THE TRAGIC MUSE. Генри ДжеймсЧитать онлайн книгу.
said it was a happy chance — he was uncommonly glad to see him.
“I never come across you — I don’t know why,” Nick added while the two, smiling, looked each other up and down like men reunited after a long interval.
“Oh it seems to me there’s reason enough: our paths in life are so different.” Nick’s friend had a great deal of manner, as was evinced by his fashion of saluting Biddy without knowing her.
“Different, yes, but not so different as that. Don’t we both live in London, after all, and in the nineteenth century?”
“Ah my dear Dormer, excuse me: I don’t live in the nineteenth century. Jamais de la vie!” the gentleman declared.
“Nor in London either?”
“Yes — when I’m not at Samarcand! But surely we’ve diverged since the old days. I adore what you burn, you burn what I adore.” While the stranger spoke he looked cheerfully, hospitably, at Biddy; not because it was she, she easily guessed, but because it was in his nature to desire a second auditor — a kind of sympathetic gallery. Her life was somehow filled with shy people, and she immediately knew she had never encountered any one who seemed so to know his part and recognise his cues.
“How do you know what I adore?” Nicholas Dormer asked.
“I know well enough what you used to.”
“That’s more than I do myself. There were so many things.”
“Yes, there are many things — many, many: that’s what makes life so amusing.”
“Do you find it amusing?”
“My dear fellow, c’est à se tordre. Don’t you think so? Ah it was high time I should meet you — I see. I’ve an idea you need me.”
“Upon my word I think I do!” Nick said in a tone which struck his sister and made her wonder still more why, if the gentleman was so important as that, he didn’t introduce him.
“There are many gods and this is one of their temples,” the mysterious personage went on. “It’s a house of strange idols — isn’t it? — and of some strange and unnatural sacrifices.”
To Biddy as much as to her brother this remark might have been offered; but the girl’s eyes turned back to the ladies who for the moment had lost their companion. She felt irresponsive and feared she should pass with this easy cosmopolite for a stiff, scared, English girl, which was not the type she aimed at; but wasn’t even ocular commerce overbold so long as she hadn’t a sign from Nick? The elder of the strange women had turned her back and was looking at some bronze figure, losing her shawl again as she did so; but the other stood where their escort had quitted her, giving all her attention to his sudden sociability with others. Her arms hung at her sides, her head was bent, her face lowered, so that she had an odd appearance of raising her eyes from under her brows; and in this attitude she was striking, though her air was so unconciliatory as almost to seem dangerous. Did it express resentment at having been abandoned for another girl? Biddy, who began to be frightened — there was a moment when the neglected creature resembled a tigress about to spring — was tempted to cry out that she had no wish whatever to appropriate the gentleman. Then she made the discovery that the young lady too had a manner, almost as much as her clever guide, and the rapid induction that it perhaps meant no more than his. She only looked at Biddy from beneath her eyebrows, which were wonderfully arched, but there was ever so much of a manner in the way she did it. Biddy had a momentary sense of being a figure in a ballet, a dramatic ballet — a subordinate motionless figure, to be dashed at to music or strangely capered up to. It would be a very dramatic ballet indeed if this young person were the heroine. She had magnificent hair, the girl reflected; and at the same moment heard Nick say to his interlocutor: “You’re not in London — one can’t meet you there?”
“I rove, drift, float,” was the answer; “my feelings direct me — if such a life as mine may be said to have a direction. Where there’s anything to feel I try to be there!” the young man continued with his confiding laugh.
“I should like to get hold of you,” Nick returned.
“Well, in that case there would be no doubt the intellectual adventure. Those are the currents — any sort of personal relation — that govern my career.”
“I don’t want to lose you this time,” Nick continued in a tone that excited Biddy’s surprise. A moment before, when his friend had said that he tried to be where there was anything to feel, she had wondered how he could endure him.
“Don’t lose me, don’t lose me!” cried the stranger after a fashion which affected the girl as the highest expression of irresponsibility she had ever seen. “After all why should you? Let us remain together unless I interfere”— and he looked, smiling and interrogative, at Biddy, who still remained blank, only noting again that Nick forbore to make them acquainted. This was an anomaly, since he prized the gentleman so. Still, there could be no anomaly of Nick’s that wouldn’t impose itself on his younger sister.
“Certainly, I keep you,” he said, “unless on my side I deprive those ladies —!”
“Charming women, but it’s not an indissoluble union. We meet, we communicate, we part! They’re going — I’m seeing them to the door. I shall come back.” With this Nick’s friend rejoined his companions, who moved away with him, the strange fine eyes of the girl lingering on Biddy’s brother as well as on Biddy herself as they receded.
“Who is he — who are they?” Biddy instantly asked.
“He’s a gentleman,” Nick made answer — insufficiently, she thought, and even with a shade of hesitation. He spoke as if she might have supposed he was not one, and if he was really one why didn’t he introduce him? But Biddy wouldn’t for the world have put this question, and he now moved to the nearest bench and dropped upon it as to await the other’s return. No sooner, however, had his sister seated herself than he said: “See here, my dear, do you think you had better stay?”
“Do you want me to go back to mother?” the girl asked with a lengthening visage.
“Well, what do you think?” He asked it indeed gaily enough.
“Is your conversation to be about — about private affairs?”
“No, I can’t say that. But I doubt if mother would think it the sort of thing that’s ‘necessary to your development.’”
This assertion appeared to inspire her with the eagerness with which she again broke out: “But who are they — who are they?”
“I know nothing of the ladies. I never saw them before. The man’s a fellow I knew very well at Oxford. He was thought immense fun there. We’ve diverged, as he says, and I had almost lost sight of him, but not so much as he thinks, because I’ve read him — read him with interest. He has written a very clever book.”
“What kind of a book?”
“A sort of novel.”
“What sort of novel?”
“Well, I don’t know — with a lot of good writing.” Biddy listened to this so receptively that she thought it perverse her brother should add: “I daresay Peter will have come if you return to mother.”
“I don’t care if he has. Peter’s nothing to me. But I’ll go if you wish it.”
Nick smiled upon her again and then said: “It doesn’t signify. We’ll all go.”
“All?” she echoed.
“He won’t hurt us. On the contrary he’ll do us good.”
This was possible, the girl reflected in silence, but none the less the idea struck her as courageous, of their taking the odd young man back to breakfast with them and with the others, especially if Peter should be there. If Peter was nothing to her it was singular she should have attached such importance to this contingency. The odd