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Chapter 1

"There are several objections to it, but I'll take it if you'll alter
it," Mr. Locket's rather curt note had said; and there was no waste
of words in the postscript in which he had added: "If you'll come in
and see me, I'll show you what I mean." This communication had
reached Jersey Villas by the first post, and Peter Baron had scarcely
swallowed his leathery muffin before he got into motion to obey the
editorial behest. He knew that such precipitation looked eager, and
he had no desire to look eager--it was not in his interest; but how
could he maintain a godlike calm, principled though he was in favour
of it, the first time one of the great magazines had accepted, even
with a cruel reservation, a specimen of his ardent young genius?

It was not till, like a child with a sea-shell at his ear, he began
to be aware of the great roar of the "underground," that, in his
third-class carriage, the cruelty of the reservation penetrated, with
the taste of acrid smoke, to his inner sense. It was really
degrading to be eager in the face of having to "alter." Peter Baron
tried to figure to himself at that moment that he was not flying to
betray the extremity of his need, but hurrying to fight for some of
those passages of superior boldness which were exactly what the
conductor of the "Promiscuous Review" would be sure to be down upon.
He made believe--as if to the greasy fellow-passenger opposite--that
he felt indignant; but he saw that to the small round eye of this
still more downtrodden brother he represented selfish success. He
would have liked to linger in the conception that he had been
"approached" by the Promiscuous; but whatever might be thought in the
office of that periodical of some of his flights of fancy, there was
no want of vividness in his occasional suspicion that he passed there
for a familiar bore. The only thing that was clearly flattering was
the fact that the Promiscuous rarely published fiction. He should
therefore be associated with a deviation from a solemn habit, and
that would more than make up to him for a phrase in one of Mr.
Locket's inexorable earlier notes, a phrase which still rankled,
about his showing no symptom of the faculty really creative. "You
don't seem able to keep a character together," this pitiless monitor
had somewhere else remarked. Peter Baron, as he sat in his corner
while the train stopped, considered, in the befogged gaslight, the
bookstall standard of literature and asked himself whose character
had fallen to pieces now. Tormenting indeed had always seemed to him
such a fate as to have the creative head without the creative hand.

It should be mentioned, however, that before he started on his
mission to Mr. Locket his attention had been briefly engaged by an
incident occurring at Jersey Villas. On leaving the house (he lived
at No. 3, the door of which stood open to a small front garden), he
encountered the lady who, a week before, had taken possession of the
rooms on the ground floor, the "parlours" of Mrs. Bundy's
terminology. He had heard her, and from his window, two or three
times, had even seen her pass in and out, and this observation had
created in his mind a vague prejudice in her favour. Such a
prejudice, it was true, had been subjected to a violent test; it had
been fairly apparent that she had a light step, but it was still less
to be overlooked that she had a cottage piano. She had furthermore a
little boy and a very sweet voice, of which Peter Baron had caught
the accent, not from her singing (for she only played), but from her
gay admonitions to her child, whom she occasionally allowed to amuse
himself--under restrictions very publicly enforced--in the tiny black
patch which, as a forecourt to each house, was held, in the humble
row, to be a feature. Jersey Villas stood in pairs, semi-detached,
and Mrs. Ryves--such was the name under which the new lodger
presented herself--had been admitted to the house as confessedly
musical. Mrs. Bundy, the earnest proprietress of No. 3, who
considered her "parlours" (they were a dozen feet square), even more
attractive, if possible, than the second floor with which Baron had
had to content himself--Mrs. Bundy, who reserved the drawing-room for
a casual dressmaking business, had threshed out the subject of the
new lodger in advance with our young man, reminding him that her
affection for his own person was a proof that, other things being
equal, she positively preferred tenants who were clever.

This was the case with Mrs. Ryves; she had satisfied Mrs. Bundy that
she was not a simple strummer. Mrs. Bundy admitted to Peter Baron
that, for herself, she had a weakness for a pretty tune, and Peter
could honestly reply that his ear was equally sensitive. Everything
would depend on the "touch" of their inmate. Mrs. Ryves's piano
would blight his existence if her hand should prove heavy or her
selections vulgar; but if she played agreeable things and played them
in an agreeable way she would render him rather a service while he
smoked the pipe of "form." Mrs. Bundy, who wanted to let her rooms,
guaranteed on the part of the stranger a first-class talent, and Mrs.
Ryves, who evidently knew thoroughly what she was about, had not
falsified this somewhat rash prediction. She never played in the
morning, which was Baron's working-time, and he found himself
listening with pleasure at other hours to her discreet and melancholy
strains. He really knew little about music, and the only criticism
he would have made of Mrs. Ryves's conception of it was that she
seemed devoted to the dismal. It was not, however, that these
strains were not pleasant to him; they floated up, on the contrary,
as a sort of conscious response to some of his broodings and doubts.
Harmony, therefore, would have reigned supreme had it not been for
the singularly bad taste of No. 4. Mrs. Ryves's piano was on the
free side of the house and was regarded by Mrs. Bundy as open to no
objection but that of their own gentleman, who was so reasonable. As
much, however, could not be said of the gentleman of No. 4, who had
not even Mr. Baron's excuse of being "littery"(he kept a bull-terrier
and had five hats--the street could count them), and whom, if you had
listened to Mrs. Bundy, you would have supposed to be divided from
the obnoxious instrument by walls and corridors, obstacles and
intervals, of massive structure and fabulous extent. This gentleman
had taken up an attitude which had now passed into the phase of
correspondence and compromise; but it was the opinion of the
immediate neighbourhood that he had not a leg to stand upon, and on
whatever subject the sentiment of Jersey Villas might have been
vague, it was not so on the rights and the wrongs of landladies.

Mrs. Ryves's little boy was in the garden as Peter Baron issued from
the house, and his mother appeared to have come out for a moment,
bareheaded, to see that he was doing no harm. She was discussing
with him the responsibility that he might incur by passing a piece of
string round one of the iron palings and pretending he was in command
of a "geegee"; but it happened that at the sight of the other lodger
the child was seized with a finer perception of the drivable. He
rushed at Baron with a flourish of the bridle, shouting, "Ou geegee!"
in a manner productive of some refined embarrassment to his mother.
Baron met his advance by mounting him on a shoulder and feigning to
prance an instant, so that by the time this performance was over--it
took but a few seconds--the young man felt introduced to Mrs. Ryves.
Her smile struck him as charming, and such an impression shortens
many steps. She said, "Oh, thank you--you mustn't let him worry
you"; and then as, having put down the child and raised his hat, he
was turning away, she added: "It's very good of you not to complain
of my piano."

"I particularly enjoy it--you play beautifully," said Peter Baron.

"I have to play, you see--it's all I can do. But the people next
door don't like it, though my room, you know, is not against their
wall. Therefore I thank you for letting me tell them that you, in
the house, don't find me a nuisance."

She looked gentle and bright as she spoke, and as the young man's
eyes rested on her the tolerance for which she expressed herself
indebted seemed to him the least indulgence she might count upon.
But he only laughed and said "Oh, no, you're not a nuisance!" and
felt more and more introduced.

The little boy, who was handsome, hereupon clamoured for another
ride, and she took him up herself, to moderate his transports. She
stood a moment with the child in her arms, and he put his fingers
exuberantly into her hair, so that while she smiled at Baron she
slowly, permittingly shook her head to get rid of them.

"If they really make a fuss I'm afraid I shall have to go," she went

"Oh, don't go!" Baron broke out, with a sudden expressiveness which
made his voice, as it fell upon his ear, strike him as the voice of
another. She gave a vague exclamation and, nodding slightly but not
unsociably, passed back into the house. She had made an impression
which remained till the other party to the conversation reached the
railway-station, when it was superseded by the thought of his
prospective discussion with Mr. Locket. This was a proof of the
intensity of that interest.

The aftertaste of the later conference was also intense for Peter
Baron, who quitted his editor with his manuscript under his arm. He
had had the question out with Mr. Locket, and he was in a flutter
which ought to have been a sense of triumph and which indeed at first
he succeeded in regarding in this light. Mr. Locket had had to admit
that there was an idea in his story, and that was a tribute which
Baron was in a position to make the most of. But there was also a
scene which scandalised the editorial conscience and which the young
man had promised to rewrite. The idea that Mr. Locket had been so
good as to disengage depended for clearness mainly on this scene; so
it was easy to see his objection was perverse. This inference was
probably a part of the joy in which Peter Baron walked as he carried
home a contribution it pleased him to classify as accepted. He
walked to work off his excitement and to think in what manner he
should reconstruct. He went some distance without settling that
point, and then, as it began to worry him, he looked vaguely into
shop-windows for solutions and hints. Mr. Locket lived in the depths
of Chelsea, in a little panelled, amiable house, and Baron took his
way homeward along the King's Road. There was a new amusement for
him, a fresher bustle, in a London walk in the morning; these were
hours that he habitually spent at his table, in the awkward attitude
engendered by the poor piece of furniture, one of the rickety
features of Mrs. Bundy's second floor, which had to serve as his
altar of literary sacrifice. If by exception he went out when the
day was young he noticed that life seemed younger with it; there were
livelier industries to profit by and shop-girls, often rosy, to look
at; a different air was in the streets and a chaff of traffic for the
observer of manners to catch. Above all, it was the time when poor
Baron made his purchases, which were wholly of the wandering mind;
his extravagances, for some mysterious reason, were all matutinal,
and he had a foreknowledge that if ever he should ruin himself it
would be well before noon. He felt lavish this morning, on the
strength of what the Promiscuous would do for him; he had lost sight
for the moment of what he should have to do for the Promiscuous.
Before the old bookshops and printshops, the crowded panes of the
curiosity-mongers and the desirable exhibitions of mahogany "done
up," he used, by an innocent process, to commit luxurious follies.
He refurnished Mrs. Bundy with a freedom that cost her nothing, and
lost himself in pictures of a transfigured second floor.

On this particular occasion the King's Road proved almost
unprecedentedly expensive, and indeed this occasion differed from
most others in containing the germ of real danger. For once in a way
he had a bad conscience--he felt himself tempted to pick his own
pocket. He never saw a commodious writing-table, with elbow-room and
drawers and a fair expanse of leather stamped neatly at the edge with
gilt, without being freshly reminded of Mrs. Bundy's dilapidations.
There were several such tables in the King's Road--they seemed indeed
particularly numerous today. Peter Baron glanced at them all through
the fronts of the shops, but there was one that detained him in
supreme contemplation. There was a fine assurance about it which
seemed a guarantee of masterpieces; but when at last he went in and,
just to help himself on his way, asked the impossible price, the sum
mentioned by the voluble vendor mocked at him even more than he had
feared. It was far too expensive, as he hinted, and he was on the
point of completing his comedy by a pensive retreat when the shopman
bespoke his attention for another article of the same general
character, which he described as remarkably cheap for what it was.
It was an old piece, from a sale in the country, and it had been in
stock some time; but it had got pushed out of sight in one of the
upper rooms--they contained such a wilderness of treasures--and
happened to have but just come to light. Peter suffered himself to
be conducted into an interminable dusky rear, where he presently
found himself bending over one of those square substantial desks of
old mahogany, raised, with the aid of front legs, on a sort of
retreating pedestal which is fitted with small drawers, contracted
conveniences known immemorially to the knowing as davenports. This
specimen had visibly seen service, but it had an old-time solidity
and to Peter Baron it unexpectedly appealed.

He would have said in advance that such an article was exactly what
he didn't want, but as the shopman pushed up a chair for him and he
sat down with his elbows on the gentle slope of the large, firm lid,
he felt that such a basis for literature would be half the battle.
He raised the lid and looked lovingly into the deep interior; he sat
ominously silent while his companion dropped the striking words:
"Now that's an article I personally covet!" Then when the man
mentioned the ridiculous price (they were literally giving it away),
he reflected on the economy of having a literary altar on which one
could really kindle a fire. A davenport was a compromise, but what
was all life but a compromise? He could beat down the dealer, and at
Mrs. Bundy's he had to write on an insincere card-table. After he
had sat for a minute with his nose in the friendly desk he had a
queer impression that it might tell him a secret or two--one of the
secrets of form, one of the sacrificial mysteries--though no doubt
its career had been literary only in the sense of its helping some
old lady to write invitations to dull dinners. There was a strange,
faint odour in the receptacle, as if fragrant, hallowed things had
once been put away there. When he took his head out of it he said to
the shopman: "I don't mind meeting you halfway." He had been told
by knowing people that that was the right thing. He felt rather
vulgar, but the davenport arrived that evening at Jersey Villas.

Henry James

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