their
acquaintance, as a success. He WAS a success, Waymarsh, in spite of
overwork, or prostration, of sensible shrinkage, of his wife's
letters and of his not liking Europe. Strether would have reckoned
his own career less futile had he been able to put into it anything
so handsome as so much fine silence. One might one's self easily
have left Mrs. Waymarsh; and one would assuredly have paid one's
tribute to the ideal in covering with that attitude the derision of
having been left by her. Her husband had held his tongue and had
made a large income; and these were in especial the achievements as
to which Strether envied him. Our friend had had indeed on his side
too a subject for silence, which he fully appreciated; but it was a
matter of a different sort, and the figure of the income he had
arrived at had never been high enough to look any one in the
face.
"I don't know as I quite see what you require it for. You don't
appear sick to speak of." It was of Europe Waymarsh thus finally
spoke.
"Well," said Strether, who fell as much as possible into step,
"I guess I don't FEEL sick now that I've started. But I had pretty
well run down before I did start."
Waymarsh raised his melancholy look. "Ain't you about up to your
usual average?"
It was not quite pointedly sceptical, but it seemed somehow a
plea for the purest veracity, and it thereby affected our friend as
the very voice of Milrose. He had long since made a mental
distinction—though never in truth daring to betray it—between the
voice of Milrose and the voice even of Woollett. It was the former
he felt, that was most in the real tradition. There had been
occasions in his past when the sound of it had reduced him to
temporary confusion, and the present, for some reason, suddenly
became such another. It was nevertheless no light matter that the
very effect of his confusion should be to make him again
prevaricate. "That description hardly does justice to a man to whom
it has done such a lot of good to see YOU."
Waymarsh fixed on his washing-stand the silent detached stare
with which Milrose in person, as it were, might have marked the
unexpectedness of a compliment from Woollett, and Strether for his
part, felt once more like Woollett in person. "I mean," his friend
presently continued, "that your appearance isn't as bad as I've
seen it: it compares favourably with what it was when I last
noticed it." On this appearance Waymarsh's eyes yet failed to rest;
it was almost as if they obeyed an instinct of propriety, and the
effect was still stronger when, always considering the basin and
jug, he added: "You've filled out some since then."
"I'm afraid I have," Strether laughed: "one does fill out some
with all one takes in, and I've taken in, I dare say, more than
I've natural room for. I was dog-tired when I sailed." It had the
oddest sound of cheerfulness.
"I was dog-tired," his companion returned, "when I arrived, and
it's this wild hunt for rest that takes all the life out of me. The
fact is, Strether—and it's a comfort to have you here at last to
say it to; though I don't know, after all, that I've really waited;
I've told it to people I've met in the cars—the fact is, such a
country as this ain't my KIND of country anyway. There ain't a
country I've seen over here that DOES seem my kind. Oh I don't say
but what there are plenty of pretty places and remarkable old
things; but the trouble is that I don't seem to feel anywhere in
tune. That's one of the reasons why I suppose I've gained so
little. I haven't had the first sign of that lift I was led to
expect." With this he broke out more earnestly. "Look here—I want
to go back."
His eyes were all attached to Strether's now, for he was one of
the men who fully face you when they talk of themselves. This
enabled his friend to look at him hard and immediately to appear to
the highest advantage in his eyes by doing so. "That's a genial
thing to say to a fellow who has come out on purpose to meet
you!"
Nothing
acquaintance, as a success. He WAS a success, Waymarsh, in spite of
overwork, or prostration, of sensible shrinkage, of his wife's
letters and of his not liking Europe. Strether would have reckoned
his own career less futile had he been able to put into it anything
so handsome as so much fine silence. One might one's self easily
have left Mrs. Waymarsh; and one would assuredly have paid one's
tribute to the ideal in covering with that attitude the derision of
having been left by her. Her husband had held his tongue and had
made a large income; and these were in especial the achievements as
to which Strether envied him. Our friend had had indeed on his side
too a subject for silence, which he fully appreciated; but it was a
matter of a different sort, and the figure of the income he had
arrived at had never been high enough to look any one in the
face.
"I don't know as I quite see what you require it for. You don't
appear sick to speak of." It was of Europe Waymarsh thus finally
spoke.
"Well," said Strether, who fell as much as possible into step,
"I guess I don't FEEL sick now that I've started. But I had pretty
well run down before I did start."
Waymarsh raised his melancholy look. "Ain't you about up to your
usual average?"
It was not quite pointedly sceptical, but it seemed somehow a
plea for the purest veracity, and it thereby affected our friend as
the very voice of Milrose. He had long since made a mental
distinction—though never in truth daring to betray it—between the
voice of Milrose and the voice even of Woollett. It was the former
he felt, that was most in the real tradition. There had been
occasions in his past when the sound of it had reduced him to
temporary confusion, and the present, for some reason, suddenly
became such another. It was nevertheless no light matter that the
very effect of his confusion should be to make him again
prevaricate. "That description hardly does justice to a man to whom
it has done such a lot of good to see YOU."
Waymarsh fixed on his washing-stand the silent detached stare
with which Milrose in person, as it were, might have marked the
unexpectedness of a compliment from Woollett, and Strether for his
part, felt once more like Woollett in person. "I mean," his friend
presently continued, "that your appearance isn't as bad as I've
seen it: it compares favourably with what it was when I last
noticed it." On this appearance Waymarsh's eyes yet failed to rest;
it was almost as if they obeyed an instinct of propriety, and the
effect was still stronger when, always considering the basin and
jug, he added: "You've filled out some since then."
"I'm afraid I have," Strether laughed: "one does fill out some
with all one takes in, and I've taken in, I dare say, more than
I've natural room for. I was dog-tired when I sailed." It had the
oddest sound of cheerfulness.
"I was dog-tired," his companion returned, "when I arrived, and
it's this wild hunt for rest that takes all the life out of me. The
fact is, Strether—and it's a comfort to have you here at last to
say it to; though I don't know, after all, that I've really waited;
I've told it to people I've met in the cars—the fact is, such a
country as this ain't my KIND of country anyway. There ain't a
country I've seen over here that DOES seem my kind. Oh I don't say
but what there are plenty of pretty places and remarkable old
things; but the trouble is that I don't seem to feel anywhere in
tune. That's one of the reasons why I suppose I've gained so
little. I haven't had the first sign of that lift I was led to
expect." With this he broke out more earnestly. "Look here—I want
to go back."
His eyes were all attached to Strether's now, for he was one of
the men who fully face you when they talk of themselves. This
enabled his friend to look at him hard and immediately to appear to
the highest advantage in his eyes by doing so. "That's a genial
thing to say to a fellow who has come out on purpose to meet
you!"
Nothing
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