Collected Stories by Henry James

  ‘Oh, I see you’re clever. Enough for me! But I have heard of you,’ the lady went on. ‘I know your pictures; I admire them. But I don’t think you look like them.’

  ‘They are mostly portraits,’ Lyon said; ‘and what I usually try for is not my own resemblance.’

  ‘I see what you mean. But they have much more colour. And now you are going to do some one here?’

  ‘I have been invited to do Sir David. I’m rather disappointed at not seeing him this evening.’

  ‘Oh, he goes to bed at some unnatural hour – eight o’clock or something of that sort. You know he’s rather an old mummy.’

  ‘An old mummy?’ Oliver Lyon repeated.

  ‘I mean he wears half a dozen waistcoats, and that sort of thing. He’s always cold.’

  ‘I have never seen him and never seen any portrait or photograph of him,’ Lyon said. ‘I’m surprised at his never having had anything done – at their waiting all these years.’

  ‘Ah, that’s because he was afraid, you know; it was a kind of superstition. He was sure that if anything were done he would die directly afterwards. He has only consented to-day.’

  ‘He’s ready to die then?’

  ‘Oh, now he’s so old he doesn’t care.’

  ‘Well, I hope I shan’t kill him,’ said Lyon. ‘It was rather unnatural in his son to send for me.’

  ‘Oh, they have nothing to gain – everything is theirs already!’ his companion rejoined, as if she took this speech quite literally. Her talkativeness was systematic – she fraternised as seriously as she might have played whist. ‘They do as they like – they fill the house with people – they have carte blanche.’

  ‘I see – but there’s still the title.’

  ‘Yes, but what is it?’

  Our artist broke into laughter at this, whereas his companion stared. Before he had recovered himself she was scouring the plain with her other neighbour. The gentleman on his left at last risked an observation, and they had some fragmentary talk. This personage played his part with difficulty: he uttered a remark as a lady fires a pistol, looking the other way. To catch the ball Lyon had to bend his ear, and this movement led to his observing a handsome creature who was seated on the same side, beyond his interlocutor. Her profile was presented to him and at first he was only struck with its beauty; then it produced an impression still more agreeable – a sense of undimmed remembrance and intimate association. He had not recognised her on the instant only because he had so little expected to see her there; he had not seen her anywhere for so long, and no news of her ever came to him. She was often in his thoughts, but she had passed out of his life. He thought of her twice a week; that may be called often in relation to a person one has not seen for twelve years. The moment after he recognised her he felt how true it was that it was only she who could look like that: of the most charming head in the world (and this lady had it) there could never be a replica. She was leaning forward a little; she remained in profile, apparently listening to some one on the other side of her. She was listening, but she was also looking, and after a moment Lyon followed the direction of her eyes. They rested upon the gentleman who had been described to him as Colonel Capadose – rested, as it appeared to him, with a kind of habitual, visible complacency. This was not strange, for the Colonel was unmistakably formed to attract the sympathetic gaze of woman; but Lyon was slightly disappointed that she could let him look at her so long without giving him a glance. There was nothing between them to-day and he had no rights, but she must have known he was coming (it was of course not such a tremendous event, but she could not have been staying in the house without hearing of it), and it was not natural that that should absolutely fail to affect her.

  She was looking at Colonel Capadose as if she were in love with him – a queer accident for the proudest, most reserved of women. But doubtless it was all right, if her husband liked it or didn’t notice it: he had heard indefinitely, years before, that she was married, and he took for granted (as he had not heard that she had become a widow) the presence of the happy man on whom she had conferred what she had refused to him, the poor art-student at Munich. Colonel Capadose appeared to be aware of nothing, and this circumstance, incongruously enough, rather irritated Lyon than gratified him. Suddenly the lady turned her head, showing her full face to our hero. He was so prepared with a greeting that he instantly smiled, as a shaken jug overflows; but she gave him no response, turned away again and sank back in her chair. All that her face said in that instant was, ‘You see I’m as handsome as ever.’ To which he mentally subjoined, ‘Yes, and as much good it does me!’ He asked the young man beside him if he knew who that beautiful being was – the fifth person beyond him. The young man leaned forward, considered and then said, ‘I think she’s Mrs Capadose.’

  ‘Do you mean his wife – that fellow’s?’ And Lyon indicated the subject of the information given him by his other neighbour.

  ‘Oh, is he Mr Capadose?’ said the young man, who appeared very vague. He admitted his vagueness and explained it by saying that there were so many people and he had come only the day before. What was definite to Lyon was that Mrs Capadose was in love with her husband; so that he wished more than ever that he had married her.

  ‘She’s very faithful,’ he found himself saying three minutes later to the lady on his right. He added that he meant Mrs Capadose.

  ‘Ah, you know her then?’

  ‘I knew her once upon a time – when I was living abroad.’

  ‘Why then were you asking me about her husband?’

  ‘Precisely for that reason. She married after that – I didn’t even know her present name.’

  ‘How then do you know it now?’

  ‘This gentleman has just told me – he appears to know.’

  ‘I didn’t know he knew anything,’ said the lady, glancing forward.

  ‘I don’t think he knows anything but that.’

  ‘Then you have found out for yourself that she is faithful. What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Ah, you mustn’t question me – I want to question you,’ Lyon said. ‘How do you all like her here?’

  ‘You ask too much! I can only speak for myself. I think she’s hard.’

  ‘That’s only because she’s honest and straightforward.’

  ‘Do you mean I like people in proportion as they deceive?’

  ‘I think we all do, so long as we don’t find them out,’ Lyon said. ‘And then there’s something in her face – a sort of Roman type, in spite of her having such an English eye. In fact, she’s English down to the ground; but her complexion, her low forehead and that beautiful close little wave in her dark hair make her look like a glorified contadina.’

  ‘Yes, and she always sticks pins and daggers into her head, to increase that effect. I must say I like her husband better: he is so clever.’

  ‘Well, when I knew her there was no comparison that could injure her. She was altogether the most delightful thing in Munich.’

  ‘In Munich?’

  ‘Her people lived there; they were not rich – in pursuit of economy in fact, and Munich was very cheap. Her father was the younger son of some noble house; he had married a second time and had a lot of little mouths to feed. She was the child of the first wife and she didn’t like her stepmother, but she was charming to her little brothers and sisters. I once made a sketch of her as Werther’s Charlotte, cutting bread and butter while they clustered all round her. All the artists in the place were in love with her but she wouldn’t look at “the likes” of us. She was too proud – I grant you that; but she wasn’t stuck up nor young ladyish; she was simple and frank and kind about it. She used to remind me of Thackeray’s Ethel Newcome. She told me she must marry well: it was the one thing she could do for her family. I suppose you would say that she ha married well.’

  ‘She told you?’ smiled Lyon’s neighbour.

  ‘Oh, of course I proposed to her too. But she evidently thinks so herself!’ he added.


  When the ladies left the table the host as usual bade the gentlemen draw together, so that Lyon found himself opposite to Colonel Capadose. The conversation was mainly about the ‘run’, for it had apparently been a great day in the hunting-field. Most of the gentlemen communicated their adventures and opinions, but Colonel Capadose’s pleasant voice was the most audible in the chorus. It was a bright and fresh but masculine organ, just such a voice as, to Lyon’s sense, such a ‘fine man’ ought to have had. It appeared from his remarks that he was a very straight rider, which was also very much what Lyon would have expected. Not that he swaggered, for his allusions were very quietly and casually made; but they were all to dangerous experiments and close shaves. Lyon perceived after a little that the attention paid by the company to the Colonel’s remarks was not in direct relation to the interest they seemed to offer; the result of which was that the speaker, who noticed that he at least was listening, began to treat him as his particular auditor and to fix his eyes on him as he talked. Lyon had nothing to do but to look sympathetic and assent – Colonel Capadose appeared to take so much sympathy and assent for granted. A neighbouring squire had had an accident; he had come a cropper in an awkward place – just at the finish – with consequences that looked grave. He had struck his head; he remained insensible, up to the last accounts: there had evidently been concussion of the brain. There was some exchange of views as to his recovery – how soon it would take place or whether it would take place at all; which led the Colonel to confide to our artist across the table that he shouldn’t despair of a fellow even if he didn’t come round for weeks – for weeks and weeks and weeks – for months, almost for years. He leaned forward; Lyon leaned forward to listen, and Colonel Capadose mentioned that he knew from personal experience that there was really no limit to the time one might lie unconscious without being any the worse for it. It had happened to him in Ireland, years before; he had been pitched out of a dogcart, had turned a sheer somersault and landed on his head. They thought he was dead, but he wasn’t; they carried him first to the nearest cabin, where he lay for some days with the pigs, and then to an inn in a neighbouring town – it was a near thing they didn’t put him under ground. He had been completely insensible – without a ray of recognition of any human thing – for three whole months; had not a glimmer of consciousness of any blessed thing. It was touch and go to that degree that they couldn’t come near him, they couldn’t feed him, they could scarcely look at him. Then one day he had opened his eyes – as fit as a flea!

  ‘I give you my honour it had done me good – it rested my brain.’ He appeared to intimate that with an intelligence so active as his these periods of repose were providential. Lyon thought his story very striking, but he wanted to ask him whether he had not shammed a little – not in relating it, but in keeping so quiet. He hesitated however, in time, to imply a doubt – he was so impressed with the tone in which Colonel Capadose said that it was the turn of a hair that they hadn’t buried him alive. That had happened to a friend of his in India – a fellow who was supposed to have died of jungle fever – they clapped him into a coffin. He was going on to recite the further fate of this unfortunate gentleman when Mr Ashmore made a move and every one got up to adjourn to the drawing-room. Lyon noticed that by this time no one was heeding what his new friend said to him. They came round on either side of the table and met while the gentlemen dawdled before going out.

  ‘And do you mean that your friend was literally buried alive?’ asked Lyon, in some suspense.

  Colonel Capadose looked at him a moment, as if he had already lost the thread of the conversation. Then his face brightened – and when it brightened it was doubly handsome. ‘Upon my soul he was chucked into the ground!’

  ‘And was he left there?’

  ‘He was left there till I came and hauled him out.’

  ‘You came?’

  ‘I dreamed about him – it’s the most extraordinary story: I heard him calling to me in the night. I took upon myself to dig him up. You know there are people in India – a kind of beastly race, the ghouls – who violate graves. I had a sort of presentiment that they would get at him first. I rode straight, I can tell you; and, by Jove, a couple of them had just broken ground! Crack – crack, from a couple of barrels, and they showed me their heels, as you may believe. Would you credit that I took him out myself? The air brought him to and he was none the worse. He has got his pension – he came home the other day; he would do anything for me.’

  ‘He called to you in the night?’ said Lyon, much startled.

  ‘That’s the interesting point. Now what was it? It wasn’t his ghost, because he wasn’t dead. It wasn’t himself, because he couldn’t. It was something or other! You see India’s a strange country – there’s an element of the mysterious: the air is full of things you can’t explain.’

  They passed out of the dining-room, and Colonel Capadose, who went among the first, was separated from Lyon; but a minute later, before they reached the drawing-room, he joined him again. ‘Ashmore tells me who you are. Of course I have often heard of you – I’m very glad to make your acquaintance; my wife used to know you.’

  ‘I’m glad she remembers me. I recognised her at dinner and I was afraid she didn’t.’

  ‘Ah, I daresay she was ashamed,’ said the Colonel, with indulgent humour.

  ‘Ashamed of me?’ Lyon replied, in the same key.

  ‘Wasn’t there something about a picture? Yes; you painted her portrait.’

  ‘Many times,’ said the artist; ‘and she may very well have been ashamed of what I made of her.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t, my dear sir; it was the sight of that picture, which you were so good as to present to her, that made me first fall in love with her.’

  ‘Do you mean that one with the children – cutting bread and butter?’

  ‘Bread and butter? Bless me, no – vine leaves and a leopard skin – a kind of Bacchante.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Lyon; ‘I remember. It was the first decent portrait I painted. I should be curious to see it to-day.’

  ‘Don’t ask her to show it to you – she’ll be mortified!’ the Colonel exclaimed.

  ‘Mortified?’

  ‘We parted with it – in the most disinterested manner,’ he laughed. ‘An old friend of my wife’s – her family had known him intimately when they lived in Germany – took the most extraordinary fancy to it: the Grand Duke of Silberstadt-Schreckenstein, don’t you know? He came out to Bombay while we were there and he spotted your picture (you know he’s one of the greatest collectors in Europe), and made such eyes at it that, upon my word – it happened to be his birthday – she told him he might have it, to get rid of him. He was perfectly enchanted – but we miss the picture.’

  ‘It is very good of you,’ Lyon said. ‘If it’s in a great collection – a work of my incompetent youth – I am infinitely honoured.’

  ‘Oh, he has got it in one of his castles; I don’t know which – you know he has so many. He sent us, before he left India – to return the compliment – a magnificent old vase.’

  ‘That was more than the thing was worth,’ Lyon remarked.

  Colonel Capadose gave no heed to this observation; he seemed to be thinking of something. After a moment he said, ‘If you’ll come and see us in town she’ll show you the vase.’ And as they passed into the drawing-room he gave the artist a friendly propulsion. ‘Go and speak to her; there she is – she’ll be delighted.’

  Oliver Lyon took but a few steps into the wide saloon; he stood there a moment looking at the bright composition of the lamplit group of fair women, the single figures, the great setting of white and gold, the panels of old damask, in the centre of each of which was a single celebrated picture. There was a subdued lustre in the scene and an air as of the shining trains of dresses tumbled over the carpet. At the furthest end of the room sat Mrs Capadose, rather isolated; she was on a small sofa, with an empty place beside her. Lyon could not flatter himself she had been keeping it for
him; her failure to respond to his recognition at table contradicted that, but he felt an extreme desire to go and occupy it. Moreover he had her husband’s sanction; so he crossed the room, stepping over the tails of gowns, and stood before his old friend.

  ‘I hope you don’t mean to repudiate me,’ he said.

  She looked up at him with an expression of unalloyed pleasure. ‘I am so glad to see you. I was delighted when I heard you were coming.’

  ‘I tried to get a smile from you at dinner – but I couldn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t see – I didn’t understand. Besides, I hate smirking and telegraphing. Also I’m very shy – you won’t have forgotten that. Now we can communicate comfortably.’ And she made a better place for him on the little sofa. He sat down and they had a talk that he enjoyed, while the reason for which he used to like her so came back to him, as well as a good deal of the very same old liking. She was still the least spoiled beauty he had ever seen, with an absence of coquetry or any insinuating art that seemed almost like an omitted faculty; there were moments when she struck her interlocutor as some fine creature from an asylum – a surprising deaf-mute or one of the operative blind. Her noble pagan head gave her privileges that she neglected, and when people were admiring her brow she was wondering whether there were a good fire in her bedroom. She was simple, kind and good; inexpressive but not inhuman or stupid. Now and again she dropped something that had a sifted, selected air – the sound of an impression at first hand. She had no imagination, but she had added up her feelings, some of her reflections, about life. Lyon talked of the old days in Munich, reminded her of incidents, pleasures and pains, asked her about her father and the others; and she told him in return that she was so impressed with his own fame, his brilliant position in the world, that she had not felt very sure he would speak to her or that his little sign at table was meant for her. This was plainly a perfectly truthful speech – she was incapable of any other – and he was affected by such humility on the part of a woman whose grand line was unique. Her father was dead; one of her brothers was in the navy and the other on a ranch in America; two of her sisters were married and the youngest was just coming out and very pretty. She didn’t mention her stepmother. She asked him about his own personal history and he said that the principal thing that had happened to him was that he had never married.