Confidence. Генри Джеймс
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“But posing or not,” he went on, “I will put her into my sketch. She has simply put herself in. It will give it a human interest. There is nothing like having a human interest.” So, with the ready skill that he possessed, he introduced the young girl’s figure into his foreground, and at the end of ten minutes he had almost made something that had the form of a likeness. “If she will only be quiet for another ten minutes,” he said, “the thing will really be a picture.” Unfortunately, the young lady was not quiet; she had apparently had enough of her attitude and her view. She turned away, facing Longueville again, and slowly came back, as if to re-enter the church. To do so she had to pass near him, and as she approached he instinctively got up, holding his drawing in one hand. She looked at him again, with that expression that he had mentally characterized as “bold,” a few minutes before—with dark, intelligent eyes. Her hair was dark and dense; she was a strikingly handsome girl.
“I am so sorry you moved,” he said, confidently, in English. “You were so—so beautiful.”
She stopped, looking at him more directly than ever; and she looked at his sketch, which he held out toward her. At the sketch, however, she only glanced, whereas there was observation in the eye that she bent upon Longueville. He never knew whether she had blushed; he afterward thought she might have been frightened. Nevertheless, it was not exactly terror that appeared to dictate her answer to Longueville’s speech.
“I am much obliged to you. Don’t you think you have looked at me enough?”
“By no means. I should like so much to finish my drawing.”
“I am not a professional model,” said the young lady.
“No. That ‘s my difficulty,” Longueville answered, laughing. “I can’t propose to remunerate you.”
The young lady seemed to think this joke in indifferent taste. She turned away in silence; but something in her expression, in his feeling at the time, in the situation, incited Longueville to higher play. He felt a lively need of carrying his point.
“You see it will be pure kindness,” he went on,—“a simple act of charity. Five minutes will be enough. Treat me as an Italian beggar.”
She had laid down his sketch and had stepped forward. He stood there, obsequious, clasping his hands and smiling.
His interruptress stopped and looked at him again, as if she thought him a very odd person; but she seemed amused. Now, at any rate, she was not frightened. She seemed even disposed to provoke him a little.
“I wish to go to my mother,” she said.
“Where is your mother?” the young man asked.
“In the church, of course. I did n’t come here alone!”
“Of course not; but you may be sure that your mother is very contented. I have been in that little church. It is charming. She is just resting there; she is probably tired. If you will kindly give me five minutes more, she will come out to you.”
“Five minutes?” the young girl asked.
“Five minutes will do. I shall be eternally grateful.” Longueville was amused at himself as he said this. He cared infinitely less for his sketch than the words appeared to imply; but, somehow, he cared greatly that this graceful stranger should do what he had proposed.
The graceful stranger dropped an eye on the sketch again.
“Is your picture so good as that?” she asked.
“I have a great deal of talent,” he answered, laughing. “You shall see for yourself, when it is finished.”
She turned slowly toward the terrace again.
“You certainly have a great deal of talent, to induce me to do what you ask.” And she walked to where she had stood before. Longueville made a movement to go with her, as if to show her the attitude he meant; but, pointing with decision to his easel, she said—
“You have only five minutes.” He immediately went back to his work, and she made a vague attempt to take up her position. “You must tell me if this will do,” she added, in a moment.
“It will do beautifully,” Longueville answered, in a happy tone, looking at her and plying his brush. “It is immensely good of you to take so much trouble.”
For a moment she made no rejoinder, but presently she said—
“Of course if I pose at all I wish to pose well.”
“You pose admirably,” said Longueville.
After this she said nothing, and for several minutes he painted rapidly and in silence. He felt a certain excitement, and the movement of his thoughts kept pace with that of his brush. It was very true that she posed admirably; she was a fine creature to paint. Her prettiness inspired him, and also her audacity, as he was content to regard it for the moment. He wondered about her—who she was, and what she was—perceiving that the so-called audacity was not vulgar boldness, but the play of an original and probably interesting character. It was obvious that she was a perfect lady, but it was equally obvious that she was irregularly clever. Longueville’s little figure was a success—a charming success, he thought, as he put on the last touches. While he was doing this, his model’s companion came into view. She came out of the church, pausing a moment as she looked from her daughter to the young man in the corner of the terrace; then she walked straight over to the young girl. She was a delicate little gentlewoman, with a light, quick step.
Longueville’s five minutes were up; so, leaving his place, he approached the two ladies, sketch in hand. The elder one, who had passed her hand into her daughter’s arm, looked up at him with clear, surprised eyes; she was a charming old woman. Her eyes were very pretty, and on either side of them, above a pair of fine dark brows, was a band of silvery hair, rather coquettishly arranged.
“It is my portrait,” said her daughter, as Longueville drew near. “This gentleman has been sketching me.”
“Sketching you, dearest?” murmured her mother. “Was n’t it rather sudden?”
“Very sudden—very abrupt!” exclaimed the young girl with a laugh.
“Considering all that, it ‘s very good,” said Longueville, offering his picture to the elder lady, who took it and began to examine it. “I can’t tell you how much I thank you,” he said to his model.
“It ‘s very well for you to thank me now,” she replied. “You really had no right to begin.”
“The temptation was so great.”
“We should resist temptation. And you should have asked my leave.”
“I was afraid you would refuse it; and you stood there, just in my line of vision.”
“You should have asked me to get out of it.”
“I should have been very sorry. Besides, it would have been extremely rude.”
The young girl looked at him a moment.
“Yes, I think it would. But what you have done is ruder.”
“It is a hard case!” said Longueville. “What could I have done, then, decently?”
“It ‘s a beautiful drawing,” murmured the elder lady, handing the thing back to Longueville. Her daughter, meanwhile, had not even glanced at it.
“You might have waited till I should go away,” this argumentative young person continued.
Longueville shook his head.
“I never lose opportunities!”
“You might have sketched me afterwards, from memory.”
Longueville looked at her, smiling.
“Judge how much better my memory will be now!”
She also smiled a little, but instantly became serious.
“For myself, it ‘s an episode I shall try to forget. I don’t like the part I have played in it.”
“May you never play a less becoming