The Ambassadors

  His impression of Miss Gostrey after her introduction to Chad was meanwhile an impression of a person almost unnaturally on her guard. He struck himself as at first unable to extract from her what he wished; though indeed of what he wished at this special juncture he would doubtless have contrived to make but a crude statement. It sifted and settled nothing to put to her, tout bêtement, as she often said, “Do you like him, eh?”—thanks to his feeling it actually the least of his needs to heap up the evidence in the young man’s favour. He repeatedly knocked at her door to let her have it afresh that Chad’s case—whatever else of minor interest it might yield—was first and foremost a miracle almost monstrous. It was the alteration of the entire man, and was so signal an instance that nothing else, for the intelligent observer, could—could it?—signify. “It’s a plot,” he declared—“there’s more in it than meets the eye.” He gave the rein to his fancy. “It’s a plant!”

  His fancy seemed to please her. “Whose then?”

  “Well, the party responsible is, I suppose, the fate that waits for one, the dark doom that rides. What I mean is that with such elements one can’t count. I’ve but my poor individual, my modest human means. It isn’t playing the game to turn on the uncanny. All one’s energy goes to facing it, to tracking it. One wants, confound it, don’t you see?” he confessed with a queer face—“one wants to enjoy anything so rare. Call it then life”—he puzzled it out—“call it poor dear old life simply that springs the surprise. Nothing alters the fact that the surprise is paralysing, or at any rate engrossing—all, practically, hang it, that one sees, that one can see.”

  Her silences were never barren, nor even dull. “Is that what you’ve written home?”

  He tossed it off. “Oh dear, yes!”

  She had another pause while, across her carpets, he had another walk. “If you don’t look out you’ll have them straight over.”

  “Oh but I’ve said he’ll go back.”

  “And will he?” Miss Gostrey asked.

  The special tone of it made him, pulling up, look at her long. “What’s that but just the question I’ve spent treasures of patience and ingenuity in giving you, by the sight of him—after everything had led up—every facility to answer? What is it but just the thing I came here to-day to get out of you? Will he?”

  “No—he won’t,” she said at last. “He’s not free.”

  The air of it held him. “Then you’ve all the while known—?”

  “I’ve known nothing but what I’ve seen; and I wonder,” she declared with some impatience, “that you didn’t see as much. It was enough to be with him there—”

  “In the box? Yes,” he rather blankly urged.

  “Well—to feel sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  She got up from her chair, at this, with a nearer approach than she had ever yet shown to dismay at his dimness. She even, fairly pausing for it, spoke with a shade of pity. “Guess!”

  It was a shade, fairly, that brought a flush into his face; so that for a moment, as they waited together, their difference was between them. “You mean that just your hour with him told you so much of his story? Very good; I’m not such a fool, on my side, as that I don’t understand you, or as that I didn’t in some degree understand him. That he has done what he liked most isn’t, among any of us, a matter the least in dispute. There’s equally little question at this time of day of what it is he does like most. But I’m not talking,” he reasonably explained, “of any mere wretch he may still pick up. I’m talking of some person who in his present situation may have held her own, may really have counted.”

  “That’s exactly what I am!” said Miss Gostrey. But she as quickly made her point. “I thought you thought—or that they think at Woollett—that that’s what mere wretches necessarily do. Mere wretches necessarily don’t!” she declared with spirit. “There must, behind every appearance to the contrary, still be somebody—somebody who’s not a mere wretch, since we accept the miracle. What else but such a somebody can such a miracle be?”

  He took it in. “Because the fact itself is the woman?”

  “A woman. Some woman or other. It’s one of the things that have to be.”

  “But you mean then at least a good one.”

  “A good woman?” She threw up her arms with a laugh. “I should call her excellent!”

  “Then why does he deny her?”

  Miss Gostrey thought a moment. “Because she’s too good to admit! Don’t you see,” she went on, “how she accounts for him?”

  Strether clearly, more and more, did see; yet it made him also see other things. “But isn’t what we want that he shall account for her?”

  “Well, he does. What you have before you is his way. You must forgive him if it isn’t quite outspoken. In Paris such debts are tacit.”

  Strether could imagine; but still—! “Even when the woman’s good?”

  Again she laughed out. “Yes, and even when the man is! There’s always a caution in such cases,” she more seriously explained—“for what it may seem to show. There’s nothing that’s taken as showing so much here as sudden unnatural goodness.”

  “Ah then you’re speaking now,” Strether said, “of people who are not nice.”

  “I delight,” she replied, “in your classifications. But do you want me,” she asked, “to give you in the matter, on this ground, the wisest advice I’m capable of? Don’t consider her, don’t judge her at all in herself. Consider her and judge her only in Chad.”

  He had the courage at least of his companion’s logic. “Because then I shall like her?” He almost looked, with his quick imagination, as if he already did, though seeing at once also the full extent of how little it would suit his book. “But is that what I came out for?”

  She had to confess indeed that it wasn’t. But there was something else. “Don’t make up your mind. There are all sorts of things. You haven’t seen him all.”

  This on his side Strether recognized; but his acuteness none the less showed him the danger. “Yes, but if the more I see the better he seems?”

  Well, she found something. “That may be—but his disavowal of her isn’t, all the same, pure consideration. There’s a hitch.” She made it out. “It’s the effort to sink her.”

  Strether winced at the image. “To ‘sink’—?”

  “Well, I mean there’s a struggle, and a part of it is just what he hides. Take time—that’s the only way not to make some mistake that you’ll regret. Then you’ll see. He does really want to shake her off.”

  Our friend had by this time so got into the vision that he almost gasped. “After all she has done for him?”

  Miss Gostrey gave him a look which broke the next moment into a wonderful smile. “He’s not so good as you think!”

  They remained with him, these words, promising him, in their character of warning, considerable help; but the support he tried to draw from them found itself on each renewal of contact with Chad defeated by something else. What could it be, this disconcerting force, he asked himself, but the sense, constantly renewed, that Chad was—quite in fact insisted on being—as good as he thought? It seemed somehow as if he couldn’t but be as good from the moment he wasn’t as bad. There was a succession of days at all events when contact with him—and in its immediate effect, as if it could produce no other—elbowed out of Strether’s consciousness everything but itself. Little Bilham once more pervaded the scene, but little Bilham became even in a higher degree than he had originally been one of the numerous forms of the inclusive relation; a consequence promoted, to our friend’s sense, by two or three incidents with which we have yet to make acquaintance. Waymarsh himself, for the occasion, was drawn into the eddy; it absolutely, though but temporarily, swallowed him down, and there were days when Strether seemed to bump against him as a sinking swimmer might brush a submarine object. The fathomless medium held them—Chad’s manner was the fathomless medium; and our friend felt as if they passed each other, in their deep immersion
, with the round impersonal eye of silent fish. It was practically produced between them that Waymarsh was giving him then his chance; and the shade of discomfort that Strether drew from the allowance resembled not a little the embarrassment he had known at school, as a boy, when members of his family had been present at exhibitions. He could perform before strangers, but relatives were fatal, and it was now as if, comparatively, Waymarsh were a relative. He seemed to hear him say “Strike up then!” and to enjoy a foretaste of conscientious domestic criticism. He had struck up, so far as he actually could; Chad knew by this time in profusion what he wanted; and what vulgar violence did his fellow pilgrim expect of him when he had really emptied his mind? It went somehow to and fro that what poor Waymarsh meant was “I told you so—that you’d lose your immortal soul!” but it was also fairly explicit that Strether had his own challenge and that, since they must go to the bottom of things, he wasted no more virtue in watching Chad than Chad wasted in watching him. His dip for duty’s sake—where was it worse than Waymarsh’s own? For he needn’t have stopped resisting and refusing, needn’t have parleyed, at that rate, with the foe.

  The strolls over Paris to see something or call somewhere were accordingly inevitable and natural, and the late sessions in the wondrous troisième, the lovely home, when men dropped in and the picture composed more suggestively through the haze of tobacco, of music more or less good and of talk more or less polyglot, were on a principle not to be distinguished from that of the mornings and the afternoons. Nothing, Strether had to recognize as he leaned back and smoked, could well less resemble a scene of violence than even the liveliest of these occasions. They were occasions of discussion, none the less, and Strether had never in his life heard so many opinions on so many subjects. There were opinions at Woollett, but only on three or four. The differences were there to match; if they were doubtless deep, though few, they were quiet—they were, as might be said, almost as shy as if people had been ashamed of them. People showed little diffidence about such things, on the other hand, in the Boulevard Malesherbes, and were so far from being ashamed of them—or indeed of anything else—that they often seemed to have invented them to avert those agreements that destroy the taste of talk. No one had ever done that at Woollett, though Strether could remember times when he himself had been tempted to it without quite knowing why. He saw why at present—he had but wanted to promote intercourse.

  These, however, were but parenthetic memories; and the turn taken by his affair on the whole was positively that if his nerves were on the stretch it was because he missed violence. When he asked himself if none would then, in connexion with it, ever come at all, he might almost have passed as wondering how to provoke it. It would be too absurd if such a vision as that should have to be invoked for relief; it was already marked enough as absurd that he should actually have begun with flutters and dignities on the score of a single accepted meal. What sort of a brute had he expected Chad to be, anyway?—Strether had occasion to make the enquiry but was careful to make it in private. He could himself, comparatively recent as it was—it was truly but the fact of a few days since—focus his primal crudity; but he would on the approach of an observer, as if handling an illicit possession, have slipped the reminiscence out of sight. There were echoes of it still in Mrs. Newsome’s letters, and there were moments when these echoes made him exclaim on her want of tact. He blushed of course, at once, still more for the explanation than for the ground of it: it came to him in time to save his manners that she couldn’t at the best become tactful as quickly as he. Her tact had to reckon with the Atlantic Ocean, the General Post-Office and the extravagant curve of the globe.

  Chad had one day offered tea at the Boulevard Malesherbes to a chosen few, a group again including the unobscured Miss Barrace; and Strether had on coming out walked away with the acquaintance whom in his letters to Mrs. Newsome he always spoke of as the little artist-man. He had had full occasion to mention him as the other party, so oddly, to the only close personal alliance observation had as yet detected in Chad’s existence. Little Bilham’s way this afternoon was not Strether’s, but he had none the less kindly come with him, and it was somehow a part of his kindness that as it had sadly begun to rain they suddenly found themselves seated for conversation at a café in which they had taken refuge. He had passed no more crowded hour in Chad’s society than the one just ended; he had talked with Miss Barrace, who had reproached him with not having come to see her, and he had above all hit on a happy thought for causing Waymarsh’s tension to relax. Something might possibly be extracted for the latter from the idea of his success with that lady, whose quick apprehension of what might amuse her had given Strether a free hand. What had she meant if not to ask whether she couldn’t help him with his splendid encumbrance, and mightn’t the sacred rage at any rate be kept a little in abeyance by thus creating for his comrade’s mind even in a world of irrelevance the possibility of a relation? What was it but a relation to be regarded as so decorative and, in especial, on the strength of it, to be whirled away, amid flounces and feathers, in a coupé lined, by what Strether could make out, with dark blue brocade? He himself had never been whirled away—never at least in a coupé and behind a footman; he had driven with Miss Gostrey in cabs, with Mrs. Pocock, a few times, in an open buggy, with Mrs. Newsome in a four-seated cart and, occasionally up at the mountains, on a buckboard; but his friend’s actual adventure transcended his personal experience. He now showed his companion soon enough indeed how inadequate, as a general monitor, this last queer quantity could once more feel itself.

  “What game under the sun is he playing?” He signified the next moment that his allusion was not to the fat gentleman immersed in dominoes on whom his eyes had begun by resting, but to their host of the previous hour, as to whom, there on the velvet bench, with a final collapse of all consistency, he treated himself to the comfort of indiscretion. “Where do you see him come out?”

  Little Bilham, in meditation, looked at him with a kindness almost paternal. “Don’t you like it over here?”

  Strether laughed out—for the tone was indeed droll; he let himself go. “What has that to do with it? The only thing I’ve any business to like is to feel that I’m moving him. That’s why I ask you whether you believe I am? Is the creature”—and he did his best to show that he simply wished to ascertain—“honest?”

  His companion looked responsible, but looked it through a small dim smile. “What creature do you mean?”

  It was on this that they did have for a little a mute interchange. “Is it untrue that he’s free? How then,” Strether asked wondering, “does he arrange his life?”

  “Is the creature you mean Chad himself?” little Bilham said.

  Strether here, with a rising hope, just thought, “We must take one of them at a time.” But his coherence lapsed. “Is there some woman? Of whom he’s really afraid of course I mean—or who does with him what she likes.”

  “It’s awfully charming of you,” Bilham presently remarked, “not to have asked me that before.”

  “Oh I’m not fit for my job!”

  The exclamation had escaped our friend, but it made little Bilham more deliberate. “Chad’s a rare case!” he luminously observed. “He’s awfully changed,” he added.

  “Then you see it too?”

  “The way he has improved? Oh yes—I think every one must see it. But I’m not sure,” said little Bilham, “that I didn’t like him about as well in his other state.”

  “Then this is really a new state altogether?”

  “Well,” the young man after a moment returned, “I’m not sure he was really meant by nature to be quite so good. It’s like the new edition of an old book that one has been fond of—revised and amended, brought up to date, but not quite the thing one knew and loved. However that may be at all events,” he pursued, “I don’t think, you know, that he’s really playing, as you call it, any game. I believe he really wants to go back and take up a career. He’s capable of one, you
know, that will improve and enlarge him still more. He won’t then,” little Bilham continued to remark, “be my pleasant well-rubbed old-fashioned volume at all. But of course I’m beastly immoral. I’m afraid it would be a funny world altogether—a world with things the way I like them. I ought, I dare say, to go home and go into business myself. Only I’d simply rather die—simply. And I’ve not the least difficulty in making up my mind not to, and in knowing exactly why, and in defending my ground against all comers. All the same,” he wound up, “I assure you I don’t say a word against it—for himself, I mean—to Chad. I seem to see it as much the best thing for him. You see he’s not happy.”

  “Do I?”—Strether stared. “I’ve been supposing I see just the opposite—an extraordinary case of the equilibrium arrived at and assured.”

  “Oh there’s a lot behind it.”

  “Ah there you are!” Strether exclaimed. “That’s just what I want to get at. You speak of your familiar volume altered out of recognition. Well, who’s the editor?”

  Little Bilham looked before him a minute in silence. “He ought to get married. That would do it. And he wants to.”

  “Wants to marry her?”

  Again little Bilham waited, and, with a sense that he had information, Strether scarce knew what was coming. “He wants to be free. He isn’t used, you see,” the young man explained in his lucid way, “to being so good.”

  Strether hesitated. “Then I may take it from you that he is good?”

  His companion matched his pause, but making it up with a quiet fulness. “Do take it from me.”