The　Author　of　Beltraffio
  by　Henry　James
  CHAPTER　I
  Much　as　I　wished　to　see　him　I　had　kept　my　letter　of　introduction
  three　weeks　in　my　pocket…book。　　　I　was　nervous　and　timid　about
  meeting　himconscious　of　youth　and　ignorance；　convinced　that　he　was
  tormented　by　strangers；　and　especially　by　my　country…people；　and　not
  exempt　from　the　suspicion　that　he　had　the　irritability　as　well　as　the
  dignity　of　genius。　　　Moreover；　the　pleasure；　if　it　should　occurfor
  I　could　scarcely　believe　it　was　near　at　handwould　be　so　great　that
  I　wished　to　think　of　it　in　advance；　to　feel　it　there　against　my
  breast；　not　to　mix　it　with　satisfactions　more　superficial　and　usual。
  In　the　little　game　of　new　sensations　that　I　was　playing　with　my
  ingenuous　mind　I　wished　to　keep　my　visit　to　the　author　of
  〃Beltraffio〃　as　a　trump…card。　　　It　was　three　years　after　the
  publication　of　that　fascinating　work；　which　I　had　read　over　five
  times　and　which　now；　with　my　riper　judgement；　I　admire　on　the　whole
  as　much　as　ever。　　　This　will　give　you　about　the　date　of　my　first
  visitof　any　durationto　England　for　you　will　not　have　forgotten
  the　commotion；　I　may　even　say　the　scandal；　produced　by　Mark　Ambient's
  masterpiece。　　　It　was　the　most　complete　presentation　that　had　yet
  been　made　of　the　gospel　of　art；　it　was　a　kind　of　aesthetic　war…cry。
  People　had　endeavoured　to　sail　nearer　to　〃truth〃　in　the　cut　of　their
  sleeves　and　the　shape　of　their　sideboards；　but　there　had　not　as　yet
  been；　among　English　novels；　such　an　example　of　beauty　of　execution
  and　〃intimate〃　importance　of　theme。　　　Nothing　had　been　done　in　that
  line　from　the　point　of　view　of　art　for　art。　　　That　served　me　as　a
  fond　formula；　I　may　mention；　when　I　was　twenty…five；　how　much　it
  still　serves　I　won't　take　upon　myself　to　sayespecially　as　the
  discerning　reader　will　be　able　to　judge　for　himself。　　　I　had　been　in
  England；　briefly；　a　twelve…month　before　the　time　to　which　I　began　by
  alluding；　and　had　then　learned　that　Mr。　Ambient　was　in　distant　lands…
  …was　making　a　considerable　tour　in　the　East；　so　that　there　was
  nothing　to　do　but　to　keep　my　letter　till　I　should　be　in　London　again。
  It　was　of　little　use　to　me　to　hear　that　his　wife　had　not　left　England
  and　was；　with　her　little　boy；　their　only　child；　spending　the　period
  of　her　husband's　absencea　good　many　monthsat　a　small　place　they
  had　down　in　Surrey。　　　They　had　a　house　in　London；　but　actually　in　the
  occupation　of　other　persons。　　　All　this　I　had　picked　up；　and　also
  that　Mrs。　Ambient　was　charmingmy　friend　the　American　poet；　from
  whom　I　had　my　introduction；　had　never　seen　her；　his　relations　with
  the　great　man　confined　to　the　exchange　of　letters；　but　she　wasn't；
  after　all；　though　she　had　lived　so　near　the　rose；　the　author　of
  〃Beltraffio；〃　and　I　didn't　go　down　into　Surrey　to　call　on　her。　　　I
  went　to　the　Continent；　spent　the　following　winter　in　Italy；　and
  returned　to　London　in　May。　　　My　visit　to　Italy　had　opened　my　eyes　to
  a　good　many　things；　but　to　nothing　more　than　the　beauty　of　certain
  pages　in　the　works　of　Mark　Ambient。　　　I　carried　his　productions　about
  in　my　trunkthey　are　not；　as　you　know；　very　numerous；　but　he　had
  preluded　to　〃Beltraffio〃　by；　some　exquisite　thingsand　I　used　to
  read　them　over　in　the　evening　at　the　inn。　　　I　used　profoundly　to
  reason　that　the　man　who　drew　those　characters　and　wrote　that　style
  understood　what　he　saw　and　knew　what　he　was　doing。　　　This　is　my　sole
  ground　for　mentioning　my　winter　in　Italy。　　　He　had　been　there　much　in
  former　yearshe　was　saturated　with　what　painters　call　the　〃feeling〃
  of　that　classic　land。　　　He　expressed　the　charm　of　the　old　hill…cities
  of　Tuscany；　the　look　of　certain　lonely　grass…grown　places　which；　in
  the　past；　had　echoed　with　life；　he　understood　the　great　artists；　he
  understood　the　spirit　of　the　Renaissance；　he　understood　everything。
  The　scene　of　one　of　his　earlier　novels　was　laid　in　Rome；　the　scene　of
  another　in　Florence；　and　I　had　moved　through　these　cities　in　company
  with　the　figures　he　set　so　firmly　on　their　feet。　　　This　is　why　I　was
  now　so　much　happier　even　than　before　in　the　prospect　of　making　his
  acquaintance。
  At　last；　when　I　had　dallied　with　my　privilege　long　enough；　I
  despatched　to　him　the　missive　of　the　American　poet。　　　He　had　already
  gone　out　of　town；　he　shrank　from　the　rigour　of　the　London　〃season〃
  and　it　was　his　habit　to　migrate　on　the　first　of　June。　　　Moreover　I
  had　heard　he　was　this　year　hard　at　work　on　a　new　book；　into　which
  some　of　his　impressions　of　the　East　were　to　be　wrought；　so　that　he
  desired　nothing　so　much　as　quiet　days。　　　That　knowledge；　however；
  didn't　prevent　mecet　age　est　sans　pitiefrom　sending　with　my
  friend's　letter　a　note　of　my　own；　in　which　I　asked　his　leave　to　come
  down　and　see　him　for　an　hour　or　two　on　some　day　to　be　named　by
  himself。　　　My　proposal　was　accompanied　with　a　very　frank　expression
  of　my　sentiments；　and　the　effect　of　the　entire　appeal　was　to　elicit
  from　the　great　man　the　kindest　possible　invitation。　　　He　would　be
  delighted　to　see　me；　especially　if　I　should　turn　up　on　the　following
  Saturday　and　would　remain　till　the　Monday　morning。　　　We　would　take　a
  walk　over　the　Surrey　commons；　and　I　could　tell　him　all　about　the
  other　great　man；　the　one　in　America。　　　He　indicated　to　me　the　best
  train；　and　it　may　be　imagined　whether　on　the　Saturday　afternoon　I　was
  punctual　at　Waterloo。　　　He　carried　his　benevolence　to　the　point　of
  coming　to　meet　me　at　the　little　station　at　which　I　was　to　alight；　and
  my　heart　beat　very　fast　as　I　saw　his　handsome　face；　surmounted　with　a
  soft　wide…awake　and　which　I　knew　by　a　photograph　long　since　enshrined
  on　my　mantel…shelf；　scanning　the　carriage…windows　as　the　train　rolled
  up。　　　He　recognised　me　as　infallibly　as　I　had　recognised　himself；　he
  appeared　to　know　by　instinct　how　a　young　American　of　critical
  pretensions；　rash　youth；　would　look　when　much　divided　between
  eagerness　and　modesty。　　　He　took　me　by　the　hand　and　smiled　at　me　and
  said：　　〃You　must　beaYOU；　I　think！〃　and　asked　if　I　should　mind
  going　on　foot　to　his　house；　which　would　take　but　a　few　minutes。　　　I
  remember　feeling　it　a　piece　of　extraordinary　affability　that　he
  should　give　directions　about　the　conveyance　of　my　bag；　I　remember
  feeling　altogether　very　happy　and　rosy；　in　fact　quite　transported；
  when　he　laid　his　hand　on　my　shoulder　as　we　came　out　of　the　station。
  I　surveyed　him；　askance；　as　we　walked　together；　I　had　already；　I　had
  indeed　instantly；　seen　him　as　all　delightful。　　　His　face　is　so　well
  known　that　I　needn't　describe　it；　he　looked　to　me　at　once　an　English
  gentleman　and　a　man　of　genius；　and　I　thought　that　a　happy
  combination。　　　There　was　a　brush　of　the　Bohemian　in　his　fineness；　you
  would　easily　have　guessed　his　belonging　to　the　artist　guild。　　　He　was
  addicted　to　velvet　jackets；　to　cigarettes；　to　loose　shirt…collars；　to
  looking　a　little　dishevelled。　　　His　features；　which　were　firm　but　not
  perfectly　regular；　are　fairly　enough　represented　in　his　portraits；
  but　no　portrait　I　have　seen　gives　any　idea　of　his　expression。　　　There
  were　innumerable　things　in　it；　and　they　chased　each　other　in　and　out
  of　his　face。　　　I　have　seen　people　who　were　grave　and　gay　in　quick
  alternation；　but　Mark　Ambient　was　grave　and　gay　at　one　and　the　same
  moment。　　　There　were　other　strange　oppositions　and　contradictions　in
  his　slightly　faded　and　fatigued　countenance。　　　He　affected　me　somehow
  as　at　once　fresh　and　stale；　at　once　anxious　and　indifferent。　　　He　had
  evidently　had　an　active　past；　which　inspired　one　with　curiosity；　yet
  what　was　that　compared　to　his　obvious　future？　　He　was　just　enough
  above　middle　height　to　be　spoken　of　as　tall；　and　rather　lean　and　long
  in　the　flank。　　　He　had　the　friendliest　frankest　manner　possible；　and
  yet　I　could　see　it　cost　him　something。　　　It　cost　him　small　spasms　of
  the　self…consciousness　that　is　an　Englishman's　last　and　dearest
  treasurethe　thing　he　pays　his　way　through　life　by　sacrificing　small
  pieces　of　even　as　the　gallant　but　moneyless　adventurer　in　〃Quentin
  Durward〃　broke　off　links　of　his　brave　gold　chain。　　　He　had　been
  thirty…eight　years　old　at　the　time　〃Beltraffio〃　was　published。　　　He
  asked　me　about　his　friend　in　America；　about　the　length　of　my　stay　in
  England；　about　the　last　news　in　London　and　the　people　I　had　seen
  there；　and　I　remember　looking　for　the　signs　of　genius　in　the　very
  form　of　his　questions　and　thinking　I　found　it。　　　I　liked　his　voice　as
  if　I　were　somehow　myself　having　the　use　of　it。
  There　was　genius　in　his　house　too　I　thought　when　we　got　there；　there
  was　imagination　in　the　carpets　and　curtains；　in　the　pictures　and
  books；　in　the　garden　behind　it；　where　certain　old　brown　walls　were
  muffled　in　creepers　that　appeared　to　me　to　have　been　copied　from　a
  masterpiece　of　one　of　the　pre…Raphaelites。　　　That　was　the　way　many
  things　struck　me　at　that　time；　in　Englandas　reproductions　of
  something　that　existed　primarily　in　art　or　literature。　　　It　was　not
  the　picture；　the　poem；　the　fictive　page；　that　seemed　to　me　a　copy；
  these　things　were　the　originals；　and　the　life　of　happy　and
  distinguished　people　was　fashioned　in　their　image。　　　Mark　Ambient
  called　his　house　a　cottage；　and　I　saw　afterwards　he　was　right　for　if
  it　hadn't　been　a　cottage　it　must　have　been　a　villa；　and　a　villa；