with which, as I have said, I piled brick upon brick. The bricks, for the whole counting-over-puttingfor bricks little touches and inventions and enhancements by the way--affect me in truth aswell-nigh innumerable and as ever so scrupulously fitted together and packed-in. It is an effect ofdetail, of the minutest; though, if one were in this connexion to say all, one would express the hopethat the general, the ampler air of the modest monument still survives. I do at least seem to catchthe key to a part of this abundance of small anxious, ingenious illustration as I recollect putting myfinger, in my young woman's interest, on the most obvious of her predicates. "What will she 'do'?Why, the first thing she'll do will be to come to Europe; which in fact will form, and all inevitably,no small part of her principal adventure. Coming to Europe is even for the 'frail vessels,' in thiswonderful age, a mild adventure; but what is truer than that on one side--the side of their第 9 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网independence of flood and field, of the moving accident, of battle and murder and sudden death-heradventures are to be mild? Without her sense of them, her sense FOR them, as one may say,they are next to nothing at all; but isn't the beauty and the difficulty just in showing their mysticconversion by that sense, conversion into the stuff of drama or, even more delightful word still, of'story'?" It was all as clear, my contention, as a silver bell. Two very good instances, I think, of thiseffect of conversion, two cases of the rare chemistry, are the pages in which Isabel, coming intothe drawing-room at Gardencourt, coming in from a wet walk or whatever, that rainy afternoon,finds Madame Merle in possession of the place, Madame Merle seated, all absorbed but all serene,at the piano, and deeply recognises, in the striking of such an hour, in the presence there, amongthe gathering shades, of this personage, of whom a moment before she had never so much asheard, a turning-point in her life. It is dreadful to have too much, for any artistic demonstration, todot one's i's and insist on one's intentions, and I am not eager to do it now; but the question herewas that of producing the maximum of intensity with the minimum of strain.The interest was to be raised to its pitch and yet the elements to be kept in their key; so that, shouldthe whole thing duly impress, I might show what an "exciting" inward life may do for the personleading it even while it remains perfectly normal. And I cannot think of a more consistentapplication of that ideal unless it be in the long statement, just beyond the middle of the book, ofmy young woman's extraordinary meditative vigil on the occasion that was to become for her sucha landmark. Reduced to its essence, it is but the vigil of searching criticism; but it throws the actionfurther forward that twenty "incidents" might have done. It was designed to have all the vivacity ofincidents and all the economy of picture. She sits up, by her dying fire, far into the night, under thespell of recognitions on which she finds the last sharpness suddenly wait. It is a representationsimply of her motionlessly SEEING, and an attempt withal to make the mere still lucidity of heract as "interesting" as the surprise of a caravan or the identification of a pirate. It represents, forthat matter, one of the identifications dear to the novelist, and even indispensable to him; but it allgoes on without her being approached by another person and without her leaving her chair. It isobviously the best thing in the book, but it is only a supreme illustration of the general plan. As toHenrietta, my apology for whom I just left incomplete, she exemplifies, I fear, in hersuperabundance, not an element of my plan, but only an excess of my zeal. So early was to beginmy tendency to OVERTREAT, rather than undertreat (when there was choice or danger) mysubject. (Many members of my craft, I gather, are far from agreeing with me, but I have alwaysheld overtreating the minor disservice.) "Treating" that of "The Portrait" amounted to neverforgetting, by any lapse, that the thing was under a special obligation to be amusing. There was thedanger of the noted "thinness"--which was to be averted, tooth and nail, by cultivation of thelively. That is at least how I see it to-day. Henrietta must have been at that time a part of mywonderful notion of the lively. And then there was another matter. I had, within the few precedingyears, come to live in London, and the "international" light lay, in those days, to my sense, thickand rich upon the scene. It was the light in which so much of the picture hung. But that IS anothermatter. There is really too much to say.HENRY JAMESTHE PORTRAIT OF A LADY第 10 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网CHAPTER IUnder certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated tothe ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake ofthe tea or not--some people of course never do,--the situation is in itself delightful. Those that Ihave in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocentpastime. The implements of the little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old Englishcountry-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of theafternoon had waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality.Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the airhad grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened slowly,however, and the scene expressed that sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chiefsource of one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o'clock to eight is on certainoccasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this the interval could be only an eternity ofpleasure. The persons concerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not of thesex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have mentioned. Theshadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular; they were the shadows of an old mansitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and of twoyounger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him. The old man had his cup in hishand; it was an unusually large cup, of a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted inbrilliant colours. He disposed of its contents with much circumspection, holding it for a long timeclose to his chin, with his face turned to the house. His companions had either finished their tea orwere indifferent to their privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of them,from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certain attention at the elder man, who, unconsciousof observation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that rose beyondthe lawn was a structure to repay such consideration and was the most characteristic object in thepeculiarly English picture I have attempted to sketch.It stood upon a low hill, above the river--the river being the Thames at some forty miles fromLondon. A long gabled front of red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather hadplayed all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented to the lawn itspatches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers. The house had a nameand a history; the old gentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these things:how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night's hospitality to the greatElizabeth (whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angularbed which still formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had been a good dealbruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and muchenlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodelled and disfigured in the eighteenth century,it had passed into the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originallybecause (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain:bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at theend of twenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all itspoints and would tell you just where to stand to see them in combination and just the hour when第 11 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网the shadows of its various protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork-wereof the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he could have counted off most of thesuccessive owners and occupants, several of whom were known to general fame; doing so,however, with an undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was not the leasthonourable. The front of the house overlooking that portion of the lawn with which we areconcerned was not the entrance-front; this was in quite another quarter. Privacy here reignedsupreme, and the wide carpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension of aluxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as that of velvetcurtains; and the place was furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs,with the books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at some distance; where theground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the less a charmingwalk down to the water.The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty years before, had broughtwith him, at the top of his baggage, his American physiognomy; and he had not only brought itwith him, but he had kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have taken it back tohis own country with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely todisplace himself; his journeys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest. Hehad a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an expression of placidacuteness. It was evidently a face in which the range of representation was not large, so that the airof contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successfulin life, yet it seemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive and invidious, but had hadmuch of the inoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience of men, but therewas an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean, spacious cheek andlighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon thetable. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees, andhis feet were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass nearhis chair, watching the master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in the still moremagisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultoryattendance upon the other gentlemen.One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that ofthe old gentleman I have just sketched was something else; a noticeably handsome face, freshcoloured,fair and frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich adornment of achestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look--the air of a happytemperament fertilised by a high civilisation--which would have made almost any observer envyhim at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from a long ride; he wore awhite hat, which looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in one of them--alarge, white, well-shaped fist--was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person of quite a differentpattern, who, although he might have excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other, haveprovoked you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly puttogether, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no means decorated, with astraggling moustache and whisker. He looked clever and ill--a combination by no means felicitous;第 12 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there was something inthe way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling, wanderingquality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in thechair he rested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, youwould easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his son's eye at last and gavehim a mild, responsive smile."I'm getting on very well," he said."Have you drunk your tea?" asked the son."Yes, and enjoyed it.""Shall I give you some more?"The old man considered, placidly. "Well, I guess I'll wait and see." He had, in speaking, theAmerican tone."Are you cold?" the son enquired.The father slowly rubbed his legs. "Well, I don't know. I can't tell till I feel.""Perhaps some one might feel for you," said the younger man, laughing."Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me, Lord Warburton?""Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton, promptly. "I'm bound tosay you look wonderfully comfortable.""Well, I suppose I am, in most respects." And the old man looked down at his green shawl andsmoothed it over his knees. "The fact is I've been comfortable so many years that I suppose I've gotso used to it I don't know it.""Yes, that's the bore of comfort," said Lord Warburton. "We only know when we'reuncomfortable.""It strikes me we're rather particular," his companion remarked."Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular," Lord Warburton murmured. And then the three menremained silent a while; the two younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presentlyasked for more tea. "I should think you would be very unhappy with that shawl," Lord Warburtonresumed while his companion filled the old man's cup again."Oh no, he must have the shawl!" cried the gentleman in the velvet coat. "Don't put such ideas asthat into his head.""It belongs to my wife," said the old man simply."Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons--" And Lord Warburton made a gesture of apology."I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old man went on."You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover your poor old legs.""Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess they are as good as yours.""Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied, giving him his tea."Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference."第 13 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网"I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?""Well, it's rather hot.""That's intended to be a merit.""Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man, kindly. "He's a very good nurse, LordWarburton.""Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship."Oh no, he's not clumsy--considering that he's an invalid himself. He's a very good nurse--for asick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because he's sick himself.""Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed."Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it.""I might try: that's an idea," said the young man."Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked.Lord Warburton considered a moment. "Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf.""He's making light of you, daddy," said the other young man. "That's a sort of joke.""Well, there seem to be so many sorts now," daddy replied, serenely. "You don't look as if you hadbeen sick, any way, Lord Warburton.""He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about it," said Lord Warburton'sfriend."Is that true, sir?" asked the old man gravely."If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow to talk to--a regular cynic. Hedoesn't seem to believe in anything.""That's another sort of joke," said the person accused of cynicism."It's because his health is so poor," his father explained to Lord Warburton. "It affects his mind andcolours his way of looking at things; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it'salmost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect his spirits. I've hardly ever seen himwhen he wasn't cheerful--about as he is at present. He often cheers me up."The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. "Is it a glowing eulogy or anaccusation of levity? Should you like me to carry out my theories, daddy?""By Jove, we should see some queer things!" cried Lord Warburton."I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone," said the old man."Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm not in the least bored; I find lifeonly too interesting.""Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!""I'm never bored when I come here," said Lord Warburton. "One gets such uncommonly goodtalk.""Is that another sort of joke?" asked the old man. "You've no excuse for being bored anywhere.When I was your age I had never heard of such a thing."第 14 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网"You must have developed very late.""No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twenty years old I was veryhighly developed indeed. I was working tooth and nail. You wouldn't be bored if you hadsomething to do; but all you young men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You'retoo fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich.""Oh, I say," cried Lord Warburton, "you're hardly the person to accuse a fellow-creature of beingtoo rich!""Do you mean because I'm a banker?" asked the old man."Because of that, if you like; and because you have--haven't you?--such unlimited means.""He isn't very rich," the other young man mercifully pleaded. "He has given away an immense dealof money.""Well, I suppose it was his own," said Lord Warburton; "and in that case could there be a betterproof of wealth? Let not a public benefactor talk of one's being too fond of pleasure.""Daddy's very fond of pleasure--of other people's."The old man shook his head. "I don't pretend to have contributed anything to the amusement of mycontemporaries.""My dear father, you're too modest!""That's a kind of joke, sir," said Lord Warburton."You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you've nothing left.""Fortunately there are always more jokes," the ugly young man remarked."I don't believe it--I believe things are getting more serious. You young men will find that out.""The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great opportunity of jokes.""They'll have to be grim jokes," said the old man. "I'm convinced there will be great changes, andnot all for the better.""I quite agree with you, sir," Lord Warburton declared. "I'm very sure there will be great changes,and that all sorts of queer things will happen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying youradvice; you know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold' of something. One hesitatesto take hold of a thing that may the next moment be knocked sky-high.""You ought to take hold of a pretty woman," said his companion. "He's trying hard to fall in love,"he added, by way of explanation, to his father."The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!" Lord Warburton exclaimed."No, no, they'll be firm," the old man rejoined; "they'll not be affected by the social and politicalchanges I just referred to.""You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay hands on one as soon as possible andtie her round my neck as a life-preserver.""The ladies will save us," said the old man; "that is the best of them will--for I make a differencebetween them. Make up to a good one and marry her, and your life will become much moreinteresting."第 15 页 共 391 页原版英语阅读网A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a sense of the magnanimity of thisspeech, for it was a secret neither for his son nor for his visitor that his own experiment inmatrimony had not been a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and these wordsmay have been intended as a confession of personal error; though of course it was not in place foreither of his companions to remark that apparently the lady of his choice had not been one of thebest."If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what you say?" Lord Warburtonasked. "I'm not at all keen about marrying--your son misrepresented me; but there's no knowingwhat an interesting woman might do with me.""I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman," said his friend."My dear fellow, you can't see ideas--especially such highly ethereal ones as mine. If I could onlysee it myself--that would be a great step in advance.""Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn't fall in love with myniece," said the old man.His son broke into a laugh. "He'll think you mean that as a provocation! My dear father, you've