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Henry James >> Louisa Pallant
Produced by Eve Sobol
LOUISA PALLANT
HENRY JAMES
I
Never say you know the last words about any human heart! I was once
treated to a revelation which startled and touched me in the nature of a
person with whom I had been acquainted--well, as I supposed--for years,
whose character I had had good reasons, heaven knows, to appreciate and
in regard to whom I flattered myself I had nothing more to learn.
It was on the terrace of the Kursaal at Homburg, nearly ten years ago,
one beautiful night toward the end of July. I had come to the place that
day from Frankfort, with vague intentions, and was mainly occupied in
waiting for my young nephew, the only son of my sister, who had been
entrusted to my care by a very fond mother for the summer--I was
expected to show him Europe, only the very best of it--and was on his
way from Paris to join me. The excellent band discoursed music not too
abstruse, while the air was filled besides with the murmur of different
languages, the smoke of many cigars, the creak on the gravel of the
gardens of strolling shoes and the thick tinkle of beer-glasses. There
were a hundred people walking about, there were some in clusters at
little tables and many on benches and rows of chairs, watching the
others as if they had paid for the privilege and were rather
disappointed. I was among these last; I sat by myself, smoking my cigar
and thinking of nothing very particular while families and couples
passed and repassed me.
I scarce know how long I had sat when I became aware of a recognition
which made my meditations definite. It was on my own part, and the
object of it was a lady who moved to and fro, unconscious of my
observation, with a young girl at her side. I hadn't seen her for ten
years, and what first struck me was the fact not that she was Mrs. Henry
Pallant, but that the girl who was with her was remarkably pretty--or
rather first of all that every one who passed appeared extremely to
admire. This led me also to notice the young lady myself, and her
charming face diverted my attention for some time from that of her
companion. The latter, moreover, though it was night, wore a thin light
veil which made her features vague. The couple slowly walked and walked,
but though they were very quiet and decorous, and also very well
dressed, they seemed to have no friends. Every one observed but no one
addressed them; they appeared even themselves to exchange very few
words. Moreover they bore with marked composure and as if they were
thoroughly used to it the attention they excited. I am afraid it
occurred to me to take for granted that they were of an artful intention
and that if they hadn't been the elder lady would have handed the
younger over a little less to public valuation and not have sought so to
conceal her own face. Perhaps this question came into my mind too easily
just then--in view of my prospective mentorship to my nephew. If I was
to show him only the best of Europe I should have to be very careful
about the people he should meet--especially the ladies--and the
relations he should form. I suspected him of great innocence and was
uneasy about my office. Was I completely relieved and reassured when I
became aware that I simply had Louisa Pallant before me and that the
girl was her daughter Linda, whom I had known as a child--Linda grown up
to charming beauty?
The question was delicate and the proof that I was not very sure is
perhaps that I forbore to speak to my pair at once. I watched them a
while--I wondered what they would do. No great harm assuredly; but I was
anxious to see if they were really isolated. Homburg was then a great
resort of the English--the London season took up its tale there toward
the first of August--and I had an idea that in such a company as that
Louisa would naturally know people. It was my impression that she
"cultivated" the English, that she had been much in London and would be
likely to have views in regard to a permanent settlement there. This
supposition was quickened by the sight of Linda's beauty, for I knew
there is no country in which such attractions are more appreciated. You
will see what time I took, and I confess that as I finished my cigar I
thought it all over. There was no good reason in fact why I should have
rushed into Mrs. Pallant's arms. She had not treated me well and we had
never really made it up. Somehow even the circumstance that--after the
first soreness--I was glad to have lost her had never put us quite right
with each other; nor, for herself, had it made her less ashamed of her
heartless behaviour that poor Pallant proved finally no great catch. I
had forgiven her; I hadn't felt it anything but an escape not to have
married a girl who had in her to take back her given word and break a
fellow's heart for mere flesh-pots--or the shallow promise, as it
pitifully turned out, of flesh-pots. Moreover we had met since then--on
the occasion of my former visit to Europe; had looked each other in the
eyes, had pretended to be easy friends and had talked of the wickedness
of the world as composedly as if we were the only just, the only pure. I
knew by that time what she had given out--that I had driven her off by
my insane jealousy before she ever thought of Henry Pallant, before she
had ever seen him. This hadn't been before and couldn't be to-day a
ground of real reunion, especially if you add to it that she knew
perfectly what I thought of her. It seldom ministers to friendship, I
believe, that your friend shall know your real opinion, for he knows it
mainly when it's unfavourable, and this is especially the case if--let
the solecism pass!--he be a woman. I hadn't followed Mrs. Pallant's
fortunes; the years went by for me in my own country, whereas she led
her life, which I vaguely believed to be difficult after her husband's
death--virtually that of a bankrupt--in foreign lands. I heard of her
from time to time; always as "established" somewhere, but on each
occasion in a different place. She drifted from country to country, and
if she had been of a hard composition at the beginning it could never
occur to me that her struggle with society, as it might be called, would
have softened the paste. Whenever I heard a woman spoken of as "horribly
worldly" I thought immediately of the object of my early passion. I
imagined she had debts, and when I now at last made up my mind to recall
myself to her it was present to me that she might ask me to lend her
money. More than anything else, however, at this time of day, I was
sorry for her, so that such an idea didn't operate as a deterrent.
She pretended afterwards that she hadn't noticed me--expressing as we
stood face to face great surprise and wishing to know where I had
dropped from; but I think the corner of her eye had taken me in and she
had been waiting to see what I would do. She had ended by sitting down
with her girl on the same row of chairs with myself, and after a little,
the seat next to her becoming vacant, I had gone and stood before her.
She had then looked up at me a moment, staring as if she couldn't
imagine who I was or what I wanted; after which, smiling and extending
her hands, she had broken out: "Ah my dear old friend--what a delight!"
If she had waited to see what I would do in order to choose her own line
she thus at least carried out this line with the utmost grace. She was
cordial, friendly, artless, interested, and indeed I'm sure she was very
glad to see me. I may as well say immediately, none the less, that she
gave me neither then nor later any sign of a desire to contract a loan.
She had scant means--that I learned--yet seemed for the moment able to
pay her way. I took the empty chair and we remained in talk for an hour.
After a while she made me sit at her other side, next her daughter, whom
she wished to know me--to love me--as one of their oldest friends. "It
goes back, back, back, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Pallant; "and of course
she remembers you as a child." Linda smiled all sweetly and blankly, and
I saw she remembered me not a whit. When her mother threw out that they
had often talked about me she failed to take it up, though she looked
extremely nice. Looking nice was her strong point; she was prettier even
than her mother had been. She was such a little lady that she made me
ashamed of having doubted, however vaguely and for a moment, of her
position in the scale of propriety. Her appearance seemed to say that if
she had no acquaintances it was because she didn't want them--because
nobody there struck her as attractive: there wasn't the slightest
difficulty about her choosing her friends. Linda Pallant, young as she
was, and fresh and fair and charming, gentle and sufficiently shy,
looked somehow exclusive--as if the dust of the common world had never
been meant to besprinkle her. She was of thinner consistency than her
mother and clearly not a young woman of professions--except in so far as
she was committed to an interest in you by her bright pure candid smile.
No girl who had such a lovely way of parting her lips could pass for
designing.
As I sat between the pair I felt I had been taken possession of and that
for better or worse my stay at Homburg would be intimately associated
with theirs. We gave each other a great deal of news and expressed
unlimited interest in each other's history since our last meeting. I
mightn't judge of what Mrs. Pallant kept back, but for myself I quite
overflowed. She let me see at any rate that her life had been a good
deal what I supposed, though the terms she employed to describe it were
less crude than those of my thought. She confessed they had drifted, she
and her daughter, and were drifting still. Her narrative rambled and
took a wrong turn, a false flight, or two, as I thought Linda noted,
while she sat watching the passers, in a manner that betrayed no
consciousness of their attention, without coming to her mother's aid.
Once or twice Mrs. Pallant made me rather feel a cross-questioner, which
I had had no intention of being. I took it that if the girl never put in
a word it was because she had perfect confidence in her parent's ability
to come out straight. It was suggested to me, I scarcely knew how, that
this confidence between the two ladies went to a great length; that
their union of thought, their system of reciprocal divination, was
remarkable, and that they probably seldom needed to resort to the clumsy
and in some cases dangerous expedient of communicating by sound. I
suppose I made this reflexion not all at once--it was not wholly the
result of that first meeting. I was with them constantly for the next
several days and my impressions had time to clarify.
I do remember, however, that it was on this first evening that Archie's
name came up. She attributed her own stay at Homburg to no refined nor
exalted motive--didn't put it that she was there from force of habit or
because a high medical authority had ordered her to drink the waters;
she frankly admitted the reason of her visit to have been simply that
she didn't know where else to turn. But she appeared to assume that my
behaviour rested on higher grounds and even that it required
explanation, the place being frivolous and modern--devoid of that
interest of antiquity which I had ever made so much of. "Don't you
remember--ever so long ago--that you wouldn't look at anything in Europe
that wasn't a thousand years old? Well, as we advance in life I suppose
we don't think that quite such a charm." And when I mentioned that I had
arrived because the place was as good as another for awaiting my nephew
she exclaimed: "Your nephew--what nephew? He must have come up of late."
I answered that his name was Archie Parker and that he was modern
indeed; he was to attain legal manhood in a few months and was in Europe
for the first time. My last news of him had been from Paris and I was
expecting to hear further from one day to the other. His father was
dead, and though a selfish bachelor, little versed in the care of
children, I was considerably counted on by his mother to see that he
didn't smoke nor flirt too much, nor yet tumble off an Alp.
Mrs. Pallant immediately guessed that his mother was my sister
Charlotte, whom she spoke of familiarly, though I knew she had scarce
seen her. Then in a moment it came to her which of the Parkers Charlotte
had married; she remembered the family perfectly from the old New York
days--"that disgustingly rich set." She said it was very nice having the
boy come out that way to my care; to which I replied that it was very
nice for the boy. She pronounced the advantage rather mine--I ought to
have had children; there was something so parental about me and I would
have brought them up so well. She could make an allusion like that--to
all that might have been and had not been--without a gleam of guilt in
her eye; and I foresaw that before I left the place I should have
confided to her that though I detested her and was very glad we had
fallen out, yet our old relations had left me no heart for marrying
another woman. If I had remained so single and so sterile the fault was
nobody's but hers. She asked what I meant to do with my nephew--to which
I replied that it was much more a question of what he would do with me.
She wished to know if he were a nice young man and had brothers and
sisters and any particular profession. I assured her I had really seen
little of him; I believed him to be six feet high and of tolerable
parts. He was an only son, but there was a little sister at home, a
delicate, rather blighted child, demanding all the mother's care.
"So that makes your responsibility greater, as it were, about the boy,
doesn't it?" said Mrs. Pallant.
"Greater? I'm sure I don't know."
"Why if the girl's life's uncertain he may become, some moment, all the
mother has. So that being in your hands--"
"Oh I shall keep him alive, I suppose, if you mean that," I returned.
"Well, WE won't kill him, shall we, Linda?" my friend went on with a
laugh.
"I don't know--perhaps we shall!" smiled the girl.
II
I called on them the next at their lodgings, the modesty of which was
enhanced by a hundred pretty feminine devices--flowers and photographs
and portable knick-knacks and a hired piano and morsels of old brocade
flung over angular sofas. I took them to drive; I met them again at the
Kursaal; I arranged that we should dine together, after the Homburg
fashion, at the same table d'hote; and during several days this revived
familiar intercourse continued, imitating intimacy if not quite
achieving it. I was pleased, as my companions passed the time for me and
the conditions of our life were soothing--the feeling of summer and
shade and music and leisure in the German gardens and woods, where we
strolled and sat and gossiped; to which may be added a vague sociable
sense that among people whose challenge to the curiosity was mainly not
irresistible we kept quite to ourselves. We were on the footing of old
friends who still had in regard to each other discoveries to make. We
knew each other's nature but didn't know each other's experience; so
that when Mrs. Pallant related to me what she had been "up to," as I
called it, for so many years, the former knowledge attached a hundred
interpretative footnotes--as if I had been editing an author who
presented difficulties--to the interesting page. There was nothing new
to me in the fact that I didn't esteem her, but there was relief in my
finding that this wasn't necessary at Homburg and that I could like her
in spite of it. She struck me, in the oddest way, as both improved and
degenerate; the two processes, in her nature, might have gone on
together. She was battered and world-worn and, spiritually speaking,
vulgarised; something fresh had rubbed off her--it even included the
vivacity of her early desire to do the best thing for herself--and
something rather stale had rubbed on. At the same time she betrayed a
scepticism, and that was rather becoming, for it had quenched the
eagerness of her prime, the mercenary principle I had so suffered from.
She had grown weary and detached, and since she affected me as more
impressed with the evil of the world than with the good, this was a
gain; in other words her accretion of indifference, if not of cynicism,
showed a softer surface than that of her old ambitions. Furthermore I
had to recognise that her devotion to her daughter was a kind of
religion; she had done the very best possible for Linda.
Linda was curious, Linda was interesting; I've seen girls I liked
better--charming as this one might be--but have never seen one who for
the hour you were with her (the impression passed somehow when she was
out of sight) occupied you so completely. I can best describe the
attention she provoked by saying that she struck you above all things as
a felicitous FINAL product--after the fashion of some plant or some
fruit, some waxen orchid or some perfect peach. She was clearly the
result of a process of calculation, a process patiently educative, a
pressure exerted, and all artfully, so that she should reach a high
point.
This high point had been the star of her mother's heaven--it hung before
her so unquenchably--and had shed the only light (in default of a
better) that was to shine on the poor lady's path. It stood her instead
of every other ideal. The very most and the very best--that was what the
girl had been led on to achieve; I mean of course, since no real miracle
had been wrought, the most and the best she was capable of. She was as
pretty, as graceful, as intelligent, as well-bred, as well-informed, as
well-dressed, as could have been conceived for her; her music, her
singing, her German, her French, her English, her step, her tone, her
glance, her manner, everything in her person and movement, from the
shade and twist of her hair to the way you saw her finger-nails were
pink when she raised her hand, had been carried so far that one found
one's self accepting them as the very measure of young grace. I regarded
her thus as a model, yet it was a part of her perfection that she had
none of the stiffness of a pattern. If she held the observation it was
because you wondered where and when she would break down; but she never
broke down, either in her French accent or in her role of educated
angel.
After Archie had come the ladies were manifestly his greatest resource,
and all the world knows why a party of four is more convenient than a
party of three. My nephew had kept me waiting a week, with a serenity
all his own; but this very coolness was a help to harmony--so long, that
is, as I didn't lose my temper with it. I didn't, for the most part,
because my young man's unperturbed acceptance of the most various forms
of good fortune had more than anything else the effect of amusing me. I
had seen little of him for the last three or four years; I wondered what
his impending majority would have made of him--he didn't at all carry
himself as if the wind of his fortune were rising--and I watched him
with a solicitude that usually ended in a joke. He was a tall fresh-
coloured youth, with a candid circular countenance and a love of
cigarettes, horses and boats which had not been sacrificed to more
strenuous studies. He was reassuringly natural, in a supercivilised age,
and I soon made up my mind that the formula of his character was in the
clearing of the inward scene by his so preordained lack of imagination.
If he was serene this was still further simplifying. After that I had
time to meditate on the line that divides the serene from the inane, the
simple from the silly. He wasn't clever; the fonder theory quite defied
our cultivation, though Mrs. Pallant tried it once or twice; but on the
other hand it struck me his want of wit might be a good defensive
weapon. It wasn't the sort of density that would let him in, but the
sort that would keep him out. By which I don't mean that he had
shortsighted suspicions, but that on the contrary imagination would
never be needed to save him, since she would never put him in danger. He
was in short a well-grown well-washed muscular young American, whose
extreme salubrity might have made him pass for conceited. If he looked
pleased with himself it was only because he was pleased with life--as
well he might be, with the fortune that awaited the stroke of his
twenty-first year--and his big healthy independent person was an
inevitable part of that. I am bound to add that he was accommodating--
for which I was grateful. His habits were active, but he didn't insist
on my adopting them and he made numerous and generous sacrifices for my
society. When I say he made them for mine I must duly remember that mine
and that of Mrs. Pallant and Linda were now very much the same thing. He
was willing to sit and smoke for hours under the trees or, adapting his
long legs to the pace of his three companions, stroll through the nearer
woods of the charming little hill-range of the Taunus to those rustic
Wirthschaften where coffee might be drunk under a trellis. Mrs. Pallant
took a great interest in him; she made him, with his easy uncle, a
subject of discourse; she pronounced him a delightful specimen, as a
young gentleman of his period and country. She even asked me the sort of
"figure" his fortune might really amount to, and professed a rage of
envy when I told her what I supposed it to be. While we were so occupied
Archie, on his side, couldn't do less than converse with Linda, nor to
tell the truth did he betray the least inclination for any different
exercise. They strolled away together while their elders rested; two or
three times, in the evening, when the ballroom of the Kursaal was
lighted and dance-music played, they whirled over the smooth floor in a
waltz that stirred my memory. Whether it had the same effect on Mrs.
Pallant's I know not: she held her peace. We had on certain occasions
our moments, almost our half-hours, of unembarrassed silence while our
young companions disported themselves. But if at other times her
enquiries and comments were numerous on this article of my ingenuous
charge, that might very well have passed for a courteous recognition of
the frequent admiration I expressed for Linda--an admiration that drew
from her, I noticed, but scant direct response. I was struck thus with
her reserve when I spoke of her daughter--my remarks produced so little
of a maternal flutter. Her detachment, her air of having no fatuous
illusions and not being blinded by prejudice, seemed to me at times to
savour of affectation. Either she answered me with a vague and impatient
sigh and changed the subject, or else she said before doing so: "Oh yes,
yes, she's a very brilliant creature. She ought to be: God knows what
I've done for her!" The reader will have noted my fondness, in all
cases, for the explanations of things; as an example of which I had my
theory here that she was disappointed in the girl. Where then had her
special calculation failed? As she couldn't possibly have wished her
prettier or more pleasing, the pang must have been for her not having
made a successful use of her gifts. Had she expected her to "land" a
prince the day after leaving the schoolroom? There was after all plenty
of time for this, with Linda but two-and-twenty. It didn't occur to me
to wonder if the source of her mother's tepidity was that the young lady
had not turned out so nice a nature as she had hoped, because in the
first place Linda struck me as perfectly innocent, and because in the
second I wasn't paid, in the French phrase, for supposing Louisa Pallant
much concerned on that score. The last hypothesis I should have invoked
was that of private despair at bad moral symptoms. And in relation to
Linda's nature I had before me the daily spectacle of her manner with my
nephew. It was as charming as it could be without betrayal of a desire
to lead him on. She was as familiar as a cousin, but as a distant one--a
cousin who had been brought up to observe degrees. She was so much
cleverer than Archie that she couldn't help laughing at him, but she
didn't laugh enough to exclude variety, being well aware, no doubt, that
a woman's cleverness most shines in contrast with a man's stupidity when
she pretends to take that stupidity for her law. Linda Pallant moreover
was not a chatterbox; as she knew the value of many things she knew the
value of intervals. There were a good many in the conversation of these
young persons; my nephew's own speech, to say nothing of his thought,
abounding in comfortable lapses; so that I sometimes wondered how their
association was kept at that pitch of continuity of which it gave the
impression. It was friendly enough, evidently, when Archie sat near her
--near enough for low murmurs, had such risen to his lips--and watched
her with interested eyes and with freedom not to try too hard to make
himself agreeable. She had always something in hand--a flower in her
tapestry to finish, the leaves of a magazine to cut, a button to sew on
her glove (she carried a little work-bag in her pocket and was a person
of the daintiest habits), a pencil to ply ever so neatly in a sketchbook
which she rested on her knee. When we were indoors--mainly then at her
mother's modest rooms--she had always the resource of her piano, of
which she was of course a perfect mistress.