Daisy Miller by Henry James (ebook pdf reader for pc .txt) đ
"It was a kind of a wishing cap," said Winterbourne.
"Yes," said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; "it always made me wish I was here. But I
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âTell me your name, my boy,â he said.
âRandolph C. Miller,â said the boy sharply. âAnd Iâll tell you her name;â and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister.
âYou had better wait till you are asked!â said this young lady calmly.
âI should like very much to know your name,â said Winterbourne.
âHer name is Daisy Miller!â cried the child. âBut that isnât her real name; that isnât her name on her cards.â
âItâs a pity you havenât got one of my cards!â said Miss Miller.
âHer real name is Annie P. Miller,â the boy went on.
âAsk him HIS name,â said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.
But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. âMy fatherâs name is Ezra B. Miller,â he announced. âMy father ainât in Europe; my fatherâs in a better place than Europe.â
Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, âMy fatherâs in Schenectady. Heâs got a big business. My fatherâs rich, you bet!â
âWell!â ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. âHe doesnât like Europe,â said the young girl. âHe wants to go back.â
âTo Schenectady, you mean?â
âYes; he wants to go right home. He hasnât got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they wonât let him play.â
âAnd your brother hasnât any teacher?â Winterbourne inquired.
âMother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American ladyâperhaps you know herâMrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didnât want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldnât have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the carsâI think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didnât give Randolph lessonsâgive him âinstruction,â she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. Heâs very smart.â
âYes,â said Winterbourne; âhe seems very smart.â
âMotherâs going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?â
âVery good, I should think,â said Winterbourne.
âOr else sheâs going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. Heâs only nine. Heâs going to college.â And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. âThat English lady in the cars,â she saidââMiss Featherstoneâasked me if we didnât all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe. I have never seen so manyâitâs nothing but hotels.â But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointedânot a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.
âIt was a kind of a wishing cap,â said Winterbourne.
âYes,â said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; âit always made me wish I was here. But I neednât have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you see the most frightful things here. The only thing I donât like,â she proceeded, âis the society. There isnât any society; or, if there is, I donât know where it keeps itself. Do you? I suppose there is some society somewhere, but I havenât seen anything of it. Iâm very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I donât mean only in Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society. Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen,â added Daisy Miller. âI have more friends in New York than in Schenectadyâmore gentleman friends; and more young lady friends too,â she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. âI have always had,â she said, âa great deal of gentlemenâs society.â
Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save in cases where to say such things seemed a kind of demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller of actual or potential inconduite, as they said at Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State? Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemenâs society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirtâa pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three womenâpersons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectabilityâs sake, with husbandsâwho were great coquettesâdangerous, terrible women, with whom oneâs relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of oneâs intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn.
âHave you been to that old castle?â asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon.
âYes, formerly, more than once,â said Winterbourne. âYou too, I suppose, have seen it?â
âNo; we havenât been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldnât go away from here without having seen that old castle.â
âItâs a very pretty excursion,â said Winterbourne, âand very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer.â
âYou can go in the cars,â said Miss Miller.
âYes; you can go in the cars,â Winterbourne assented.
âOur courier says they take you right up to the castle,â the young girl continued. âWe were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldnât go. Randolph wouldnât go either; he says he doesnât think much of old castles. But I guess weâll go this week, if we can get Randolph.â
âYour brother is not interested in ancient monuments?â Winterbourne inquired, smiling.
âHe says he donât care much about old castles. Heâs only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Motherâs afraid to leave him alone, and the courier wonât stay with him; so we havenât been to many places. But it will be too bad if we donât go up there.â And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon.
âI should think it might be arranged,â said Winterbourne. âCouldnât you get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?â
Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, âI wish YOU would stay with him!â she said.
Winterbourne hesitated a moment. âI should much rather go to Chillon with you.â
âWith me?â asked the young girl with the same placidity.
She didnât rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would have done; and yet Winterbourne, conscious that he had
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