Henry James

Embarrassments Henry James

I had done a few things and earned a few pence-I had perhaps even had time to begin to think Iwas finer than was perceived by the patronising; but when I take the little measure of my course (afidgety habit, for it's none of the longest yet) I count my real start from the evening George Corvick, breathless and worried, came in to ask me a service. He had done more things than I, and earnedmore pence, though there were chances for cleverness I thought he sometimes missed. I could onlyhowever that evening declare to him that he never missed one for kindness. There was almostrapture in hearing it proposed to me to prepare for The Middle_, the organ of our lucubrations, socalled from the position in the week of its day of appearance, an article for which he had madehimself responsible and of which, tied up with a stout string, he laid on my table the subject. Ipounced upon my opportunity-that is on the first volume of it-and paid scant attention to myfriend's explanation of his appeal. What explanation could be more to the point than my obviousfitness for the task? I had written on Hugh Vereker, but never a word in The Middle, where mydealings were mainly with the ladies and the minor poets. This was his new novel, an advance copy, and whatever much or little it should do for his reputation I was clear on the spot as to what itshould do for mine. Moreover, if I always read him as soon as I could get hold of him, I had aparticular reason for wishing to read him now: I had accepted an invitation to Bridges for thefollowing Sunday, and it had been mentioned in Lady Jane's note that Mr. Vereker was to be there. Iwas young enough to have an emotion about meeting a man of his renown, and innocent enough tobelieve the occasion would demand the display of an acquaintance with his "last."Corvick, who had promised a review of it, had not even had time to read it; he had gone to piecesin consequence of news requiring-as on precipitate reflection he judged-that he should catch thenight-mail to Paris. He had had a telegram from Gwendolen Erme in answer to his letter offering tofly to her aid. I knew already about Gwendolen Erme; I had never seen her, but I had my ideas, which were mainly to the effect that Corvick would marry her if her mother would only die. Thatlady seemed now in a fair way to oblige him; after some dreadful mistake about some climate orsome waters, she had suddenly collapsed on the return from abroad. Her daughter, unsupported andalarmed, desiring to make a rush for home but hesitating at the risk, had accepted our friend'sassistance, and it was my secret belief that at the sight of him Mrs. Erme would pull round. His ownbelief was scarcely to be called secret; it discernibly at any rate differed from mine. He had showedme Gwendolen's photograph with the remark that she wasn't pretty but was awfully interesting; shehad published at the age of nineteen a novel in three volumes, "Deep Down," about which, in TheMiddle, he had been really splend