Nona Vincent

Генри Джеймс

Henry James

Nona Vincent

I

“I wondered whether you wouldn’t read it to me,” said Mrs. Alsager, as they lingered a little near the fire before he took leave.  She looked down at the fire sideways, drawing her dress away from it and making her proposal with a shy sincerity that added to her charm.  Her charm was always great for Allan Wayworth, and the whole air of her house, which was simply a sort of distillation of herself, so soothing, so beguiling that he always made several false starts before departure.  He had spent some such good hours there, had forgotten, in her warm, golden drawing-room, so much of the loneliness and so many of the worries of his life, that it had come to be the immediate answer to his longings, the cure for his aches, the harbour of refuge from his storms.  His tribulations were not unprecedented, and some of his advantages, if of a usual kind, were marked in degree, inasmuch as he was very clever for one so young, and very independent for one so poor.  He was eight-and-twenty, but he had lived a good deal and was full of ambitions and curiosities and disappointments.  The opportunity to talk of some of these in Grosvenor Place corrected perceptibly the immense inconvenience of London.  This inconvenience took for him principally the line of insensibility to Allan Wayworth’s literary form.  He had a literary form, or he thought he had, and her intelligent recognition of the circumstance was the sweetest consolation Mrs. Alsager could have administered.  She was even more literary and more artistic than he, inasmuch as he could often work off his overflow (this was his occupation, his profession), while the generous woman, abounding in happy thoughts, but unedited and unpublished, stood there in the rising tide like the nymph of a fountain in the plash of the marble basin.

The year before, in a big newspapery house, he had found himself next her at dinner, and they had converted the intensely material hour into a feast of reason.  There was no motive for her asking him to come to see her but that she liked him, which it was the more agreeable to him to perceive as he perceived at the same time that she was exquisite.  She was enviably free to act upon her likings, and it made Wayworth feel less unsuccessful to infer that for the moment he happened to be one of them.  He kept the revelation to himself, and indeed there was nothing to turn his head in the kindness of a kind woman.  Mrs. Alsager occupied so completely the ground of possession that she would have been condemned to inaction had it not been for the principle of giving.  Her husband, who was twenty years her senior, a massive personality in the City and a heavy one at home (wherever he stood, or even sat, he was monumental), owned half a big newspaper and the whole of a great many other things.  He admired his wife, though she bore no children, and liked her to have other tastes than his, as that seemed to give a greater acreage to their life.  His own appetites went so far he could scarcely see the boundary, and his theory was to trust her to push the limits of hers, so that between them the pair should astound by their consumption.  His ideas were prodigiously vulgar, but some of them had the good fortune to be carried out by a person of perfect delicacy.  Her delicacy made her play strange tricks with them, but he never found this out.  She attenuated him without his knowing it, for what he mainly thought was that he had aggrandised her.  Without her he really would have been bigger still, and society, breathing more freely, was practically under an obligation to her which, to do it justice, it acknowledged by an attitude of mystified respect.  She felt a tremulous need to throw her liberty and her leisure into the things of the soul—the most beautiful things she knew.  She found them, when she gave time to seeking, in a hundred places, and particularly in a dim and sacred region—the region of active pity—over her entrance into which she dropped curtains