The Ambassadors by Henry James (read people like a book .TXT) 📕

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 resist?”

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 repudiation.”

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.

II

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 engaged?”

“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 man.”

“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