The Golden Bowl - Henry James (top fiction books of all time .TXT) š
- Author: Henry James
Book online Ā«The Golden Bowl - Henry James (top fiction books of all time .TXT) šĀ». Author Henry James
The young man remembered even now how extraordinarily clearā āhe couldnāt call it anything elseā āshe had looked, in her prettiness, as she had said it. He also remembered what he had been moved to reply. āThe happiest reigns, we are taught, you know, are the reigns without any history.ā
āOh, Iām not afraid of history!ā She had been sure of that. āCall it the bad part, if you likeā āyours certainly sticks out of you. What was it else,ā Maggie Verver had also said, āthat made me originally think of you? It wasnātā āas I should suppose you must have seenā āwhat you call your unknown quantity, your particular self. It was the generations behind you, the follies and the crimes, the plunder and the wasteā āthe wicked Pope, the monster most of all, whom so many of the volumes in your family library are all about. If Iāve read but two or three yet, I shall give myself up but the moreā āas soon as I have timeā āto the rest. Where, thereforeāā āshe had put it to him againā āāwithout your archives, annals, infamies, would you have been?ā
He recalled what, to this, he had gravely returned. āI might have been in a somewhat better pecuniary situation.ā But his actual situation under the head in question positively so little mattered to them that, having by that time lived deep into the sense of his advantage, he had kept no impression of the girlās rejoinder. It had but sweetened the waters in which he now floated, tinted them as by the action of some essence, poured from a gold-topped phial, for making oneās bath aromatic. No one before him, neverā ānot even the infamous Popeā āhad so sat up to his neck in such a bath. It showed, for that matter, how little one of his race could escape, after all, from history. What was it but history, and of their kind very much, to have the assurance of the enjoyment of more money than the palace-builder himself could have dreamed of? This was the element that bore him up and into which Maggie scattered, on occasion, her exquisite colouring drops. They were of the colourā āof what on earth? of what but the extraordinary American good faith? They were of the colour of her innocence, and yet at the same time of her imagination, with which their relation, his and these peopleās, was all suffused. What he had further said on the occasion of which we thus represent him as catching the echoes from his own thoughts while he loiteredā āwhat he had further said came back to him, for it had been the voice itself of his luck, the soothing sound that was always with him. āYou Americans are almost incredibly romantic.ā
āOf course we are. Thatās just what makes everything so nice for us.ā
āEverything?ā He had wondered.
āWell, everything thatās nice at all. The world, the beautiful, worldā āor everything in it that is beautiful. I mean we see so much.ā
He had looked at her a momentā āand he well knew how she had struck him, in respect to the beautiful world, as one of the beautiful, the most beautiful things. But what he had answered was: āYou see too muchā āthatās what may sometimes make you difficulties. When you donāt, at least,ā he had amended with a further thought, āsee too little.ā But he had quite granted that he knew what she meant, and his warning perhaps was needless.
He had seen the follies of the romantic disposition, but there seemed somehow no follies in theirsā ānothing, one was obliged to recognise, but innocent pleasures, pleasures without penalties. Their enjoyment was a tribute to others without being a loss to themselves. Only the funny thing, he had respectfully submitted, was that her father, though older and wiser, and a man into the bargain, was as badā āthat is as goodā āas herself.
āOh, heās better,ā the girl had freely declared āthat is heās worse. His relation to the things he cares forā āand I think it beautifulā āis absolutely romantic. So is his whole life over hereā āitās the most romantic thing I know.ā
āYou mean his idea for his native place?ā
āYesā āthe collection, the Museum with which he wishes to endow it, and of which he thinks more, as you know, than of anything in the world. Itās the work of his life and the motive of everything he does.ā
The young man, in his actual mood, could have smiled againā āsmiled delicately, as he had then smiled at her. āHas it been his motive in letting me have you?ā
āYes, my dear, positivelyā āor in a manner,ā she had said.
āAmerican City isnāt, by the way, his native town, for, though heās not old, itās a young thing compared with himā āa younger one. He started there, he has a feeling about it, and the place has grown, as he says, like the programme of a charity performance. Youāre at any rate a part of his collection,ā she had explainedā āāone of the things that can only be got over here. Youāre a rarity, an object of beauty, an object of price. Youāre not perhaps absolutely unique, but youāre so curious and eminent that there are very few others like youā āyou belong to a class about which everything is known. Youāre what they call a morceau de musee.ā
āI see. I have the great sign of it,ā he had riskedā āāthat I cost a lot of money.ā
āI havenāt the least idea,ā she had gravely answered, āwhat you costāā āand he had quite adored, for the moment, her way of saying it. He had felt even, for the moment, vulgar. But he had made the best of that. āWouldnāt you find out if it were a question of parting with me? My value would in that case be estimated.ā
She had looked at him with her charming eyes, as if his value were well before her. āYes, if you mean that Iād pay rather than lose you.ā
And then there came again what this had made him say. āDonāt talk
Comments (0)