The Ambassadors Henry James (novel24 txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
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âItâs as simple as twice two! From the moment he had to do somethingâ ââ
âA crowdââ âshe took him straight upâ ââwas the only thing? Rather, rather: a rumpus of sound,â she laughed, âor nothing. Mrs. Pocockâs built in, or built outâ âwhichever you call it; sheâs packed so tight she canât move. Sheâs in splendid isolationââ âMiss Barrace embroidered the theme.
Strether followed, but scrupulous of justice. âYet with everyone in the place successively introduced to her.â
âWonderfullyâ âbut just so that it does build her out. Sheâs bricked up, sheâs buried alive!â
Strether seemed for a moment to look at it; but it brought him to a sigh. âOh but sheâs not dead! It will take more than this to kill her.â
His companion had a pause that might have been for pity. âNo, I canât pretend I think sheâs finishedâ âor that itâs for more than tonight.â She remained pensive as if with the same compunction. âItâs only up to her chin.â Then again for the fun of it: âShe can breathe.â
âShe can breathe!ââ âhe echoed it in the same spirit. âAnd do you know,â he went on, âwhatâs really all this time happening to me?â âthrough the beauty of music, the gaiety of voices, the uproar in short of our revel and the felicity of your wit? The sound of Mrs. Pocockâs respiration drowns for me, I assure you, every other. Itâs literally all I hear.â
She focused him with her clink of chains. âWellâ â!â she breathed ever so kindly.
âWell, what?â
âShe is free from her chin up,â she mused; âand that will be enough for her.â
âIt will be enough for me!â Strether ruefully laughed. âWaymarsh has really,â he then asked, âbrought her to see you?â
âYesâ âbut thatâs the worst of it. I could do you no good. And yet I tried hard.â
Strether wondered. âAnd how did you try?â
âWhy I didnât speak of you.â
âI see. That was better.â
âThen what would have been worse? For speaking or silent,â she lightly wailed, âI somehow âcompromise.â And it has never been anyone but you.â
âThat showsââ âhe was magnanimousâ ââthat itâs something not in you, but in oneâs self. Itâs my fault.â
She was silent a little. âNo, itâs Mr. Waymarshâs. Itâs the fault of his having brought her.â
âAh then,â said Strether good-naturedly, âwhy did he bring her?â
âHe couldnât afford not to.â
âOh you were a trophyâ âone of the spoils of conquest? But why in that case, since you do âcompromiseââ ââ
âDonât I compromise him as well? I do compromise him as well,â Miss Barrace smiled. âI compromise him as hard as I can. But for Mr. Waymarsh it isnât fatal. Itâsâ âso far as his wonderful relation with Mrs. Pocock is concernedâ âfavourable.â And then, as he still seemed slightly at sea: âThe man who had succeeded with me, donât you see? For her to get him from me was such an added incentive.â
Strether saw, but as if his path was still strewn with surprises. âItâs âfromâ you then that she has got him?â
She was amused at his momentary muddle. âYou can fancy my fight! She believes in her triumph. I think it has been part of her joy.
âOh her joy!â Strether sceptically murmured.
âWell, she thinks she has had her own way. And whatâs tonight for her but a kind of apotheosis? Her frockâs really good.â
âGood enough to go to heaven in? For after a real apotheosis,â Strether went on, âthereâs nothing but heaven. For Sarah thereâs only tomorrow.â
âAnd you mean that she wonât find tomorrow heavenly?â
âWell, I mean that I somehow feel tonightâ âon her behalfâ âtoo good to be true. She has had her cake; that is sheâs in the act now of having it, of swallowing the largest and sweetest piece. There wonât be another left for her. Certainly I havenât one. It can only, at the best, be Chad.â He continued to make it out as for their common entertainment. âHe may have one, as it were, up his sleeve; yet itâs borne in upon me that if he hadâ ââ
âHe wouldnâtââ âshe quite understoodâ ââhave taken all this trouble? I dare say not, and, if I may be quite free and dreadful, I very much hope he wonât take any more. Of course I wonât pretend now,â she added, ânot to know what itâs a question of.â
âOh everyone must know now,â poor Strether thoughtfully admitted; âand itâs strange enough and funny enough that one should feel everybody here at this very moment to be knowing and watching and waiting.â
âYesâ âisnât it indeed funny?â Miss Barrace quite rose to it. âThatâs the way we are in Paris.â She was always pleased with a new contribution to that queerness. âItâs wonderful! But, you know,â she declared, âit all depends on you. I donât want to turn the knife in your vitals, but thatâs naturally what you just now meant by our all being on top of you. We know you as the hero of the drama, and weâre gathered to see what youâll do.â
Strether looked at her a moment with a light perhaps slightly obscured. âI think that must be why the hero has taken refuge in this corner. Heâs scared at his heroismâ âhe shrinks from his part.â
âAh but we nevertheless believe heâll play it. Thatâs why,â Miss Barrace kindly went on, âwe take such an interest in you. We feel youâll come up to the scratch.â And then as he seemed perhaps not quite to take fire: âDonât let him do it.â
âDonât let Chad go?â
âYes, keep hold of him. With all thisââ âand she indicated the general tributeâ ââhe has done enough. We love him hereâ âheâs charming.â
âItâs beautiful,â said Strether, âthe way you all can simplify when you will.â
But she gave it to him back. âItâs nothing to the way you will when you must.â
He winced at it as at the very voice of prophecy, and it kept him a moment quiet. He detained her, however, on her appearing about to leave him alone in the rather cold clearance their talk had made. âThere positively isnât a sign of a hero tonight; the heroâs dodging and shirking, the heroâs ashamed. Therefore, you know,
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