the author of beltraffio-第1章

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The　Author　of　Beltraffio

by　Henry　James






CHAPTER　I



Much　as　I　wished　to　see　him　I　had　kept　my　letter　of　introduction
three　weeks　in　my　pocket…book。　　　I　was　nervous　and　timid　about
meeting　himconscious　of　youth　and　ignorance；　convinced　that　he　was
tormented　by　strangers；　and　especially　by　my　country…people；　and　not
exempt　from　the　suspicion　that　he　had　the　irritability　as　well　as　the
dignity　of　genius。　　　Moreover；　the　pleasure；　if　it　should　occurfor
I　could　scarcely　believe　it　was　near　at　handwould　be　so　great　that
I　wished　to　think　of　it　in　advance；　to　feel　it　there　against　my
breast；　not　to　mix　it　with　satisfactions　more　superficial　and　usual。
In　the　little　game　of　new　sensations　that　I　was　playing　with　my
ingenuous　mind　I　wished　to　keep　my　visit　to　the　author　of
〃Beltraffio〃　as　a　trump…card。　　　It　was　three　years　after　the
publication　of　that　fascinating　work；　which　I　had　read　over　five
times　and　which　now；　with　my　riper　judgement；　I　admire　on　the　whole
as　much　as　ever。　　　This　will　give　you　about　the　date　of　my　first
visitof　any　durationto　England　for　you　will　not　have　forgotten
the　commotion；　I　may　even　say　the　scandal；　produced　by　Mark　Ambient's
masterpiece。　　　It　was　the　most　complete　presentation　that　had　yet
been　made　of　the　gospel　of　art；　it　was　a　kind　of　aesthetic　war…cry。
People　had　endeavoured　to　sail　nearer　to　〃truth〃　in　the　cut　of　their
sleeves　and　the　shape　of　their　sideboards；　but　there　had　not　as　yet
been；　among　English　novels；　such　an　example　of　beauty　of　execution
and　〃intimate〃　importance　of　theme。　　　Nothing　had　been　done　in　that
line　from　the　point　of　view　of　art　for　art。　　　That　served　me　as　a
fond　formula；　I　may　mention；　when　I　was　twenty…five；　how　much　it
still　serves　I　won't　take　upon　myself　to　sayespecially　as　the
discerning　reader　will　be　able　to　judge　for　himself。　　　I　had　been　in
England；　briefly；　a　twelve…month　before　the　time　to　which　I　began　by
alluding；　and　had　then　learned　that　Mr。　Ambient　was　in　distant　lands…
…was　making　a　considerable　tour　in　the　East；　so　that　there　was
nothing　to　do　but　to　keep　my　letter　till　I　should　be　in　London　again。
It　was　of　little　use　to　me　to　hear　that　his　wife　had　not　left　England
and　was；　with　her　little　boy；　their　only　child；　spending　the　period
of　her　husband's　absencea　good　many　monthsat　a　small　place　they
had　down　in　Surrey。　　　They　had　a　house　in　London；　but　actually　in　the
occupation　of　other　persons。　　　All　this　I　had　picked　up；　and　also
that　Mrs。　Ambient　was　charmingmy　friend　the　American　poet；　from
whom　I　had　my　introduction；　had　never　seen　her；　his　relations　with
the　great　man　confined　to　the　exchange　of　letters；　but　she　wasn't；
after　all；　though　she　had　lived　so　near　the　rose；　the　author　of
〃Beltraffio；〃　and　I　didn't　go　down　into　Surrey　to　call　on　her。　　　I
went　to　the　Continent；　spent　the　following　winter　in　Italy；　and
returned　to　London　in　May。　　　My　visit　to　Italy　had　opened　my　eyes　to
a　good　many　things；　but　to　nothing　more　than　the　beauty　of　certain
pages　in　the　works　of　Mark　Ambient。　　　I　carried　his　productions　about
in　my　trunkthey　are　not；　as　you　know；　very　numerous；　but　he　had
preluded　to　〃Beltraffio〃　by；　some　exquisite　thingsand　I　used　to
read　them　over　in　the　evening　at　the　inn。　　　I　used　profoundly　to
reason　that　the　man　who　drew　those　characters　and　wrote　that　style
understood　what　he　saw　and　knew　what　he　was　doing。　　　This　is　my　sole
ground　for　mentioning　my　winter　in　Italy。　　　He　had　been　there　much　in
former　yearshe　was　saturated　with　what　painters　call　the　〃feeling〃
of　that　classic　land。　　　He　expressed　the　charm　of　the　old　hill…cities
of　Tuscany；　the　look　of　certain　lonely　grass…grown　places　which；　in
the　past；　had　echoed　with　life；　he　understood　the　great　artists；　he
understood　the　spirit　of　the　Renaissance；　he　understood　everything。
The　scene　of　one　of　his　earlier　novels　was　laid　in　Rome；　the　scene　of
another　in　Florence；　and　I　had　moved　through　these　cities　in　company
with　the　figures　he　set　so　firmly　on　their　feet。　　　This　is　why　I　was
now　so　much　happier　even　than　before　in　the　prospect　of　making　his
acquaintance。

At　last；　when　I　had　dallied　with　my　privilege　long　enough；　I
despatched　to　him　the　missive　of　the　American　poet。　　　He　had　already
gone　out　of　town；　he　shrank　from　the　rigour　of　the　London　〃season〃
and　it　was　his　habit　to　migrate　on　the　first　of　June。　　　Moreover　I
had　heard　he　was　this　year　hard　at　work　on　a　new　book；　into　which
some　of　his　impressions　of　the　East　were　to　be　wrought；　so　that　he
desired　nothing　so　much　as　quiet　days。　　　That　knowledge；　however；
didn't　prevent　mecet　age　est　sans　pitiefrom　sending　with　my
friend's　letter　a　note　of　my　own；　in　which　I　asked　his　leave　to　come
down　and　see　him　for　an　hour　or　two　on　some　day　to　be　named　by
himself。　　　My　proposal　was　accompanied　with　a　very　frank　expression
of　my　sentiments；　and　the　effect　of　the　entire　appeal　was　to　elicit
from　the　great　man　the　kindest　possible　invitation。　　　He　would　be
delighted　to　see　me；　especially　if　I　should　turn　up　on　the　following
Saturday　and　would　remain　till　the　Monday　morning。　　　We　would　take　a
walk　over　the　Surrey　commons；　and　I　could　tell　him　all　about　the
other　great　man；　the　one　in　America。　　　He　indicated　to　me　the　best
train；　and　it　may　be　imagined　whether　on　the　Saturday　afternoon　I　was
punctual　at　Waterloo。　　　He　carried　his　benevolence　to　the　point　of
coming　to　meet　me　at　the　little　station　at　which　I　was　to　alight；　and
my　heart　beat　very　fast　as　I　saw　his　handsome　face；　surmounted　with　a
soft　wide…awake　and　which　I　knew　by　a　photograph　long　since　enshrined
on　my　mantel…shelf；　scanning　the　carriage…windows　as　the　train　rolled
up。　　　He　recognised　me　as　infallibly　as　I　had　recognised　himself；　he
appeared　to　know　by　instinct　how　a　young　American　of　critical
pretensions；　rash　youth；　would　look　when　much　divided　between
eagerness　and　modesty。　　　He　took　me　by　the　hand　and　smiled　at　me　and
said：　　〃You　must　beaYOU；　I　think！〃　and　asked　if　I　should　mind
going　on　foot　to　his　house；　which　would　take　but　a　few　minutes。　　　I
remember　feeling　it　a　piece　of　extraordinary　affability　that　he
should　give　directions　about　the　conveyance　of　my　bag；　I　remember
feeling　altogether　very　happy　and　rosy；　in　fact　quite　transported；
when　he　laid　his　hand　on　my　shoulder　as　we　came　out　of　the　station。

I　surveyed　him；　askance；　as　we　walked　together；　I　had　already；　I　had
indeed　instantly；　seen　him　as　all　delightful。　　　His　face　is　so　well
known　that　I　needn't　describe　it；　he　looked　to　me　at　once　an　English
gentleman　and　a　man　of　genius；　and　I　thought　that　a　happy
combination。　　　There　was　a　brush　of　the　Bohemian　in　his　fineness；　you
would　easily　have　guessed　his　belonging　to　the　artist　guild。　　　He　was
addicted　to　velvet　jackets；　to　cigarettes；　to　loose　shirt…collars；　to
looking　a　little　dishevelled。　　　His　features；　which　were　firm　but　not
perfectly　regular；　are　fairly　enough　represented　in　his　portraits；
but　no　portrait　I　have　seen　gives　any　idea　of　his　expression。　　　There
were　innumerable　things　in　it；　and　they　chased　each　other　in　and　out
of　his　face。　　　I　have　seen　people　who　were　grave　and　gay　in　quick
alternation；　but　Mark　Ambient　was　grave　and　gay　at　one　and　the　same
moment。　　　There　were　other　strange　oppositions　and　contradictions　in
his　slightly　faded　and　fatigued　countenance。　　　He　affected　me　somehow
as　at　once　fresh　and　stale；　at　once　anxious　and　indifferent。　　　He　had
evidently　had　an　active　past；　which　inspired　one　with　curiosity；　yet
what　was　that　compared　to　his　obvious　future？　　He　was　just　enough
above　middle　height　to　be　spoken　of　as　tall；　and　rather　lean　and　long
in　the　flank。　　　He　had　the　friendliest　frankest　manner　possible；　and
yet　I　could　see　it　cost　him　something。　　　It　cost　him　small　spasms　of
the　self…consciousness　that　is　an　Englishman's　last　and　dearest
treasurethe　thing　he　pays　his　way　through　life　by　sacrificing　small
pieces　of　even　as　the　gallant　but　moneyless　adventurer　in　〃Quentin
Durward〃　broke　off　links　of　his　brave　gold　chain。　　　He　had　been
thirty…eight　years　old　at　the　time　〃Beltraffio〃　was　published。　　　He
asked　me　about　his　friend　in　America；　about　the　length　of　my　stay　in
England；　about　the　last　news　i