Transcribed from the 1922 Macmillan and Co. edition by DavidPrice, . Proofed by Chris Jelley,Micky McClure and David.
THE
AUTHOR OF BELTRAFFIO
BY
HENRY JAMES
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1922
p. 3I
Much as I wished to see him I hadkept my letter of introduction three weeks in mypocket-book. I was nervous and timid about meetinghim—conscious of youth and ignorance, convinced that he wastormented by strangers, and especially by my country-people, andnot exempt from the suspicion that he had the irritability aswell as the dignity of genius. Moreover, thepleasure, if it should occur—for I could scarcely believeit was near at hand—would be so great that I wished tothink of it in advance, to feel it there against my breast, notto mix it with satisfactions more superficial andusual. In the little game of new sensations that Iwas playing with my ingenuous mind I wished to keep my visit tothe author of “Beltraffio” as atrump-card. It was three years after the publicationof that fascinating work, which I had read over five times andwhich now, with my riper judgement, I admire on the whole as muchas ever. This will give you about the date of myfirst visit—of any duration—to England for you willnot have forgotten the commotion, I may even say the scandal,produced by Mark Ambient’s masterpiece. It wasthe most complete presentation that had yet been made of thegospel of art; it was a kind of æstheticwar-cry. People had endeavoured to sail nearer to“truth” in the cut of their sleeves and the shape oftheir sideboards; but there had not as yet been, among Englishnovels, such an example of beauty of execution and“intimate” importance of theme. Nothinghad been done in that line from the point of view of art forart. That served me as a fond formula, I may mention,when I was twenty-five; how much it still serves I won’ttake upon myself to say—especially as the discerning readerwill be able to judge for himself. I had been inEngland, briefly, a twelve-month before the time to which I beganby alluding, and had then learned that Mr. Ambient was in distantlands—was making a considerable tour in the East; so thatthere was nothing to do but to keep my letter till I should be inLondon again. It was of little use to me to hear thathis wife had not left England and was, with her little boy, theironly child, spending the period of her husband’sabsence—a good many months—at a small place they haddown in Surrey. They had a house in London, butactually in the occupation of other persons. All thisI had picked up, and also that Mrs. Ambient was charming—myfriend the American poet, from whom I had my introduction, hadnever seen her, his relations with the great man confined to theexchange of letters; but she wasn’t, after all, though shehad lived so near the rose, the author of“Beltraffio,” and I didn’t go down into Surreyto call on her. I went to the Continent, spent thefollowing winter in Italy, and returned to London inMay. My visit to Italy had opened my eyes to a goodmany things, but to nothing more than the beauty of certain pagesin the works of Mark Ambient. I carried hisproductions about in my trunk—they are not, as you know,very numerous, but he had preluded to “Be