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The American. Генри Джеймс
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“Oh, it shall be finished in perfection; in the perfection of perfections!” cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she deposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna’s cheek.
But the American frowned. “Ah, too red, too red!” he rejoined. “Her complexion,” pointing to the Murillo, “is—more delicate.”
“Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sèvres biscuit. I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art. And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address?”
“My address? Oh yes!” And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-book and wrote something upon it. Then hesitating a moment he said, “If I don’t like it when it it’s finished, you know, I shall not be obliged to take it.”
The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself. “Oh, I am very sure that monsieur is not capricious,” she said with a roguish smile.
“Capricious?” And at this monsieur began to laugh. “Oh no, I’m not capricious. I am very faithful. I am very constant. Comprenez?”
“Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly. It’s a rare virtue. To recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day; next week—as soon as it is dry. I will take the card of monsieur.” And she took it and read his name: “Christopher Newman.” Then she tried to repeat it aloud, and laughed at her bad accent. “Your English names are so droll!”
“Droll?” said Mr. Newman, laughing too. “Did you ever hear of Christopher Columbus?”
“Bien sûr! He invented America; a very great man. And is he your patron?”
“My patron?”
“Your patron-saint, in the calendar.”
“Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him.”
“Monsieur is American?”
“Don’t you see it?” monsieur inquired.
“And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?” and she explained her phrase with a gesture.
“Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures—beaucoup, beaucoup,” said Christopher Newman.
“The honor is not less for me,” the young lady answered, “for I am sure monsieur has a great deal of taste.”
“But you must give me your card,” Newman said; “your card, you know.”
The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said, “My father will wait upon you.”
But this time Mr. Newman’s powers of divination were at fault. “Your card, your address,” he simply repeated.
“My address?” said mademoiselle. Then with a little shrug, “Happily for you, you are an American! It is the first time I ever gave my card to a gentleman.” And, taking from her pocket a rather greasy portemonnaie, she extracted from it a small glazed visiting card, and presented the latter to her patron. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes, “Mlle. Noémie Nioche.” But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to him were equally droll.
“And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “He speaks English. He will arrange with you.” And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up, peering over his spectacles at Newman.
M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung his little meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressive than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in the barber’s window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His scant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who had “had losses” and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it had frightened him, and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, for fear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman was saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors.
“Monsieur has bought my picture,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “When it’s finished you’ll carry it to him in a cab.”
“In a cab!” cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if he had seen the sun rising at midnight.
“Are you the young lady’s father?” said Newman. “I think she said you speak English.”
“Speak English—yes,” said the old man slowly rubbing his hands. “I will bring it in a cab.”
“Say something, then,” cried his daughter. “Thank him a little—not too much.”
“A little, my daughter, a little?” said M. Nioche perplexed. “How much?”
“Two thousand!” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “Don’t make a fuss or he’ll take back his word.”
“Two thousand!” cried the old man, and he began to fumble for his snuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot; he looked at his daughter and then at the picture. “Take care you don’t spoil it!” he cried almost sublimely.
“We must go home,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “This is a good day’s work. Take care how you carry it!” And she began to put up her utensils.
“How can I thank you?” said M. Nioche. “My English does not suffice.”
“I wish I spoke French as well,” said Newman, good-naturedly. “Your daughter is very clever.”
“Oh, sir!” and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyes and nodded several times with a world of sadness. “She has had an education—très-supérieure! Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel at ten francs the lesson, lessons in oil at twelve francs. I didn’t look at the francs then. She’s an artiste, eh?”
“Do I understand you to say that you have had reverses?” asked Newman.
“Reverses? Oh, sir, misfortunes—terrible.”
“Unsuccessful in business, eh?”
“Very unsuccessful, sir.”
“Oh, never fear, you’ll get on your legs again,” said Newman cheerily.
The old man drooped his head on one side and looked at him with an expression of pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest.
“What does he say?” demanded Mademoiselle Noémie.
M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. “He says I will make my fortune again.”
“Perhaps he will help you. And what else?”
“He says thou art very clever.”
“It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?”
“Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!” And the old man turned afresh, with a staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on the easel.
“Ask him, then, if he would not like to learn French.”
“To learn French?”
“To take lessons.”
“To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?”
“From you!”
“From me, my child? How should I give lessons?”
“Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!” said Mademoiselle Noémie, with soft brevity.
M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter’s eye he collected his wits, and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he executed her commands.