He liked the ingenuous compatriots—for two or three others soon gathered; he liked the delicate daubs and the free discriminations—involving references indeed, involving enthusiasms and execrations that made him, as they said, sit up; he liked above all the legend of good-humoured poverty, of mutual accommodation fairly raised to the romantic, that he soon read into the scene. The ingenuous compatriots showed a candour, he thought, surpassing even the candour of Woollett; they were red-haired and long-legged, they were quaint and queer and dear and droll; they made the place resound with the vernacular, which he had never known so marked as when figuring for the chosen language, he must suppose, of contemporary art. They twanged with a vengeance the aesthetic lyre—they drew from it wonderful airs. This aspect of their life had an admirable innocence; and he looked on occasion at Maria Gostrey to see to what extent that element reached her. She gave him however for the hour, as she had given him the previous day, no further sign than to show how she dealt with boys; meeting them with the air of old Parisian practice that she had for every one, for everything, in turn. Wonderful about the delicate daubs, masterful about the way to make tea, trustful about the legs of chairs and familiarly reminiscent of those, in the other time, the named, the numbered or the caricatured, who had flourished or failed, disappeared or arrived, she had accepted with the best grace her second course of little Bilham, and had said to Strether, the previous afternoon, on his leaving them, that, since her impression was to be renewed, she would reserve judgement till after the new evidence.
The new evidence was to come, as it proved, in a day or two. He soon had from Maria a message to the effect that an excellent box at the Français had been lent her for the following night; it seeming on such occasions not the least of her merits that she was subject to such approaches. The sense of how she was always paying for something in advance was equalled on Strether’s part only by the sense of how she was always being paid; all of which made for his consciousness, in the larger air, of a lively bustling traffic, the exchange of such values as were not for him to handle. She hated, he knew, at the French play, anything but a box—just as she hated at the English anything but a stall; and a box was what he was already in this phase girding himself to press upon her. But she had for that matter her community with little Bilham: she too always, on the great issues, showed as having known in time. It made her constantly beforehand with him and gave him mainly the chance to ask himself how on the day of their settlement their account would stand. He endeavoured even now to keep it a little straight by arranging that if he accepted her invitation she should dine with him first; but the upshot of this scruple was that at eight o’clock on the morrow he awaited her with Waymarsh under the pillared portico. She hadn’t dined with him, and it was characteristic of their relation that she had made him embrace her refusal without in the least understanding it. She ever caused her rearrangements to affect him as her tenderest touches. It was on that principle for instance that, giving him the opportunity to be amiable again to little Bilham, she had suggested his offering the young man a seat in their box. Strether had dispatched for this purpose a small blue missive to the Boulevard Malesherbes, but up to the moment of their passing into the theatre he had received no response to his message. He held, however, even after they had been for some time conveniently seated, that their friend, who knew his way about, would come in at his own right moment. His temporary absence moreover seemed, as never yet, to make the right moment for Miss Gostrey. Strether had been waiting till to-night to get back from her in some mirrored form her impressions and conclusions. She had elected, as they said, to see little Bilham once; but now she had seen him twice and had nevertheless not said more than a word.
Waymarsh meanwhile sat opposite him with their hostess between; and Miss Gostrey spoke of herself as an instructor of youth introducing her little charges to a work that was one of the glories of literature. The glory was happily unobjectionable, and the little charges were candid; for herself she had travelled that road and she merely waited on their innocence. But she referred in due time to their absent friend, whom it was clear they should have to give up. “He either won’t have got your note,” she said, “or you won’t have got his: he has had some kind of hindrance, and, of course, for that matter, you know, a man never writes about coming to a box.” She spoke as if, with her look, it might have been Waymarsh who had written to the youth, and the latter’s face showed a mixture of austerity and anguish. She went on however as if to meet this. “He’s far and away, you know, the best of them.”
“The best of whom, ma’am?”
“Why of all the long procession—the boys, the girls, or the old men and old women as they sometimes really are; the hope, as one may say, of our country. They’ve all passed, year after year; but there has been no one in particular I’ve ever wanted to stop. I feel—don’t you?—that I want to stop little Bilham; he’s so exactly right as he is.” She continued to talk to Waymarsh. “He’s too delightful. If he’ll only not spoil it! But they always will; they always do; they always have.”
“I don’t think Waymarsh knows,” Strether said after a moment, “quite what it’s open to Bilham to spoil.”
“It can’t be a good American,” Waymarsh lucidly enough replied; “for it didn’t strike me the young man had developed much in that shape.”
“Ah,” Miss Gostrey sighed, “the name of the good American is as easily given as taken away! What is it, to begin with, to be one, and what’s the extraordinary hurry? Surely nothing that’s so pressing was ever so little defined. It’s such an order, really, that before we cook you the dish we must at least have your receipt. Besides, the poor chicks have time! What I’ve seen so often spoiled,” she pursued, “is the happy attitude itself, the state of faith and—what shall I call it?—the sense of beauty. You’re right about him”—she now took in Strether; “little Bilham has them to a charm; we must keep little Bilham along.” Then she was all again for Waymarsh. “The others have all wanted so dreadfully to do something, and they’ve gone and done it in too many cases indeed. It leaves them never the same afterwards; the charm’s always somehow broken. Now he, I think, you know, really won’t. He won’t do the least dreadful little thing. We shall continue to enjoy him just as he is. No—he’s quite beautiful. He sees everything. He isn’t a bit ashamed. He has every scrap of the courage of it that one could ask. Only think what he might do. One wants really—for fear of some accident—to keep him in view. At this very moment perhaps what mayn’t he be up to? I’ve had my disappointments—the poor things are never really safe; or only at least when you have them under your eye. One can never completely trust them. One’s uneasy, and I think that’s why I most miss him now.”
She had wound up with a laugh of enjoyment over her embroidery of her idea—an enjoyment that her face communicated to Strether, who almost wished none the less at this moment that she would let poor Waymarsh alone. He knew more or less what she meant; but the fact wasn’t a reason for her not pretending to Waymarsh that he didn’t. It was craven of him perhaps, but he would, for the high amenity of the occasion, have liked Waymarsh not to be so sure of his wit. Her recognition of it gave him away and, before she had done with him or with that article, would give him worse. What was he, all the same, to do? He looked across the box at his friend; their eyes met; something queer and stiff, something that bore on the situation but that it was better nor to touch, passed in silence between them. Well, the effect of it for Strether was an abrupt reaction, a final impatience of his own tendency to temporize. Where was that taking him anyway? It was one of the quiet instants that sometimes settle more matters than the outbreaks dear to the historic muse. The only qualification of the quietness was the synthetic “Oh hang it!” into which Strether’s share of the silence soundlessly flowered. It represented, this mute ejaculation, a final impulse to burn his ships. These ships, to the historic muse, may seem of course mere cockles, but when he presently spoke to Miss Gostrey it was with the sen
se at least of applying the torch. “Is it then a conspiracy?”
“Between the two young men? Well, I don’t pretend to be a seer or a prophetess,” she presently replied; “but if I’m simply a woman of sense he’s working for you to-night. I don’t quite know how—but it’s in my bones.” And she looked at him at last as if, little material as she yet gave him, he’d really understand. “For an opinion that’s my opinion. He makes you out too well not to.”
“Not to work for me to-night?” Strether wondered. “Then I hope he isn’t doing anything very bad.”
“They’ve got you,” she portentously answered.
“Do you mean he is—?”
“They’ve got you,” she merely repeated. Though she disclaimed the prophetic vision she was at this instant the nearest approach he had ever met to the priestess of the oracle. The light was in her eyes. “You must face it now.”
He faced it on the spot. “They had arranged—?”
“Every move in the game. And they’ve been arranging ever since. He has had every day his little telegram from Cannes.”
It made Strether open his eyes. “Do you know that?”
“I do better. I see it. This was, before I met him, what I wondered whether I was to see. But as soon as I met him I ceased to wonder, and our second meeting made me sure. I took him all in. He was acting—he is still—on his daily instructions.”
“So that Chad has done the whole thing?”
“Oh no—not the whole. We’ve done some of it. You and I and ‘Europe.’ ”
“Europe—yes,” Strether mused.
“Dear old Paris,” she seemed to explain. But there was more, and, with one of her turns, she risked it. “And dear old Waymarsh. You,” she declared, “have been a good bit of it.”
He sat massive. “A good bit of what, ma’am?”
“Why of the wonderful consciousness of our friend here. You’ve helped too in your way to float him to where he is.”
“And where the devil is he?”
She passed it on with a laugh. “Where the devil, Strether, are you?”
He spoke as if he had just been thinking it out. “Well, quite already in Chad’s hands, it would seem.” And he had had with this another thought. “Will that be—just all through Bilham—the way he’s going to work it? It would be, for him, you know, an idea. And Chad with an idea—!”
“Well?” she asked while the image held him.
“Well, is Chad—what shall I say?—monstrous?”
“Oh as much as you like! But the idea you speak of,” she said, “won’t have been his best. He’ll have a better. It won’t be all through little Bilham that he’ll work it.”
This already sounded almost like a hope destroyed. “Through whom else then?”
“That’s what we shall see!” But quite as she spoke she turned, and Strether turned; for the door of the box had opened, with the click of the ouvreuse, from the lobby, and a gentleman, a stranger to them, had come in with a quick step. The door closed behind him, and, though their faces showed him his mistake, his air, which was striking, was all good confidence. The curtain had just again arisen, and, in the hush of the general attention, Strether’s challenge was tacit, as was also the greeting, with a quickly-deprecating hand and smile, of the unannounced visitor. He discreetly signed that he would wait, would stand, and these things and his face, one look from which she had caught, had suddenly worked for Miss Gostrey. She fitted to them all an answer for Strether’s last question. The solid stranger was simply the answer—as she now, turning to her friend, indicated. She brought it straight put for him—it presented the intruder. “Why, through this gentleman!” The gentleman indeed, at the same time, though sounding for Strether a very short name, did practically as much to explain. Strether gasped the name back—then only had he seen. Miss Gostrey had said more than she knew. They were in presence of Chad himself.
Our friend was to go over it afterwards again and again—he was going over it much of the time that they were together, and they were together constantly for three or four days: the note had been so strongly struck during that first half-hour that everything happening since was comparatively a minor development. The fact was that his perception of the young man’s identity—so absolutely checked for a minute—had been quite one of the sensations that count in life; he certainly had never known one that had acted, as he might have said, with more of a crowded rush. And the rush, though both vague and multitudinous, had lasted a long time, protected, as it were, yet at the same time aggravated, by the circumstance of its coinciding with a stretch of decorous silence. They couldn’t talk without disturbing the spectators in the part of the balcony just below them; and it, for that matter, came to Strether—being a thing of the sort that did come to him—that these were the accidents of a high civilization; the imposed tribute to propriety, the frequent exposure to conditions, usually brilliant, in which relief has to await its time. Relief was never quite near at hand for kings, queens, comedians and other such people, and though you might be yourself not exactly one of those, you could yet, in leading the life of high pressure, guess a little how they sometimes felt. It was truly the life of high pressure that Strether had seemed to feel himself lead while he sat there, close to Chad, during the long tension of the act. He was in presence of a fact that occupied his whole mind, that occupied for the half-hour his senses themselves all together; but he couldn’t without inconvenience show anything—which moreover might count really as luck. What he might have shown, had he shown at all, was exactly the kind of emotion—the emotion of bewilderment—that he had proposed to himself from the first, whatever should occur, to show least. The phenomenon that had suddenly sat down there with him was a phenomenon of change so complete that his imagination, which had worked so beforehand, felt itself, in the connexion, without margin or allowance. It had faced every contingency but that Chad should not be Chad, and this was what it now had to face with a mere strained smile and an uncomfortable flush.
He asked himself if, by any chance, before he should have in some way to commit himself, he might feel his mind settled to the new vision, might habituate it, so to speak, to the remarkable truth. But oh it was too remarkable, the truth; for what could be more remarkable than this sharp rupture of an identity? You could deal with a man as himself—you couldn’t deal with him as somebody else. It was a small source of peace moreover to be reduced to wondering how little he might know in such an event what a sum he was setting you. He couldn’t absolutely not know, for you couldn’t absolutely not let him. It was a case then simply, a strong case, as people nowadays called such things, a case of transformation unsurpassed, and the hope was but in the general law that strong cases were liable to control from without. Perhaps he, Strether himself, was the only person after all aware of it. Even Miss Gostrey, with all her science, wouldn’t be, would she?—and he had never seen anyone less aware of anything than Waymarsh as he glowered at Chad. The social sightlessness of his old friend’s survey marked for him afresh, and almost in an humiliating way, the inevitable limits of direct aid from this source. He was not certain, however, of not drawing a shade of compensation from the privilege, as yet untasted, of knowing more about something in particular than Miss Gostrey did. His situation too was a case, for that matter, and he was now so interested, quite so privately agog, about it, that he had already an eye to the fun it would be to open up to her afterwards. He derived during his half-hour no assistance from her, and just this fact of her not meeting his eyes played a little, it must be confessed, into his predicament.
He had introduced Chad, in the first minutes, under his breath, and there was never the primness in her of the person unacquainted; but she had none the less betrayed at first no vision but of the stage, where she occasionally found a pretext for an appreciative moment that she invited Waymarsh to share. The latter’s faculty of participation had never had, all round, such an assault to meet; the pressure on him being the sharper for this chosen attitude in h
er, as Strether judged it, of isolating, for their natural intercourse, Chad and himself. This intercourse was meanwhile restricted to a frank friendly look from the young man, something markedly like a smile, but falling far short of a grin, and to the vivacity of Strether’s private speculation as to whether he carried himself like a fool. He didn’t quite see how he could so feel as one without somehow showing as one. The worst of that question moreover was that he knew it as a symptom the sense of which annoyed him. “If I’m going to be odiously conscious of how I may strike the fellow,” he reflected, “it was so little what I came out for that I may as well stop before I begin.” This sage consideration too, distinctly, seemed to leave untouched the fact that he was going to be conscious. He was conscious of everything but of what would have served him.
He was to know afterwards, in the watches of the night, that nothing would have been more open to him than after a minute or two to propose to Chad to seek with him the refuge of the lobby. He hadn’t only not proposed it, but had lacked even the presence of mind to see it as possible. He had stuck there like a school-boy wishing not to miss a minute of the show; though for that portion of the show then presented he hadn’t had an instant’s real attention. He couldn’t when the curtain fell have given the slightest account of what had happened. He had therefore, further, not at that moment acknowledged the amenity added by this acceptance of his awkwardness to Chad’s general patience. Hadn’t he none the less known at the very time—known it stupidly and without reaction—that the boy was accepting something? He was modestly benevolent, the boy—that was at least what he had been capable of the superiority of making out his chance to be; and one had one’s self literally not had the gumption to get in ahead of him. If we should go into all that occupied our friend in the watches of the night we should have to mend our pen; but an instance or two may mark for us the vividness with which he could remember. He remembered the two absurdities that, if his presence of mind had failed, were the things that had had most to do with it. He had never in his life seen a young man come into a box at ten o’clock at night, and would, if challenged on the question in advance, have scarce been ready to pronounce as to different ways of doing so. But it was in spite of this definite to him that Chad had had a way that was wonderful: a fact carrying with it an implication that, as one might imagine it, he knew, he had learned, how.