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

exactly what I am!” said Miss Gostrey. But she as quickly made her point. “I thought you thought⁠—or that they think at Woollett⁠—that that’s what mere wretches necessarily do. Mere wretches necessarily don’t!” she declared with spirit. “There must, behind every appearance to the contrary, still be somebody⁠—somebody who’s not a mere wretch, since we accept the miracle. What else but such a somebody can such a miracle be?”

He took it in. “Because the fact itself is the woman?”

“A woman. Some woman or other. It’s one of the things that have to be.”

“But you mean then at least a good one.”

“A good woman?” She threw up her arms with a laugh. “I should call her excellent!”

“Then why does he deny her?”

Miss Gostrey thought a moment. “Because she’s too good to admit! Don’t you see,” she went on, “how she accounts for him?”

Strether clearly, more and more, did see; yet it made him also see other things. “But isn’t what we want that he shall account for her?”

“Well, he does. What you have before you is his way. You must forgive him if it isn’t quite outspoken. In Paris such debts are tacit.”

Strether could imagine; but still⁠—! “Even when the woman’s good?”

Again she laughed out. “Yes, and even when the man is! There’s always a caution in such cases,” she more seriously explained⁠—“for what it may seem to show. There’s nothing that’s taken as showing so much here as sudden unnatural goodness.”

“Ah then you’re speaking now,” Strether said, “of people who are not nice.”

“I delight,” she replied, “in your classifications. But do you want me,” she asked, “to give you in the matter, on this ground, the wisest advice I’m capable of? Don’t consider her, don’t judge her at all in herself. Consider her and judge her only in Chad.”

He had the courage at least of his companion’s logic. “Because then I shall like her?” He almost looked, with his quick imagination as if he already did, though seeing at once also the full extent of how little it would suit his book. “But is that what I came out for?”

She had to confess indeed that it wasn’t. But there was something else. “Don’t make up your mind. There are all sorts of things. You haven’t seen him all.”

This on his side Strether recognised; but his acuteness none the less showed him the danger. “Yes, but if the more I see the better he seems?”

Well, she found something. “That may be⁠—but his disavowal of her isn’t, all the same, pure consideration. There’s a hitch.” She made it out. “It’s the effort to sink her.”

Strether winced at the image. “To ‘sink’⁠—?”

“Well, I mean there’s a struggle, and a part of it is just what he hides. Take time⁠—that’s the only way not to make some mistake that you’ll regret. Then you’ll see. He does really want to shake her off.”

Our friend had by this time so got into the vision that he almost gasped. “After all she has done for him?”

Miss Gostrey gave him a look which broke the next moment into a wonderful smile. “He’s not so good as you think!”

They remained with him, these words, promising him, in their character of warning, considerable help; but the support he tried to draw from them found itself on each renewal of contact with Chad defeated by something else. What could it be, this disconcerting force, he asked himself, but the sense, constantly renewed, that Chad was⁠—quite in fact insisted on being⁠—as good as he thought? It seemed somehow as if he couldn’t but be as good from the moment he wasn’t as bad. There was a succession of days at all events when contact with him⁠—and in its immediate effect, as if it could produce no other⁠—elbowed out of Strether’s consciousness everything but itself. Little Bilham once more pervaded the scene, but little Bilham became even in a higher degree than he had originally been one of the numerous forms of the inclusive relation; a consequence promoted, to our friend’s sense, by two or three incidents with which we have yet to make acquaintance. Waymarsh himself, for the occasion, was drawn into the eddy; it absolutely, though but temporarily, swallowed him down, and there were days when Strether seemed to bump against him as a sinking swimmer might brush a submarine object. The fathomless medium held them⁠—Chad’s manner was the fathomless medium; and our friend felt as if they passed each other, in their deep immersion, with the round impersonal eye of silent fish. It was practically produced between them that Waymarsh was giving him then his chance; and the shade of discomfort that Strether drew from the allowance resembled not a little the embarrassment he had known at school, as a boy, when members of his family had been present at exhibitions. He could perform before strangers, but relatives were fatal, and it was now as if, comparatively, Waymarsh were a relative. He seemed to hear him say “Strike up then!” and to enjoy a foretaste of conscientious domestic criticism. He had struck up, so far as he actually could; Chad knew by this time in profusion what he wanted; and what vulgar violence did his fellow pilgrim expect of him when he had really emptied his mind? It went somehow to and fro that what poor Waymarsh meant was “I told you so⁠—that you’d lose your immortal soul!” but it was also fairly explicit that Strether had his own challenge and that, since they must go to the bottom of things, he wasted no more virtue in watching Chad than Chad wasted in watching him. His dip for duty’s sake⁠—where was it worse than Waymarsh’s own? For he needn’t have stopped resisting and refusing, needn’t have parleyed, at that rate, with the foe.

The strolls over Paris to see something or call somewhere were accordingly inevitable and natural, and the late sessions in the wondrous troisième, the lovely home, when men dropped in and the picture composed more suggestively