The Golden Bowl Henry James (spicy books to read txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
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The young man remembered even now how extraordinarily clearâ âhe couldnât call it anything elseâ âshe had looked, in her prettiness, as she had said it. He also remembered what he had been moved to reply. âThe happiest reigns, we are taught, you know, are the reigns without any history.â
âOh, Iâm not afraid of history!â She had been sure of that. âCall it the bad part, if you likeâ âyours certainly sticks out of you. What was it else,â Maggie Verver had also said, âthat made me originally think of you? It wasnâtâ âas I should suppose you must have seenâ âwhat you call your unknown quantity, your particular self. It was the generations behind you, the follies and the crimes, the plunder and the wasteâ âthe wicked Pope, the monster most of all, whom so many of the volumes in your family library are all about. If Iâve read but two or three yet, I shall give myself up but the moreâ âas soon as I have timeâ âto the rest. Where, thereforeââ âshe had put it to him againâ ââwithout your archives, annals, infamies, would you have been?â
He recalled what, to this, he had gravely returned. âI might have been in a somewhat better pecuniary situation.â 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 girlâs 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 oneâs bath aromatic. No one before him, neverâ ânot even the infamous Popeâ âhad 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 colourâ âof 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 peopleâs, 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 loiteredâ âwhat 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. âYou Americans are almost incredibly romantic.â
âOf course we are. Thatâs just what makes everything so nice for us.â
âEverything?â He had wondered.
âWell, everything thatâs nice at all. The world, the beautiful, worldâ âor everything in it that is beautiful. I mean we see so much.â
He had looked at her a momentâ âand 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: âYou see too muchâ âthatâs what may sometimes make you difficulties. When you donât, at least,â he had amended with a further thought, âsee too little.â 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 theirsâ ânothing, 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 badâ âthat is as goodâ âas herself.
âOh, heâs better,â the girl had freely declared âthat is heâs worse. His relation to the things he cares forâ âand I think it beautifulâ âis absolutely romantic. So is his whole life over hereâ âitâs the most romantic thing I know.â
âYou mean his idea for his native place?â
âYesâ âthe 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. Itâs the work of his life and the motive of everything he does.â
The young man, in his actual mood, could have smiled againâ âsmiled delicately, as he had then smiled at her. âHas it been his motive in letting me have you?â
âYes, my dear, positivelyâ âor in a manner,â she had said.
âAmerican City isnât, by the way, his native town, for, though heâs not old, itâs a young thing compared with himâ âa 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. Youâre at any rate a part of his collection,â she had explainedâ ââone of the things that can only be got over here. Youâre a rarity, an object of beauty, an object of price. Youâre not perhaps absolutely unique, but youâre so curious and eminent that there are very few others like youâ âyou belong to a class about which everything is known. Youâre what they call a morceau de musee.â
âI see. I have the great sign of it,â he had riskedâ ââthat I cost a lot of money.â
âI havenât the least idea,â she had gravely answered, âwhat you costââ âand 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. âWouldnât you find out if it were a question of parting with me? My value would in that case be estimated.â
She had looked at him with her charming eyes, as if his value were well before her. âYes, if you mean that Iâd pay rather than lose you.â
And then there came again what this had made him say. âDonât talk
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