which something happened quite out of proportion to the time.
It happened that Strether, looking thus at his friend, didn't take
his answer for truth--and that something more again occurred in
consequence of THAT. Yes--Waymarsh just DID know about
Mrs. Newsome's cables: to what other end than that had they dined
together at Bignon's? Strether almost felt for the instant that it
was to Mrs. Newsome herself the dinner had been given; and, for
that matter, quite felt how she must have known about it and, as he
might think, protected and consecrated it. He had a quick blurred
view of daily cables, questions, answers, signals: clear enough
was his vision of the expense that, when so wound up, the lady at
home was prepared to incur. Vivid not less was his memory of what,
during his long observation of her, some of her attainments of that
high pitch had cost her. Distinctly she was at the highest now,
and Waymarsh, who imagined himself an independent performer, was
really, forcing his fine old natural voice, an overstrained
accompanist. The whole reference of his errand seemed to mark her
for Strether as by this time consentingly familiar to him, and
nothing yet had so despoiled her of a special shade of
consideration. "You don't know," he asked, "whether Sarah has been
directed from home to try me on the matter of my also going to

"I know," said Waymarsh as manfully as possible, "nothing whatever
about her private affairs; though I believe her to be acting in
conformity with things that have my highest respect." It was as
manful as possible, but it was still the false note--as it had to
be to convey so sorry a statement. He knew everything, Strether
more and more felt, that he thus disclaimed, and his little
punishment was just in this doom to a second fib. What falser
position--given the man--could the most vindictive mind impose?
He ended by squeezing through a passage in which three months before
he would certainly have stuck fast. "Mrs Pocock will probably be
ready herself to answer any enquiry you may put to her. But,"
he continued, "BUT--!" He faltered on it.

"But what? Don't put her too many?"

Waymarsh looked large, but the harm was done; he couldn't, do what
he would, help looking rosy. "Don't do anything you'll be sorry for."

It was an attenuation, Strether guessed, of something else that had
been on his lips; it was a sudden drop to directness, and was
thereby the voice of sincerity. He had fallen to the supplicating
note, and that immediately, for our friend, made a difference and
reinstated him. They were in communication as they had been, that
first morning, in Sarah's salon and in her presence and Madame de
Vionnet's; and the same recognition of a great good will was again,
after all, possible. Only the amount of response Waymarsh had then
taken for granted was doubled, decupled now. This came out when he
presently said: "Of course I needn't assure you I hope you'll
come with us." Then it was that his implications and expectations
loomed up for Strether as almost pathetically gross.

The latter patted his shoulder while he thanked him, giving the
go-by to the question of joining the Pococks; he expressed the joy he
felt at seeing him go forth again so brave and free, and he in fact
almost took leave of him on the spot. "I shall see you again of
course before you go; but I'm meanwhile much obliged to you for
arranging so conveniently for what you've told me. I shall walk up
and down in the court there--dear little old court which we've each
bepaced so, this last couple of months, to the tune of our flights
and our drops, our hesitations and our plunges: I shall hang about
there, all impatience and excitement, please let Sarah know, till
she graciously presents herself. Leave me with her without fear,"
he laughed; "I assure you I shan't hurt her. I don't think either
she'll hurt ME: I'm in a situation in which damage was some time
ago discounted. Besides, THAT isn't what worries you--but don't,
don't explain! We're all right as we are: which was the degree of
success our adventure was pledged to for each of us. We weren't,
it seemed, all right as we were before; and we've got over the
ground, all things considered, quickly. I hope you'll have a
lovely time in the Alps."

Waymarsh fairly looked up at him as from the foot of them. "I
don't know as I OUGHT really to go."

It was the conscience of Milrose in the very voice of Milrose, but,
oh it was feeble and flat! Strether suddenly felt quite ashamed for
him; he breathed a greater boldness. "LET yourself, on the
contrary, go--in all agreeable directions. These are precious
hours--at our age they mayn't recur. Don't have it to say to
yourself at Milrose, next winter, that you hadn't courage for
them." And then as his comrade queerly stared: "Live up to Mrs.

"Live up to her?"

"You're a great help to her."

Waymarsh looked at it as at one of the uncomfortable things that
were certainly true and that it was yet ironical to say. "It's
more then than you are."

"That's exactly your own chance and advantage. Besides," said
Strether, "I do in my way contribute. I know what I'm about."

Waymarsh had kept on his great panama, and, as he now stood nearer
the door, his last look beneath the shade of it had turned again to
darkness and warning. "So do I! See here, Strether."

"I know what you're going to say. 'Quit this'?"

"Quit this!" But it lacked its old intensity; nothing of it
remained; it went out of the room with him.


Almost the first thing, strangely enough, that, about an hour
later, Strether found himself doing in Sarah's presence was to
remark articulately on this failure, in their friend, of what had
been superficially his great distinction. It was as if--he alluded
of course to the grand manner--the dear man had sacrificed it to
some other advantage; which would be of course only for himself to
measure. It might be simply that he was physically so much more
sound than on his first coming out; this was all prosaic,
comparatively cheerful and vulgar. And fortunately, if one came to
that, his improvement in health was really itself grander than any
manner it could be conceived as having cost him. "You yourself
alone, dear Sarah"--Strether took the plunge--"have done him, it
strikes me, in these three weeks, as much good as all the rest of
his time together."

It was a plunge because somehow the range of reference was, in the
conditions, "funny," and made funnier still by Sarah's attitude, by
the turn the occasion had, with her appearance, so sensibly taken.
Her appearance was really indeed funnier than anything else--the
spirit in which he felt her to be there as soon as she was there,
the shade of obscurity that cleared up for him as soon as he was
seated with her in the small salon de lecture that had, for the
most part, in all the weeks, witnessed the wane of his early
vivacity of discussion with Waymarsh. It was an immense thing,
quite a tremendous thing, for her to have come: this truth opened
out to him in spite of his having already arrived for himself at a
fairly vivid view of it. He had done exactly what he had given
Waymarsh his word for--had walked and re-walked the court while he
awaited her advent; acquiring in this exercise an amount of light
that affected him at the time as flooding the scene. She had
decided upon the step in order to give him the benefit of a doubt,
in order to be able to say to her mother that she had, even to
abjectness, smoothed the way for him. The doubt had been as to
whether he mightn't take her as not having smoothed it--and the
admonition had possibly come from Waymarsh's more detached spirit.
Waymarsh had at any rate, certainly, thrown his weight into the
scale--he had pointed to the importance of depriving their friend
of a grievance. She had done justice to the plea, and it was to
set herself right with a high ideal that she actually sat there in
her state. Her calculation was sharp in the immobility with which
she held her tall parasol-stick upright and at arm's length, quite
as if she had struck the place to plant her flag; in the separate
precautions she took not to show as nervous; in the aggressive
repose in which she did quite nothing but wait for him. Doubt
ceased to be possible from the moment he had taken in that she had
arrived with no proposal whatever; that her concern was simply to
show what she had come to receive. She had come to receive his
submission, and Waymarsh was to have made it plain to him that she
would expect nothing less. He saw fifty things, her host, at this
convenient stage; but one of those he most saw was that their
anxious friend hadn't quite had the hand required of him.
Waymarsh HAD, however, uttered the request that she might find him
mild, and while hanging about the court before her arrival he had
turned over with zeal the different ways in which he could be so.
The difficulty was that if he was mild he wasn't, for her purpose,
conscious. If she wished him conscious--as everything about her
cried aloud that she did--she must accordingly be at costs to make
him so. Conscious he was, for himself--but only of too many
things; so she must choose the one she required.

Practically, however, it at last got itself named, and when once
that had happened they were quite at the centre of their situation.
One thing had really done as well as another; when Strether had
spoken of Waymarsh's leaving him, and that had necessarily brought
on a reference to Mrs. Pocock's similar intention, the jump was but
short to supreme lucidity. Light became indeed after that so
intense that Strether would doubtless have but half made out, in
the prodigious glare, by which of the two the issue had been in
fact precipitated. It was, in their contracted quarters, as much
there between them as if it had been something suddenly spilled
with a crash and a splash on the floor. The form of his submission
was to be an engagement to acquit himself within the twenty-four
hours. "He'll go in a moment if you give him the word--he assures
me on his honour he'll do that": this came in its order, out of
its order, in respect to Chad, after the crash had occurred. It
came repeatedly during the time taken by Strether to feel that he
was even more fixed in his rigour than he had supposed--the time he
was not above adding to a little by telling her that such a way of
putting it on her brother's part left him sufficiently surprised.
She wasn't at all funny at last--she was really fine; and he felt
easily where she was strong--strong for herself. It hadn't yet so
come home to him that she was nobly and appointedly officious.
She was acting in interests grander and clearer than that of her
poor little personal, poor little Parisian equilibrium, and all his
consciousness of her mother's moral pressure profited by this proof
of its sustaining force. She would be held up; she would be
strengthened; he needn't in the least be anxious for her.
What would once more have been distinct to him had he tried to
make it so was that, as Mrs. Newsome was essentially all moral pressure,
the presence of this element was almost identical with her own presence.
It wasn't perhaps that he felt he was dealing with her straight,
but it was certainly as if she had been dealing straight with HIM.
She was reaching him somehow by the lengthened arm of the spirit,
and he was having to that extent to take her into account;
but he wasn't reaching her in turn, not making her take HIM;
he was only reaching Sarah, who appeared to take so little of him.
"Something has clearly passed between you and Chad," he presently said,
"that I think I ought to know something more about. Does he put it all,"
he smiled, "on me?"

"Did you come out," she asked, "to put it all on HIM?"

But he replied to this no further than, after an instant, by
saying: "Oh it's all right. Chad I mean's all right in having
said to you--well anything he may have said. I'll TAKE it all--
what he does put on me. Only I must see him before I see you

She hesitated, but she brought it out. "Is it absolutely necessary
you should see me again?"

"Certainly, if I'm to give you any definite word about anything."

"Is it your idea then," she returned, "that I shall keep on meeting
you only to be exposed to fresh humiliation?"

He fixed her a longer time. "Are your instructions from
Mrs. Newsome that you shall, even at the worst, absolutely and
irretrievably break with me?"

"My instructions from Mrs. Newsome are, if you please, my affair.
You know perfectly what your own were, and you can judge for
yourself of what it can do for you to have made what you have of
them. You can perfectly see, at any rate, I'll go so far as to
say, that if I wish not to expose myself I must wish still less to
expose HER." She had already said more than she had quite
expected; but, though she had also pulled up, the colour in her
face showed him he should from one moment to the other have it all.
He now indeed felt the high importance of his having it. "What is
your conduct," she broke out as if to explain--"what is your
conduct but an outrage to women like US? I mean your acting as if
there can be a doubt--as between us and such another--of his duty?"

He thought a moment. It was rather much to deal with at once; not
only the question itself, but the sore abysses it revealed.
"Of course they're totally different kinds of duty."

"And do you pretend that he has any at all--to such another?"

"Do you mean to Madame de Vionnet?" He uttered the name not to
affront her, but yet again to gain time--time that he needed for
taking in something still other and larger than her demand of a
moment before. It wasn't at once that he could see all that was
in her actual challenge; but when he did he found himself just
checking a low vague sound, a sound which was perhaps the nearest
approach his vocal chords had ever known to a growl. Everything
Mrs. Pocock had failed to give a sign of recognising in Chad as a
particular part of a transformation--everything that had lent
intention to this particular failure--affected him as gathered into
a large loose bundle and thrown, in her words, into his face. The
missile made him to that extent catch his breath; which however he
presently recovered. "Why when a woman's at once so charming and
so beneficent--"

"You can sacrifice mothers and sisters to her without a blush and
can make them cross the ocean on purpose to feel the more and take
from you the straighter, HOW you do it?"

Yes, she had taken him up as short and as sharply as that, but he
tried not to flounder in her grasp. "I don't think there's
anything I've done in any such calculated way as you describe.
Everything has come as a sort of indistinguishable part of
everything else. Your coming out belonged closely to my having
come before you, and my having come was a result of our general
state of mind. Our general state of mind had proceeded, on its
side, from our queer ignorance, our queer misconceptions and
confusions--from which, since then, an inexorable tide of light
seems to have floated us into our perhaps still queerer knowledge.
Don't you LIKE your brother as he is," he went on, "and haven't
you given your mother an intelligible account of all that that
comes to?"

It put to her also, doubtless, his own tone, too many things, this
at least would have been the case hadn't his final challenge
directly helped her. Everything, at the stage they had reached,
directly helped her, because everything betrayed in him such a
basis of intention. He saw--the odd way things came out!--that he
would have been held less monstrous had he only been a little
wilder. What exposed him was just his poor old trick of quiet
inwardness, what exposed him was his THINKING such offence. He hadn't
in the least however the desire to irritate that Sarah imputed to him,
and he could only at last temporise, for the moment, with her
indignant view. She was altogether more inflamed than he had
expected, and he would probably understand this better when he
should learn what had occurred for her with Chad. Till then her
view of his particular blackness, her clear surprise at his not
clutching the pole she held out, must pass as extravagant. "I
leave you to flatter yourself," she returned, "that what you speak
of is what YOU'VE beautifully done. When a thing has been already
described in such a lovely way--!" But she caught herself up, and
her comment on his description rang out sufficiently loud. "Do you
consider her even an apology for a decent woman?"

Ah there it was at last! She put the matter more crudely than, for
his own mixed purposes, he had yet had to do; but essentially it
was all one matter. It was so much--so much; and she treated it,
poor lady, as so little. He grew conscious, as he was now apt to
do, of a strange smile, and the next moment he found himself
talking like Miss Barrace. "She has struck me from the first as
wonderful. I've been thinking too moreover that, after all, she
would probably have represented even for yourself something rather
new and rather good."

He was to have given Mrs. Pocock with this, however, but her best
opportunity for a sound of derision. "Rather new? I hope so with
all my heart!"

"I mean," he explained, "that she might have affected you by her
exquisite amiability--a real revelation, it has seemed to myself;
her high rarity, her distinction of every sort."

He had been, with these words, consciously a little "precious"; but
he had had to be--he couldn't give her the truth of the case
without them; and it seemed to him moreover now that he didn't
care. He had at all events not served his cause, for she sprang at
its exposed side. "A 'revelation'--to ME: I've come to such a
woman for a revelation? You talk to me about 'distinction'--
YOU, you who've had your privilege?--when the most distinguished woman
we shall either of us have seen in this world sits there insulted,
in her loneliness, by your incredible comparison!"

Strether forbore, with an effort, from straying; but he looked all
about him. "Does your mother herself make the point that she
sits insulted?"

Sarah's answer came so straight, so "pat," as might have been said,
that he felt on the instant its origin. "She has confided to my
judgement and my tenderness the expression of her personal sense of
everything, and the assertion of her personal dignity."

They were the very words of the lady of Woollett--he would have
known them in a thousand; her parting charge to her child. Mrs.
Pocock accordingly spoke to this extent by book, and the fact
immensely moved him. "If she does really feel as you say it's of
course very very dreadful. I've given sufficient proof, one would
have thought," he added, "of my deep admiration for Mrs. Newsome."

"And pray what proof would one have thought you'd CALL sufficient?
That of thinking this person here so far superior to her?"

He wondered again; he waited. "Ah dear Sarah, you must LEAVE me
this person here!"

In his desire to avoid all vulgar retorts, to show how, even
perversely, he clung to his rag of reason, he had softly almost
wailed this plea. Yet he knew it to be perhaps the most positive
declaration he had ever made in his life, and his visitor's
reception of it virtually gave it that importance. "That's exactly
what I'm delighted to do. God knows WE don't want her! You take
good care not to meet," she observed in a still higher key,
"my question about their life. If you do consider it a thing
one can even SPEAK of, I congratulate you on your taste!"

The life she alluded to was of course Chad's and Madame de Vionnet's,
which she thus bracketed together in a way that made him wince
a little; there being nothing for him but to take home her
full intention. It was none the less his inconsequence that while
he had himself been enjoying for weeks the view of the brilliant
woman's specific action, he just suffered from any characterisation
of it by other lips. "I think tremendously well of her, at the
same time that I seem to feel her 'life' to be really none of my
business. It's my business, that is, only so far as Chad's own
life is affected by it; and what has happened, don't you see? is
that Chad's has been affected so beautifully. The proof of the
pudding's in the eating"--he tried, with no great success, to help
it out with a touch of pleasantry, while she let him go on as if to
sink and sink. He went on however well enough, as well as he could
do without fresh counsel; he indeed shouldn't stand quite firm, he
felt, till he should have re-established his communications with
Chad. Still, he could always speak for the woman he had so
definitely promised to "save." This wasn't quite for her the air
of salvation; but as that chill fairly deepened what did it become
but a reminder that one might at the worst perish WITH her? And it
was simple enough--it was rudimentary: not, not to give her away.
"I find in her more merits than you would probably have patience
with my counting over. And do you know," he enquired, "the effect
you produce on me by alluding to her in such terms? It's as if you
had some motive in not recognising all she has done for your
brother, and so shut your eyes to each side of the matter, in
order, whichever side comes up, to get rid of the other. I don't,
you must allow me to say, see how you can with any pretence to
candour get rid of the side nearest you."

"Near me--THAT sort of thing?" And Sarah gave a jerk back of her
head that well might have nullified any active proximity.

It kept her friend himself at his distance, and he respected for a
moment the interval. Then with a last persuasive effort he bridged
it. "You don't, on your honour, appreciate Chad's fortunate

"Fortunate?" she echoed again. And indeed she was prepared.
"I call it hideous."

Her departure had been for some minutes marked as imminent, and she
was already at the door that stood open to the court, from the
threshold of which she delivered herself of this judgement. It
rang out so loud as to produce for the time the hush of everything
else. Strether quite, as an effect of it, breathed less bravely;
he could acknowledge it, but simply enough. "Oh if you think THAT--!"

"Then all's at an end? So much the better. I do think that!" She
passed out as she spoke and took her way straight across the court,
beyond which, separated from them by the deep arch of the
porte-cochere the low victoria that had conveyed her from her own hotel
was drawn up. She made for it with decision, and the manner of her
break, the sharp shaft of her rejoinder, had an intensity by which
Strether was at first kept in arrest. She had let fly at him as
from a stretched cord, and it took him a minute to recover from the
sense of being pierced. It was not the penetration of surprise;
it was that, much more, of certainty; his case being put for him as
he had as yet only put it to himself. She was away at any rate;
she had distanced him--with rather a grand spring, an effect of pride
and ease, after all; she had got into her carriage before he could
overtake her, and the vehicle was already in motion. He stopped
halfway; he stood there in the court only seeing her go and noting
that she gave him no other look. The way he had put it to himself
was that all quite MIGHT be at an end. Each of her movements,
in this resolute rupture, reaffirmed, re-enforced that idea.
Sarah passed out of sight in the sunny street while, planted there
in the centre of the comparatively grey court, he continued merely
to look before him. It probably WAS all at an end.

Book Eleventh

[Note: In the 1909 New York Edition the following two chapters were placed
in the reverse of the order appearing below. Since 1950, most scholars have
agreed, because of the internal evidence of the two chapters, that an
editorial error caused them to be printed in reverse order. This Etext,
like other editions of the past four decades, corrects the apparent error.
-- Richard D. Hathaway, preparer of this electronic text]


He went late that evening to the Boulevard Malesherbes, having his
impression that it would be vain to go early, and having also, more
than once in the course of the day, made enquiries of the concierge.
Chad hadn't come in and had left no intimation; he had affairs,
apparently, at this juncture--as it occurred to Strether he so well
might have--that kept him long abroad. Our friend asked once for
him at the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, but the only contribution
offered there was the fact that every one was out. It was with
the idea that he would have to come home to sleep that Strether
went up to his rooms, from which however he was still absent, though,
from the balcony, a few moments later, his visitor heard eleven
o'clock strike. Chad's servant had by this time answered for his
reappearance; he HAD, the visitor learned, come quickly in to dress
for dinner and vanish again. Strether spent an hour in waiting
for him--an hour full of strange suggestions, persuasions, recognitions;
one of those that he was to recall, at the end of his adventure, as
the particular handful that most had counted. The mellowest lamplight
and the easiest chair had been placed at his disposal by Baptiste,
subtlest of servants; the novel half-uncut, the novel lemon-coloured
and tender, with the ivory knife athwart it like the dagger in a
contadina's hair, had been pushed within the soft circle--a circle
which, for some reason, affected Strether as softer still after
the same Baptiste had remarked that in the absence of a further need
of anything by Monsieur he would betake himself to bed. The night
was hot and heavy and the single lamp sufficient; the great flare
of the lighted city, rising high, spending itself afar, played up
from the Boulevard and, through the vague vista of the successive
rooms, brought objects into view and added to their dignity.
Strether found himself in possession as he never yet had been;
he had been there alone, had turned over books and prints,
had invoked, in Chad's absence, the spirit of the place,
but never at the witching hour and never with a relish quite
so like a pang.

He spent a long time on the balcony; he hung over it as he had seen
little Bilham hang the day of his first approach, as he had seen
Mamie hang over her own the day little Bilham himself might have
seen her from below; he passed back into the rooms, the three that
occupied the front and that communicated by wide doors; and, while
he circulated and rested, tried to recover the impression that they
had made on him three months before, to catch again the voice in
which they had seemed then to speak to him. That voice, he had to
note, failed audibly to sound; which he took as the proof of all
the change in himself. He had heard, of old, only what he COULD
then hear; what he could do now was to think of three months ago as
a point in the far past. All voices had grown thicker and meant
more things; they crowded on him as he moved about--it was the way
they sounded together that wouldn't let him be still. He felt,
strangely, as sad as if he had come for some wrong, and yet as
excited as if he had come for some freedom. But the freedom was
what was most in the place and the hour, it was the freedom that
most brought him round again to the youth of his own that he had
long ago missed. He could have explained little enough to-day
either why he had missed it or why, after years and years, he
should care that he had; the main truth of the actual appeal of
everything was none the less that everything represented the
substance of his loss put it within reach, within touch, made it,
to a degree it had never been, an affair of the senses. That was
what it became for him at this singular time, the youth he had long
ago missed--a queer concrete presence, full of mystery, yet full of
reality, which he could handle, taste, smell, the deep breathing of
which he could positively hear. It was in the outside air as well
as within; it was in the long watch, from the balcony, in the
summer night, of the wide late life of Paris, the unceasing soft
quick rumble, below, of the little lighted carriages that, in the
press, always suggested the gamblers he had seen of old at Monte
Carlo pushing up to the tables. This image was before him when he
at last became aware that Chad was behind.

"She tells me you put it all on ME"--he had arrived after this
promptly enough at that information; which expressed the case
however quite as the young man appeared willing for the moment to
leave it. Other things, with this advantage of their virtually
having the night before them, came up for them, and had, as well,
the odd effect of making the occasion, instead of hurried and
feverish, one of the largest, loosest and easiest to which
Strether's whole adventure was to have treated him. He had been
pursuing Chad from an early hour and had overtaken him only now;
but now the delay was repaired by their being so exceptionally
confronted. They had foregathered enough of course in all the
various times; they had again and again, since that first night at
the theatre, been face to face over their question; but they had
never been so alone together as they were actually alone--their
talk hadn't yet been so supremely for themselves. And if many
things moreover passed before them, none passed more distinctly for
Strether than that striking truth about Chad of which he had been
so often moved to take note: the truth that everything came
happily back with him to his knowing how to live. It had been
seated in his pleased smile--a smile that pleased exactly in the
right degree--as his visitor turned round, on the balcony, to greet
his advent; his visitor in fact felt on the spot that there was
nothing their meeting would so much do as bear witness to that
facility. He surrendered himself accordingly to so approved a
gift; for what was the meaning of the facility but that others DID
surrender themselves? He didn't want, luckily, to prevent Chad
from living; but he was quite aware that even if he had he would
himself have thoroughly gone to pieces. It was in truth
essentially by bringing down his personal life to a function all
subsidiary to the young man's own that he held together. And the
great point, above all, the sign of how completely Chad possessed
the knowledge in question, was that one thus became, not only with
a proper cheerfulness, but with wild native impulses, the feeder of
his stream. Their talk had accordingly not lasted three minutes
without Strether's feeling basis enough for the excitement in which
he had waited. This overflow fairly deepened, wastefully abounded,
as he observed the smallness of anything corresponding to it on the
part of his friend. That was exactly this friend's happy case; he
"put out" his excitement, or whatever other emotion the matter
involved, as he put out his washing; than which no arrangement
could make more for domestic order. It was quite for Strether
himself in short to feel a personal analogy with the laundress
bringing home the triumphs of the mangle.

When he had reported on Sarah's visit, which he did very fully,
Chad answered his question with perfect candour. "I positively
referred her to you--told her she must absolutely see you. This was
last night, and it all took place in ten minutes. It was our first
free talk--really the first time she had tackled me. She knew I
also knew what her line had been with yourself; knew moreover how
little you had been doing to make anything difficult for her.
So I spoke for you frankly--assured her you were all at her service.
I assured her I was too," the young man continued; "and I pointed out
how she could perfectly, at any time, have got at me. Her difficulty
has been simply her not finding the moment she fancied."

"Her difficulty," Strether returned, "has been simply that she
finds she's afraid of you. She's not afraid of ME, Sarah, one
little scrap; and it was just because she has seen how I can fidget
when I give my mind to it that she has felt her best chance,
rightly enough to be in making me as uneasy as possible. I think
she's at bottom as pleased to HAVE you put it on me as you yourself
can possibly be to put it."

"But what in the world, my dear man," Chad enquired in objection to
this luminosity, "have I done to make Sally afraid?"

"You've been 'wonderful, wonderful,' as we say--we poor people who
watch the play from the pit; and that's what has, admirably, made
her. Made her all the more effectually that she could see you didn't
set about it on purpose--I mean set about affecting her as with fear."

Chad cast a pleasant backward glance over his possibilities of
motive. "I've only wanted to be kind and friendly, to be decent
and attentive--and I still only want to be."

Strether smiled at his comfortable clearness. "Well, there can
certainly be no way for it better than by my taking the onus. It
reduces your personal friction and your personal offence to almost

Ah but Chad, with his completer conception of the friendly, wouldn't
quite have this! They had remained on the balcony, where, after their
day of great and premature heat, the midnight air was delicious;
and they leaned back in turn against the balustrade, all in harmony with
the chairs and the flower-pots, the cigarettes and the starlight.
"The onus isn't REALLY yours--after our agreeing so to wait together
and judge together. That was all my answer to Sally," Chad pursued--
"that we have been, that we are, just judging together."

"I'm not afraid of the burden," Strether explained; "I haven't
come in the least that you should take it off me. I've come very
much, it seems to me, to double up my fore legs in the manner of
the camel when he gets down on his knees to make his back convenient.
But I've supposed you all this while to have been doing a lot of
special and private judging--about which I haven't troubled you;
and I've only wished to have your conclusion first from you.
I don't ask more than that; I'm quite ready to take it as it has come."

Chad turned up his face to the sky with a slow puff of his smoke.
"Well, I've seen."

Strether waited a little. "I've left you wholly alone; haven't, I
think I may say, since the first hour or two--when I merely
preached patience--so much as breathed on you."

"Oh you've been awfully good!"

"We've both been good then--we've played the game. We've given
them the most liberal conditions."

"Ah," said Chad, "splendid conditions! It was open to them, open
to them"--he seemed to make it out, as he smoked, with his eyes
still on the stars. He might in quiet sport have been reading
their horoscope. Strether wondered meanwhile what had been open to
them, and he finally let him have it. "It was open to them simply
to let me alone; to have made up their minds, on really seeing me
for themselves, that I could go on well enough as I was."

Strether assented to this proposition with full lucidity, his
companion's plural pronoun, which stood all for Mrs. Newsome and
her daughter, having no ambiguity for him. There was nothing,
apparently, to stand for Mamie and Jim; and this added to our
friend's sense of Chad's knowing what he thought. "But they've made
up their minds to the opposite--that you CAN'T go on as you are."

"No," Chad continued in the same way; "they won't have it for a minute."

Strether on his side also reflectively smoked. It was as if their
high place really represented some moral elevation from which they
could look down on their recent past. "There never was the
smallest chance, do you know, that they WOULD have it for a moment."

"Of course not--no real chance. But if they were willing to think
there was--!"

"They weren't willing." Strether had worked it all out. "It wasn't
for you they came out, but for me. It wasn't to see for themselves
what you're doing, but what I'm doing. The first branch of their
curiosity was inevitably destined, under my culpable delay, to give way
to the second; and it's on the second that, if I may use the expression
and you don't mind my marking the invidious fact, they've been of late
exclusively perched. When Sarah sailed it was me, in other words,
they were after."

Chad took it in both with intelligence and with indulgence. "It IS
rather a business then--what I've let you in for!"

Strether had again a brief pause; which ended in a reply that
seemed to dispose once for all of this element of compunction.
Chad was to treat it, at any rate, so far as they were again
together, as having done so. "I was 'in' when you found me."

"Ah but it was you," the young man laughed, "who found ME."

"I only found you out. It was you who found me in. It was all in
the day's work for them, at all events, that they should come. And
they've greatly enjoyed it," Strether declared.

"Well, I've tried to make them," said Chad.

His companion did himself presently the same justice. "So have I.
I tried even this very morning--while Mrs. Pocock was with me. She
enjoys for instance, almost as much as anything else, not being, as
I've said, afraid of me; and I think I gave her help in that."

Chad took a deeper interest. "Was she very very nasty?"

Strether debated. "Well, she was the most important thing--she was
definite. She was--at last--crystalline. And I felt no remorse.
I saw that they must have come."

"Oh I wanted to see them for myself; so that if it were only for
THAT--!" Chad's own remorse was as small.

This appeared almost all Strether wanted. "Isn't your having seen
them for yourself then THE thing, beyond all others, that has come
of their visit?"

Chad looked as if he thought it nice of his old friend to put it
so. "Don't you count it as anything that you're dished--if you ARE
dished? Are you, my dear man, dished?"

It sounded as if he were asking if he had caught cold or hurt his
foot, and Strether for a minute but smoked and smoked. "I want to
see her again. I must see her."

"Of course you must." Then Chad hesitated. "Do you mean--a--Mother

"Oh your mother--that will depend."

It was as if Mrs. Newsome had somehow been placed by the words
very far off. Chad however endeavoured in spite of this to reach
the place. "What do you mean it will depend on?"

Strether, for all answer, gave him a longish look. "I was speaking
of Sarah. I must positively--though she quite cast me off--see HER
again. I can't part with her that way."

"Then she was awfully unpleasant?"

Again Strether exhaled. "She was what she had to be. I mean that
from the moment they're not delighted they can only be--well what I
admit she was. We gave them," he went on, "their chance to be
delighted, and they've walked up to it, and looked all round it,
and not taken it."

"You can bring a horse to water--!" Chad suggested.

"Precisely. And the tune to which this morning Sarah wasn't
delighted--the tune to which, to adopt your metaphor, she refused
to drink--leaves us on that side nothing more to hope."

Chad had a pause, and then as if consolingly: "It was never of
course really the least on the cards that they would be 'delighted.'"

"Well, I don't know, after all," Strether mused. "I've had to come
as far round. However"--he shook it off--"it's doubtless MY
performance that's absurd."

"There are certainly moments," said Chad, "when you seem to me too
good to be true. Yet if you are true," he added, "that seems to be
all that need concern me."

"I'm true, but I'm incredible. I'm fantastic and ridiculous--
I don't explain myself even TO myself. How can they then,"
Strether asked, "understand me? So I don't quarrel with them."

"I see. They quarrel," said Chad rather comfortably, "with US."
Strether noted once more the comfort, but his young friend had
already gone on. "I should feel greatly ashamed, all the same,
if I didn't put it before you again that you ought to think,
after all, tremendously well. I mean before giving up beyond recall--"
With which insistence, as from a certain delicacy, dropped.

Ah but Strether wanted it. "Say it all, say it all."

"Well, at your age, and with what--when all's said and done--
Mother might do for you and be for you."

Chad had said it all, from his natural scruple, only to that
extent; so that Strether after an instant himself took a hand.
"My absence of an assured future. The little I have to show toward
the power to take care of myself. The way, the wonderful way,
she would certainly take care of me. Her fortune, her kindness,
and the constant miracle of her having been disposed to go even so far.
Of course, of course"--he summed it up. "There are those sharp facts."

Chad had meanwhile thought of another still. "And don't you really

His friend slowly turned round to him. "Will you go?"

"I'll go if you'll say you now consider I should. You know," he
went on, "I was ready six weeks ago."

"Ah," said Strether, "that was when you didn't know I wasn't!
You're ready at present because you do know it."

"That may be," Chad returned; "but all the same I'm sincere. You
talk about taking the whole thing on your shoulders, but in what
light do you regard me that you think me capable of letting you
pay?" Strether patted his arm, as they stood together against the
parapet, reassuringly--seeming to wish to contend that he HAD the
wherewithal; but it was again round this question of purchase and
price that the young man's sense of fairness continued to hover.
"What it literally comes to for you, if you'll pardon my putting it
so, is that you give up money. Possibly a good deal of money."

"Oh," Strether laughed, "if it were only just enough you'd still be
justified in putting it so! But I've on my side to remind you too
that YOU give up money; and more than 'possibly'--quite certainly,
as I should suppose--a good deal."

"True enough; but I've got a certain quantity," Chad returned after
a moment. "Whereas you, my dear man, you--"

"I can't be at all said"--Strether took him up--"to have a 'quantity'
certain or uncertain? Very true. Still, I shan't starve."

"Oh you mustn't STARVE!" Chad pacifically emphasised; and so, in
the pleasant conditions, they continued to talk; though there was,
for that matter, a pause in which the younger companion might have
been taken as weighing again the delicacy of his then and there
promising the elder some provision against the possibility just
mentioned. This, however, he presumably thought best not to do,
for at the end of another minute they had moved in quite a different
direction. Strether had broken in by returning to the subject of
Chad's passage with Sarah and enquiring if they had arrived, in the
event, at anything in the nature of a "scene." To this Chad replied
that they had on the contrary kept tremendously polite; adding moreover
that Sally was after all not the woman to have made the mistake of
not being. "Her hands are a good deal tied, you see. I got so,
from the first," he sagaciously observed, "the start of her."

"You mean she has taken so much from you?"

"Well, I couldn't of course in common decency give less: only she
hadn't expected, I think, that I'd give her nearly so much. And
she began to take it before she knew it."

"And she began to like it," said Strether, "as soon as she began to
take it!"

"Yes, she has liked it--also more than she expected." After which
Chad observed: "But she doesn't like ME. In fact she hates me."

Strether's interest grew. "Then why does she want you at home?"

"Because when you hate you want to triumph, and if she should get
me neatly stuck there she WOULD triumph."

Strether followed afresh, but looking as he went. "Certainly--in a
manner. But it would scarce be a triumph worth having if, once
entangled, feeling her dislike and possibly conscious in time of a
certain quantity of your own, you should on the spot make yourself
unpleasant to her."

"Ah," said Chad, "she can bear ME--could bear me at least at home.
It's my being there that would be her triumph. She hates me in Paris."

"She hates in other words--"

"Yes, THAT'S it!"--Chad had quickly understood this understanding;
which formed on the part of each as near an approach as they had
yet made to naming Madame de Vionnet. The limitations of their
distinctness didn't, however, prevent its fairly lingering in the
air that it was this lady Mrs. Pocock hated. It added one more
touch moreover to their established recognition of the rare intimacy
of Chad's association with her. He had never yet more twitched away
the last light veil from this phenomenon than in presenting himself
as confounded and submerged in the feeling she had created at Woollett.
"And I'll tell you who hates me too," he immediately went on.

Strether knew as immediately whom he meant, but with as prompt a
protest. "Ah no! Mamie doesn't hate--well," he caught himself in
time--"anybody at all. Mamie's beautiful."

Chad shook his head. "That's just why I mind it. She certainly
doesn't like me."

"How much do you mind it? What would you do for her?"

"Well, I'd like her if she'd like me. Really, really," Chad declared.

It gave his companion a moment's pause. "You asked me just now if
I don't, as you said, 'care' about a certain person. You rather
tempt me therefore to put the question in my turn. Don't YOU care
about a certain other person?"

Chad looked at him hard in the lamplight of the window. "The
difference is that I don't want to."

Strether wondered. "'Don't want' to?"

"I try not to--that is I HAVE tried. I've done my best. You can't
be surprised," the young man easily went on, "when you yourself set
me on it. I was indeed," he added, "already on it a little; but you
set me harder. It was six weeks ago that I thought I had come out."

Strether took it well in. "But you haven't come out!"

"I don't know--it's what I WANT to know," said Chad. "And if I
could have sufficiently wanted--by myself--to go back, I think I
might have found out."

"Possibly"--Strether considered. "But all you were able to achieve
was to want to want to! And even then," he pursued, "only till our
friends there came. Do you want to want to still?" As with a
sound half-dolorous, half-droll and all vague and equivocal, Chad
buried his face for a little in his hands, rubbing it in a
whimsical way that amounted to an evasion, he brought it out more
sharply: "DO you?"

Chad kept for a time his attitude, but at last he looked up, and
then abruptly, "Jim IS a damned dose!" he declared.

"Oh I don't ask you to abuse or describe or in any way pronounce on
your relatives; I simply put it to you once more whether you're NOW
ready. You say you've 'seen.' Is what you've seen that you can't

Chad gave him a strange smile--the nearest approach he had ever
shown to a troubled one. "Can't you make me NOT resist?"

"What it comes to," Strether went on very gravely now and as if he
hadn't heard him, "what it comes to is that more has been done for
you, I think, than I've ever seen done--attempted perhaps, but
never so successfully done--by one human being for another."

"Oh an immense deal certainly"--Chad did it full justice. "And you
yourself are adding to it."

It was without heeding this either that his visitor continued.
"And our friends there won't have it."

"No, they simply won't."

"They demand you on the basis, as it were, of repudiation and
ingratitude; and what has been the matter with me," Strether went
on, "is that I haven't seen my way to working with you for

Chad appreciated this. "Then as you haven't seen yours you
naturally haven't seen mine. There it is." After which he
proceeded, with a certain abruptness, to a sharp interrogation.
"NOW do you say she doesn't hate me?"

Strether hesitated. "'She'--?"

"Yes--Mother. We called it Sarah, but it comes to the same thing."

"Ah," Strether objected, "not to the same thing as her hating YOU."

On which--though as if for an instant it had hung fire--Chad
remarkably replied: "Well, if they hate my good friend, THAT comes
to the same thing." It had a note of inevitable truth that made
Strether take it as enough, feel he wanted nothing more. The young
man spoke in it for his "good friend" more than he had ever yet
directly spoken, confessed to such deep identities between them as
he might play with the idea of working free from, but which at a
given moment could still draw him down like a whirlpool. And
meanwhile he had gone on. "Their hating you too moreover--that
also comes to a good deal."

"Ah," said Strether, "your mother doesn't."

Chad, however, loyally stuck to it--loyally, that is, to Strether.
"She will if you don't look out."

"Well, I do look out. I am, after all, looking out. That's just
why," our friend explained, "I want to see her again."

It drew from Chad again the same question. "To see Mother?"

"To see--for the present--Sarah."

"Ah then there you are! And what I don't for the life of me make
out," Chad pursued with resigned perplexity, "is what you GAIN by it."

Oh it would have taken his companion too long to say! "That's
because you have, I verily believe, no imagination. You've other
qualities. But no imagination, don't you see? at all."

"I dare say. I do see." It was an idea in which Chad showed
interest. "But haven't you yourself rather too much?"

"Oh RATHER--!" So that after an instant, under this reproach and
as if it were at last a fact really to escape from, Strether made
his move for departure.


One of the features of the restless afternoon passed by him after
Mrs. Pocock's visit was an hour spent, shortly before dinner, with
Maria Gostrey, whom of late, in spite of so sustained a call on his
attention from other quarters, he had by no means neglected. And
that he was still not neglecting her will appear from the fact that
he was with her again at the same hour on the very morrow--with no
less fine a consciousness moreover of being able to hold her ear.
It continued inveterately to occur, for that matter, that whenever
he had taken one of his greater turns he came back to where she so
faithfully awaited him. None of these excursions had on the whole
been livelier than the pair of incidents--the fruit of the short
interval since his previous visit--on which he had now to report to
her. He had seen Chad Newsome late the night before, and he had
had that morning, as a sequel to this conversation, a second
interview with Sarah. "But they're all off," he said, "at last."

It puzzled her a moment. "All?--Mr. Newsome with them?"

"Ah not yet! Sarah and Jim and Mamie. But Waymarsh with them--
for Sarah. It's too beautiful," Strether continued; "I find I don't
get over that--it's always a fresh joy. But it's a fresh joy too,"
he added, "that--well, what do you think? Little Bilham also goes.
But he of course goes for Mamie."

Miss Gostrey wondered. "'For' her? Do you mean they're already

"Well," said Strether, "say then for ME. He'll do anything for me;
just as I will, for that matter--anything I can--for him. Or for
Mamie either. SHE'LL do anything for me."

Miss Gostrey gave a comprehensive sigh. "The way you reduce people
to subjection!"

"It's certainly, on one side, wonderful. But it's quite equalled,
on another, by the way I don't. I haven't reduced Sarah, since
yesterday; though I've succeeded in seeing her again, as I'll
presently tell you. The others however are really all right.
Mamie, by that blessed law of ours, absolutely must have a young

"But what must poor Mr. Bilham have? Do you mean they'll MARRY
for you?"

"I mean that, by the same blessed law, it won't matter a grain if
they don't--I shan't have in the least to worry."

She saw as usual what he meant. "And Mr. Jim?--who goes for him?"

"Oh," Strether had to admit, "I couldn't manage THAT. He's
thrown, as usual, on the world; the world which, after all, by his
account--for he has prodigious adventures--seems very good to him.
He fortunately--'over here,' as he says--finds the world
everywhere; and his most prodigious adventure of all," he went on,
"has been of course of the last few days."

Miss Gostrey, already knowing, instantly made the connexion. "He
has seen Marie de Vionnet again?"

"He went, all by himself, the day after Chad's party--didn't I
tell you?--to tea with her. By her invitation--all alone."

"Quite like yourself!" Maria smiled.

"Oh but he's more wonderful about her than I am!" And then as his
friend showed how she could believe it, filling it out, fitting it
on to old memories of the wonderful woman: "What I should have
liked to manage would have been HER going."

"To Switzerland with the party?"

"For Jim--and for symmetry. If it had been workable moreover for
a fortnight she'd have gone. She's ready"--he followed up his
renewed vision of her--"for anything."

Miss Gostrey went with him a minute. "She's too perfect!"

"She WILL, I think," he pursued, "go to-night to the station."

"To see him off?"

"With Chad--marvellously--as part of their general attention. And
she does it"--it kept before him--"with a light, light grace, a
free, free gaiety, that may well softly bewilder Mr. Pocock."

It kept her so before him that his companion had after an instant a
friendly comment. "As in short it has softly bewildered a saner
man. Are you really in love with her?" Maria threw off.

"It's of no importance I should know," he replied. "It matters so
little--has nothing to do, practically, with either of us."

"All the same"--Maria continued to smile--"they go, the five, as I
understand you, and you and Madame de Vionnet stay."

"Oh and Chad." To which Strether added: "And you."

"Ah 'me'!"--she gave a small impatient wail again, in which
something of the unreconciled seemed suddenly to break out. "I
don't stay, it somehow seems to me, much to my advantage. In the
presence of all you cause to pass before me I've a tremendous sense
of privation."

Strether hesitated. "But your privation, your keeping out of
everything, has been--hasn't it?--by your own choice."

"Oh yes; it has been necessary--that is it has been better for you.
What I mean is only that I seem to have ceased to serve you."

"How can you tell that?" he asked. "You don't know how you serve me.
When you cease--"

"Well?" she said as he dropped.

"Well, I'll LET you know. Be quiet till then."

She thought a moment. "Then you positively like me to stay?"

"Don't I treat you as if I did?"

"You're certainly very kind to me. But that," said Maria, "is for
myself. It's getting late, as you see, and Paris turning rather
hot and dusty. People are scattering, and some of them, in other
places want me. But if you want me here--!"

She had spoken as resigned to his word, but he had of a sudden a
still sharper sense than he would have expected of desiring not to
lose her. "I want you here."

She took it as if the words were all she had wished; as if they
brought her, gave her something that was the compensation of her
case. "Thank you," she simply answered. And then as he looked at
her a little harder, "Thank you very much," she repeated.

It had broken as with a slight arrest into the current of their
talk, and it held him a moment longer. "Why, two months, or
whatever the time was, ago, did you so suddenly dash off? The
reason you afterwards gave me for having kept away three weeks wasn't
the real one."

She recalled. "I never supposed you believed it was. Yet," she
continued, "if you didn't guess it that was just what helped you."

He looked away from her on this; he indulged, so far as space
permitted, in one of his slow absences. "I've often thought of it,
but never to feel that I could guess it. And you see the
consideration with which I've treated you in never asking till now."

"Now then why DO you ask?"

"To show you how I miss you when you're not here, and what it does
for me."

"It doesn't seem to have done," she laughed, "all it might!
However," she added, "if you've really never guessed the truth I'll
tell it you."

"I've never guessed it," Strether declared.



"Well then I dashed off, as you say, so as not to have the
confusion of being there if Marie de Vionnet should tell you
anything to my detriment."

He looked as if he considerably doubted. "You even then would have
had to face it on your return."

"Oh if I had found reason to believe it something very bad I'd have
left you altogether."

"So then," he continued, "it was only on guessing she had been on
the whole merciful that you ventured back?"

Maria kept it together. "I owe her thanks. Whatever her temptation
she didn't separate us. That's one of my reasons," she went on
"for admiring her so."

"Let it pass then," said Strether, "for one of mine as well. But
what would have been her temptation?"

"What are ever the temptations of women?"

He thought--but hadn't, naturally, to think too long. "Men?"

"She would have had you, with it, more for herself. But she saw
she could have you without it."

"Oh 'have' me!" Strether a trifle ambiguously sighed. "YOU," he
handsomely declared, "would have had me at any rate WITH it."

"Oh 'have' you!"--she echoed it as he had done. "I do have you,
however," she less ironically said, "from the moment you express a

He stopped before her, full of the disposition. "I'll express fifty."

Which indeed begot in her, with a certain inconsequence, a return
of her small wail. "Ah there you are!"

There, if it were so, he continued for the rest of the time to be,
and it was as if to show her how she could still serve him that,
coming back to the departure of the Pococks, he gave her the view,
vivid with a hundred more touches than we can reproduce, of what
had happened for him that morning. He had had ten minutes with
Sarah at her hotel, ten minutes reconquered, by irresistible pressure,
from the time over which he had already described her to Miss Gostrey
as having, at the end of their interview on his own premises, passed
the great sponge of the future. He had caught her by not announcing
himself, had found her in her sitting-room with a dressmaker and a
lingere whose accounts she appeared to have been more or less
ingenuously settling and who soon withdrew. Then he had explained
to her how he had succeeded, late the night before, in keeping
his promise of seeing Chad. "I told her I'd take it all."

"You'd 'take' it?"

"Why if he doesn't go."

Maria waited. "And who takes it if he does?" she enquired with a
certain grimness of gaiety.

"Well," said Strether, "I think I take, in any event, everything."

"By which I suppose you mean," his companion brought out after a
moment, "that you definitely understand you now lose everything."

He stood before her again. "It does come perhaps to the same
thing. But Chad, now that he has seen, doesn't really want it."

She could believe that, but she made, as always, for clearness.
"Still, what, after all, HAS he seen?"

"What they want of him. And it's enough."

"It contrasts so unfavourably with what Madame de Vionnet wants?"

"It contrasts--just so; all round, and tremendously."

"Therefore, perhaps, most of all with what YOU want?"

"Oh," said Strether, "what I want is a thing I've ceased to measure
or even to understand."

But his friend none the less went on. "Do you want Mrs. Newsome--
after such a way of treating you?"

It was a straighter mode of dealing with this lady than they had as
yet--such was their high form--permitted themselves; but it seemed
not wholly for this that he delayed a moment. "I dare say it has
been, after all, the only way she could have imagined."

"And does that make you want her any more?"

"I've tremendously disappointed her," Strether thought it worth
while to mention.

"Of course you have. That's rudimentary; that was plain to us long
ago. But isn't it almost as plain," Maria went on, "that you've
even yet your straight remedy? Really drag him away, as I believe
you still can, and you'd cease to have to count with her

"Ah then," he laughed, "I should have to count with yours!"

But this barely struck her now. "What, in that case, should you
call counting? You haven't come out where you are, I think, to
please ME."

"Oh," he insisted, "that too, you know, has been part of it.
I can't separate--it's all one; and that's perhaps why, as I say,
I don't understand." But he was ready to declare again that this
didn't in the least matter; all the more that, as he affirmed,
he HADn't really as yet "come out." "She gives me after all, on
its coming to the pinch, a last mercy, another chance. They don't
sail, you see, for five or six weeks more, and they haven't--she
admits that--expected Chad would take part in their tour. It's
still open to him to join them, at the last, at Liverpool."

Miss Gostrey considered. "How in the world is it 'open' unless you
open it? How can he join them at Liverpool if he but sinks deeper
into his situation here?"

"He has given her--as I explained to you that she let me know
yesterday--his word of honour to do as I say."

Maria stared. "But if you say nothing!"

Well, he as usual walked about on it. "I did say something this
morning. I gave her my answer--the word I had promised her after
hearing from himself what HE had promised. What she demanded of
me yesterday, you'll remember, was the engagement then and there to
make him take up this vow."

"Well then," Miss Gostrey enquired, "was the purpose of your visit
to her only to decline?"

"No; it was to ask, odd as that may seem to you, for another delay."

"Ah that's weak!"

"Precisely!" She had spoken with impatience, but, so far as that
at least, he knew where he was. "If I AM weak I want to find it
out. If I don't find it out I shall have the comfort, the little
glory, of thinking I'm strong."

"It's all the comfort, I judge," she returned, "that you WILL have!"

"At any rate," he said, "it will have been a month more. Paris may
grow, from day to day, hot and dusty, as you say; but there are
other things that are hotter and dustier. I'm not afraid to stay
on; the summer here must be amusing in a wild--if it isn't a tame--
way of its own; the place at no time more picturesque. I think I
shall like it. And then," he benevolently smiled for her, "there
will be always you."

"Oh," she objected, "it won't be as a part of the picturesqueness
that I shall stay, for I shall be the plainest thing about you.
You may, you see, at any rate," she pursued, "have nobody else.
Madame de Vionnet may very well be going off, mayn't she?--and
Mr. Newsome by the same stroke: unless indeed you've had an assurance
from them to the contrary. So that if your idea's to stay for them"--
it was her duty to suggest it--"you may be left in the lurch.
Of course if they do stay"--she kept it up--"they would be part of
the picturesqueness. Or else indeed you might join them somewhere."

Strether seemed to face it as if it were a happy thought; but the
next moment he spoke more critically. "Do you mean that they'll
probably go off together?"

She just considered. "I think it will be treating you quite
without ceremony if they do; though after all," she added, "it
would be difficult to see now quite what degree of ceremony properly
meets your case."

"Of course," Strether conceded, "my attitude toward them is extraordinary."

"Just so; so that one may ask one's self what style of proceeding
on their own part can altogether match it. The attitude of their
own that won't pale in its light they've doubtless still to work
out. The really handsome thing perhaps," she presently threw off,
"WOULD be for them to withdraw into more secluded conditions,
offering at the same time to share them with you." He looked at
her, on this, as if some generous irritation--all in his interest--
had suddenly again flickered in her; and what she next said indeed
half-explained it. "Don't really be afraid to tell me if what now
holds you IS the pleasant prospect of the empty town, with plenty
of seats in the shade, cool drinks, deserted museums, drives to the
Bois in the evening, and our wonderful woman all to yourself." And
she kept it up still more. "The handsomest thing of ALL, when one
makes it out, would, I dare say, be that Mr. Chad should for a
while go off by himself. It's a pity, from that point of view,"
she wound up, "that he doesn't pay his mother a visit. It would
at least occupy your interval." The thought in fact held her a
moment. "Why doesn't he pay his mother a visit? Even a week, at
this good moment, would do."

"My dear lady," Strether replied--and he had it even to himself
surprisingly ready--"my dear lady, his mother has paid HIM a visit.
Mrs. Newsome has been with him, this month, with an intensity that
I'm sure he has thoroughly felt; he has lavishly entertained her,
and she has let him have her thanks. Do you suggest he shall go
back for more of them?"

Well, she succeeded after a little in shaking it off. "I see.
It's what you don't suggest--what you haven't suggested.
And you know."

"So would you, my dear," he kindly said, "if you had so much as
seen her."

"As seen Mrs. Newsome?"

"No, Sarah--which, both for Chad and for myself, has served all
the purpose."

"And served it in a manner," she responsively mused, "so extraordinary!"

"Well, you see," he partly explained, "what it comes to is that she's
all cold thought--which Sarah could serve to us cold without its
really losing anything. So it is that we know what she thinks of us."

Maria had followed, but she had an arrest. "What I've never made
out, if you come to that, is what you think--I mean you personally--
of HER. Don't you so much, when all's said, as care a little?"

"That," he answered with no loss of promptness, "is what even Chad
himself asked me last night. He asked me if I don't mind the loss--
well, the loss of an opulent future. Which moreover," he hastened
to add, "was a perfectly natural question."

"I call your attention, all the same," said Miss Gostrey, "to the
fact that I don't ask it. What I venture to ask is whether it's to
Mrs. Newsome herself that you're indifferent."

"I haven't been so"--he spoke with all assurance. "I've been the
very opposite. I've been, from the first moment, preoccupied with
the impression everything might be making on her--quite oppressed,
haunted, tormented by it. I've been interested ONLY in her seeing
what I've seen. And I've been as disappointed in her refusal to
see it as she has been in what has appeared to her the perversity
of my insistence."

"Do you mean that she has shocked you as you've shocked her?"

Strether weighed it. "I'm probably not so shockable. But on the
other hand I've gone much further to meet her. She, on her side,
hasn't budged an inch."

"So that you're now at last"--Maria pointed the moral--"in the sad
stage of recriminations."

"No--it's only to you I speak. I've been like a lamb to Sarah.
I've only put my back to the wall. It's to THAT one naturally
staggers when one has been violently pushed there."

She watched him a moment. "Thrown over?"

"Well, as I feel I've landed somewhere I think I must have been thrown."

She turned it over, but as hoping to clarify much rather than to
harmonise. "The thing is that I suppose you've been disappointing--"

"Quite from the very first of my arrival? I dare say. I admit I
was surprising even to myself."

"And then of course," Maria went on, "I had much to do with it."

"With my being surprising--?"

"That will do," she laughed, "if you're too delicate to call it MY
being! Naturally," she added, "you came over more or less for

"Naturally!"--he valued the reminder.

"But they were to have been all for you"--she continued to piece it
out--"and none of them for HER."

Once more he stopped before her as if she had touched the point.
"That's just her difficulty--that she doesn't admit surprises.
It's a fact that, I think, describes and represents her; and it
falls in with what I tell you--that she's all, as I've called it,
fine cold thought. She had, to her own mind, worked the whole
thing out in advance, and worked it out for me as well as for
herself. Whenever she has done that, you see, there's no room
left; no margin, as it were, for any alteration. She's filled as
full, packed as tight, as she'll hold and if you wish to get
anything more or different either out or in--"

"You've got to make over altogether the woman herself?"

"What it comes to," said Strether, "is that you've got morally and
intellectually to get rid of her."

"Which would appear," Maria returned, "to be practically what
you've done."

But her friend threw back his head. "I haven't touched her. She
won't BE touched. I see it now as I've never done; and she hangs
together with a perfection of her own," he went on, "that does
suggest a kind of wrong in ANY change of her composition. It was
at any rate," he wound up, "the woman herself, as you call her the
whole moral and intellectual being or block, that Sarah brought me
over to take or to leave."

It turned Miss Gostrey to deeper thought. "Fancy having to take at the
point of the bayonet a whole moral and intellectual being or block!"

"It was in fact," said Strether, "what, at home, I HAD done.
But somehow over there I didn't quite know it."

"One never does, I suppose," Miss Gostrey concurred, "realise in
advance, in such a case, the size, as you may say, of the block.
Little by little it looms up. It has been looming for you more and
more till at last you see it all."

"I see it all," he absently echoed, while his eyes might have been
fixing some particularly large iceberg in a cool blue northern sea.
"It's magnificent!" he then rather oddly exclaimed.

But his friend, who was used to this kind of inconsequence in him,
kept the thread. "There's nothing so magnificent--for making
others feel you--as to have no imagination."

It brought him straight round. "Ah there you are! It's what I said
last night to Chad. That he himself, I mean, has none."

"Then it would appear," Maria suggested, "that he has, after all,
something in common with his mother."

"He has in common that he makes one, as you say, 'feel' him. And
yet," he added, as if the question were interesting, "one feels
others too, even when they have plenty."

Miss Gostrey continued suggestive. "Madame de Vionnet?"

"SHE has plenty."

"Certainly--she had quantities of old. But there are different
ways of making one's self felt."

"Yes, it comes, no doubt, to that. You now--'

He was benevolently going on, but she wouldn't have it.
"Oh I DON'T make myself felt; so my quantity needn't be settled.
Yours, you know," she said, "is monstrous. No one has ever had so much."

It struck him for a moment. "That's what Chad also thinks."

"There YOU are then--though it isn't for him to complain of it!"

"Oh he doesn't complain of it," said Strether.

"That's all that would be wanting! But apropos of what," Maria went
on, "did the question come up?"

"Well, of his asking me what it is I gain."

She had a pause. "Then as I've asked you too it settles my case.
Oh you HAVE," she repeated, "treasures of imagination."

But he had been for an instant thinking away from this, and he came
up in another place. "And yet Mrs. Newsome--it's a thing to
remember--HAS imagined, did, that is, imagine, and apparently still
does, horrors about what I should have found. I was booked, by her
vision--extraordinarily intense, after all--to find them; and that
I didn't, that I couldn't, that, as she evidently felt, I wouldn't--
this evidently didn't at all, as they say, 'suit' her book.
It was more than she could bear. That was her disappointment."

"You mean you were to have found Chad himself horrible?"

"I was to have found the woman."


"Found her as she imagined her." And Strether paused as if for his
own expression of it he could add no touch to that picture.

His companion had meanwhile thought. "She imagined stupidly--so it
comes to the same thing."

"Stupidly? Oh!" said Strether.

But she insisted. "She imagined meanly."

He had it, however, better. "It couldn't but be ignorantly."

"Well, intensity with ignorance--what do you want worse?"

This question might have held him, but he let it pass. "Sarah
isn't ignorant--now; she keeps up the theory of the horrible."

"Ah but she's intense--and that by itself will do sometimes as
well. If it doesn't do, in this case, at any rate, to deny that
Marie's charming, it will do at least to deny that she's good."

"What I claim is that she's good for Chad."

"You don't claim"--she seemed to like it clear--"that she's good
for YOU."

But he continued without heeding. "That's what I wanted them to
come out for--to see for themselves if she's bad for him."

"And now that they've done so they won't admit that she's good even
for anything?"

"They do think," Strether presently admitted, "that she's on the
whole about as bad for me. But they're consistent of course,
inasmuch as they've their clear view of what's good for both of us."

"For you, to begin with"--Maria, all responsive, confined the
question for the moment--"to eliminate from your existence and if
possible even from your memory the dreadful creature that I must
gruesomely shadow forth for them, even more than to eliminate the
distincter evil--thereby a little less portentous--of the person
whose confederate you've suffered yourself to become. However,
that's comparatively simple. You can easily, at the worst, after
all, give me up."

"I can easily at the worst, after all, give you up." The irony was
so obvious that it needed no care. "I can easily at the worst,
after all, even forget you."

"Call that then workable. But Mr. Newsome has much more to forget.
How can HE do it?"

"Ah there again we are! That's just what I was to have made him do;
just where I was to have worked with him and helped."

She took it in silence and without attenuation--as if perhaps from
very familiarity with the facts; and her thought made a connexion
without showing the links. "Do you remember how we used to talk at
Chester and in London about my seeing you through?" She spoke as
of far-off things and as if they had spent weeks at the places
she named.

"It's just what you ARE doing."

"Ah but the worst--since you've left such a margin--may be still
to come. You may yet break down."

"Yes, I may yet break down. But will you take me--?"

He had hesitated, and she waited. "Take you?"

"For as long as I can bear it."

She also debated "Mr. Newsome and Madame de Vionnet may, as we were
saying, leave town. How long do you think you can bear it without them?"

Strether's reply to this was at first another question. "Do you mean
in order to get away from me?"

Her answer had an abruptness. "Don't find me rude if I say I should
think they'd want to!"

He looked at her hard again--seemed even for an instant to have an
intensity of thought under which his colour changed. But he
smiled. "You mean after what they've done to me?"

"After what SHE has."

At this, however, with a laugh, he was all right again. "Ah but
she hasn't done it yet!"


He had taken the train a few days after this from a station--
as well as to a station--selected almost at random; such days,
whatever should happen, were numbered, and he had gone forth under
the impulse--artless enough, no doubt--to give the whole of one of
them to that French ruralism, with its cool special green, into
which he had hitherto looked only through the little oblong window
of the picture-frame. It had been as yet for the most part but a
land of fancy for him--the background of fiction, the medium of
art, the nursery of letters; practically as distant as Greece, but
practically also well-nigh as consecrated. Romance could weave
itself, for Strether's sense, out of elements mild enough; and even
after what he had, as he felt, lately "been through," he could
thrill a little at the chance of seeing something somewhere that
would remind him of a certain small Lambinet that had charmed him,
long years before, at a Boston dealer's and that he had quite
absurdly never forgotten. It had been offered, he remembered, at a
price he had been instructed to believe the lowest ever named for a
Lambinet, a price he had never felt so poor as on having to recognise,
all the same, as beyond a dream of possibility. He had dreamed--
had turned and twisted possibilities for an hour: it had been
the only adventure of his life in connexion with the purchase
of a work of art. The adventure, it will be perceived, was modest;
but the memory, beyond all reason and by some accident of
association, was sweet. The little Lambinet abode with him as the
picture he WOULD have bought--the particular production that had
made him for the moment overstep the modesty of nature. He was
quite aware that if he were to see it again he should perhaps have
a drop or a shock, and he never found himself wishing that the
wheel of time would turn it up again, just as he had seen it in the
maroon-coloured, sky-lighted inner shrine of Tremont Street.
It would be a different thing, however, to see the remembered mixture
resolved back into its elements--to assist at the restoration to
nature of the whole far-away hour: the dusty day in Boston, the
background of the Fitchburg Depot, of the maroon-coloured sanctum,
the special-green vision, the ridiculous price, the poplars, the
willows, the rushes, the river, the sunny silvery sky, the shady
woody horizon.

He observed in respect to his train almost no condition save that
it should stop a few times after getting out of the banlieue;
he threw himself on the general amiability of the day for the hint of
where to alight. His theory of his excursion was that he could
alight anywhere--not nearer Paris than an hour's run--on catching a
suggestion of the particular note required. It made its sign, the
suggestion--weather, air, light, colour and his mood all favouring--
at the end of some eighty minutes; the train pulled up just at the
right spot, and he found himself getting out as securely as if to
keep an appointment. It will be felt of him that he could amuse
himself, at his age, with very small things if it be again noted
that his appointment was only with a superseded Boston fashion. He
hadn't gone far without the quick confidence that it would be
quite sufficiently kept. The oblong gilt frame disposed its
enclosing lines; the poplars and willows, the reeds and river--
a river of which he didn't know, and didn't want to know, the name--
fell into a composition, full of felicity, within them; the sky
was silver and turquoise and varnish; the village on the left was
white and the church on the right was grey; it was all there, in
short--it was what he wanted: it was Tremont Street, it was France,
it was Lambinet. Moreover he was freely walking about in it.
He did this last, for an hour, to his heart's content, making
for the shady woody horizon and boring so deep into his impression
and his idleness that he might fairly have got through them again
and reached the maroon-coloured wall. It was a wonder, no doubt,
that the taste of idleness for him shouldn't need more time to
sweeten; but it had in fact taken the few previous days; it had
been sweetening in truth ever since the retreat of the Pococks.
He walked and walked as if to show himself how little he had now to do;
he had nothing to do but turn off to some hillside where he might
stretch himself and hear the poplars rustle, and whence--in the
course of an afternoon so spent, an afternoon richly suffused too
with the sense of a book in his pocket--he should sufficiently
command the scene to be able to pick out just the right little
rustic inn for an experiment in respect to dinner. There was a
train back to Paris at 9.20, and he saw himself partaking, at the
close of the day, with the enhancements of a coarse white cloth and
a sanded door, of something fried and felicitous, washed down with
authentic wine; after which he might, as he liked, either stroll
back to his station in the gloaming or propose for the local
carriole and converse with his driver, a driver who naturally wouldn't
fail of a stiff clean blouse, of a knitted nightcap and of the genius
of response--who, in fine, would sit on the shafts, tell him what
the French people were thinking, and remind him, as indeed the whole
episode would incidentally do, of Maupassant. Strether heard his lips,
for the first time in French air, as this vision assumed consistency,
emit sounds of expressive intention without fear of his company.
He had been afraid of Chad and of Maria and of Madame de Vionnet;
he had been most of all afraid of Waymarsh, in whose presence,
so far as they had mixed together in the light of the town, he had
never without somehow paying for it aired either his vocabulary
or his accent. He usually paid for it by meeting immediately
afterwards Waymarsh's eye.

Such were the liberties with which his fancy played after he had
turned off to the hillside that did really and truly, as well as
most amiably, await him beneath the poplars, the hillside that made
him feel, for a murmurous couple of hours, how happy had been his
thought. He had the sense of success, of a finer harmony in
things; nothing but what had turned out as yet according to his plan.
It most of all came home to him, as he lay on his back on the grass,
that Sarah had really gone, that his tension was really relaxed;
the peace diffused in these ideas might be delusive, but it hung about
him none the less for the time. It fairly, for half an hour,
sent him to sleep; he pulled his straw hat over his eyes--
he had bought it the day before with a reminiscence of Waymarsh's--
and lost himself anew in Lambinet. It was as if he had found out
he was tired--tired not from his walk, but from that inward
exercise which had known, on the whole, for three months, so little
intermission. That was it--when once they were off he had dropped;
this moreover was what he had dropped to, and now he was touching
bottom. He was kept luxuriously quiet, soothed and amused by the
consciousness of what he had found at the end of his descent. It
was very much what he had told Maria Gostrey he should like to stay
on for, the hugely-distributed Paris of summer, alternately
dazzling and dusky, with a weight lifted for him off its columns
and cornices and with shade and air in the flutter of awnings as
wide as avenues. It was present to him without attenuation that,
reaching out, the day after making the remark, for some proof of
his freedom, he had gone that very afternoon to see Madame de Vionnet.
He had gone again the next day but one, and the effect of the two
visits, the after-sense of the couple of hours spent with her,
was almost that of fulness and frequency. The brave intention of
frequency, so great with him from the moment of his finding himself
unjustly suspected at Woollett, had remained rather theoretic,
and one of the things he could muse about under his poplars was
the source of the special shyness that had still made him careful.
He had surely got rid of it now, this special shyness; what had become
of it if it hadn't precisely, within the week, rubbed off?

It struck him now in fact as sufficiently plain that if he had
still been careful he had been so for a reason. He had really
feared, in his behaviour, a lapse from good faith; if there was a
danger of one's liking such a woman too much one's best safety was
in waiting at least till one had the right to do so. In the light
of the last few days the danger was fairly vivid; so that it was
proportionately fortunate that the right was likewise established.
It seemed to our friend that he had on each occasion profited to
the utmost by the latter: how could he have done so more, he at
all events asked himself, than in having immediately let her know
that, if it was all the same to her, he preferred not to talk about
anything tiresome? He had never in his life so sacrificed an
armful of high interests as in that remark; he had never so prepared
the way for the comparatively frivolous as in addressing it to
Madame de Vionnet's intelligence. It hadn't been till later that
he quite recalled how in conjuring away everything but the pleasant
he had conjured away almost all they had hitherto talked about;
it was not till later even that he remembered how, with their new tone,
they hadn't so much as mentioned the name of Chad himself.
One of the things that most lingered with him on his hillside was
this delightful facility, with such a woman, of arriving at a new tone;
he thought, as he lay on his back, of all the tones she might make
possible if one were to try her, and at any rate of the probability
that one could trust her to fit them to occasions. He had wanted her
to feel that, as he was disinterested now, so she herself should be,
and she had showed she felt it, and he had showed he was grateful,
and it had been for all the world as if he were calling for
the first time. They had had other, but irrelevant, meetings;
it was quite as if, had they sooner known how much they REALLY
had in common, there were quantities of comparatively dull matters
they might have skipped. Well, they were skipping them now,
even to graceful gratitude, even to handsome "Don't mention it!"--
and it was amazing what could still come up without reference to
what had been going on between them. It might have been, on analysis,
nothing more than Shakespeare and the musical glasses; but it had
served all the purpose of his appearing to have said to her:
"Don't like me, if it's a question of liking me, for anything obvious
and clumsy that I've, as they call it, 'done' for you: like me--
well, like me, hang it, for anything else you choose. So, by
the same propriety, don't be for me simply the person I've come to know
through my awkward connexion with Chad--was ever anything, by the way,
MORE awkward? Be for me, please, with all your admirable tact and trust,
just whatever I may show you it's a present pleasure to me to think you."
It had been a large indication to meet; but if she hadn't met it
what HAD she done, and how had their time together slipped along
so smoothly, mild but not slow, and melting, liquefying, into his
happy illusion of idleness? He could recognise on the other hand
that he had probably not been without reason, in his prior, his
restricted state, for keeping an eye on his liability to lapse
from good faith.

He really continued in the picture--that being for himself his
situation--all the rest of this rambling day; so that the charm was
still, was indeed more than ever upon him when, toward six o'clock
he found himself amicably engaged with a stout white-capped
deep-voiced woman at the door of the auberge of the biggest village,
a village that affected him as a thing of whiteness, blueness and
crookedness, set in coppery green, and that had the river flowing
behind or before it--one couldn't say which; at the bottom, in
particular, of the inn-garden. He had had other adventures before this;
had kept along the height, after shaking off slumber; had admired,
had almost coveted, another small old church, all steep roof and
dim slate-colour without and all whitewash and paper flowers within;
had lost his way and had found it again; had conversed with rustics
who struck him perhaps a little more as men of the world than he had
expected; had acquired at a bound a fearless facility in French;
had had, as the afternoon waned, a watery bock, all pale and Parisian,
in the cafe of the furthest village, which was not the biggest;
and had meanwhile not once overstepped the oblong gilt frame.
The frame had drawn itself out for him, as much as you please;
but that was just his luck. He had finally come down again to the
valley, to keep within touch of stations and trains, turning his face
to the quarter from which he had started; and thus it was that he had
at last pulled up before the hostess of the Cheval Blanc, who met him,
with a rough readiness that was like the clatter of sabots over stones,
on their common ground of a cotelette de veau a l'oseille and a
subsequent lift. He had walked many miles and didn't know he was tired;
but he still knew he was amused, and even that, though he had been
alone all day, he had never yet so struck himself as engaged with
others and in midstream of his drama. It might have passed for
finished his drama, with its catastrophe all but reached: it had,
however, none the less been vivid again for him as he thus gave it
its fuller chance. He had only had to be at last well out of it to
feel it, oddly enough, still going on.

For this had been all day at bottom the spell of the picture--that
it was essentially more than anything else a scene and a stage,
that the very air of the play was in the rustle of the willows and
the tone of the sky. The play and the characters had, without his
knowing it till now, peopled all his space for him, and it seemed
somehow quite happy that they should offer themselves, in the
conditions so supplied, with a kind of inevitability. It was as if
the conditions made them not only inevitable, but so much more
nearly natural and right as that they were at least easier,
pleasanter, to put up with. The conditions had nowhere so asserted
their difference from those of Woollett as they appeared to him to
assert it in the little court of the Cheval Blanc while he arranged
with his hostess for a comfortable climax. They were few and
simple, scant and humble, but they were THE THING, as he would have
called it, even to a greater degree than Madame de Vionnet's old
high salon where the ghost of the Empire walked. "The" thing was
the thing that implied the greatest number of other things of the
sort he had had to tackle; and it was queer of course, but so it
was--the implication here was complete. Not a single one of his
observations but somehow fell into a place in it; not a breath of
the cooler evening that wasn't somehow a syllable of the text.
The text was simply, when condensed, that in THESE places such
things were, and that if it was in them one elected to move about
one had to make one's account with what one lighted on. Meanwhile
at all events it was enough that they did affect one--so far as the
village aspect was concerned--as whiteness, crookedness and
blueness set in coppery green; there being positively, for that
matter, an outer wall of the White Horse that was painted the most
improbable shade. That was part of the amusement--as if to show
that the fun was harmless; just as it was enough, further, that the
picture and the play seemed supremely to melt together in the good
woman's broad sketch of what she could do for her visitor's
appetite. He felt in short a confidence, and it was general, and
it was all he wanted to feel. It suffered no shock even on her
mentioning that she had in fact just laid the cloth for two persons
who, unlike Monsieur, had arrived by the river--in a boat of their
own; who had asked her, half an hour before, what she could do for
them, and had then paddled away to look at something a little
further up--from which promenade they would presently return.
Monsieur might meanwhile, if he liked, pass into the garden, such
as it was, where she would serve him, should he wish it--for there
were tables and benches in plenty--a "bitter" before his repast.
Here she would also report to him on the possibility of a
conveyance to his station, and here at any rate he would have the
agrement of the river .

It may be mentioned without delay that Monsieur had the agrement of
everything, and in particular, for the next twenty minutes,
of a small and primitive pavilion that, at the garden's edge, almost
overhung the water, testifying, in its somewhat battered state, to
much fond frequentation. It consisted of little more than a
platform, slightly raised, with a couple of benches and a table, a
protecting rail and a projecting roof; but it raked the full
grey-blue stream, which, taking a turn a short distance above,
passed out of sight to reappear much higher up; and it was clearly
in esteemed requisition for Sundays and other feasts. Strether sat
there and, though hungry, felt at peace; the confidence that had so
gathered for him deepened with the lap of the water, the ripple of
the surface, the rustle of the reeds on the opposite bank, the
faint diffused coolness and the slight rock of a couple of small
boats attached to a rough landing-place hard by. The valley on the
further side was all copper-green level and glazed pearly sky, a
sky hatched across with screens of trimmed trees, which looked
flat, like espaliers; and though the rest of the village straggled
away in the near quarter the view had an emptiness that made one of
the boats suggestive. Such a river set one afloat almost before
one could take up the oars--the idle play of which would be
moreover the aid to the full impression. This perception went so
far as to bring him to his feet; but that movement, in turn, made
him feel afresh that he was tired, and while he leaned against a
post and continued to look out he saw something that gave him a
sharper arrest.

Book of the day: