Henry James - Henry James - The Complete Novels (The Greatest Novelists of All Time – Book 10)

“Qu’en savez-vous? To-morrow I shall go away.”

“Where shall you go?”

“Anywhere away from here. Back to Silberstadt. I shall write to the Reigning Prince.”

The young man turned a little and looked at her, with his crayon poised. “My dear Eugenia,” he murmured, “were you so happy at sea?”

Eugenia got up; she still held in her hand the drawing her brother had given her. It was a bold, expressive sketch of a group of miserable people on the deck of a steamer, clinging together and clutching at each other, while the vessel lurched downward, at a terrific angle, into the hollow of a wave. It was extremely clever, and full of a sort of tragi-comical power. Eugenia dropped her eyes upon it and made a sad grimace. “How can you draw such odious scenes?” she asked. “I should like to throw it into the fire!” And she tossed the paper away. Her brother watched, quietly, to see where it went. It fluttered down to the floor, where he let it lie. She came toward the window, pinching in her waist. “Why don’t you reproach me — abuse me?” she asked. “I think I should feel better then. Why don’t you tell me that you hate me for bringing you here?”

“Because you would not believe it. I adore you, dear sister! I am delighted to be here, and I am charmed with the prospect.”

“I don’t know what had taken possession of me. I had lost my head,” Eugenia went on.

The young man, on his side, went on plying his pencil. “It is evidently a most curious and interesting country. Here we are, and I mean to enjoy it.”

His companion turned away with an impatient step, but presently came back. “High spirits are doubtless an excellent thing,” she said; “but you give one too much of them, and I can’t see that they have done you any good.”

The young man stared, with lifted eyebrows, smiling; he tapped his handsome nose with his pencil. “They have made me happy!”

“That was the least they could do; they have made you nothing else. You have gone through life thanking fortune for such very small favors that she has never put herself to any trouble for you.”

“She must have put herself to a little, I think, to present me with so admirable a sister.”

“Be serious, Felix. You forget that I am your elder.”

“With a sister, then, so elderly!” rejoined Felix, laughing. “I hoped we had left seriousness in Europe.”

“I fancy you will find it here. Remember that you are nearly thirty years old, and that you are nothing but an obscure Bohemian — a penniless correspondent of an illustrated newspaper.”

“Obscure as much as you please, but not so much of a Bohemian as you think. And not at all penniless! I have a hundred pounds in my pocket. I have an engagement to make fifty sketches, and I mean to paint the portraits of all our cousins, and of all their cousins, at a hundred dollars a head.”

“You are not ambitious,” said Eugenia.

“You are, dear Baroness,” the young man replied.

The Baroness was silent a moment, looking out at the sleet-darkened grave-yard and the bumping horse-cars. “Yes, I am ambitious,” she said at last. “And my ambition has brought me to this dreadful place!” She glanced about her — the room had a certain vulgar nudity; the bed and the window were curtainless — and she gave a little passionate sigh. “Poor old ambition!” she exclaimed. Then she flung herself down upon a sofa which stood near against the wall, and covered her face with her hands.

Her brother went on with his drawing, rapidly and skillfully; after some moments he sat down beside her and showed her his sketch. “Now, don’t you think that ‘s pretty good for an obscure Bohemian?” he asked. “I have knocked off another fifty francs.”

Eugenia glanced at the little picture as he laid it on her lap. “Yes, it is very clever,” she said. And in a moment she added, “Do you suppose our cousins do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get into those things, and look like that.”

Felix meditated awhile. “I really can’t say. It will be interesting to discover.”

“Oh, the rich people can’t!” said the Baroness.

“Are you very sure they are rich?” asked Felix, lightly.

His sister slowly turned in her place, looking at him. “Heavenly powers!” she murmured. “You have a way of bringing out things!”

“It will certainly be much pleasanter if they are rich,” Felix declared.

“Do you suppose if I had not known they were rich I would ever have come?”

The young man met his sister’s somewhat peremptory eye with his bright, contented glance. “Yes, it certainly will be pleasanter,” he repeated.

“That is all I expect of them,” said the Baroness. “I don’t count upon their being clever or friendly — at first — or elegant or interesting. But I assure you I insist upon their being rich.”

Felix leaned his head upon the back of the sofa and looked awhile at the oblong patch of sky to which the window served as frame. The snow was ceasing; it seemed to him that the sky had begun to brighten. “I count upon their being rich,” he said at last, “and powerful, and clever, and friendly, and elegant, and interesting, and generally delightful! Tu vas voir.” And he bent forward and kissed his sister. “Look there!” he went on. “As a portent, even while I speak, the sky is turning the color of gold; the day is going to be splendid.”

And indeed, within five minutes the weather had changed. The sun broke out through the snow-clouds and jumped into the Baroness’s room. “Bonte divine,” exclaimed this lady, “what a climate!”

“We will go out and see the world,” said Felix.

And after a while they went out. The air had grown warm as well as brilliant; the sunshine had dried the pavements. They walked about the streets at hazard, looking at the people and the houses, the shops and the vehicles, the blazing blue sky and the muddy crossings, the hurrying men and the slow-strolling maidens, the fresh red bricks and the bright green trees, the extraordinary mixture of smartness and shabbiness. From one hour to another the day had grown vernal; even in the bustling streets there was an odor of earth and blossom. Felix was immensely entertained. He had called it a comical country, and he went about laughing at everything he saw. You would have said that American civilization expressed itself to his sense in a tissue of capital jokes. The jokes were certainly excellent, and the young man’s merriment was joyous and genial. He possessed what is called the pictorial sense; and this first glimpse of democratic manners stirred the same sort of attention that he would have given to the movements of a lively young person with a bright complexion. Such attention would have been demonstrative and complimentary; and in the present case Felix might have passed for an undispirited young exile revisiting the haunts of his childhood. He kept looking at the violent blue of the sky, at the scintillating air, at the scattered and multiplied patches of color.

“Comme c’est bariole, eh?” he said to his sister in that foreign tongue which they both appeared to feel a mysterious prompting occasionally to use.

“Yes, it is bariole indeed,” the Baroness answered. “I don’t like the coloring; it hurts my eyes.”

“It shows how extremes meet,” the young man rejoined. “Instead of coming to the West we seem to have gone to the East. The way the sky touches the house-tops is just like Cairo; and the red and blue sign-boards patched over the face of everything remind one of Mahometan decorations.”

“The young women are not Mahometan,” said his companion. “They can’t be said to hide their faces. I never saw anything so bold.”

“Thank Heaven they don’t hide their faces!” cried Felix. “Their faces are uncommonly pretty.”