The American Read online

  Produced by Pauline J. Iacono, John Hamm and David Widger

  THE AMERICAN

  by Henry James

  1877

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER I

  On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was recliningat his ease on the great circular divan which at that period occupiedthe centre of the Salon Carré, in the Museum of the Louvre. Thiscommodious ottoman has since been removed, to the extreme regret of allweak-kneed lovers of the fine arts, but the gentleman in question hadtaken serene possession of its softest spot, and, with his head thrownback and his legs outstretched, was staring at Murillo’s beautifulmoon-borne Madonna in profound enjoyment of his posture. He had removedhis hat, and flung down beside him a little red guide-book and anopera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking, and herepeatedly passed his handkerchief over his forehead, with a somewhatwearied gesture. And yet he was evidently not a man to whom fatigue wasfamiliar; long, lean, and muscular, he suggested the sort of vigor thatis commonly known as “toughness.” But his exertions on this particularday had been of an unwonted sort, and he had performed great physicalfeats which left him less jaded than his tranquil stroll through theLouvre. He had looked out all the pictures to which an asterisk wasaffixed in those formidable pages of fine print in his Bädeker; hisattention had been strained and his eyes dazzled, and he had sat downwith an æsthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all thepictures, but at all the copies that were going forward around them, inthe hands of those innumerable young women in irreproachable toilets whodevote themselves, in France, to the propagation of masterpieces, and ifthe truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much more than theoriginal. His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he wasa shrewd and capable fellow, and in truth he had often sat up all nightover a bristling bundle of accounts, and heard the cock crow without ayawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic,and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his life, with avague self-mistrust.

  An observer with anything of an eye for national types would have hadno difficulty in determining the local origin of this undevelopedconnoisseur, and indeed such an observer might have felt a certainhumorous relish of the almost ideal completeness with which he filledout the national mould. The gentleman on the divan was a powerfulspecimen of an American. But he was not only a fine American; he wasin the first place, physically, a fine man. He appeared to possess thatkind of health and strength which, when found in perfection, are themost impressive--the physical capital which the owner does nothing to“keep up.” If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without knowingit. If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot, he walked, but he hadnever known himself to “exercise.” He had no theory with regard tocold bathing or the use of Indian clubs; he was neither an oarsman, arifleman, nor a fencer--he had never had time for these amusements--andhe was quite unaware that the saddle is recommended for certain formsof indigestion. He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had suppedthe night before his visit to the Louvre at the Café Anglais--someonehad told him it was an experience not to be omitted--and he had sleptnone the less the sleep of the just. His usual attitude and carriagewere of a rather relaxed and lounging kind, but when under a specialinspiration, he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier onparade. He never smoked. He had been assured--such things are said--thatcigars were excellent for the health, and he was quite capable ofbelieving it; but he knew as little about tobacco as about homœopathy.He had a very well-formed head, with a shapely, symmetrical balance ofthe frontal and the occipital development, and a good deal of straight,rather dry brown hair. His complexion was brown, and his nose had abold well-marked arch. His eye was of a clear, cold gray, and save fora rather abundant moustache he was clean-shaved. He had the flat jaw andsinewy neck which are frequent in the American type; but the traces ofnational origin are a matter of expression even more than of feature,and it was in this respect that our friend’s countenance was supremelyeloquent. The discriminating observer we have been supposing might,however, perfectly have measured its expressiveness, and yet have beenat a loss to describe it. It had that typical vagueness which is notvacuity, that blankness which is not simplicity, that look of beingcommitted to nothing in particular, of standing in an attitude ofgeneral hospitality to the chances of life, of being very much atone’s own disposal so characteristic of many American faces. It was ourfriend’s eye that chiefly told his story; an eye in which innocenceand experience were singularly blended. It was full of contradictorysuggestions, and though it was by no means the glowing orb of a hero ofromance, you could find in it almost anything you looked for. Frigidand yet friendly, frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous, positiveyet sceptical, confident yet shy, extremely intelligent and extremelygood-humored, there was something vaguely defiant in its concessions,and something profoundly reassuring in its reserve. The cut of thisgentleman’s moustache, with the two premature wrinkles in the cheekabove it, and the fashion of his garments, in which an exposedshirt-front and a cerulean cravat played perhaps an obtrusive part,completed the conditions of his identity. We have approached him,perhaps, at a not especially favorable moment; he is by no means sittingfor his portrait. But listless as he lounges there, rather baffledon the æsthetic question, and guilty of the damning fault (as we havelately discovered it to be) of confounding the merit of the artist withthat of his work (for he admires the squinting Madonna of the younglady with the boyish coiffure, because he thinks the young lady herselfuncommonly taking), he is a sufficiently promising acquaintance.Decision, salubrity, jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within hiscall; he is evidently a practical man, but the idea in his case, hasundefined and mysterious boundaries, which invite the imagination tobestir itself on his behalf.

  As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every now andthen a responsive glance toward her admirer. The cultivation of the finearts appeared to necessitate, to her mind, a great deal of by-play, agreat standing off with folded arms and head drooping from side to side,stroking of a dimpled chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowningand patting of the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wanderinghair-pins. These performances were accompanied by a restless glance,which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman we havedescribed. At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat, and approached theyoung lady. He placed himself before her picture and looked at it forsome moments, during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of hisinspection. Then, addressing her with the single word which constitutedthe strength of his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in amanner which appeared to him to illuminate his meaning, “_Combien?_” heabruptly demanded.

  The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders,put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands.

  “How much?” said our friend, in English. “_Combien?_”

  “Monsieur wishes to buy it?” asked the young lady in French.

  “Very pretty, _splendide. Combien?_” repeated the American.

&n
bsp; “It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It’s a very beautiful subject,” said the young lady.

  “The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it. _Combien?_Write it here.” And he took a pencil from his pocket and showed her thefly-leaf of his guide-book. She stood looking at him and scratching herchin with the pencil. “Is it not for sale?” he asked. And as she stillstood reflecting, and looking at him with an eye which, in spite of herdesire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story, betrayedan almost touching incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her. Shewas simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she mightgo. “I haven’t made a mistake--_pas insulté_, no?” her interlocutorcontinued. “Don’t you understand a little English?”

  The young lady’s aptitude for playing a part at short notice wasremarkable. She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eye and askedhim if he spoke no French. Then, “_Donnez!_” she said briefly, and tookthe open guide-book. In the upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced anumber, in a minute and extremely neat hand. Then she handed back thebook and took up her palette again.

  Our friend read the number: “2,000 francs.” He said nothing for a time,but stood looking at the picture, while the copyist began actively todabble with her paint. “For a copy, isn’t that a good deal?” he asked atlast. “_Pas beaucoup?_”

  The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from headto foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the rightanswer. “Yes, it’s a good deal. But my copy has remarkable qualities, itis worth nothing less.”

  The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but Ihave said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it.He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman’sphrase, and it gratified him to think that she was so honest. Beauty,talent, virtue; she combined everything! “But you must finish it,” hesaid. “_finish_, you know;” and he pointed to the unpainted hand of thefigure.

  “Oh, it shall be finished in perfection in the perfection ofperfections!” cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, shedeposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna’s cheek.

  But the American frowned. “Ah, too red, too red!” he rejoined. “Hercomplexion,” pointing to the Murillo, “is--more delicate.”

  “Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sèvres_biscuit_. I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of myart. And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address?”

  “My address? Oh yes!” And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-bookand wrote something upon it. Then hesitating a moment he said, “If Idon’t like it when it it’s finished, you know, I shall not be obliged totake it.”

  The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself. “Oh, I am very surethat monsieur is not capricious,” she said with a roguish smile.

  “Capricious?” And at this monsieur began to laugh. “Oh no, I’m notcapricious. I am very faithful. I am very constant. _Comprenez?_”

  “Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly. It’s a rare virtue. Torecompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day;next week--as soon as it is dry. I will take the card of monsieur.” Andshe took it and read his name: “Christopher Newman.” Then she tried torepeat it aloud, and laughed at her bad accent. “Your English names areso droll!”

  “Droll?” said Mr. Newman, laughing too. “Did you ever hear ofChristopher Columbus?”

  “_Bien sûr!_ He invented America; a very great man. And is he yourpatron?”

  “My patron?”

  “Your patron-saint, in the calendar.”

  “Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him.”

  “Monsieur is American?”

  “Don’t you see it?” monsieur inquired.

  “And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?” and sheexplained her phrase with a gesture.

  “Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures--_beaucoup, beaucoup_,” saidChristopher Newman.

  “The honor is not less for me,” the young lady answered, “for I am suremonsieur has a great deal of taste.”

  “But you must give me your card,” Newman said; “your card, you know.”

  The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said, “My fatherwill wait upon you.”

  But this time Mr. Newman’s powers of divination were at fault. “Yourcard, your address,” he simply repeated.

  “My address?” said mademoiselle. Then with a little shrug, “Happily foryou, you are an American! It is the first time I ever gave my card toa gentleman.” And, taking from her pocket a rather greasy portemonnaie,she extracted from it a small glazed visiting card, and presented thelatter to her patron. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a greatmany flourishes, “Mlle. Noémie Nioche.” But Mr. Newman, unlike hiscompanion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to himwere equally droll.

  “And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home,” saidMademoiselle Noémie. “He speaks English. He will arrange with you.” And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up,peering over his spectacles at Newman.

  M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung hislittle meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressivethan the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed inthe barber’s window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. Hisscant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highlypolished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person whohad “had losses” and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even thoughthe letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche hadlost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it had frightened him,and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, forfear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman wassaying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat himhuskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at thesame time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors.

  “Monsieur has bought my picture,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “When it’sfinished you’ll carry it to him in a cab.”

  “In a cab!” cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as ifhe had seen the sun rising at midnight.

  “Are you the young lady’s father?” said Newman. “I think she said youspeak English.”

  “Speak English--yes,” said the old man slowly rubbing his hands. “I willbring it in a cab.”

  “Say something, then,” cried his daughter. “Thank him a little--not toomuch.”

  “A little, my daughter, a little?” said M. Nioche perplexed. “How much?”

  “Two thousand!” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “Don’t make a fuss or he’lltake back his word.”

  “Two thousand!” cried the old man, and he began to fumble for hissnuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot; he looked at hisdaughter and then at the picture. “Take care you don’t spoil it!” hecried almost sublimely.

  “We must go home,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “This is a good day’s work.Take care how you carry it!” And she began to put up her utensils.

  “How can I thank you?” said M. Nioche. “My English does not suffice.”

  “I wish I spoke French as well,” said Newman, good-naturedly. “Yourdaughter is very clever.”

  “Oh, sir!” and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyesand nodded several times with a world of sadness. “She has had aneducation--_très-supérieure!_ Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel atten francs the lesson, lessons in oil at twelve francs. I didn’t look atthe francs then. She’s an _artiste_, eh?”

  “Do I understand you to say that you have had reverses?” asked Newman.

  “Reverses? Oh, sir, misfortunes--terrible.”

  “Unsuccessful in business, eh?”

  “Very unsuccessful, sir.”

  “Oh, never fear, you’ll get on your legs again,” said Newman cheerily.

  T
he old man drooped his head on one side and looked at him with anexpression of pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest.

  “What does he say?” demanded Mademoiselle Noémie.

  M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. “He says I will make my fortune again.”

  “Perhaps he will help you. And what else?”

  “He says thou art very clever.”

  “It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?”

  “Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!” And the old man turnedafresh, with a staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on theeasel.

  “Ask him, then, if he would not like to learn French.”

  “To learn French?”

  “To take lessons.”

  “To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?”

  “From you!”

  “From me, my child? How should I give lessons?”

  “_Pas de raisons!_ Ask him immediately!” said Mademoiselle Noémie, withsoft brevity.

  M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter’s eye he collected hiswits, and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he executed hercommands. “Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautifullanguage?” he inquired, with an appealing quaver.

  “To study French?” asked Newman, staring.

  M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised hisshoulders. “A little conversation!”

  “Conversation--that’s it!” murmured Mademoiselle Noémie, who had caughtthe word. “The conversation of the best society.”

  “Our French conversation is famous, you know,” M. Nioche ventured tocontinue. “It’s a great talent.”

  “But isn’t it awfully difficult?” asked Newman, very simply.

  “Not to a man of _esprit_, like monsieur, an admirer of beauty inevery form!” and M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter’sMadonna.

  “I can’t fancy myself chattering French!” said Newman with a laugh. “Andyet, I suppose that the more a man knows the better.”

  “Monsieur expresses that very happily. _Hélas, oui!_”

  “I suppose it would help me a great deal, knocking about Paris, to knowthe language.”

  “Ah, there are so many things monsieur must want to say: difficultthings!”

  “Everything I want to say is difficult. But you give lessons?”

  Poor M. Nioche was embarrassed; he smiled more appealingly. “I am not aregular professor,” he admitted. “I can’t nevertheless tell him that I’ma professor,” he said to his daughter.

  “Tell him it’s a very exceptional chance,” answered Mademoiselle Noémie;“an _homme du monde_--one gentleman conversing with another! Rememberwhat you are--what you have been!”

  “A teacher of languages in neither case! Much more formerly and muchless to-day! And if he asks the price of the lessons?”

  “He won’t ask it,” said Mademoiselle Noémie.

  “What he pleases, I may say?”

  “Never! That’s bad style.”

  “If he asks, then?”

  Mademoiselle Noémie had put on her bonnet and was tying the ribbons.She smoothed them out, with her soft little chin thrust forward. “Tenfrancs,” she said quickly.

  “Oh, my daughter! I shall never dare.”

  “Don’t dare, then! He won’t ask till the end of the lessons, and then Iwill make out the bill.”

  M. Nioche turned to the confiding foreigner again, and stood rubbinghis hands, with an air of seeming to plead guilty which was not intenseronly because it was habitually so striking. It never occurred to Newmanto ask him for a guarantee of his skill in imparting instruction hesupposed of course M. Nioche knew his own language, and his appealingforlornness was quite the perfection of what the American, for vaguereasons, had always associated with all elderly foreigners of thelesson-giving class. Newman had never reflected upon philologicalprocesses. His chief impression with regard to ascertaining thosemysterious correlatives of his familiar English vocables which werecurrent in this extraordinary city of Paris was, that it was simply amatter of a good deal of unwonted and rather ridiculous muscular efforton his own part. “How did you learn English?” he asked of the old man.

  “When I was young, before my miseries. Oh, I was wide awake, then.My father was a great _commerçant_; he placed me for a year in acounting-house in England. Some of it stuck to me; but much I haveforgotten!”

  “How much French can I learn in a month?”

  “What does he say?” asked Mademoiselle Noémie.

  M. Nioche explained.

  “He will speak like an angel!” said his daughter.

  But the native integrity which had been vainly exerted to secure M.Nioche’s commercial prosperity flickered up again. “_Dame_, monsieur!” he answered. “All I can teach you!” And then, recovering himself at asign from his daughter, “I will wait upon you at your hotel.”

  “Oh yes, I should like to learn French,” Newman went on, with democraticconfidingness. “Hang me if I should ever have thought of it! I took forgranted it was impossible. But if you learned my language, why shouldn’tI learn yours?” and his frank, friendly laugh drew the sting from thejest. “Only, if we are going to converse, you know, you must think ofsomething cheerful to converse about.”

  “You are very good, sir; I am overcome!” said M. Nioche, throwing outhis hands. “But you have cheerfulness and happiness for two!”

  “Oh no,” said Newman more seriously. “You must be bright and lively;that’s part of the bargain.”

  M. Nioche bowed, with his hand on his heart. “Very well, sir; you havealready made me lively.”

  “Come and bring me my picture then; I will pay you for it, and we willtalk about that. That will be a cheerful subject!”

  Mademoiselle Noémie had collected her accessories, and she gave theprecious Madonna in charge to her father, who retreated backwards outof sight, holding it at arm’s-length and reiterating his obeisance. Theyoung lady gathered her shawl about her like a perfect Parisienne, andit was with the smile of a Parisienne that she took leave of her patron.