Stories by American Authors, Volume 5

Stories by American Authors,
Volume 5

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Title: Stories by American Authors, Volume 5 Contents: A Light Man,
By Henry James. Yatil, By F.D. Millet. The End Of New York, By
Park Benjamin. Why Thomas Was Discharged, By George Arnold. The
Tachypomp, By E.P. Mitchell
Author: Various
Release Date: March 4, 2004 [EBook #11437]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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AMERICAN, VOL. 5 ***

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[Illustration: H. James]

Stories by American Authors V.
A LIGHT MAN.
By Henry James.
YATIL.

By F.D. Millet.
THE END OF NEW YORK.
By Park Benjamin.
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED.
By George Arnold.
THE TACHYPOMP.
By E.P. Mitchell.

1884

A LIGHT MAN.
BY Henry James.[1]
"And I--what I seem to my friend, you see-- What I soon shall seem to
his love, you guess. What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero,
I confess."
_A Light Woman.--Browning's Men and Women_.
April 4, 1857.--I have changed my sky without changing my mind. I
resume these old notes in a new world. I hardly know of what use they
are; but it's easier to stick to the habit than to drop it. I have been at
home now a week--at home, forsooth! And yet, after all, it is home. I
am dejected, I am bored, I am blue. How can a man be more at home
than that? Nevertheless, I am the citizen of a great country, and for that
matter, of a great city. I walked to-day some ten miles or so along
Broadway, and on the whole I don't blush for my native land. We are a
capable race and a good-looking withal; and I don't see why we
shouldn't prosper as well as another. This, by the way, ought to be a
very encouraging reflection. A capable fellow and a good-looking
withal; I don't see why he shouldn't die a millionaire. At all events he
must do something. When a man has, at thirty-two, a net income of
considerably less than nothing, he can scarcely hope to overtake a
fortune before he himself is overtaken by age and philosophy--two
deplorable obstructions. I am afraid that one of them has already
planted itself in my path. What am I? What do I wish? Whither do I
tend? What do I believe? I am constantly beset by these impertinent
whisperings. Formerly it was enough that I was Maximus Austin; that I
was endowed with a cheerful mind and a good digestion; that one day
or another, when I had come to the end, I should return to America and

begin at the beginning; that, meanwhile, existence was sweet in--in the
Rue Tronchet. But now! Has the sweetness really passed out of life?
Have I eaten the plums and left nothing but the bread and milk and
corn-starch, or whatever the horrible concoction is?--I had it to-day for
dinner. Pleasure, at least, I imagine--pleasure pure and simple, pleasure
crude, brutal and vulgar--this poor flimsy delusion has lost all its charm.
I shall never again care for certain things--and indeed for certain
persons. Of such things, of such persons, I firmly maintain, however,
that I was never an enthusiastic votary. It would be more to my credit, I
suppose, if I had been. More would be forgiven me if I had loved a
little more, if into all my folly and egotism I had put a little more
_naïveté_ and sincerity. Well, I did the best I could, I was at once too
bad and too good for it all. At present, it's far enough off; I have put the
sea between us; I am stranded. I sit high and dry, scanning the horizon
for a friendly sail, or waiting for a high tide to set me afloat. The wave
of pleasure has deposited me here in the sand. Shall I owe my rescue to
the wave of pain? At moments I feel a kind of longing to expiate my
stupid little sins. I see, as through a glass, darkly, the beauty of labor
and love. Decidedly, I am willing to work. It's written.
7th.--My sail is in sight; it's at hand; I have all but boarded the vessel. I
received this morning a letter from the best man in the world. Here it is:
DEAR MAX: I see this very moment, in an old newspaper which had
already passed through my