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

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E-artnow presents to you the complete novels by one of the greatest novelist of English literature. This collection includes:
Watch and Ward
Roderick Hudson
The American
The Europeans
Confidence
Washington Square
The Portrait of a Lady
The Bostonians
The Princess Casamassima
The Reverberator
The Tragic Muse
The Other House
The Spoils of Poynton
What Maisie Knew
The Awkward Age
The Sacred Fount
The Wings of the Dove
The Ambassadors
The Golden Bowl
The Outcry
The Ivory Tower
The Sense of the Past
Henry James (1843-1916) was an American-British writer who spent most of his writing career in Britain. James is regarded as one of the key figures of 19th-century literary realism. He is best known for a number of novels dealing with the social and marital interplay between émigré Americans, English people, and continental Europeans – examples of such novels include The Portrait of a Lady, The Ambassadors, and The Wings of the Dove.

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Miss Garland looked at him, smiling intently, and went to the window again. “I expect to enjoy it,” she said. “Don’t be afraid; I am not wasteful.”

“I am afraid we are not qualified, you know,” said Mrs. Hudson. “We are told that you must know so much, that you must have read so many books. Our taste has not been cultivated. When I was a young lady at school, I remember I had a medal, with a pink ribbon, for ‘proficiency in Ancient History’— the seven kings, or is it the seven hills? and Quintus Curtius and Julius Caesar and — and that period, you know. I believe I have my medal somewhere in a drawer, now, but I have forgotten all about the kings. But after Roderick came to Italy we tried to learn something about it. Last winter Mary used to read ‘Corinne’ to me in the evenings, and in the mornings she used to read another book, to herself. What was it, Mary, that book that was so long, you know — in fifteen volumes?”

“It was Sismondi’s Italian Republics,” said Mary, simply.

Rowland could not help laughing; whereupon Mary blushed. “Did you finish it?” he asked.

“Yes, and began another — a shorter one — Roscoe’s Leo the Tenth.”

“Did you find them interesting?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do you like history?”

“Some of it.”

“That’s a woman’s answer! And do you like art?”

She paused a moment. “I have never seen it!”

“You have great advantages, now, my dear, with Roderick and Mr. Mallet,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I am sure no young lady ever had such advantages. You come straight to the highest authorities. Roderick, I suppose, will show you the practice of art, and Mr. Mallet, perhaps, if he will be so good, will show you the theory. As an artist’s wife, you ought to know something about it.”

“One learns a good deal about it, here, by simply living,” said Rowland; “by going and coming about one’s daily avocations.”

“Dear, dear, how wonderful that we should be here in the midst of it!” murmured Mrs. Hudson. “To think of art being out there in the streets! We did n’t see much of it last evening, as we drove from the depot. But the streets were so dark and we were so frightened! But we are very easy now; are n’t we, Mary?”

“I am very happy,” said Mary, gravely, and wandered back to the window again.

Roderick came in at this moment and kissed his mother, and then went over and joined Miss Garland. Rowland sat with Mrs. Hudson, who evidently had a word which she deemed of some value for his private ear. She followed Roderick with intensely earnest eyes.

“I wish to tell you, sir,” she said, “how very grateful — how very thankful — what a happy mother I am! I feel as if I owed it all to you, sir. To find my poor boy so handsome, so prosperous, so elegant, so famous — and ever to have doubted of you! What must you think of me? You’re our guardian angel, sir. I often say so to Mary.”

Rowland wore, in response to this speech, a rather haggard brow. He could only murmur that he was glad she found Roderick looking well. He had of course promptly asked himself whether the best discretion dictated that he should give her a word of warning — just turn the handle of the door through which, later, disappointment might enter. He had determined to say nothing, but simply to wait in silence for Roderick to find effective inspiration in those confidently expectant eyes. It was to be supposed that he was seeking for it now; he remained sometime at the window with his cousin. But at last he turned away and came over to the fireside with a contraction of the eyebrows which seemed to intimate that Miss Garland’s influence was for the moment, at least, not soothing. She presently followed him, and for an instant Rowland observed her watching him as if she thought him strange. “Strange enough,” thought Rowland, “he may seem to her, if he will!” Roderick directed his glance to his friend with a certain peremptory air, which — roughly interpreted — was equivalent to a request to share the intellectual expense of entertaining the ladies. “Good heavens!” Rowland cried within himself; “is he already tired of them?”

“To-morrow, of course, we must begin to put you through the mill,” Roderick said to his mother. “And be it hereby known to Mallet that we count upon him to turn the wheel.”

“I will do as you please, my son,” said Mrs. Hudson. “So long as I have you with me I don’t care where I go. We must not take up too much of Mr. Mallet’s time.”

“His time is inexhaustible; he has nothing under the sun to do. Have you, Rowland? If you had seen the big hole I have been making in it! Where will you go first? You have your choice — from the Scala Santa to the Cloaca Maxima.”

“Let us take things in order,” said Rowland. “We will go first to Saint Peter’s. Miss Garland, I hope you are impatient to see Saint Peter’s.”

“I would like to go first to Roderick’s studio,” said Miss Garland.

“It’s a very nasty place,” said Roderick. “At your pleasure!”

“Yes, we must see your beautiful things before we can look contentedly at anything else,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“I have no beautiful things,” said Roderick. “You may see what there is! What makes you look so odd?”

This inquiry was abruptly addressed to his mother, who, in response, glanced appealingly at Mary and raised a startled hand to her smooth hair.

“No, it’s your face,” said Roderick. “What has happened to it these two years? It has changed its expression.”

“Your mother has prayed a great deal,” said Miss Garland, simply.

“I did n’t suppose, of course, it was from doing anything bad! It makes you a very good face — very interesting, very solemn. It has very fine lines in it; something might be done with it.” And Rowland held one of the candles near the poor lady’s head.

She was covered with confusion. “My son, my son,” she said with dignity, “I don’t understand you.”

In a flash all his old alacrity had come to him. “I suppose a man may admire his own mother!” he cried. “If you please, madame, you’ll sit to me for that head. I see it, I see it! I will make something that a queen can’t get done for her.”

Rowland respectfully urged her to assent; he saw Roderick was in the vein and would probably do something eminently original. She gave her promise, at last, after many soft, inarticulate protests and a frightened petition that she might be allowed to keep her knitting.

Rowland returned the next day, with plenty of zeal for the part Roderick had assigned to him. It had been arranged that they should go to Saint Peter’s. Roderick was in high good-humor, and, in the carriage, was watching his mother with a fine mixture of filial and professional tenderness. Mrs. Hudson looked up mistrustfully at the tall, shabby houses, and grasped the side of the barouche in her hand, as if she were in a sail-boat, in dangerous waters. Rowland sat opposite to Miss Garland. She was totally oblivious of her companions; from the moment the carriage left the hotel, she sat gazing, wide-eyed and absorbed, at the objects about them. If Rowland had felt disposed he might have made a joke of her intense seriousness. From time to time he told her the name of a place or a building, and she nodded, without looking at him. When they emerged into the great square between Bernini’s colonnades, she laid her hand on Mrs. Hudson’s arm and sank back in the carriage, staring up at the vast yellow facade of the church. Inside the church, Roderick gave his arm to his mother, and Rowland constituted himself the especial guide of Miss Garland. He walked with her slowly everywhere, and made the entire circuit, telling her all he knew of the history of the building. This was a great deal, but she listened attentively, keeping her eyes fixed on the dome. To Rowland himself it had never seemed so radiantly sublime as at these moments; he felt almost as if he had contrived it himself and had a right to be proud of it. He left Miss Garland a while on the steps of the choir, where she had seated herself to rest, and went to join their companions. Mrs. Hudson was watching a great circle of tattered contadini, who were kneeling before the image of Saint Peter. The fashion of their tatters fascinated her; she stood gazing at them in a sort of terrified pity, and could not be induced to look at anything else. Rowland went back to Miss Garland and sat down beside her.

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