velvet and ruches, I did not see any others who looked as if they had ever heard of the New Woman or of working for a weekly salary. Mrs. Dew Smith chattered on and filled all the space, and when others came in, I could move away gracefully.
I was glad the constraint of meeting my hostess was over and I could hang back, for timidity had overcome me again like a huge wave and I was floundering beside the tea table, hoping my cup and saucer would not slip from my hands, wondering how to juggle the sandwiches, biscuits, iced cakes, napkins, little plates, tiny forks, sugar tongs, and all the other paraphernalia of the tea table spread before me.
I heard that familiar voice first, then saw that Mr. James had come in soon after the crush had reached its height. Our hostess was clearly thrilled with his presence. She rushed across the room, her shrill voice blaring her pleasure. With pride, she brought him through the crowd, introducing him wherever it was necessary, though I noticed it was not often necessary, for he knew so many people. The slow procession was making its way straight to the tea table—and me—and my hand began to tremble. Would he make a fuss, embarrass me, shame me? Or would he not acknowledge even knowing me and shame me even more?
I put my cup down with a rattle and snatched up a sandwich and bit into the cold cucumber, the smooth creamy mayonnaise, but then the dryness of the white bread was too much. I could not swallow, and then he was there before me. I secretly wiped the mayonnaise from my fingers on the table cloth, knocking several of the biscuits to the floor. I gave one a little kick to send it farther under the table in the nick of time.
But as Mrs. Dew Smith began to pronounce my name, Mr. James took my hand with a great friendly roar of laughter. He was clearly glad to see me, surprised, and yet not totally surprised, all the while keeping my hand in his and easing all discomfiture.
“Ah, yes, my dear Miss Bosanquet, how wonderful that Mrs. Dew Smith should have invited you as well, and we can meet this way. Now, I hope to hear some of your words for a change. You are so efficient and steadfast in our work, listening to mine,” and he paused, waiting for my reply.
Of course, now that I was to answer, I was choking and could only sputter and mumble and nod in a friendly way, but he let go of my hand and went on, turning to our hostess, covering my embarrassment, my gulping of tea, swallowing.
“I feel so blessed to have Miss Bosanquet with me. I was struggling with this project, could not find the right sort of assistance, and a very old, very dear friend brought us together—” Mrs. Dew Smith nodded encouragingly as he went on, telling her all about his enormous, ambitious project of revisions.
I was glad he had been so friendly towards me, but I was a little startled, too, at the picture he painted of his long relationship with Miss Petherbridge, but then I realised they must have long been old friends in some way for him to accept me as unquestioningly as he had. While he continued talking, Mrs. Dew Smith piled up an ample plate for her famous guest and led him to a large comfortable chair near the other worthies of the town, between the short, red-faced man I knew to be the mayor and a handsome young sportsman, who apparently was visiting, from the look of his golf-course plaids and casual air.
I happily swallowed another gulp of my tea, feeling quite pleased that Mr. James had shown his friendship for me and that I had not been required to say anything.
“That was a close call,” a young woman said from the corner nook behind me.
I turned and saw Miss Bradley, tall and blonde, with large dark eyes that took in everything. I had met her several times at her parents’ intimate afternoon teas. I nodded, and she went on.
“You know, he’s quite sweet when you’re used to him, but I remember that my first conversation with our local famous man was terrifying. I was a little girl when he would come to our house and talk and talk. I was afraid he wanted me to respond, but now I know he only means to be kind and to make everything go well. Mr. James has long been an old friend of my father.”
Miss Bradley standing there before me—a vision she was—gestured towards an old gentleman who had replaced the golfing youth sitting near Mr. James.
“My father and Mr. James can talk Shakespeare for hours.” She turned back to me. “I’ve known Mr. James all my life. Miss Bosanquet, ah, Theodora, or should I call you Dora? Oh, why don’t you just call me Nellie?”
And so, we began an easy conversation, so easy that I was comfortable even when Mr. James came back to talk with us and refill his plate and cup.
“Miss Bradley,” he said, “you are back from your studies in Paris, I see.”
“How good of you to remember. Yes, I am home again.”
“And how is your painting? There is so much to see here in our lovely Rye—the old houses, the water, the light—Ah, our sky has been ‘done’ so many times. But I’m sure you bring us the latest techniques. I hope for your father’s sake, that you’re home to stay.”
“I want to stay—If only I can find a proper studio, where I might give lessons.”
“Ah, yes. I have such happy memories of my own youthful painting days back in America at the side of my artist friends so many years ago. Oh, you must find your own place, mustn’t she, Miss Bosanquet?”
He turned to me for support, and happily I found my voice and spoke of the places I had seen in Chelsea, the studios and rooms my friends had set up, and the women whom I had seen painting, sculpting, even writing there.
Our conversation went on easily, openly, for somehow Mr. James made opportunities for me to speak, and my restraint disappeared. I was entranced by the lovely Miss Bradley, and it seemed Mr. James encouraged our friendship, even promising not to work me so hard so that I might have more time for visiting. Later, I wondered if perhaps Mr. James had known what I needed to make me happy—a new friend, the possibility of friendship.
Mrs. Blomfield came over and was introduced, and Mr. James seemed so casually to remark, “I hope you find a chance to show my young friend your lovely home at Point Hill. I shouldn’t spoil the surprise, Miss Bosanquet, but when you do visit, I hope you’ll pay special attention. Perhaps you may see something that will interest you after we begin the next preface, the one for ‘The Spoils of Poynton.’” With that, he turned away to speak with our hostess, who had brought over one last offering to his altar.
In a low, conspiratorial tone, Nellie Bradley admitted that she had never heard of that most interesting novel. “Now, I can tell you. Actually, I’ve never heard of any of his stories or novels. I’ve never read a word. I don’t like to read, but I do like to be read to while I’m painting.” She paused meaningfully and then added, “Perhaps some afternoon you might come to me?”
And so, we made the arrangements.
6
“The Story in It”
1908
I hasten to add, the mere stir of the air round the question reflected in the brief but earnest interchange I have just reported was to cause a “subject,” to my sense, immediately to bloom there. So it suddenly, on its small scale, seemed to stand erect—or at least quite intelligently to lift its head; just a subject, clearly, though I could n’t immediately tell which or what. To find out I had to get a little closer to it.
—Henry James
Preface to “The Story in It” The New York Edition, volume 18
