The American by Henry James (good inspirational books txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
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Newman was strongly moved. He got up and turned his back upon his friend and walked away to the window, where he stood looking out, but only vaguely seeing. âNo, I donât like the look of your back,â Valentin continued. âI have always been an observer of backs; yours is quite out of sorts.â
Newman returned to his bedside and begged him to be quiet. âBe quiet and get well,â he said. âThatâs what you must do. Get well and help me.â
âI told you you were in trouble! How can I help you?â Valentin asked.
âIâll let you know when you are better. You were always curious; there is something to get well for!â Newman answered, with resolute animation.
Valentin closed his eyes and lay a long time without speaking. He seemed even to have fallen asleep. But at the end of half an hour he began to talk again. âI am rather sorry about that place in the bank. Who knows but that I might have become another Rothschild? But I wasnât meant for a banker; bankers are not so easy to kill. Donât you think I have been very easy to kill? Itâs not like a serious man. Itâs really very mortifying. Itâs like telling your hostess you must go, when you count upon her begging you to stay, and then finding she does no such thing. âReallyâso soon? Youâve only just come!â Life doesnât make me any such polite little speech.â
Newman for some time said nothing, but at last he broke out. âItâs a bad caseâitâs a bad caseâitâs the worst case I ever met. I donât want to say anything unpleasant, but I canât help it. Iâve seen men dying beforeâand Iâve seen men shot. But it always seemed more natural; they were not so clever as you. Damnationâdamnation! You might have done something better than this. Itâs about the meanest winding-up of a manâs affairs that I can imagine!â
Valentin feebly waved his hand to and fro. âDonât insistâdonât insist! It is meanâdecidedly mean. For you see at the bottomâdown at the bottom, in a little place as small as the end of a wine funnelâI agree with you!â
A few moments after this the doctor put his head through the half-opened door and, perceiving that Valentin was awake, came in and felt his pulse. He shook his head and declared that he had talked too muchâten times too much. âNonsense!â said Valentin; âa man sentenced to death can never talk too much. Have you never read an account of an execution in a newspaper? Donât they always set a lot of people at the prisonerâlawyers, reporters, priestsâto make him talk? But itâs not Mr. Newmanâs fault; he sits there as mum as a deathâs-head.â
The doctor observed that it was time his patientâs wound should be dressed again; MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux, who had already witnessed this delicate operation, taking Newmanâs place as assistants. Newman withdrew and learned from his fellow-watchers that they had received a telegram from Urbain de Bellegarde to the effect that their message had been delivered in the Rue de lâUniversitĂ© too late to allow him to take the morning train, but that he would start with his mother in the evening. Newman wandered away into the village again, and walked about restlessly for two or three hours. The day seemed terribly long. At dusk he came back and dined with the doctor and M. Ledoux. The dressing of Valentinâs wound had been a very critical operation; the doctor didnât really see how he was to endure a repetition of it. He then declared that he must beg of Mr. Newman to deny himself for the present the satisfaction of sitting with M. de Bellegarde; more than anyone else, apparently, he had the flattering but inconvenient privilege of exciting him. M. Ledoux, at this, swallowed a glass of wine in silence; he must have been wondering what the deuce Bellegarde found so exciting in the American.
Newman, after dinner, went up to his room, where he sat for a long time staring at his lighted candle, and thinking that Valentin was dying downstairs. Late, when the candle had burnt low, there came a soft rap at his door. The doctor stood there with a candlestick and a shrug.
âHe must amuse himself still!â said Valentinâs medical adviser. âHe insists upon seeing you, and I am afraid you must come. I think at this rate, that he will hardly outlast the night.â
Newman went back to Valentinâs room, which he found lighted by a taper on the hearth. Valentin begged him to light a candle. âI want to see your face,â he said. âThey say you excite me,â he went on, as Newman complied with this request, âand I confess I do feel excited. But it isnât youâitâs my own thoughts. I have been thinkingâthinking. Sit down there and let me look at you again.â Newman seated himself, folded his arms, and bent a heavy gaze upon his friend. He seemed to be playing a part, mechanically, in a lugubrious comedy. Valentin looked at him for some time. âYes, this morning I was right; you have something on your mind heavier than Valentin de Bellegarde. Come, Iâm a dying man and itâs indecent to deceive me. Something happened after I left Paris. It was not for nothing that my sister started off at this season of the year for FleuriĂšres. Why was it? It sticks in my crop. I have been thinking it over, and if you donât tell me I shall guess.â
âI had better not tell you,â said Newman. âIt wonât do you any good.â
âIf you think it will do me any good not to tell me, you are very much mistaken. There is trouble about your marriage.â
âYes,â said Newman. âThere is trouble about my marriage.â
âGood!â And Valentin was silent again. âThey have stopped it.â
âThey have stopped it,â said Newman. Now that he had spoken out, he found a satisfaction in it which deepened as he went on. âYour mother and brother have broken faith. They have decided that it canât take place. They have decided that I am not good enough, after all. They have taken back their word. Since you insist, there it is!â
Valentin gave a sort of groan, lifted his hands a moment, and then let them drop.
âI am sorry not to have anything better to tell you about them,â Newman pursued. âBut itâs not my fault. I was, indeed, very unhappy when your telegram reached me; I was quite upside down. You may imagine whether I feel any better now.â
Valentin moaned gaspingly, as if his wound were throbbing. âBroken faith, broken faith!â he murmured. âAnd my sisterâmy sister?â
âYour sister is very unhappy; she has consented to give me up. I donât know why. I donât know what they have done to her; it must be something pretty bad. In justice to her you ought to know it. They have made her suffer. I havenât seen her alone, but only before them! We had an interview yesterday morning. They came out flat, in so many words. They told me to go about my business. It seems to me a very bad case. Iâm angry, Iâm sore, Iâm sick.â
Valentin lay there staring, with his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his lips soundlessly parted, and a flush of color in his pale face. Newman had never before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now, in speaking to Valentin in the poor fellowâs extremity, he had a feeling that he was making his complaint somewhere within the presence of the power that men pray to in trouble; he felt his outgush of resentment as a sort of spiritual privilege.
âAnd Claire,ââsaid Bellegarde,ââClaire? She has given you up?â
âI donât really believe it,â said Newman.
âNo. Donât believe it, donât believe it. She is gaining time; excuse her.â
âI pity her!â said Newman.
âPoor Claire!â murmured Valentin. âBut theyâbut theyââand he paused again. âYou saw them; they dismissed you, face to face?â
âFace to face. They were very explicit.â
âWhat did they say?â
âThey said they couldnât stand a commercial person.â
Valentin put out his hand and laid it upon Newmanâs arm. âAnd about their promiseâtheir engagement with you?â
âThey made a distinction. They said it was to hold good only until Madame de CintrĂ© accepted me.â
Valentin lay staring a while, and his flush died away. âDonât tell me any more,â he said at last. âIâm ashamed.â
âYou? You are the soul of honor,â said Newman simply.
Valentin groaned and turned away his head. For some time nothing more was said. Then Valentin turned back again and found a certain force to press Newmanâs arm. âItâs very badâvery bad. When my peopleâwhen my raceâcome to that, it is time for me to withdraw. I believe in my sister; she will explain. Excuse her. If she canâtâif she canât, forgive her. She has suffered. But for the others it is very badâvery bad. You take it very hard? No, itâs a shame to make you say so.â He closed his eyes and again there was a silence. Newman felt almost awed; he had evoked a more solemn spirit than he expected. Presently Valentin looked at him again, removing his hand from his arm. âI apologize,â he said. âDo you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologize for my family. For my mother. For my brother. For the ancient house of Bellegarde. VoilĂ !â he added softly.
Newman for an answer took his hand and pressed it with a world of kindness. Valentin remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the doctor softly came in. Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman saw the two questioning faces of MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux. The doctor laid his hand on Valentinâs wrist and sat looking at him. He gave no sign and the two gentlemen came in, M. Ledoux having first beckoned to someone outside. This was M. le CurĂ©, who carried in his hand an object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin. M. le CurĂ© was short, round, and red: he advanced, pulling off his little black cap to Newman, and deposited his burden on the table; and then he sat down in the best armchair, with his hands folded across his person. The other gentlemen had exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to the timeliness of their presence. But for a long time Valentin neither spoke nor moved. It was Newmanâs belief, afterwards, that M. le CurĂ© went to sleep. At last abruptly, Valentin pronounced Newmanâs name. His friend went to him, and he said in French, âYou are not alone. I want to speak to you alone.â Newman looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the curĂ©, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the curĂ©, together, gave a shrug. âAloneâfor five minutes,â Valentin repeated. âPlease leave us.â
The curĂ© took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by his companions. Newman closed the door behind them and came back to Valentinâs bedside. Bellegarde had watched all this intently.
âItâs very bad, itâs very bad,â he said, after Newman had seated himself close to him. âThe more I think of it the worse it is.â
âOh, donât think of it,â said Newman.
But Valentin went on, without heeding him. âEven if they should come round again, the shameâthe basenessâis there.â
âOh, they wonât come round!â said Newman.
âWell, you can make them.â
âMake them?â
âI can tell you somethingâa great secretâan immense secret. You can use it against themâfrighten them, force them.â
âA secret!â Newman repeated. The idea of letting Valentin, on his death-bed, confide him an âimmense secretâ shocked him, for the moment, and made him draw back. It seemed an illicit way of arriving at information, and even had a vague analogy with listening at a keyhole. Then, suddenly, the thought of âforcingâ Madame de Bellegarde and her son became attractive,
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