The Author of Beltraffio

Генри Джеймс

Henry James

The Author of Beltraffio

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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 him—conscious 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 occur—for I could scarcely believe it was near at hand—would 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 visit—of any duration—to 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 æsthetic 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 say—especially 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 absence—a good many months—at 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 charming—my 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 trunk—they are not, as you know, very numerous, but he had preluded to “Beltraffio” by, some exquisite things—and 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 years—he 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 fig