Collected Stories by Henry James
‘Do you think I am going to take any trouble or do any work?’ cried Miss Miriam, in the greatest good-humour. ‘Is not this my holiday? I am not going to raise a finger, nor soil these beautiful gloves, for which I paid so much at Mr Dawson’s at Chowderville. After you have found a shady place for your provisions, I should like you to look for a spring. I am very thirsty.’
‘Find the spring yourself, miss,’ said her father. ‘Mr Locksley and I have a spring in this basket. Take a pull, sir.’
And the Captain drew forth a stout black bottle.
‘Give me a cup, and I will look for some water,’ said Miriam. ‘Only I’m so afraid of the snakes! If you hear a scream you may know it’s a snake.’
‘Screaming snakes!’ said I; ‘that’s a new species.’
What cheap fun it all sounds now! As we looked about us shade seemed scarce, as it generally is in this region. But Miss Quarterman, like the very adroit and practical young person she is, for all that she would have me believe the contrary, immediately discovered flowing water in the shelter of a pleasant little dell, beneath a clump of firs. Hither, as one of the young gentlemen who imitate Tennyson would say, we brought our basket, he and I; while Miriam dipped the cup, and held it dripping to our thirsty lips, and laid the cloth, and on the grass disposed the platters round. I should have to be a poet, indeed, to describe half the happiness and the silly sweetness and artless revelry of this interminable summer’s day. We ate and drank and talked; we ate occasionally with our fingers, we drank out of the necks of our bottles, and we talked with our mouths full, as befits (and excuses) those who talk perfect nonsense. We told stories without the least point. The Captain and I made atrocious puns. I believe, indeed, that Miss Quarterman herself made one little punkin, as I called it. If there had been any superfluous representative of humanity present to notice the fact, I should say that we made fools of ourselves. But as there was no one to criticise us we were brilliant enough. I am conscious myself of having said several witty things, which Miss Quarterman understood: in vino veritas. The dear old Captain twanged the long bow indefatigably. The bright high sun dawdled above us, in the same place, and drowned the prospect with light and warmth. One of these days I mean to paint a picture which, in future ages, when my dear native land shall boast a national school of art, will hang in the Salon Carré of the great central museum (located, let us say, in Chicago) and recall to folks – or rather make them forget – Giorgione, Bordone, and Veronese: A Rural Festival; three persons feasting under some trees; scene, nowhere in particular; time and hour, problematical. Female figure, a rich brune; young man reclining on his elbow; old man drinking. An empty sky, with no end of expression. The whole stupendous in colour, drawing, feeling. Artist uncertain; supposed to be Robinson, 1900.
After dinner the Captain began to look out across the bay, and, noticing the uprising of a little breeze, expressed a wish to cruise about for an hour or two. He proposed to us to walk along the shore to a point a couple of miles northward, and there meet the boat. His daughter having agreed to this proposition, he set off with the lightened hamper, and in less than half-an-hour we saw him standing out from shore. Miss Quarterman and I did not begin our walk for a long, long time. We sat and talked beneath the trees. At our feet a wide cleft in the hills – almost a glen – stretched down to the silent beach; beyond lay the familiar ocean-line. But, as many philosophers have observed, there is an end to all things. At last we got up. My companion remarked that, as the air was freshening, she supposed she ought to put on her shawl. I helped her to fold it into the proper shape, and then I placed it on her shoulders; it being an old shawl of faded red (Canton crape, I believe they call it), which I have seen very often. And then she tied her veil once more about her neck, and gave me her hat to hold, while she effected a partial redistribution of her hair-pins. By way of being humorous, I spun her hat round on my stick; at which she was kind enough to smile, as with downcast face and uplifted elbows she fumbled among her braids. And then she shook out the creases of her dress and drew on her gloves; and finally she said ‘Well!’ – that inevitable tribute to time and morality which follows upon even the mildest forms of dissipation. Very slowly it was that we wandered down the little glen. Slowly, too, we followed the course of the narrow and sinuous beach, as it keeps to the foot of the low cliffs. We encountered no sign of human life. Our conversation I need hardly repeat. I think I may trust it to the keeping of my memory; it was the sort of thing that comes back to one – after. If something ever happens which I think may, that apparently idle hour will seem, as one looks back, very symptomatic, and what we didn’t say be perceived to have been more significant than what we did. There was something between us – there is something between us – and we listened to its impalpable presence – I liken it to the hum (very faint) of an unseen insect – in the golden stillness of the afternoon. I must add that if she expects, foresees, if she waits, she does so with a supreme serenity. If she is my fate (and she has the air of it), she is conscious that it’s her fate to be so.
September 1st. – I have been working steadily for a week. This is the first day of autumn. Read aloud to Miss Quarterman a little Wordsworth.
September 10th. Midnight. – Worked without interruption – until yesterday, inclusive, that is. But with the day now closing – or opening – begins a new era. My poor vapid old diary, at last you shall hold a fact.
For three days past we have been having damp, autumnal weather; dusk has gathered early. This evening, after tea, the Captain went into town – on business, as he said: I believe, to attend some Poorhouse or Hospital Board. Miriam and I went into the parlour. The place seemed cold; she brought in the lamp from the dining-room, and proposed we should have a little fire. I went into the kitchen, procured half-a-dozen logs, and, while she drew the curtains and wheeled up the table, I kindled a lively, crackling blaze. A fortnight ago she would not have allowed me to do this without a protest. She would not have offered to do it herself – not she! – but she would have said that I was not here to serve, but to be served, and would at least have made a show of calling the negress. I should have had my own way, but we have changed all that. Miriam went to her piano, and I sat down to a book. I read not a word, but sat considering my fate and watching it come nearer and nearer. For the first time since I have known her (my fate) she had put on a dark, warm dress; I think it was of the material called alpaca. The first time I saw her (I remember such things) she wore a white dress with a blue neck-ribbon; now she wore a black dress with the same ribbon. That is, I remember wondering, as I sat there eyeing her, whether it was the same ribbon, or merely another like it. My heart was in my throat; and yet I thought of a number of trivialities of the same kind. At last I spoke.
‘Miss Quarterman,’ I said, ‘do you remember the first evening I passed beneath your roof, last June?’
‘Perfectly,’ she replied, without stopping.
‘You played that same piece.’
‘Yes; I played it very badly, too. I only half knew it. But it is a showy piece, and I wished to produce an effect. I didn’t know then how indifferent you are to music.’
‘I paid no particular attention to the piece. I was intent upon the performer.’
‘So the performer supposed.’
‘What reason had you to suppose so?’
‘I am sure I don’t know. Did you ever know a woman to be able to give a reason when she has guessed aright?’
‘I think they generally contrive to make up a reason afterwards. Come, what was yours?’
‘Well, you stared so hard.’
‘Fie! I don’t believe it. That’s unkind.’
‘You said you wished me to invent a reason. If I really had one, I don’t remember it.’
‘You told me you remembered the occasion in question perfectly.’
‘I meant the circumstances. I remember what we had for tea; I remember what dress I wore. But I don’t remember my feelings. They were naturally not very memorable
‘What did you say when your father proposed that I should come here?’
‘I asked how much you would be willing to pay.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, if you looked respectable.’
‘And then?’
‘That was all. I told my father to do as he pleased.’
She continued to play, and leaning back in my chair I continued to look at her. There was a considerable pause.
‘Miss Quarterman,’ said I, at last.
‘Well, sir?’
‘Excuse me for interrupting you so often. But’ – and I got up and went to the piano – ‘but, you know, I thank heaven that it has brought you and me together.’
She looked up at me and bowed her head with a little smile, as her hands still wandered over the keys.
‘Heaven has certainly been very good to us,’ said she.
‘How much longer are you going to play?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure I don’t know. As long as you like.’
‘If you want to do as I like, you will stop immediately.’
She let her hands rest on the keys a moment, and gave me a rapid, questioning look. Whether she found a sufficient answer in my face I know not; but she slowly rose, and, with a very pretty affectation of obedience, began to close the instrument. I helped her to do so.
‘Perhaps you would like to be quite alone,’ she said. ‘I suppose your own room is too cold.’
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘you have hit it exactly. I wish to be alone. I wish to monopolise this cheerful blaze. Hadn’t you better go into the kitchen and sit with the cook? It takes you women to make such cruel speeches.’
‘When we women are cruel, Mr Locksley, it is the merest accident. We are not wilfully so. When we learn that we have been unkind we very humbly ask pardon, without even knowing what our crime has been.’ And she made me a very low curtsey.
‘I will tell you what your crime has been,’ said I. ‘Come and sit by the fire. It’s rather a long story.’
‘A long story? Then let me get my work.’
‘Confound your work! Excuse me, but you exasperate me. I want you to listen to me. Believe me, you will need all your attention.’
She looked at me steadily a moment, and I returned her glance. During that moment I was reflecting whether I might put my arm round her waist and kiss her; but I decided that I might do nothing of the sort. She walked over and quietly seated herself in a low chair by the fire. Here she patiently folded her arms. I sat down before her.
‘With you, Miss Quarterman,’ said I, ‘one must be very explicit. You are not in the habit of taking things for granted. You have a great deal of imagination, but you rarely exercise it on behalf of other people.’
‘Is that my crime?’ asked my companion.
‘It’s not so much a crime as a vice, and perhaps not so much a vice as a virtue. Your crime is, that you are so stone-cold to a poor devil who loves you.’
She burst into a rather shrill laugh. I wonder whether she thought I meant Prendergast.
‘Who are you speaking for, Mr Locksley?’ she asked.
‘Are there so many? For myself.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Do you think me capable of deceiving you?’
‘What is that French phrase that you are for ever using? I think I may say “Allons donc!” ’
‘Let us speak plain English, Miss Quarterman.’
‘ “Stone-cold” is certainly very plain English. I don’t see the relative importance of the two branches of your proposition. Which is the principal, and which the subordinate clause – that I am stone-cold, as you call it, or that you love me, as you call it?’
‘As I call it? What would you have me call it? For pity’s sake, Miss Quarterman, be serious, or I shall call it something else. Yes, I love you. Don’t you believe it?’
‘How can I help believing what you tell me?’
‘Dearest, bravest of women,’ said I.
And I attempted to take her hand.
‘No, no, Mr Locksley,’ said she – ‘not just yet, if you please.’
‘Actions speak louder than words,’ said I.
‘There is no need of speaking loud. I hear you perfectly.’
‘I certainly shall not whisper,’ said I; ‘although it is the custom, I believe, for lovers to do so. Will you be my wife?’
I don’t know whether she whispered or not, but before I left her she consented.
September 12th. – We are to be married in about three weeks.
September 19th. – I have been in New York a week, transacting business. I got back yesterday. I find everyone here talking about our engagement. Miriam tells me that it was talked about a month ago, and that there is a very general feeling of disappointment that I am so very poor.
‘Really, if you don’t mind it,’ I remarked, ‘I don’t see why others should.’
‘I don’t know whether you are poor or not,’ says Miriam, ‘but I know that I am rich.’
‘Indeed! I was not aware that you had a private fortune,’ etc. etc.
This little farce is repeated in some shape every day. I am very idle. I smoke a great deal, and lounge about all day, with my hands in my pockets. I am free from that ineffable weariness of ceaseless buying which I suffered from six months ago. That intercourse was conducted by means of little parcels, and I have resolved that this engagement, at all events, shall have no connection with the shops. I was cheated of my poetry once; I shan’t be a second time. Fortunately there is not much danger of this, for my mistress is positively lyrical. She takes an enthusiastic interest in her simple outfit – showing me triumphantly certain of her purchases, and making a great mystery about others, which she is pleased to denominate table-cloths and napkins. Last evening I found her sewing buttons on a table-cloth. I had heard a great deal of a certain pink silk dress, and this morning, accordingly, she marched up to me, arrayed in this garment, upon which all the art and taste and eyesight, and all the velvet and lace, of Chowderville have been lavished.
‘There is only one objection to it,’ said Miriam, parading before the glass in my painting-room: ‘I am afraid it is above our station.’
‘By Jove! I will paint your portrait in it and make our fortune,’ said I. ‘All the other men who have handsome wives will bring them to be painted.’
‘You mean all the women who have handsome dresses,’ Miriam replied, with great humility.
Our wedding is fixed for next Thursday. I tell Miriam that it will be as little of a wedding, and as much of a marriage, as possible. Her father and her good friend Miss Blankenberg (the schoolmistress) alone are to be present. My secret oppresses me considerably; but I have resolved to keep it for the honeymoon, when it may leak out as occasion helps it. I am harassed with a dismal apprehension that if Miriam were to discover it now, the whole thing would have to be done over again. I have taken rooms at a romantic little watering-place called Cragthorpe, ten miles off. The hotel is already quite purged of cockneys, and we shall be almost alone.
September 28th. – We have been here two days. The little transaction in the church went off smoothly. I am truly sorry for the Captain. We drove directly over here, and reached the place at dusk. It was a raw, black day. We have a couple of good rooms, close to the savage sea. I am nevertheless afraid I have made a mistake. It would perhaps have been wiser to go to New York. These things are not immaterial; we make our own heaven, but we scarcely make our own earth. I am writing at a little table by the window, looking out on the rocks, the gathering dusk, the rising fog. My wife has wandered down to the rocky platform in front of the house. I can see her from here, bareheaded, in that old crimson shawl, talking to one of the landlord’s little boys. She has just given the infant a kiss, bless her tender heart! I remember her telling me once that she was very fond of little boys; and, indeed, I have noticed that they are seldom too dirty for her to take on her knee. I have been reading over these pages for the first time in – I don’
Later. – Somehow or other, I can write this quietly enough; but I hardly think I shall ever write any more. When Miriam came in I handed her this book.
‘I want you to read it,’ said I.
She turned very pale, and laid it on the table, shaking her head.
‘I know it,’ she said.
‘What do you know?’
‘That you have ever so much money. But believe me, Mr Locksley, I am none the worse for the knowledge. You intimated in one place in your book that I am fitted by nature for wealth and splendour. I verily believe I am. You pretend to hate your money; but you would not have had me without it. If you really love me – and I think you do – you will not let this make any difference. I am not such a fool as to attempt to talk now about what passed through me when you asked me to – to do this. But I remember what I said.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ I asked. ‘Shall I call you some horrible name and cast you off?’
‘I expect you to show the same courage that I am showing. I never said I loved you. I never deceived you in that. I said I would be your wife. So I will, faithfully. I haven’t so much heart as you think; and yet, too, I have a great deal more. I am incapable of more than one deception. – Mercy! didn’t you see it? didn’t you know it? see that I saw it? know that I knew it? It was diamond cut diamond. You cheated me and I mystified you. Now that you tell me your secret I can tell you mine. Now we are free, with the fortune that you know. Excuse me, but it sometimes comes over me! Now we can be good and honest and true. It was all a make-believe virtue before.’