The Lesson of the Master.txt

The Lesson of the Master 







        by Henry James















He had been told the ladies were at church, but this was corrected



by what he saw from the top of the steps - they descended from a



great height in two arms, with a circular sweep of the most



charming effect - at the threshold of the door which, from the long



bright gallery, overlooked the immense lawn.  Three gentlemen, on



the grass, at a distance, sat under the great trees, while the



fourth figure showed a crimson dress that told as a "bit of colour"



amid the fresh rich green.  The servant had so far accompanied Paul



Overt as to introduce him to this view, after asking him if he



wished first to go to his room.  The young man declined that



privilege, conscious of no disrepair from so short and easy a



journey and always liking to take at once a general perceptive



possession of a new scene.  He stood there a little with his eyes



on the group and on the admirable picture, the wide grounds of an



old country-house near London - that only made it better - on a



splendid Sunday in June.  "But that lady, who's SHE?" he said to



the servant before the man left him.







"I think she's Mrs. St. George, sir."







"Mrs. St. George, the wife of the distinguished - "  Then Paul



Overt checked himself, doubting if a footman would know.







"Yes, sir - probably, sir," said his guide, who appeared to wish to



intimate that a person staying at Summersoft would naturally be, if



only by alliance, distinguished.  His tone, however, made poor



Overt himself feel for the moment scantly so.







"And the gentlemen?" Overt went on.







"Well, sir, one of them's General Fancourt."







"Ah yes, I know; thank you."  General Fancourt was distinguished,



there was no doubt of that, for something he had done, or perhaps



even hadn't done - the young man couldn't remember which - some



years before in India.  The servant went away, leaving the glass



doors open into the gallery, and Paul Overt remained at the head of



the wide double staircase, saying to himself that the place was



sweet and promised a pleasant visit, while he leaned on the



balustrade of fine old ironwork which, like all the other details,



was of the same period as the house.  It all went together and



spoke in one voice - a rich English voice of the early part of the



eighteenth century.  It might have been church-time on a summer's



day in the reign of Queen Anne; the stillness was too perfect to be



modern, the nearness counted so as distance, and there was



something so fresh and sound in the originality of the large smooth



house, the expanse of beautiful brickwork that showed for pink



rather than red and that had been kept clear of messy creepers by



the law under which a woman with a rare complexion disdains a veil.



When Paul Overt became aware that the people under the trees had



noticed him he turned back through the open doors into the great



gallery which was the pride of the place.  It marched across from



end to end and seemed - with its bright colours, its high panelled



windows, its faded flowered chintzes, its quickly-recognised



portraits and pictures, the blue-and-white china of its cabinets



and the attenuated festoons and rosettes of its ceiling - a



cheerful upholstered avenue into the other century.







Our friend was slightly nervous; that went with his character as a



student of fine prose, went with the artist's general disposition



to vibrate; and there was a particular thrill in the idea that



Henry St. George might be a member of the party.  For the young



aspirant he had remained a high literary figure, in spite of the



lower range of production to which he had fallen after his first



three great successes, the comparative absence of quality in his



later work.  There had been moments when Paul Overt almost shed



tears for this; but now that he was near him - he had never met him



- he was conscious only of the fine original source and of his own



immense debt.  After he had taken a turn or two up and down the



gallery he came out again and descended the steps.  He was but



slenderly supplied with a certain social boldness - it was really a



weakness in him - so that, conscious of a want of acquaintance with



the four persons in the distance, he gave way to motions



recommended by their not committing him to a positive approach.



There was a fine English awkwardness in this - he felt that too as



he sauntered vaguely and obliquely across the lawn, taking an



independent line.  Fortunately there was an equally fine English



directness in the way one of the gentlemen presently rose and made



as if to "stalk" him, though with an air of conciliation and



reassurance.  To this demonstration Paul Overt instantly responded,



even if the gentleman were not his host.  He was tall, straight and



elderly and had, like the great house itself, a pink smiling face,



and into the bargain a white moustache.  Our young man met him



halfway while he laughed and said:  "Er - Lady Watermouth told us



you were coming; she asked me just to look after you."  Paul Overt



thanked him, liking him on the spot, and turned round with him to



walk toward the others.  "They've all gone to church - all except



us," the stranger continued as they went; "we're just sitting here



- it's so jolly."  Overt pronounced it jolly indeed:  it was such a



lovely place.  He mentioned that he was having the charming



impression for the first time.







"Ah you've not been here before?" said his companion.  "It's a nice



little place - not much to DO, you know".  Overt wondered what he



wanted to "do" - he felt that he himself was doing so much.  By the



time they came to where the others sat he had recognised his



initiator for a military man and - such was the turn of Overt's



imagination - had found him thus still more sympathetic.  He would



naturally have a need for action, for deeds at variance with the



pacific pastoral scene.  He was evidently so good-natured, however,



that he accepted the inglorious hour for what it was worth.  Paul



Overt shared it with him and with his companions for the next



twenty minutes; the latter looked at him and he looked at them



without knowing much who they were, while the talk went on without



much telling him even what it meant.  It seemed indeed to mean



nothing in particular; it wandered, with casual pointless pauses



and short terrestrial flights, amid names of persons and places -



names which, for our friend, had no great power of evocation.  It



was all sociable and slow, as was right and natural of a warm



Sunday morning.







His first attention was given to the question, privately



considered, of whether one of the two younger men would be Henry



St. George.  He knew many of his distinguished contemporaries by



their photographs, but had never, as happened, seen a portrait of



the great misguided novelist.  One of the gentlemen was



unimaginable - he was too young; and the other scarcely looked



clever enough, with such mild undiscriminating eyes.  If those eyes



were St. George's the problem, presented by the ill-matched parts



of his genius would be still more difficult of solution.  Besides,



the deportment of their proprietor was not, as regards the lady in



the red dress, such as could be natural, toward the wife of his



bosom, even to a writer accused by several critics of sacrificing



too much to manner.  Lastly Paul Overt had a vague sense that if



the gentleman with the expressionless eyes bore the name that had



set his heart beating faster (he also had contradictory



conventional whiskers - the young admirer of the celebrity had



never in a mental vision seen HIS face in so vulgar a frame) he



would have given him a sign of recognition or of friendliness,



would have heard of him a little, would know something about



"Ginistrella," would have an impression of how that fresh fiction



had caught the eye of real criticism.  Paul Overt had a dread of



being grossly proud, but even morbid modesty might view the



authorship of "Ginistrella" as constituting a degree of identity.



His soldierly friend became clear enough:  he was "Fancourt," but



was also "the General"; and he mentioned to the new visitor in the



course of a few moments that he had but lately returned from twenty



years service abroad.







"And now you remain in England?" the young man asked.







"Oh yes; I've bought a small house in London."







"And I hope you like it," said Overt, looking at Mrs. St. George.







"Well, a little house in Manchester Square - there's a limit to the



enthusiasm THAT inspires."







"Oh I meant being at home again - being back in Piccadilly."







"My daughter likes Piccadilly - that's the main thing.  She's very



fond of art and music and literature and all that kind of thing.



She missed it in India and she finds it in London, or she hopes



she'll find it.  Mr. St. George has promised to help her - he has



been awfully kind to her.  She has gone to church - she's fond of



that too - but they'll all be back in a quarter of an hour.  You



must let me introduce you to her - she'll be so glad to know you.



I dare say she has read every blest word you've written."







"I shall be delighted - I haven't written so very many," Overt



pleaded, feeling, and without resentment, that the General at least

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