The Awkward Age - Henry James (ap literature book list .txt) 📗

without a direct look; he smoked and smoked, then considered the tip of his cigar. “You feel convinced she knows?” he threw out.

“Well, it’s my impression.”

“Ah any impression of yours—of that sort—is sure to be right. If you think I ought to have it from you I’m really grateful. Is that—a—what you wanted to say to me?” Vanderbank after a slight pause demanded.

Mitchy, watching him more than he watched Mitchy, shook a mildly decisive head. “No.”

Vanderbank, his eyes on his smoke-puffs, seemed to wonder. “What you wanted is—something else?”

“Something else.”

“Oh!” said Vanderbank for the third time.

The ejaculation had been vague, but the movement that followed it was definite; the young man, turning away, found himself again near the chair he had quitted, and resumed possession of it as a sign of being at his friend’s service. This friend, however, not only hung fire but finally went back to take a shot from a quarter they might have been supposed to have left. “It strikes me as odd his imagining—awfully acute as he is—that she has NOT guessed. One wouldn’t have thought he could live with her here in such an intimacy—seeing her every day and pretty much all day—and make such a mistake.”

Vanderbank, his great length all of a lounge again, turned it over. “And yet I do thoroughly feel the mistake’s not yours.”

Mitchy had a new serenity of affirmation. “Oh it’s not mine.”

“Perhaps then”—it occurred to his friend—“he doesn’t really believe it.”

“And only says so to make you feel more easy?”

“So that one may—in fairness to one’s self—keep one’s head, as it were, and decide quite on one’s own grounds.”

“Then you HAVE still to decide?”

Vanderbank took time to answer. “I’ve still to decide.” Mitchy became again on this, in the sociable dusk, a slow-circling vaguely-agitated element, and his companion continued: “Is your idea very generously and handsomely to help that by letting me know—?”

“That I do definitely renounce”—Mitchy took him up—“any pretension and any hope? Well, I’m ready with a proof of it. I’ve passed my word that I’ll apply elsewhere.”

Vanderbank turned more round to him. “Apply to the Duchess for her niece?”

“It’s practically settled.”

“But since when?”

Mitchy barely faltered. “Since this afternoon.”

“Ah then not with the Duchess herself.”

“With Nanda—whose plan from the first, you won’t have forgotten, the thing has so charmingly been.”

Vanderbank could show that his not having in the least forgotten was yet not a bar to his being now mystified. “But, my dear man, what can Nanda ‘settle’?”

“My fate,” Mitchy said, pausing well before him.

Vanderbank sat now a minute with raised eyes, catching the indistinctness of the other’s strange expression. “You’re both beyond me!” he exclaimed at last. “I don’t see what you in particular gain.”

“I didn’t either till she made it all out to me. One sees then, in such a matter, for one’s self. And as everything’s gain that isn’t loss, there was nothing I COULD lose. It gets me,” Mitchy further explained, “out of the way.”

“Out of the way of what?”

This, Mitchy frankly showed, was more difficult to say, but he in time brought it out. “Well, of appearing to suggest to you that my existence, in a prolonged state of singleness, may ever represent for her any real alternative.”

“But alternative to what?”

“Why to being YOUR wife, damn you!” Mitchy, on these words turned away again, and his companion, in the presence of his renewed dim gyrations, sat for a minute dumb. Before Van had spoken indeed he was back again. “Excuse my violence, but of course you really see.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Vanderbank said—“but a man MUST understand. What I catch hold of is that you offer me—in the fact that you’re thus at any rate disposed of—a proof that I, by the same token, shan’t, if I hesitate to ‘go in,’ have a pretext for saying to myself that I MAY deprive her—!”

“Yes, precisely,” Mitchy now urbanely assented: “of something—in the shape of a man with MY amount of money—that she may live to regret and to languish for. My amount of money, don’t you see?” he very simply added, “is nothing to her.”

“And you want me to be sure that—so far as I may ever have had a scruple—she has had her chance and got rid of it.”

“Completely,” Mitchy smiled.

“Because”—Vanderbank with the aid of his cigar thoughtfully pieced it out—“that may possibly bring me to the point.”

“Possibly!” Mitchy laughed.

He had stood a moment longer, almost as if to see the possibility develop before his eyes, and had even started at the next sound of his friend’s voice. What Vanderbank in fact brought out, however, only made him turn his back. “Do you like so very much little Aggie?”

“Well,” said Mitchy, “Nanda does. And I like Nanda.”

“You’re too amazing,” Vanderbank mused. His musing had presently the effect of making him rise; meditation indeed beset him after he was on his feet. “I can’t help its coming over me then that on such an extraordinary system you must also rather like ME.”

“What will you have, my dear Van?” Mitchy frankly asked. “It’s the sort of thing you must be most used to. For at the present moment—look!— aren’t we all at you at once?”

It was as if his dear Van had managed to appear to wonder. “‘All’?”

“Nanda, Mrs. Brook, Mr. Longdon—!”

“And you. I see.”

“Names of distinction. And all the others,” Mitchy pursued, “that I don’t count.”

“Oh you’re the best.”

“I?”

“You’re the best,” Vanderbank simply repeated. “It’s at all events most extraordinary,” he declared. “But I make you out on the whole better than I do Mr. Longdon.”

“Ah aren’t we very much the same—simple lovers of life? That is of that finer essence of it which appeals to the consciousness—”

“The consciousness?”—his companion took up his hesitation.

“Well, enlarged and improved.”

The words had made on Mitchy’s lips an image by which his friend appeared for a moment held. “One doesn’t really know quite what to say or to do.”

“Oh you must take it all quietly. You’re of a special class; one of those who, as we said the other day—don’t you remember?—are a source of the sacred terror. People made in such a way must take the consequences; just as people must take them,” Mitchy went on, “who are made as I am. So cheer up!”

Mitchy, uttering this incitement, had moved to the empty chair by the window, in which he presently was sunk; and it might have been in emulation of his previous strolling and straying that Vanderbank himself now began to revolve. The meditation he next threw out, however, showed a certain resistance to Mitchy’s advice. “I’m glad at any rate I don’t deprive her of a fortune.”

“You don’t deprive her of mine of course,” Mitchy answered from the chair; “but isn’t her enjoyment of Mr. Longdon’s at least a good deal staked after all on your action?”

Vanderbank stopped short. “It’s his idea to settle it ALL?”

Mitchy gave out his glare. “I thought you didn’t ‘care a hang.’ I haven’t been here so long,” he went on as his companion at first retorted nothing, “without making up my mind for myself about his means. He IS distinctly bloated.”

It sent Vanderbank off again. “Oh well, she’ll no more get all in the one event than she’ll get nothing in the other. She’ll only get a sort of provision. But she’ll get that whatever happens.”

“Oh if you’re sure—!” Mitchy simply commented.

“I’m not sure, confound it!” Then—for his voice had been irritated—Van spoke more quietly. “Only I see her here—though on his wish of course— handling things quite as if they were her own and paying him a visit without, apparently, any calculable end. What’s that on HIS part but a pledge?”

Oh Mitchy could show off-hand that he knew what it was. “It’s a pledge, quite as much, to you. He shows you the whole thing. He likes you not a whit less than he likes her.”

“Oh thunder!” Van impatiently sighed.

“It’s as ‘rum’ as you please, but there it is,” said the inexorable Mitchy.

“Then does he think I’ll do it for THIS?”

“For ‘this’?”

“For the place, the whole thing, as you call it, that he shows me.”

Mitchy had a short silence that might have represented a change of colour. “It isn’t good enough?” But he instantly took himself up. “Of course he wants—as I do—to treat you with tact!”

“Oh it’s all right,” Vanderbank immediately said. “Your ‘tact’—yours and his—is marvellous, and Nanda’s greatest of all.”

Mitchy’s momentary renewal of stillness was addressed, he somehow managed not obscurely to convey, to the last clause of his friend’s speech. “If you’re not sure,” he presently resumed, “why can’t you frankly ask him?”

Vanderbank again, as the phrase is, “mooned” about a little. “Because I don’t know that it would do.”

“What do you mean by ‘do’?”

“Well, that it would be exactly—what do you call it?—‘square.’ Or even quite delicate or decent. To take from him, in the way of an assurance so handsomely offered, so much, and then to ask for more: I don’t feel I can do it. Besides, I’ve my little conviction. To the question itself he might easily reply that it’s none of my business.”

“I see,” Mitchy dropped. “Such pressure might suggest to him moreover that you’re hesitating more than you perhaps really are.”

“Oh as to THAT” said Vanderbank, “I think he practically knows how much.”

“And how little?” He met this, however, with no more form than if it had been a poor joke, so that Mitchy also smoked for a moment in silence. “It’s your coming down here, you mean, for these three or four days, that will have fixed it?”

The question this time was one to which the speaker might have expected an answer, but Vanderbank’s only immediate answer was to walk and walk. “I want so awfully to be kind to her,” he at last said.

“I should think so!” Then with irrelevance Mitchy harked back. “Shall I find out?”

But Vanderbank, with another thought, had lost the thread. “Find out what?”

“Why if she does get anything—!”

“If I’m not kind ENOUGH?”—Van had caught up again. “Dear no; I’d rather you shouldn’t speak unless first spoken to.”

“Well, HE may speak—since he knows we know.”

“It isn’t likely, for he can’t make out why I told you.”

“You didn’t tell ME, you know,” said Mitchy. “You told Mrs. Brook.”

“Well, SHE told you, and her talking about it is the unpleasant idea. He can’t get her down anyhow.”

“Poor Mrs. Brook!” Mitchy meditated.

“Poor Mrs. Brook!” his companion echoed.

“But I thought you said,” he went on, “that he doesn’t mind.”

“YOUR knowing? Well, I dare say he doesn’t. But he doesn’t want a lot of gossip and chatter.”

“Oh!” said Mitchy with meekness.

“I may absolutely take it from you then,” Vanderbank presently resumed, “that Nanda has her idea?”

“Oh she didn’t tell me so. But it’s none the less my belief.”

“Well,” Vanderbank at last threw off, “I feel it for myself. If only because she always knows everything,” he pursued without looking at Mitchy. “She always knows everything, everything.”

“Everything, everything.” Mitchy got up.

“She told me so herself yesterday,” said Van.

“And she told ME so to-day.”

Vanderbank’s hesitation might have shown he was struck with this. “Well, I don’t think it’s information that either of us required. But of course she—can’t help it,” he added. “Everything, literally everything, in London, in the world she lives in, is in the air she breathes—so that the longer SHE’S in it the more she’ll know.”

“The more she’ll know, certainly,” Mitchy acknowledged. “But she isn’t in it, you