Chapter I

by Henry James

　　On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was recliningat his ease on the great circular divan which at that period occupiedthe centre of the Salon Carre, in the Museum of the Louvre.This commodious ottoman has since been removed, to the extreme regretof all weak-kneed lovers of the fine arts, but the gentleman in questionhad taken serene possession of its softest spot, and, with his headthrown back and his legs outstretched, was staring at Murillo'sbeautiful moon-borne Madonna in profound enjoyment of his posture.He had removed his hat, and flung down beside him a little red guide-bookand an opera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking,and he repeatedly passed his handkerchief over his forehead,with a somewhat wearied gesture. And yet he was evidently nota man to whom fatigue was familiar; long, lean, and muscular,he suggested the sort of vigor that is commonly known as "toughness."But his exertions on this particular day had been of an unwonted sort,and he had performed great physical feats which left him less jadedthan his tranquil stroll through the Louvre. He had looked out allthe pictures to which an asterisk was affixed in those formidablepages of fine print in his Badeker; his attention had been strainedand his eyes dazzled, and he had sat down with an aesthetic headache.He had looked, moreover, not only at all the pictures, but at allthe copies that were going forward around them, in the hands of thoseinnumerable young women in irreproachable toilets who devote themselves,in France, to the propagation of masterpieces, and if the truth mustbe told, he had often admired the copy much more than the original.His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he was a shrewdand capable fellow, and in truth he had often sat up all night overa bristling bundle of accounts, and heard the cock crow without a yawn.But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic,and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his life,with a vague self-mistrust.

　　An observer with anything of an eye for national types wouldhave had no difficulty in determining the local originof this undeveloped connoisseur, and indeed such an observermight have felt a certain humorous relish of the almost idealcompleteness with which he filled out the national mould.The gentleman on the divan was a powerful specimen of an American.But he was not only a fine American; he was in the first place,physically, a fine man. He appeared to possess that kind of healthand strength which, when found in perfection, are the most impressive--the physical capital which the owner does nothing to "keep up."If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without knowing it.If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot, he walked,but he had never known himself to "exercise." He had no theorywith regard to cold bathing or the use of Indian clubs;he was neither an oarsman, a rifleman, nor a fencer--he hadnever had time for these amusements--and he was quite unawarethat the saddle is recommended for certain forms of indigestion.He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had suppedthe night before his visit to the Louvre at the Cafe Anglais--some one had told him it was an experience not to be omitted--and he had slept none the less the sleep of the just.His usual attitude and carriage were of a rather relaxedand lounging kind, but when under a special inspiration,he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier on parade.He never smoked. He had been assured--such things are said--that cigars were excellent for the health, and he was quitecapable of believing it; but he knew as little about tobacco asabout homeopathy. He had a very well-formed head, with a shapely,symmetrical balance of the frontal and the occipital development,and a good deal of straight, rather dry brown hair.His complexion was brown, and his nose had a bold well-marked arch.His eye was of a clear, cold gray, and save for a ratherabundant mustache he was clean-shaved. He had the flat jawand sinewy neck which are frequent in the American type;but the traces of national origin are a matter of expression evenmore than of feature, and it was in this respect that our friend'scountenance was supremely eloquent. The discriminating observerwe have been supposing might, however, perfectly have measuredits expressiveness, and yet have been at a loss to describe it.It had that typical vagueness which is not vacuity,that blankness which is not simplicity, that look of beingcommitted to nothing in particular, of standing in an attitudeof general hospitality to the chances of life, of being very muchat one's own disposal so characteristic of many American faces.It was our friend's eye that chiefly told his story; an eyein which innocence and experience were singularly blended.It was full of contradictory suggestions, and though itwas by no means the glowing orb of a hero of romance,you could find in it almost anything you looked for.Frigid and yet friendly, frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous,positive yet skeptical, confident yet shy, extremely intelligentand extremely good-humored, there was something vaguely defiant inits concessions, and something profoundly reassuring in its reserve.The cut of this gentleman's mustache, with the two prematurewrinkles in the cheek above it, and the fashion of his garments,in which an exposed shirt-front and a cerulean cravat played perhapsan obtrusive part, completed the conditions of his identity.We have approached him, perhaps, at a not especially favorable moment;he is by no means sitting for his portrait. But listlessas he lounges there, rather baffled on the aesthetic question,and guilty of the damning fault (as we have lately discovered it to be)of confounding the merit of the artist with that of his work(for he admires the squinting Madonna of the young lady withthe boyish coiffure, because he thinks the young lady herselfuncommonly taking), he is a sufficiently promising acquaintance.Decision, salubrity, jocosity, prosperity, seem to hoverwithin his call; he is evidently a practical man, but the ideain his case, has undefined and mysterious boundaries,which invite the imagination to bestir itself on his behalf.

　　As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every now and thena responsive glance toward her admirer. The cultivation of the finearts appeared to necessitate, to her mind, a great deal of byplay,a great standing off with folded arms and head drooping from side to side,stroking of a dimpled chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowningand patting of the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wanderinghair-pins. These performances were accompanied by a restless glance,which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman we have described.At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat, and approached the young lady.He placed himself before her picture and looked at it for some moments,during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of his inspection.Then, addressing her with the single word which constituted the strengthof his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in a manner which appearedto him to illuminate his meaning, "Combien?" he abruptly demanded.

　　The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders,put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands.

　　"How much?" said our friend, in English. "Combien?"

　　"Monsieur wishes to buy it?" asked the young lady in French.

　　"Very pretty, splendide. Combien?" repeated the American.

　　"It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It's a very beautiful subject,"said the young lady.

　　"The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it. Combien?Write it here." And he took a pencil from his pocket and showedher the fly-leaf of his guide-book. She stood looking at him andscratching her chin with the pencil. "Is it not for sale?" he asked.And as she still stood reflecting, and looking at him with an eye which,in spite of her desire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story,betrayed an almost touching incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her.She simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she might go."I haven't made a mistake--pas insulte, no?" her interlocutor continued."Don't you understand a little English?"

　　The young lady's aptitude for playing a part at short noticewas remarkable. She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eyeand asked him if he spoke no French. Then, "Donnez!" she said briefly,and took the open guide-book. In the upper corner of the fly-leafshe traced a number, in a minute and extremely neat hand.Then she handed back the book and took up her palette again.

　　Our friend read the number: "2,000 francs."He said nothing for a time, but stood looking at the picture,while the copyist began actively to dabble with her paint."For a copy, isn't that a good deal?" he asked at last."Pas beaucoup?"

　　The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from headto foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right answer."Yes, it's a good deal. But my copy has remarkable qualities, it isworth nothing less."

　　The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but Ihave said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it.He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the youngwoman's phrase, and it gratified him to think that she wasso honest. Beauty, talent, virtue; she combined everything!"But you must finish it," he said. "finish, you know;"and he pointed to the unpainted hand of the figure.

　　"Oh, it shall be finished in perfection; in the perfection of perfections!"cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she deposited a rosy blotchin the middle of the Madonna's cheek.

　　But the American frowned. "Ah, too red, too red!" he rejoined."Her complexion," pointing to the Murillo, "is--more delicate."

　　"Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sevres biscuit.I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art.And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address?"

　　"My address? Oh yes!" And the gentleman drew a card fromhis pocket-book and wrote something upon it. Then hesitatinga moment he said, "If I don't like it when it it's finished,you know, I shall not be obliged to take it."

　　The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself."Oh, I am very sure that monsieur is not capricious,"she said with a roguish smile.

　　"Capricious?" And at this monsieur began to laugh."Oh no, I'm not capricious. I am very faithful.I am very constant. Comprenez?"

　　"Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly. It's a rare virtue.To recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day;next week--as soon as it is dry. I will take the card of monsieur."And she took it and read his name: "Christopher Newman."Then she tried to repeat it aloud, and laughed at her bad accent."Your English names are so droll!"

　　"Droll?" said Mr. Newman, laughing too. "Did you ever hearof Christopher Columbus?"

　　"Bien sur! He invented America; a very great man.And is he your patron?"

　　"My patron?"

　　"Your patron-saint, in the calendar."

　　"Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him."

　　"Monsieur is American?"

　　"Don't you see it?" monsieur inquired.

　　"And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?"and she explained her phrase with a gesture.

　　"Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures--beaucoup, beaucoup,"said Christopher Newman.

　　"The honor is not less for me," the young lady answered,"for I am sure monsieur has a great deal of taste."

　　"But you must give me your card," Newman said; "your card, you know."

　　The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said,"My father will wait upon you."

　　But this time Mr. Newman's powers of divination were at fault."Your card, your address," he simply repeated.

　　"My address?" said mademoiselle. Then with a little shrug,"Happily for you, you are an American! It is the first time Iever gave my card to a gentleman." And, taking from her pocketa rather greasy porte-monnaie, she extracted from it a smallglazed visiting card, and presented the latter to her patron.It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes,"Mlle. Noemie Nioche." But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion,read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to himwere equally droll.

　　"And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home,"said Mademoiselle Noemie. "He speaks English. He will arrange with you."And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up,peering over his spectacles at Newman.

　　M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung hislittle meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressivethan the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayedin the barber's window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility.His scant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves,his highly polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the storyof a person who had "had losses" and who clung to the spiritof nice habits even though the letter had been hopelessly effaced.Among other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not onlyruined him, it had frightened him, and he was evidently going throughhis remnant of life on tiptoe, for fear of waking up the hostile fates.If this strange gentleman was saying anything improper to his daughter,M. Nioche would entreat him huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear;but he would admit at the same time that he was very presumptuousto ask for particular favors.

　　"Monsieur has bought my picture," said Mademoiselle Noemie."When it's finished you'll carry it to him in a cab."

　　"In a cab!" cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way,as if he had seen the sun rising at midnight.

　　"Are you the young lady's father?" said Newman."I think she said you speak English."

　　"Speak English--yes," said the old man slowly rubbing his hands."I will bring it in a cab."

　　"Say something, then," cried his daughter. "Thank him a little--not too much."

　　"A little, my daughter, a little?" said M. Nioche perplexed."How much?"

　　"Two thousand!" said Mademoiselle Noemie. "Don't make a fussor he'll take back his word."

　　"Two thousand!" cried the old man, and he began to fumblefor his snuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot;he looked at his daughter and then at the picture."Take care you don't spoil it!" he cried almost sublimely.

　　"We must go home," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "This is a good day's work.Take care how you carry it!" And she began to put up her utensils.

　　"How can I thank you?" said M. Nioche. "My English does not suffice."

　　"I wish I spoke French as well," said Newman, good-naturedly. "Yourdaughter is very clever."

　　"Oh, sir!" and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearfuleyes and nodded several times with a world of sadness."She has had an education--tres-superieure! Nothing was spared.Lessons in pastel at ten francs the lesson, lessons in oilat twelve francs. I didn't look at the francs then.She's an artiste, ah!"

　　"Do I understand you to say that you have had reverses?" asked Newman.

　　"Reverses? Oh, sir, misfortunes--terrible."

　　"Unsuccessful in business, eh?"

　　"Very unsuccessful, sir."

　　"Oh, never fear, you'll get on your legs again," said Newman cheerily.

　　The old man drooped his head on one side and looked at him with an expressionof pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest.

　　"What does he say?" demanded Mademoiselle Noemie.

　　M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. "He says I will make my fortune again."

　　"Perhaps he will help you. And what else?"

　　"He says thou art very clever."

　　"It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?"

　　"Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!"And the old man turned afresh, with a staring, wondering homage,to the audacious daub on the easel.

　　"Ask him, then. if he would not like to learn French."

　　"To learn French?"

　　"To take lessons."

　　"To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?"

　　"From you!"

　　"From me, my child? How should I give lessons?"

　　"Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!" said Mademoiselle Noemie,with soft brevity.

　　M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter's eye he collected his wits,and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he executed her commands."Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautiful language?"he inquired, with an appealing quaver.

　　"To study French?" asked Newman, staring.

　　M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised his shoulders."A little conversation!"

　　"Conversation--that's it!" murmured Mademoiselle Noemie, who had caughtthe word. "The conversation of the best society."

　　"Our French conversation is famous, you know," M. Nioche venturedto continue. "It's a great talent."

　　"But isn't it awfully difficult?" asked Newman, very simply.

　　"Not to a man of esprit, like monsieur, an admirer of beauty in every form!"and M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter's Madonna.

　　"I can't fancy myself chattering French!" said Newman with a laugh."And yet, I suppose that the more a man knows the better."

　　"Monsieur expresses that very happily. Helas, oui!"

　　"I suppose it would help me a great deal, knocking about Paris,to know the language."

　　"Ah, there are so many things monsieur must want to say: difficult things!"

　　"Everything I want to say is difficult. But you give lessons?"

　　Poor M. Nioche was embarrassed; he smiled more appealingly."I am not a regular professor," he admitted. "I can't neverthelesstell him that I'm a professor," he said to his daughter.

　　"Tell him it's a very exceptional chance," answered Mademoiselle Noemie;"an homme du monde--one gentleman conversing with another!Remember what you are--what you have been!"

　　"A teacher of languages in neither case! Much more formerly and muchless to-day! And if he asks the price of the lessons?"

　　"He won't ask it," said Mademoiselle Noemie.

　　"What he pleases, I may say?"

　　"Never! That's bad style."

　　"If he asks, then?"

　　Mademoiselle Noemie had put on her bonnet and was tying the ribbons.She smoothed them out, with her soft little chin thrust forward."Ten francs," she said quickly.

　　"Oh, my daughter! I shall never dare."

　　"Don't dare, then! He won't ask till the end of the lessons,and then I will make out the bill."

　　M. Nioche turned to the confiding foreigner again, and stoodrubbing his hands, with an air of seeming to plead guilty whichwas not intenser only because it was habitually so striking.It never occurred to Newman to ask him for a guarantee of hisskill in imparting instruction; he supposed of course M. Niocheknew his own language, and his appealing forlornness was quitethe perfection of what the American, for vague reasons, had alwaysassociated with all elderly foreigners of the lesson-giving class.Newman had never reflected upon philological processes.His chief impression with regard to ascertaining those mysteriouscorrelatives of his familiar English vocables which were currentin this extraordinary city of Paris was, that it was simplya matter of a good deal of unwonted and rather ridiculousmuscular effort on his own part. "How did you learn English?"he asked of the old man.

　　"When I was young, before my miseries. Oh, I was wide awake, then.My father was a great commercant; he placed me for a yearin a counting-house in England. Some of it stuck to me;but I have forgotten!"

　　"How much French can I learn in a month?"

　　"What does he say?" asked Mademoiselle Noemie.

　　M. Nioche explained.

　　"He will speak like an angel!" said his daughter.

　　But the native integrity which had been vainly exerted tosecure M. Nioche's commercial prosperity flickered up again."Dame, monsieur!" he answered. "All I can teach you!"And then, recovering himself at a sign from his daughter,"I will wait upon you at your hotel."

　　"Oh yes, I should like to learn French," Newman went on,with democratic confidingness. "Hang me if I should everhave thought of it! I took for granted it was impossible.But if you learned my language, why shouldn't I learn yours?"and his frank, friendly laugh drew the sting from the jest."Only, if we are going to converse, you know, you must thinkof something cheerful to converse about."

　　"You are very good, sir; I am overcome!" said M. Nioche, throwing outhis hands. "But you have cheerfulness and happiness for two!"

　　"Oh no," said Newman more seriously. "You must be bright and lively;that's part of the bargain."

　　M. Nioche bowed, with his hand on his heart. "Very well, sir;you have already made me lively."

　　"Come and bring me my picture then; I will pay you for it,and we will talk about that. That will be a cheerful subject!"

　　Mademoiselle Noemie had collected her accessories, and she gavethe precious Madonna in charge to her father, who retreated backwardsout of sight, holding it at arm's-length and reiterating his obeisance.The young lady gathered her shawl about her like a perfect Parisienne,and it was with the smile of a Parisienne that she took leaveof her patron.