The Tragic Muse is a Webnovel created by Henry James.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There’s not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn’t if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn’t if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his princ.i.p.al canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist–the painter or the novelist–whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn’t defer to them–not so much at least–and that’s why they’re less and less actable. If they’re touched–the large loose men–it’s only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent–societies in which the life of man was in action, in pa.s.sion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we’re so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!”
“Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?” Peter candidly asked.
“No, but I read them when they’re extraordinarily good, and I don’t go to plays. I read Balzac for instance–I encounter the admirable portrait of Valerie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_.”
“And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier’s Seraphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That’s the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows.”
“What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!” Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on:
“I’ve seen Madame Carre in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Valerie Marneffe. She’s the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses.”
“The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!” Nash offered as a subst.i.tute.
It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his d.a.m.ned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. “You’d be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you’ve introduced to our old friend would be important.”
Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. “She might be much more so than she ever will be.”
Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: “Perhaps she’ll be more so than you think.”
“Perhaps–if you take an interest in her!”
“A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I’ve never seen her I shall find something in her.” On which Peter appealed.
“What do you say, Biddy–shall I take an interest in her?”
The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarra.s.sment in being publicly treated as an oracle. “If she’s not nice I don’t advise it.”
“And if she _is_ nice?”
“You advise it still less!” her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her.
Lady Agnes looked sombre–she might have been saying to herself: “Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who’s so agog about actresses?” She was disconcerted and distressed; a mult.i.tude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention–displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick’s part and a strange eagerness on Peter’s, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. “Let us leave this–let us leave this!”
she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: “You know you don’t escape me; I stick to you!”
At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. “Pardon my reminding you that you’re going to call on Julia.”
“Well, can’t Nash also come to call on Julia? That’s just what I want–that she should see him.”
Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman’s a.s.sistance. “A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my ‘dramatic tea.’ This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I’ll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quant.i.ty.”
“It’s easy to see who’ll have the best of it!” Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, a.s.senting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility.
“Nick will bring you. I’ve a little corner at the emba.s.sy,” Sherringham continued.
“You’re very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow–Rue de Constantinople.”
“At five o’clock–don’t be afraid.”
“Oh dear!” Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elysees Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn’t have encouraged Mr. Nash.
V
Lady Agnes’s idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l’Industrie to the Hotel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile.
This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the “lots of things” to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?–so quickly did the good lady’s imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints–since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn’t know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man’s want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren’t some telegrams.
He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him.
She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the Hotel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even “funny.” They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn’t that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire–as if he hadn’t seen it a thousand times!–she wished she might have thought of Peter’s influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn’t abbreviate the boy’s ill-timed _flanerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient cafe, promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy–! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circ.u.mstance of her ladyship’s remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be inst.i.tuted that afternoon.
“A French hat, mamma?” said Grace. “Oh do wait till she gets home!”
“I think they’re really prettier here, you know,” Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: “I daresay they’re cheaper.” What was in her mind in fact was: “I daresay Peter thinks them becoming.” It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs.
Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn’t coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn’t mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick’s standing? Didn’t she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him–told her he wouldn’t after all come. His mother’s heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn’t see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman’s not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal–on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment.
As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia’s seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn’t be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn’t particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason–the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh–going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn’t go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time.
If that were to happen she shouldn’t care. She recognised that it wasn’t absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pa.s.s that a woman doesn’t get on with her husband’s female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first.
At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment of finding that Mrs. Dallow had not called, and also that no telegrams had come.
She went in with the girls for half an hour and then straggled out with them again. She was undetermined and dissatisfied and the afternoon was rather a problem; of the kind, moreover, that she disliked most and was least accustomed to: not a choice between different things to do–her life had been full of that–but a want of anything to do at all. Nick had said to her before they separated: “You can knock about with the girls, you know; everything’s amusing here.” That was easily said while he sauntered and gossiped with Peter Sherringham and perhaps went to see more pictures like those in the Salon. He was usually, on such occasions, very good-natured about spending his time with them; but this episode had taken altogether a perverse, profane form. She had no desire whatever to knock about and was far from finding everything in Paris amusing. She had no apt.i.tude for aimlessness, and moreover thought it vulgar. If she had found Julia’s card at the hotel–the sign of a hope of catching them just as they came back from the Salon–she would have made a second attempt to see her before the evening; but now certainly they would leave her alone. Lady Agnes wandered joylessly with the girls in the Palais Royal and the Rue de Richelieu, and emerged upon the Boulevard, where they continued their frugal prowl, as Biddy rather irritatingly called it. They went into five shops to buy a hat for Biddy, and her ladyship’s presumptions of cheapness were woefully belied.
“Who in the world’s your comic friend?” Peter Sherringham was meanwhile asking of his kinsman as they walked together.
“Ah there’s something else you lost by going to Cambridge–you lost Gabriel Nash!”
“He sounds like an Elizabethan dramatist,” Sherringham said. “But I haven’t lost him, since it appears now I shan’t be able to have you without him.”
“Oh, as for that, wait a little. I’m going to try him again, but I don’t know how he wears. What I mean is that you’ve probably lost his freshness, which was the great thing. I rather fear he’s becoming conventional, or at any rate serious.”
“Bless me, do you call that serious?”
“He used to be so gay. He had a real genius for playing with ideas. He was a wonderful talker.”
“It seems to me he does very well now,” said Peter Sherringham.
“Oh this is nothing. He had great flights of old, very great flights; one saw him rise and rise and turn somersaults in the blue–one wondered how far he could go. He’s very intelligent, and I should think it might be interesting to find out what it is that prevents the whole man from being as good as his parts. I mean in case he isn’t so good.”
“I see you more than suspect that. Mayn’t it be simply that he’s too great an a.s.s?”
“That would be the whole–I shall see in time–but it certainly isn’t one of the parts. It may be the effect, but it isn’t the cause, and it’s for the cause I claim an interest. Do you think him an a.s.s for what he said about the theatre–his p.r.o.nouncing it a coa.r.s.e art?”
“To differ from you about him that reason would do,” said Sherringham.
“The only bad one would be one that shouldn’t preserve our difference.
You needn’t tell me you agree with him, for frankly I don’t care.”
“Then your pa.s.sion still burns?” Nick Dormer asked.