The Ambassadors Henry James (novel24 txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
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This assault of images became for a moment, in the address of the distinguished sculptor, almost formidable: Gloriani showed him, in such perfect confidence, on Chadâs introduction of him, a fine worn handsome face, a face that was like an open letter in a foreign tongue. With his genius in his eyes, his manners on his lips, his long career behind him and his honours and rewards all round, the great artist, in the course of a single sustained look and a few words of delight at receiving him, affected our friend as a dazzling prodigy of type. Strether had seen in museumsâ âin the Luxembourg as well as, more reverently, later on, in the New York of the billionairesâ âthe work of his hand; knowing too that after an earlier time in his native Rome he had migrated, in mid-career, to Paris, where, with a personal lustre almost violent, he shone in a constellation: all of which was more than enough to crown him, for his guest, with the light, with the romance, of glory. Strether, in contact with that element as he had never yet so intimately been, had the consciousness of opening to it, for the happy instant, all the windows of his mind, of letting this rather grey interior drink in for once the sun of a clime not marked in his old geography. He was to remember again repeatedly the medal-like Italian face, in which every line was an artistâs own, in which time told only as tone and consecration; and he was to recall in especial, as the penetrating radiance, as the communication of the illustrious spirit itself, the manner in which, while they stood briefly, in welcome and response, face to face, he was held by the sculptorâs eyes. He wasnât soon to forget them, was to think of them, all unconscious, unintending, preoccupied though they were, as the source of the deepest intellectual sounding to which he had ever been exposed. He was in fact quite to cherish his vision of it, to play with it in idle hours; only speaking of it to no one and quite aware he couldnât have spoken without appearing to talk nonsense. Was what it had told him or what it had asked him the greater of the mysteries? Was it the most special flare, unequalled, supreme, of the aesthetic torch, lighting that wondrous world forever, or was it above all the long straight shaft sunk by a personal acuteness that life had seasoned to steel? Nothing on earth could have been stranger and no one doubtless more surprised than the artist himself, but it was for all the world to Strether just then as if in the matter of his accepted duty he had positively been on trial. The deep human expertness in Glorianiâs charming smileâ âoh the terrible life behind it!â âwas flashed upon him as a test of his stuff.
Chad meanwhile, after having easily named his companion, had still more easily turned away and was already greeting other persons present. He was as easy, clever Chad, with the great artist as with his obscure compatriot, and as easy with everyone else as with either: this fell into its place for Strether and made almost a new light, giving him, as a concatenation, something more he could enjoy. He liked Gloriani, but should never see him again; of that he was sufficiently sure. Chad accordingly, who was wonderful with both of them, was a kind of link for hopeless fancy, an implication of possibilitiesâ âoh if everything had been different! Strether noted at all events that he was thus on terms with illustrious spirits, and also thatâ âyes, distinctlyâ âhe hadnât in the least swaggered about it. Our friend hadnât come there only for this figure of Abel Newsomeâs son, but that presence threatened to affect the observant mind as positively central. Gloriani indeed, remembering something and excusing himself, pursued Chad to speak to him, and Strether was left musing on many things. One of them was the question of whether, since he had been tested, he had passed. Did the artist drop him from having made out that he wouldnât do? He really felt just today that he might do better than usual. Hadnât he done well enough, so far as that went, in being exactly so dazzled? and in not having too, as he almost believed, wholly hidden from his host that he felt the latterâs plummet? Suddenly, across the garden, he saw little Bilham approach, and it was a part of the fit that was on him that as their eyes met he guessed also his knowledge. If he had said to him on the instant what was uppermost he would have said: âHave I passed?â âfor of course I know one has to pass here.â Little Bilham would have reassured him, have told him that he exaggerated, and have adduced happily enough the argument of little Bilhamâs own very presence; which, in truth, he could see, was as easy a one as Glorianiâs own or as Chadâs. He himself would perhaps then after a while cease to be frightened, would get the point of view for some of the facesâ âtypes tremendously alien, alien to Woollettâ âthat he had already begun to take in. Who were they all, the dispersed groups and couples, the ladies even more unlike those of Woollett than the gentlemen?â âthis was the enquiry that, when his young friend had greeted him, he did find himself making.
âOh theyâre everyoneâ âall sorts and sizes; of course I mean within limits, though limits down perhaps rather more than limits up. There are always artistsâ âheâs beautiful and inimitable to the cher confrĂšre; and then gros bonnets of many kindsâ âambassadors, cabinet ministers, bankers, generals, what do I know? even Jews. Above all always some awfully nice womenâ âand not too many; sometimes an actress, an artist, a great performerâ âbut only when theyâre not monsters; and in particular
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