Генри Джеймс
The Tragic Muse
Sherringham, I may add, had no desire that she should indulge a different preference: it was distasteful to him to compute the probabilities of a young lady's misbehaving for his advantage—that seemed to him definitely base—and he would have thought himself a blackguard if, even when a prey to his desire, he had not wished the thing that was best for the object of it. The thing best for Miriam might be to become the wife of the man to whose suit she should incline her ear. That this would be the best thing for the gentleman in question by no means, however, equally followed, and Sherringham's final conviction was that it would never do for him to act the part of that hypothetic personage. He asked for no removal and no extension of leave, and he proved to himself how well he knew what he was about by never addressing a line, during his absence, to the Hôtel de la Garonne. He would simply go straight, inflicting as little injury on Peter Sherringham as on any one else. He remained away to the last hour of his privilege and continued to act lucidly in having nothing to do with the mother and daughter for several days after his return to Paris.
It was when this discipline came to an end one afternoon after a week had passed that he felt most the force of the reference we have just made to Mrs. Rooth's private calculations. He found her at home, alone, writing a letter under the lamp, and as soon as he came in she cried out that he was the very person to whom the letter was addressed. She could bear it no longer; she had permitted herself to reproach him with his terrible silence—to ask why he had quite forsaken them. It was an illustration of the way in which her visitor had come to regard her that he put rather less than more faith into this description of the crumpled papers lying on the table. He was not even sure he quite believed Miriam to have just gone out. He told her mother how busy he had been all the while he was away and how much time above all he had had to give in London to seeing on her daughter's behalf the people connected with the theatres.
"Ah if you pity me tell me you've got her an engagement!" Mrs. Rooth cried while she clasped her hands.
"I took a great deal of trouble; I wrote ever so many notes, sought introductions, talked with people—such impossible people some of them. In short I knocked at every door, I went into the question exhaustively." And he enumerated the things he had done, reported on some of the knowledge he had gathered. The difficulties were immense, and even with the influence he could command, such as it was, there was very little to be achieved in face of them. Still he had gained ground: two or three approachable fellows, men with inferior theatres, had listened to him better than the others, and there was one in particular whom he had a hope he really might have interested. From him he had extracted benevolent assurances: this person would see Miriam, would listen to her, would do for her what he could. The trouble was that no one would lift a finger for a girl unless she were known, and yet that she never could become known till innumerable fingers had been lifted. You couldn't go into the water unless you could swim, and you couldn't swim until you had been in the water.
"But new performers appear; they get theatres, they get audiences, they get notices in the newspapers," Mrs. Rooth objected. "I know of these things only what Miriam tells me. It's no knowledge that I was born to."
"It's perfectly true. It's all done with money."
"And how do they come by money?" Mrs. Rooth candidly asked.
"When they're women people give it to them."
"Well, what people now?"
"People who believe in them."
"As you believe in Miriam?"
Peter had a pause. "No, rather differently. A poor man doesn't believe in anything the same way that a rich man does."
"Ah don't call yourself poor!" groaned Mrs. Rooth.
"What good would it do me to be rich?"
"Why you could take a theatre. You could do it all yourself."
"And what good would that do me?"
"Ah don't you delight in her genius?" demanded Mrs. Rooth.
"I delight in her mother. You think me more disinterested than I am," Sherringham added with a certain soreness of irritation.
"I know why you didn't write!" Mrs. Rooth declared archly.
"You must go to London," Peter said without heeding this remark.
"Ah if we could only get there it would be a relief. I should draw a long breath. There at least I know where I am and what people are. But here one lives on hollow ground!"
"The sooner you get away the better," our young man went on.
"I know why you say that."
"It's just what I'm explaining."
"I couldn't have held out if I hadn't been so sure of Miriam," said Mrs. Rooth.
"Well, you needn't hold out any longer."
"Don't you trust her?" asked Sherringham's hostess.
"Trust her?"
"You don't trust yourself. That's why you were silent, why we might have thought you were dead, why we might have perished ourselves."
"I don't think I understand you; I don't know what you're talking about," Peter returned. "But it doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it? Let yourself go. Why should you struggle?" the old woman agreeably inquired.
Her unexpected insistence annoyed her visitor, and he was silent again, meeting her eyes with reserve and on the point of telling her that he didn't like her tone. But he had his tongue under such control that he was able presently to say instead of this—and it was a relief to him to give audible voice to the reflexion—"It's a great mistake, either way, for a man to be in love with an actress. Either it means nothing serious, and what's the use of that? or it means everything, and that's still more delusive."
"Delusive?"
"Idle, unprofitable."
"Surely a pure affection is its own beautiful reward," Mrs. Rooth pleaded with soft reasonableness.
"In such a case how can it be pure?"
"I thought you were talking of an English gentleman," she replied.
"Call the poor fellow whatever you like: a man with his life to lead, his way to make, his work, his duties, his career to attend to. If it means nothing, as I say, the thing it means least of all is marriage."
"Oh my own Miriam!" Mrs. Rooth wailed.
"Fancy, on the other hand, the complication when such a man marries a woman who's on the stage."
Mrs. Rooth looked as if she were trying to follow. "Miriam isn't on the stage yet."
"Go to London and she soon will be."
"Yes, and then you'll have your excuse."
"My excuse?"
"For deserting us altogether."
He broke into laughter at this, the logic was so droll. Then he went on: "Show me some good acting and I won't desert you."
"Good acting? Ah what's the best acting compared with the position of a true English lady? If you'll take her as she is you may have her," Mrs. Rooth suddenly added.
"As she is, with all her ambitions unassuaged?"
"To marry you—might not that be an ambition?"
"A very paltry one. Don't answer for her, don't attempt that," said Peter. "You can do much better."
"Do you think you can?" smiled Mrs. Rooth.
"I don't want to; I only want to let it alone. She's an artist; you must give her her head," the young man pursued. "You must always give an artist his head."
"But I've known great ladies who were artists. In English society there's always a field."
"Don't talk to me of English society! Thank goodness, in the first place, I don't live in it. Do you want her to give up her genius?" he demanded.
"I thought you didn't care for it."
"She'd say, 'No I thank you, dear mamma.'"
"My wonderful child!" Mrs. Rooth almost comprehendingly murmured.
"Have you ever proposed it to her?"
"Proposed it?"
"That she should give up trying."
Mrs. Rooth hesitated, looking down. "Not for the reason you mean. We don't talk about love," she simpered.
"Then it's so much less time wasted. Don't stretch out your hand to the worse when it may some day grasp the better," Peter continued. Mrs. Rooth raised her eyes at him as if recognising the force there might be in that, and he added: "Let her blaze out, let her look about her. Then you may talk to me if you like."
"It's very puzzling!" the old woman artlessly sighed.
He laughed again and then said: "Now don't tell me I'm not a good friend."
"You are indeed—you're a very noble gentleman. That's just why a quiet life with you–"
"It wouldn't be quiet for me!" he broke in. "And that's not what Miriam was made for."
"Don't say that for my precious one!" Mrs. Rooth quavered.
"Go to London—go to London," her visitor repeated.
Thoughtfully, after an instant, she extended her hand and took from the table the letter on the composition of which he had found her engaged. Then with a quick movement she tore it up. "That's what Mr. Dashwood says."
"Mr. Dashwood?"
"I forgot you don't know him. He's the brother of that lady we met the day you were so good as to receive us; the one who was so kind to us—Mrs. Lovick."
"I never heard of him."
"Don't you remember how she spoke of him and that Mr. Lovick didn't seem very nice about him? She told us that if he were to meet us—and she was so good as to intimate that it would be a pleasure to him to do so—he might give us, as she said, a tip."
Peter achieved the effort to recollect. "Yes he comes back to me. He's an actor."
"He's a gentleman too," said Mrs. Rooth.
"And you've met him, and he has given you a tip?"
"As I say, he wants us to go to London."
"I see, but even I can tell you that."
"Oh yes," said Mrs. Rooth; "but he says he can help us."
"Keep hold of him then, if he's in the business," Peter was all for that.
"He's a perfect gentleman," said Mrs. Rooth. "He's immensely struck with Miriam."
"Better and better. Keep hold of him."
"Well, I'm glad you don't object," she grimaced.
"Why should I object?"
"You don't regard us as all your own?"
"My own? Why, I regard you as the public's—the world's."
She gave a little shudder. "There's a sort of chill in that. It's grand, but it's cold. However, I needn't hesitate then to tell you that it's with Mr. Dashwood Miriam has gone out."
"Why hesitate, gracious heaven?" But in the next breath Sherringham asked: "Where have they gone?"
"You don't like it!" his hostess laughed.
"Why should it be a thing to be enthusiastic about?"
"Well, he's charming and I trust him."
"So do I," said Sherringham.
"They've gone to see Madame Carré."
"She has come back then?"
"She was expected back last week. Miriam wants to show her how she has improved."
"And has she improved?"
"How can I tell—with my mother's heart?" asked Mrs. Rooth. "I don't judge; I only wait and pray. But Mr. Dashwood thinks she's wonderful."
"That's a blessing. And when did he turn up?"
"About a fortnight ago. We met Mrs. Lovick at the English church, and she was so good as to recognise us and speak to us. She said she had been away with her children—otherwise she'd have come to see us. She had just returned to Paris."
"Yes, I've not yet seen her. I see Lovick," Peter added, "but he doesn't talk of his brother-in-law."
"I didn't, that day, like his tone about him," Mrs. Rooth observed. "We walked a little way with Mrs. Lovick after church and she asked Miriam about her prospects and if she were working. Miriam said she had no prospects."
"That wasn't very nice to me," Sherringham commented.
"But when you had left us in black darkness what were our prospects?"
"I see. It's all right. Go on."
"Then Mrs. Lovick said her brother was to be in Paris a few days and she would tell him to come and see us. He arrived, she told him and he came. Voilà!" said Mrs. Rooth.
"So that now—so far as he is concerned—Miss Rooth has prospects?"
"He isn't a manager unfortunately," she qualified.
"Where does he act?"
"He isn't acting just now; he has been abroad. He has been to Italy, I believe, and is just stopping here on his way to London."
"I see; he is a perfect gentleman," said Sherringham.
"Ah you're jealous of him!"
"No, but you're trying to make me so. The more competitors there are for the glory of bringing her out the better for her."
"Mr. Dashwood wants to take a theatre," said Mrs. Rooth.
"Then perhaps he's our man."
"Oh if you'd help him!" she richly cried.
"Help him?"
"Help him to help us."
"We'll all work together; it will be very jolly," said Sherringham gaily. "It's a sacred cause, the love of art, and we shall be a happy band. Dashwood's his name?" he added in a moment. "Mrs. Lovick wasn't a Dashwood."
"It's his nom de théâtre—Basil Dashwood. Do you like it?" Mrs. Rooth wonderfully inquired.
"You say that as Miriam might. Her talent's catching!"
"She's always practising—always saying things over and over to seize the tone. I've her voice in my ears. He wants her not to have any."
"Not to have any what?"
"Any nom de théâtre. He wants her to use her own; he likes it so much. He says it will do so well—you can't better it."
"He's a capital adviser," said Sherringham, getting up. "I'll come back to-morrow."
"I won't ask you to wait for them—they may be so long," his hostess returned.
"Will he come back with her?" Peter asked while he smoothed his hat.
"I hope so, at this hour. With my child in the streets I tremble. We don't live in cabs, as you may easily suppose."
"Did they go on foot?" Sherringham continued.
"Oh yes; they started in high spirits."
"And is Mr. Basil Dashwood acquainted with Madame Carré?"
"Ah no, but he longed to be introduced to her; he persuaded Miriam to take him. Naturally she wishes to oblige him. She's very nice to him—if he can do anything."
"Quite right; that's the way!" Peter cheerfully rang out.
"And she also wanted him to see what she can do for the great critic," Mrs. Rooth added—"that terrible old woman in the red wig."
"That's what I should like to see too," Peter permitted himself to acknowledge.
"Oh she has gone ahead; she's pleased with herself. 'Work, work, work,' said Madame Carré. Well, she has worked, worked, worked. That's what Mr. Dashwood is pleased with even more than with other things."
"What do you mean by other things?"
"Oh her genius and her fine appearance."
"He approves of her fine appearance? I ask because you think he knows what will take."
"I know why you ask!" Mrs. Rooth bravely mocked. "He says it will be worth hundreds of thousands to her."
"That's the sort of thing I like to hear," Peter returned. "I'll come in to-morrow," he repeated.
"And shall you mind if Mr. Dash wood's here?"
"Does he come every day?"
"Oh they're always at it."
"At it–?" He was vague.
"Why she acts to him—every sort of thing—and he says if it will do."
"How many days has he been here then?"
Mrs. Rooth reflected. "Oh I don't know! Since he turned up they've passed so quickly."
"So far from 'minding' it I'm eager to see him," Sherringham declared; "and I can imagine nothing better than what you describe—if he isn't an awful ass."
"Dear me, if he isn't clever you must tell us: we can't afford to be deceived!" Mrs. Rooth innocently wailed. "What do we know—how can we judge?" she appealed.
He had a pause, his hand on the latch. "Oh, I'll tell you frankly what I think of him!"
XIX
When he got into the street he looked about him for a cab, but was obliged to walk some distance before encountering one. In this little interval he saw no reason to modify the determination he had formed in descending the steep staircase of the Hôtel de la Garonne; indeed the desire prompting it only quickened his pace. He had an hour to spare and would also go to see Madame Carré. If Miriam and her companion had proceeded to the Rue de Constantinople on foot he would probably reach the house as soon as they. It was all quite logical: he was eager to see Miriam—that was natural enough; and he had admitted to Mrs. Rooth that he was keen on the subject of Mrs. Lovick's theatrical brother, in whom such effective aid might perhaps reside. To catch Miriam really revealing herself to the old actress after the jump she believed herself to have taken—since that was her errand—would be a very happy stroke, the thought of which made her benefactor impatient. He presently found his cab and, as he bounded in, bade the coachman drive fast. He learned from Madame Carré's portress that her illustrious locataire was at home and that a lady and a gentleman had gone up some time before.
In the little antechamber, after his admission, he heard a high voice come from the salon and, stopping a moment to listen, noted that Miriam was already launched in a recitation. He was able to make out the words, all the more that before he could prevent the movement the maid-servant who had led him in had already opened the door of the room—one of the leaves of it, there being, as in most French doors, two of these—before which, within, a heavy curtain was suspended. Miriam was in the act of rolling out some speech from the English poetic drama—
"For I am sick and capable of fears,
Oppressed with wrongs and therefore full of fears."
He recognised one of the great tirades of Shakespeare's Constance and saw she had just begun the magnificent scene at the beginning of the third act of King John, in which the passionate, injured mother and widow sweeps in wild organ-tones the entire scale of her irony and wrath. The curtain concealed him and he lurked three minutes after he had motioned to the femme de chambre to retire on tiptoe. The trio in the salon, absorbed in the performance, had apparently not heard his entrance or the opening of the door, which was covered by the girl's splendid declamation. Peter listened intently, arrested by the spirit with which she attacked her formidable verses. He had needed to hear her set afloat but a dozen of them to measure the long stride she had taken in his absence; they assured him she had leaped into possession of her means. He remained where he was till she arrived at
"Then speak again; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true."
This apostrophe, briefly responded to in another voice, gave him time quickly to raise the curtain and show himself, passing into the room with a "Go on, go on!" and a gesture earnestly deprecating a stop.
Miriam, in the full swing of her part, paused but for an instant and let herself ring out again, while Peter sank into the nearest chair and she fixed him with her illumined eyes, that is, with those of the raving Constance. Madame Carré, buried in a chair, kissed her hand to him, and a young man who, near the girl, stood giving the cue, stared at him over the top of a little book. "Admirable, magnificent, go on," Sherringham repeated—"go on to the end of the scene, do it all!" Miriam's colour rose, yet he as quickly felt that she had no personal emotion in seeing him again; the cold passion of art had perched on her banner and she listened to herself with an ear as vigilant as if she had been a Paganini drawing a fiddle-bow. This effect deepened as she went on, rising and rising to the great occasion, moving with extraordinary ease and in the largest, clearest style at the dizzy height of her idea. That she had an idea was visible enough, and that the whole thing was very different from all Sherringham had hitherto heard her attempt. It belonged quite to another class of effort; she was now the finished statue lifted from the ground to its pedestal. It was as if the sun of her talent had risen above the hills and she knew she was moving and would always move in its guiding light. This conviction was the one artless thing that glimmered like a young joy through the tragic mask of Constance, and Sherringham's heart beat faster as he caught it in her face. It only showed her as more intelligent, and yet there had been a time when he thought her stupid! Masterful the whole spirit in which she carried the scene, making him cry to himself from point to point, "How she feels it, sees it and really 'renders' it!"
He looked now and again at Madame Carré and saw she had in her lap an open book, apparently a French prose version, brought by her visitors, of the play; but she never either glanced at him or at the volume: she only sat screwing into the girl her hard, bright eyes, polished by experience like fine old brasses. The young man uttering the lines of the other speakers was attentive in another degree; he followed Miriam, in his own copy, to keep sure of the cue; but he was elated and expressive, was evidently even surprised; he coloured and smiled, and when he extended his hand to assist Constance to rise, after the performer, acting out her text, had seated herself grandly on "the huge firm earth," he bowed over her as obsequiously as if she had been his veritable sovereign. He was a good-looking young man, tall, well-proportioned, straight-featured and fair, of whom manifestly the first thing to be said on any occasion was that he had remarkably the stamp of a gentleman. He earned this appearance, which proved inveterate and importunate, to a point that was almost a denial of its spirit: so prompt the question of whether it could be in good taste to wear any character, even that particular one, so much on one's sleeve. It was literally on his sleeve that this young man partly wore his own; for it resided considerably in his garments, and in especial in a certain close-fitting dark blue frock-coat, a miracle of a fit, which moulded his juvenility just enough and not too much, and constituted, as Sherringham was destined to perceive later, his perpetual uniform or badge. It was not till afterwards that Peter began to feel exasperated by Basil Dashwood's "type"—the young stranger was of course Basil Dashwood—and even by his blue frock-coat, the recurrent, unvarying, imperturbable good form of his aspect. This unprofessional air ended by striking the observer as the very profession he had adopted, and was indeed, so far as had as yet been indicated, his mimetic capital, his main qualification for the stage.
The ample and powerful manner in which Miriam handled her scene produced its full impression, the art with which she surmounted its difficulties, the liberality with which she met its great demand upon the voice, and the variety of expression that she threw into a torrent of objurgation. It was a real composition, studded with passages that called a suppressed tribute to the lips and seeming to show that a talent capable of such an exhibition was capable of anything.
"But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy,
Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great:
Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose."
As the girl turned to her imagined child with this exquisite apostrophe—she addressed Mr. Dashwood as if he were playing Arthur, and he lowered his book, dropped his head and his eyes and looked handsome and ingenuous—she opened at a stroke to Sherringham's vision a prospect that they would yet see her express tenderness better even than anything else. Her voice was enchanting in these lines, and the beauty of her performance was that though she uttered the full fury of the part she missed none of its poetry.
"Where did she get hold of that—where did she get hold of that?" Peter wondered while his whole sense vibrated. "She hadn't got hold of it when I went away." And the assurance flowed over him again that she had found the key to her box of treasures. In the summer, during their weeks of frequent meeting, she had only fumbled with the lock. One October day, while he was away, the key had slipped in, had fitted, or her finger at last had touched the right spring and the capricious casket had flown open.
It was during the present solemnity that, excited by the way she came out and with a hundred stirred ideas about her wheeling through his mind, he was for the first time and most vividly visited by a perception that ended by becoming frequent with him—that of the perfect presence of mind, unconfused, unhurried by emotion, that any artistic performance requires and that all, whatever the instrument, require in exactly the same degree: the application, in other words, clear and calculated, crystal-firm as it were, of the idea conceived in the glow of experience, of suffering, of joy. He was afterwards often to talk of this with Miriam, who, however, was never to be able to present him with a neat theory of the subject. She had no knowledge that it was publicly discussed; she only ranged herself in practice on the side of those who hold that at the moment of production the artist can't too much have his wits about him. When Peter named to her the opinion of those maintaining that at such a crisis the office of attention ceases to be filled she stared with surprise and then broke out: "Ah the poor idiots!" She eventually became, in her judgements, in impatience and the expression of contempt, very free and absolutely irreverent.
"What a splendid scolding!" the new visitor exclaimed when, on the entrance of the Pope's legate, her companion closed the book on the scene. Peter pressed his lips to Madame Carré's finger-tips; the old actress got up and held out her arms to Miriam. The girl never took her eyes off Sherringham while she passed into that lady's embrace and remained there. They were full of their usual sombre fire, and it was always the case that they expressed too much anything they could express at all; but they were not defiant nor even triumphant now—they were only deeply explicative. They seemed to say, "That's the sort of thing I meant; that's what I had in mind when I asked you to try to do something for me." Madame Carré folded her pupil to her bosom, holding her there as the old marquise in a comédie de mœurs might in the last scene have held her god-daughter the ingénue.
"Have you got me an engagement?"—the young woman then appealed eagerly to her friend. "Yes, he has done something splendid for me," she went on to Madame Carré, resting her hand caressingly on one of the actress's while the old woman discoursed with Mr. Dashwood, who was telling her in very pretty French that he was tremendously excited about Miss Rooth. Madame Carré looked at him as if she wondered how he appeared when he was calm and how, as a dramatic artist, he expressed that condition.
"Yes, yes, something splendid, for a beginning," Peter answered radiantly, recklessly; feeling now only that he would say anything and do anything to please her. He spent on the spot, in imagination, his last penny.
"It's such a pity you couldn't follow it; you'd have liked it so much better," Mr. Dashwood observed to their hostess.
"Couldn't follow it? Do you take me for une sotte?" the celebrated artist cried. "I suspect I followed it de plus près que vous, monsieur!"
"Ah you see the language is so awfully fine," Basil Dashwood replied, looking at his shoes.
"The language? Why she rails like a fish-wife. Is that what you call language? Ours is another business."
"If you understood, if you understood, you'd see all the greatness of it," Miriam declared. And then in another tone: "Such delicious expressions!"
"On dit que c'est très-fort. But who can tell if you really say it?" Madame Carré demanded.
"Ah, par exemple, I can!" Sherringham answered.
"Oh you—you're a Frenchman."
"Couldn't he make it out if he weren't?" asked Basil Dashwood.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders. "He wouldn't know."
"That's flattering to me."
"Oh you—don't you pretend to complain," Madame Carré said. "I prefer our imprecations—those of Camille," she went on. "They have the beauty des plus belles choses."
"I can say them too," Miriam broke in.
"Insolente!" smiled Madame Carré. "Camille doesn't squat down on the floor in the middle of them.
"For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.
To me and to the state of my great grief
Let kings assemble,"
Miriam quickly declaimed. "Ah if you don't feel the way she makes a throne of it!"
"It's really tremendously fine, chère madame," Sherringham said. "There's nothing like it."
"Vous êtes insupportables," the old woman answered. "Stay with us. I'll teach you Phèdre."
"Ah Phædra, Phædra!" Basil Dashwood vaguely ejaculated, looking more gentlemanly than ever.
"You've learned all I've taught you, but where the devil have you learned what I haven't?" Madame Carré went on.
"I've worked—I have; you'd call it work—all through the bright, late summer, all through the hot, dull, empty days. I've battered down the door—I did hear it crash one day. But I'm not so very good yet. I'm only in the right direction."
"Malicieuse!" growled Madame Carré.
"Oh I can beat that," the girl went on.
"Did you wake up one morning and find you had grown a pair of wings?" Peter asked. "Because that's what the difference amounts to—you really soar. Moreover, you're an angel," he added, charmed with her unexpectedness, the good nature of her forbearance to reproach him for not having written to her. And it seemed to him privately that she was angelic when in answer to this she said ever so blandly:
"You know you read King John with me before you went away. I thought over immensely what you said. I didn't understand it much at the time—I was so stupid. But it all came to me later."
"I wish you could see yourself," Peter returned.
"My dear fellow, I do. What sort of a dunce do you take me for? I didn't miss a vibration of my voice, a fold of my robe."
"Well, I didn't see you troubling about it," Peter handsomely insisted.
"No one ever will. Do you think I'd ever show it?"
"Ars celare artem," Basil Dashwood jocosely dropped.
"You must first have the art to hide," said Sherringham, wondering a little why Miriam didn't introduce her young friend to him. She was, however, both then and later perfectly neglectful of such cares, never thinking, never minding how other people got on together. When she found they didn't get on she jeered at them: that was the nearest she came to arranging for them. Our young man noted in her from the moment she felt her strength an immense increase of this good-humoured inattention to detail—all detail save that of her work, to which she was ready to sacrifice holocausts of feelings when the feelings were other people's. This conferred on her a large profanity, an absence of ceremony as to her social relations, which was both amusing because it suggested that she would take what she gave, and formidable because it was inconvenient and you mightn't care to give what she would take.
