The American by Henry James Read Free Book Online

arm’s-length and reiterating his obeisances. The young lady gathered her shawl about her like a perfect Parisienne, and it was with the smile of a Parisienne that she took leave of her patron.

Chapter II.

    H e wandered back to the divan and seated himself on the other side, in view of the great canvas on which Paul Veronese has depicted the marriage feast of Cana. 1 Wearied as he was he found the picture entertaining; it had an illusion for him; it satisfied his conception, which was ambitious, of what a splendid banquet should be. In the left-hand corner of the picture is a young woman with yellow tresses confined in a golden head-dress; she is bending forward and listening, with the smile of a charming woman at a dinner-party, to her neighbour. Newman detected her in the crowd, admired her, and perceived that she too had her votive copyist—a young man with his hair standing on end. Suddenly he became conscious of the germ of the mania of the “collector;” he had taken the first step; why should he not go on? It was only twenty minutes before that he had bought the first picture of his life, and now he was already thinking of art-patronage as a fascinating pursuit. His reflections quickened his good-humour, and he was on the point of approaching the young man with another
“Combien?”
Two or three facts in this relation are noticeable, although the logical chain which connects them may seem imperfect. He knew Mademoiselle Nioche had asked too much; he bore her no grudge for doing so, and he was determined to pay the young man exactlythe proper sum. At this moment, however, his attention was attracted by a gentleman who had come from another part of the room, and whose manner was that of a stranger to the gallery, although he was equipped with neither guide-book nor opera-glass. He carried a white sun-umbrella, lined with blue silk, and he strolled in front of the Paul Veronese, vaguely looking at it, but much too near to see anything but the grain of the canvas. Opposite to Christopher Newman he paused and turned, and then our friend, who had been observing him, had a chance to verify a suspicion aroused by an imperfect view of his face. The result of this larger scrutiny was that he presently sprang to his feet, strode across the room, and, with an outstretched hand, arrested the gentleman with the blue-lined umbrella. The latter stared, but put out his hand at a venture. He was corpulent and rosy; and though his countenance, which was ornamented with a beautiful flaxen beard, carefully divided in the middle and brushed outward at the sides, was not remarkable for intensity of expression, he looked like a person who would willingly shake hands with anyone. I know not what Newman thought of his face, but he found a want of response in his grasp.
    “Oh, come, come,” he said, laughing; “don’t say, now, you don’t know me—if I have
not
got a white parasol!”
    The sound of his voice quickened the other’s memory, his face expanded to its fullest capacity, and he also broke into a laugh.
    “Why, Newman—I’ll be blowed! Where in the world—I declare—who would have thought? You know you have changed.”
    “You haven’t,” said Newman.
    “Not for the better, no doubt. When did you get here?”
    “Three days ago.”
    “Why didn’t you let me know?”
    “I had no idea
you
were here.”
    “I have been here these six years.”
    “It must be eight or nine since we met.”
    “Something of that sort. We were very young.”
    “It was in St. Louis, during the war. You were in the army.”
    “Oh no, not I. But you were.”
    “I believe I was.”
    “You came out all right?”
    “I came out with my legs and arms—and with satisfaction. All that seems very far away.”
    “And how long have you been in Europe?”
    “Seventeen days.”
    “First time?”
    “Yes, very much so.”
    “Made your everlasting fortune?”
    Christopher Newman was silent a moment, and then, with a tranquil smile, he