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The Author of Beltraffio
by Henry James
CHAPTER I
Much as I wished to see him I had kept my letter of introduction
three weeks in my pocket…book。 I was nervous and timid about
meeting himconscious of youth and ignorance； convinced that he was
tormented by strangers； and especially by my country…people； and not
exempt from the suspicion that he had the irritability as well as the
dignity of genius。 Moreover； the pleasure； if it should occurfor
I could scarcely believe it was near at handwould be so great that
I wished to think of it in advance； to feel it there against my
breast； not to mix it with satisfactions more superficial and usual。
In the little game of new sensations that I was playing with my
ingenuous mind I wished to keep my visit to the author of
〃Beltraffio〃 as a trump…card。 It was three years after the
publication of that fascinating work； which I had read over five
times and which now； with my riper judgement； I admire on the whole
as much as ever。 This will give you about the date of my first
visitof any durationto England for you will not have forgotten
the commotion； I may even say the scandal； produced by Mark Ambient's
masterpiece。 It was the most complete presentation that had yet
been made of the gospel of art； it was a kind of aesthetic war…cry。
People had endeavoured to sail nearer to 〃truth〃 in the cut of their
sleeves and the shape of their sideboards； but there had not as yet
been； among English novels； such an example of beauty of execution
and 〃intimate〃 importance of theme。 Nothing had been done in that
line from the point of view of art for art。 That served me as a
fond formula； I may mention； when I was twenty…five； how much it
still serves I won't take upon myself to sayespecially as the
discerning reader will be able to judge for himself。 I had been in
England； briefly； a twelve…month before the time to which I began by
alluding； and had then learned that Mr。 Ambient was in distant lands…
…was making a considerable tour in the East； so that there was
nothing to do but to keep my letter till I should be in London again。
It was of little use to me to hear that his wife had not left England
and was； with her little boy； their only child； spending the period
of her husband's absencea good many monthsat a small place they
had down in Surrey。 They had a house in London； but actually in the
occupation of other persons。 All this I had picked up； and also
that Mrs。 Ambient was charmingmy friend the American poet； from
whom I had my introduction； had never seen her； his relations with
the great man confined to the exchange of letters； but she wasn't；
after all； though she had lived so near the rose； the author of
〃Beltraffio；〃 and I didn't go down into Surrey to call on her。 I
went to the Continent； spent the following winter in Italy； and
returned to London in May。 My visit to Italy had opened my eyes to
a good many things； but to nothing more than the beauty of certain
pages in the works of Mark Ambient。 I carried his productions about
in my trunkthey are not； as you know； very numerous； but he had
preluded to 〃Beltraffio〃 by； some exquisite thingsand I used to
read them over in the evening at the inn。 I used profoundly to
reason that the man who drew those characters and wrote that style
understood what he saw and knew what he was doing。 This is my sole
ground for mentioning my winter in Italy。 He had been there much in
former yearshe was saturated with what painters call the 〃feeling〃
of that classic land。 He expressed the charm of the old hill…cities
of Tuscany； the look of certain lonely grass…grown places which； in
the past； had echoed with life； he understood the great artists； he
understood the spirit of the Renaissance； he understood everything。
The scene of one of his earlier novels was laid in Rome； the scene of
another in Florence； and I had moved through these cities in company
with the figures he set so firmly on their feet。 This is why I was
now so much happier even than before in the prospect of making his
acquaintance。
At last； when I had dallied with my privilege long enough； I
despatched to him the missive of the American poet。 He had already
gone out of town； he shrank from the rigour of the London 〃season〃
and it was his habit to migrate on the first of June。 Moreover I
had heard he was this year hard at work on a new book； into which
some of his impressions of the East were to be wrought； so that he
desired nothing so much as quiet days。 That knowledge； however；
didn't prevent mecet age est sans pitiefrom sending with my
friend's letter a note of my own； in which I asked his leave to come
down and see him for an hour or two on some day to be named by
himself。 My proposal was accompanied with a very frank expression
of my sentiments； and the effect of the entire appeal was to elicit
from the great man the kindest possible invitation。 He would be
delighted to see me； especially if I should turn up on the following
Saturday and would remain till the Monday morning。 We would take a
walk over the Surrey commons； and I could tell him all about the
other great man； the one in America。 He indicated to me the best
train； and it may be imagined whether on the Saturday afternoon I was
punctual at Waterloo。 He carried his benevolence to the point of
coming to meet me at the little station at which I was to alight； and
my heart beat very fast as I saw his handsome face； surmounted with a
soft wide…awake and which I knew by a photograph long since enshrined
on my mantel…shelf； scanning the carriage…windows as the train rolled
up。 He recognised me as infallibly as I had recognised himself； he
appeared to know by instinct how a young American of critical
pretensions； rash youth； would look when much divided between
eagerness and modesty。 He took me by the hand and smiled at me and
said： 〃You must beaYOU； I think！〃 and asked if I should mind
going on foot to his house； which would take but a few minutes。 I
remember feeling it a piece of extraordinary affability that he
should give directions about the conveyance of my bag； I remember
feeling altogether very happy and rosy； in fact quite transported；
when he laid his hand on my shoulder as we came out of the station。
I surveyed him； askance； as we walked together； I had already； I had
indeed instantly； seen him as all delightful。 His face is so well
known that I needn't describe it； he looked to me at once an English
gentleman and a man of genius； and I thought that a happy
combination。 There was a brush of the Bohemian in his fineness； you
would easily have guessed his belonging to the artist guild。 He was
addicted to velvet jackets； to cigarettes； to loose shirt…collars； to
looking a little dishevelled。 His features； which were firm but not
perfectly regular； are fairly enough represented in his portraits；
but no portrait I have seen gives any idea of his expression。 There
were innumerable things in it； and they chased each other in and out
of his face。 I have seen people who were grave and gay in quick
alternation； but Mark Ambient was grave and gay at one and the same
moment。 There were other strange oppositions and contradictions in
his slightly faded and fatigued countenance。 He affected me somehow
as at once fresh and stale； at once anxious and indifferent。 He had
evidently had an active past； which inspired one with curiosity； yet
what was that compared to his obvious future？ He was just enough
above middle height to be spoken of as tall； and rather lean and long
in the flank。 He had the friendliest frankest manner possible； and
yet I could see it cost him something。 It cost him small spasms of
the self…consciousness that is an Englishman's last and dearest
treasurethe thing he pays his way through life by sacrificing small
pieces of even as the gallant but moneyless adventurer in 〃Quentin
Durward〃 broke off links of his brave gold chain。 He had been
thirty…eight years old at the time 〃Beltraffio〃 was published。 He
asked me about his friend in America； about the length of my stay in
England； about the last news in London and the people I had seen
there； and I remember looking for the signs of genius in the very
form of his questions and thinking I found it。 I liked his voice as
if I were somehow myself having the use of it。
There was genius in his house too I thought when we got there； there
was imagination in the carpets and curtains； in the pictures and
books； in the garden behind it； where certain old brown walls were
muffled in creepers that appeared to me to have been copied from a
masterpiece of one of the pre…Raphaelites。 That was the way many
things struck me at that time； in Englandas reproductions of
something that existed primarily in art or literature。 It was not
the picture； the poem； the fictive page； that seemed to me a copy；
these things were the originals； and the life of happy and
distinguished people was fashioned in their image。 Mark Ambient
called his house a cottage； and I saw afterwards he was right for if
it hadn't been a cottage it must have been a villa； and a villa；