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

minor incident of the procession. Besides, there would be incidents enough, as he felt when this term of contemplation was closed by the reappearance of little Bilham, who stood before him a moment with a suggestive “Well?” in which he saw himself reflected as disorganised, as possibly floored. He replied with a “Well!” intended to show that he wasn’t floored in the least. No indeed; he gave it out, as the young man sat down beside him, that if, at the worst, he had been overturned at all, he had been overturned into the upper air, the sublimer element with which he had an affinity and in which he might be trusted a while to float. It wasn’t a descent to earth to say after an instant and in sustained response to the reference: “You’re quite sure her husband’s living?”

“Oh dear, yes.”

“Ah then⁠—!”

“Ah then what?”

Strether had after all to think. “Well, I’m sorry for them.” But it didn’t for the moment matter more than that. He assured his young friend he was quite content. They wouldn’t stir; were all right as they were. He didn’t want to be introduced; had been introduced already about as far as he could go. He had seen moreover an immensity; liked Gloriani, who, as Miss Barrace kept saying, was wonderful; had made out, he was sure, the half-dozen other men who were distinguished, the artists, the critics and oh the great dramatist⁠—him it was easy to spot; but wanted⁠—no, thanks, really⁠—to talk with none of them; having nothing at all to say and finding it would do beautifully as it was; do beautifully because what it was⁠—well, was just simply too late. And when after this little Bilham, submissive and responsive, but with an eye to the consolation nearest, easily threw off some “Better late than never!” all he got in return for it was a sharp “Better early than late!” This note indeed the next thing overflowed for Strether into a quiet stream of demonstration that as soon as he had let himself go he felt as the real relief. It had consciously gathered to a head, but the reservoir had filled sooner than he knew, and his companion’s touch was to make the waters spread. There were some things that had to come in time if they were to come at all. If they didn’t come in time they were lost forever. It was the general sense of them that had overwhelmed him with its long slow rush.

“It’s not too late for you, on any side, and you don’t strike me as in danger of missing the train; besides which people can be in general pretty well trusted, of course⁠—with the clock of their freedom ticking as loud as it seems to do here⁠—to keep an eye on the fleeting hour. All the same don’t forget that you’re young⁠—blessedly young; be glad of it on the contrary and live up to it. Live all you can; it’s a mistake not to. It doesn’t so much matter what you do in particular, so long as you have your life. If you haven’t had that what have you had? This place and these impressions⁠—mild as you may find them to wind a man up so; all my impressions of Chad and of people I’ve seen at his place⁠—well, have had their abundant message for me, have just dropped that into my mind. I see it now. I haven’t done so enough before⁠—and now I’m old; too old at any rate for what I see. Oh I do see, at least; and more than you’d believe or I can express. It’s too late. And it’s as if the train had fairly waited at the station for me without my having had the gumption to know it was there. Now I hear its faint receding whistle miles and miles down the line. What one loses one loses; make no mistake about that. The affair⁠—I mean the affair of life⁠—couldn’t, no doubt, have been different for me; for it’s at the best a tin mould, either fluted and embossed, with ornamental excrescences, or else smooth and dreadfully plain, into which, a helpless jelly, one’s consciousness is poured⁠—so that one ‘takes’ the form as the great cook says, and is more or less compactly held by it: one lives in fine as one can. Still, one has the illusion of freedom; therefore don’t be, like me, without the memory of that illusion. I was either, at the right time, too stupid or too intelligent to have it; I don’t quite know which. Of course at present I’m a case of reaction against the mistake; and the voice of reaction should, no doubt, always be taken with an allowance. But that doesn’t affect the point that the right time is now yours. The right time is any time that one is still so lucky as to have. You’ve plenty; that’s the great thing; you’re, as I say, damn you, so happily and hatefully young. Don’t at any rate miss things out of stupidity. Of course I don’t take you for a fool, or I shouldn’t be addressing you thus awfully. Do what you like so long as you don’t make my mistake. For it was a mistake. Live!”⁠ ⁠… Slowly and sociably, with full pauses and straight dashes, Strether had so delivered himself; holding little Bilham from step to step deeply and gravely attentive. The end of all was that the young man had turned quite solemn, and that this was a contradiction of the innocent gaiety the speaker had wished to promote. He watched for a moment the consequence of his words, and then, laying a hand on his listener’s knee and as if to end with the proper joke: “And now for the eye I shall keep on you!”

“Oh but I don’t know that I want to be, at your age, too different from you!”

“Ah prepare while you’re about it,” said Strether, “to be more amusing.”

Little Bilham continued