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

again as she thus, with amused complacency, appreciated her acquisition. “And never about you. We keep clear of you. We’re wonderful. But I’ll tell you what he does do,” she continued: “he tries to make me presents.”

“Presents?” poor Strether echoed, conscious with a pang that he hadn’t yet tried that in any quarter.

“Why you see,” she explained, “he’s as fine as ever in the victoria; so that when I leave him, as I often do almost for hours⁠—he likes it so⁠—at the doors of shops, the sight of him there helps me, when I come out, to know my carriage away off in the rank. But sometimes, for a change, he goes with me into the shops, and then I’ve all I can do to prevent his buying me things.”

“He wants to ‘treat’ you?” Strether almost gasped at all he himself hadn’t thought of. He had a sense of admiration. “Oh he’s much more in the real tradition than I. Yes,” he mused, “it’s the sacred rage.”

“The sacred rage, exactly!”⁠—and Miss Barrace, who hadn’t before heard this term applied, recognised its bearing with a clap of her gemmed hands. “Now I do know why he’s not banal. But I do prevent him all the same⁠—and if you saw what he sometimes selects⁠—from buying. I save him hundreds and hundreds. I only take flowers.”

“Flowers?” Strether echoed again with a rueful reflection. How many nosegays had her present converser sent?

“Innocent flowers,” she pursued, “as much as he likes. And he sends me splendours; he knows all the best places⁠—he has found them for himself; he’s wonderful.”

“He hasn’t told them to me,” her friend smiled, “he has a life of his own.” But Strether had swung back to the consciousness that for himself after all it never would have done. Waymarsh hadn’t Mrs. Waymarsh in the least to consider, whereas Lambert Strether had constantly, in the inmost honour of his thoughts, to consider Mrs. Newsome. He liked moreover to feel how much his friend was in the real tradition. Yet he had his conclusion. “What a rage it is!” He had worked it out. “It’s an opposition.”

She followed, but at a distance. “That’s what I feel. Yet to what?”

“Well, he thinks, you know, that I’ve a life of my own. And I haven’t!”

“You haven’t?” She showed doubt, and her laugh confirmed it. “Oh, oh, oh!”

“No⁠—not for myself. I seem to have a life only for other people.”

“Ah for them and with them! Just now for instance with⁠—”

“Well, with whom?” he asked before she had had time to say.

His tone had the effect of making her hesitate and even, as he guessed, speak with a difference. “Say with Miss Gostrey. What do you do for her?”

It really made him wonder. “Nothing at all!”

III

Madame de Vionnet, having meanwhile come in, was at present close to them, and Miss Barrace hereupon, instead of risking a rejoinder, became again with a look that measured her from top to toe all mere long-handled appreciative tortoiseshell. She had struck our friend, from the first of her appearing, as dressed for a great occasion, and she met still more than on either of the others the conception reawakened in him at their garden-party, the idea of the femme du monde in her habit as she lived. Her bare shoulders and arms were white and beautiful; the materials of her dress, a mixture, as he supposed, of silk and crape, were of a silvery grey so artfully composed as to give an impression of warm splendour; and round her neck she wore a collar of large old emeralds, the green note of which was more dimly repeated, at other points of her apparel, in embroidery, in enamel, in satin, in substances and textures vaguely rich. Her head, extremely fair and exquisitely festal, was like a happy fancy, a notion of the antique, on an old precious medal, some silver coin of the Renaissance; while her slim lightness and brightness, her gaiety, her expression, her decision, contributed to an effect that might have been felt by a poet as half mythological and half conventional. He could have compared her to a goddess still partly engaged in a morning cloud, or to a sea-nymph waist-high in the summer surge. Above all she suggested to him the reflection that the femme du monde⁠—in these finest developments of the type⁠—was, like Cleopatra in the play, indeed various and multifold. She had aspects, characters, days, nights⁠—or had them at least, showed them by a mysterious law of her own, when in addition to everything she happened also to be a woman of genius. She was an obscure person, a muffled person one day, and a showy person, an uncovered person the next. He thought of Madame de Vionnet tonight as showy and uncovered, though he felt the formula rough, because, thanks to one of the shortcuts of genius she had taken all his categories by surprise. Twice during dinner he had met Chad’s eyes in a longish look; but these communications had in truth only stirred up again old ambiguities⁠—so little was it clear from them whether they were an appeal or an admonition. “You see how I’m fixed,” was what they appeared to convey; yet how he was fixed was exactly what Strether didn’t see. However, perhaps he should see now.

“Are you capable of the very great kindness of going to relieve Newsome, for a few minutes, of the rather crushing responsibility of Madame Gloriani, while I say a word, if he’ll allow me, to Mr. Strether, of whom I’ve a question to ask? Our host ought to talk a bit to those other ladies, and I’ll come back in a minute to your rescue.” She made this proposal to Miss Barrace as if her consciousness of a special duty had just flickered-up, but that lady’s recognition of Strether’s little start at it⁠—as at a betrayal on the speaker’s part of a domesticated state⁠—was as mute as his own comment; and after an instant,