Free The Ambassadors by Henry James Page A

it—to my belief. And I," said Strether, "though with a
back quite as bent, have never made anything. I'm a perfectly
equipped failure."
    He feared an instant she'd ask him if he meant he was poor; and
he was glad she didn't, for he really didn't know to what the truth
on this unpleasant point mightn't have prompted her. She only,
however, confirmed his assertion. "Thank goodness you're a
failure—it's why I so distinguish you! Anything else to-day is too
hideous. Look about you—look at the successes. Would you BE one, on
your honour? Look, moreover," she continued, "at me."
    For a little accordingly their eyes met. "I see," Strether
returned. "You too are out of it."
    "The superiority you discern in me," she concurred, "announces
my futility. If you knew," she sighed, "the dreams of my youth! But
our realities are what has brought us together. We're beaten
brothers in arms."
    He smiled at her kindly enough, but he shook his head. "It
doesn't alter the fact that you're expensive. You've cost me
already—!"
    But he had hung fire. "Cost you what?"
    "Well, my past—in one great lump. But no matter," he laughed:
"I'll pay with my last penny."
    Her attention had unfortunately now been engaged by their
comrade's return, for Waymarsh met their view as he came out of his
shop. "I hope he hasn't paid," she said, "with HIS last; though I'm
convinced he has been splendid, and has been so for you."
    "Ah no—not that!"
    "Then for me?"
    "Quite as little." Waymarsh was by this time near enough to show
signs his friend could read, though he seemed to look almost
carefully at nothing in particular.
    "Then for himself?"
    "For nobody. For nothing. For freedom."
    "But what has freedom to do with it?"
    Strether's answer was indirect. "To be as good as you and me.
But different."
    She had had time to take in their companion's face; and with it,
as such things were easy for her, she took in all. "Different—yes.
But better!"
    If Waymarsh was sombre he was also indeed almost sublime. He
told them nothing, left his absence unexplained, and though they
were convinced he had made some extraordinary purchase they were
never to learn its nature. He only glowered grandly at the tops of
the old gables. "It's the sacred rage," Strether had had further
time to say; and this sacred rage was to become between them, for
convenient comprehension, the description of one of his periodical
necessities. It was Strether who eventually contended that it did
make him better than they. But by that time Miss Gostrey was
convinced that she didn't want to be better than Strether.

Book Second

I
    Those occasions on which Strether was, in association with the
exile from Milrose, to see the sacred rage glimmer through would
doubtless have their due periodicity; but our friend had meanwhile
to find names for many other matters. On no evening of his life
perhaps, as he reflected, had he had to supply so many as on the
third of his short stay in London; an evening spent by Miss
Gostrey's side at one of the theatres, to which he had found
himself transported, without his own hand raised, on the mere
expression of a conscientious wonder. She knew her theatre, she
knew her play, as she had triumphantly known, three days running,
everything else, and the moment filled to the brim, for her
companion, that apprehension of the interesting which, whether or
no the interesting happened to filter through his guide, strained
now to its limits his brief opportunity. Waymarsh hadn't come with
them; he had seen plays enough, he signified, before Strether had
joined him—an affirmation that had its full force when his friend
ascertained by questions that he had seen two and a circus.
Questions as to what he had seen had on him indeed an effect only
less favourable than questions as to what he hadn't. He liked the
former to be discriminated; but how could it be done, Strether
asked of their constant counsellor, without discriminating the
latter?
    Miss Gostrey had dined with him at his