The Golden Bowl, vol 1 | Page 5

that one, that would seek, possibly
with violence, the larger or the finer issue--which was it?--of the
vernacular. Miss Verver had told him he spoke English too well-- it
was his only fault, and he had not been able to speak worse even to
oblige her. "When I speak worse, you see, I speak French," he had said;
intimating thus that there were discriminations, doubtless of the
invidious kind, for which that language was the most apt. The girl had
taken this, she let him know, as a reflection on her own French, which
she had always so dreamed of making good, of making better; to say
nothing of his evident feeling that the idiom supposed a cleverness she
was not a person to rise to. The Prince's answer to such remarks--genial,
charming, like every answer the parties to his new arrangement had yet
had from him--was that he was practising his American in order to
converse properly, on equal terms as it were, with Mr. Verver. His
prospective father-in-law had a command of it, he said, that put him at

a disadvantage in any discussion; besides which--well, besides which
he had made to the girl the observation that positively, of all his
observations yet, had most finely touched her.
"You know I think he's a REAL galantuomo--'and no mistake.' There
are plenty of sham ones about. He seems to me simply the best man
I've ever seen in my life."
"Well, my dear, why shouldn't he be?" the girl had gaily inquired.
It was this, precisely, that had set the Prince to think. The things, or
many of them, that had made Mr. Verver what he was seemed
practically to bring a charge of waste against the other things that, with
the other people known to the young man, had failed of such a result.
"Why, his 'form,'" he had returned, "might have made one doubt."
"Father's form?" She hadn't seen it. It strikes me he hasn't got any."
"He hasn't got mine--he hasn't even got yours."
"Thank you for 'even'!" the girl had laughed at him. "Oh, yours, my
dear, is tremendous. But your father has his own. I've made that out. So
don't doubt it. It's where it has brought him out-- that's the point."
"It's his goodness that has brought him out," our young woman had, at
this, objected.
"Ah, darling, goodness, I think, never brought anyone out. Goodness,
when it's real, precisely, rather keeps people in." He had been interested
in his discrimination, which amused him. "No, it's his WAY. It belongs
to him."
But she had wondered still. "It's the American way. That's all."
"Exactly--it's all. It's all, I say! It fits him--so it must be good for
something."
"Do you think it would be good for you?" Maggie Verver had smilingly
asked.
To which his reply had been just of the happiest. "I don't feel, my dear,
if you really want to know, that anything much can now either hurt me
or help me. Such as I am--but you'll see for yourself. Say, however, I
am a galantuomo--which I devoutly hope: I'm like a chicken, at best,
chopped up and smothered in sauce; cooked down as a creme de
volaille, with half the parts left out. Your father's the natural fowl
running about the bassecour. His feathers, movements, his
sounds--those are the parts that, with me, are left out."
"All, as a matter of course--since you can't eat a chicken alive!"

The Prince had not been annoyed at this, but he had been positive.
"Well, I'm eating your father alive--which is the only way to taste him.
I want to continue, and as it's when he talks American that he is most
alive, so I must also cultivate it, to get my pleasure. He couldn't make
one like him so much in any other language."
It mattered little that the girl had continued to demur--it was the mere
play of her joy. "I think he could make you like him in Chinese."
"It would be an unnecessary trouble. What I mean is that he's a kind of
result of his inevitable tone. My liking is accordingly FOR the
tone--which has made him possible."
"Oh, you'll hear enough of it," she laughed, "before you've done with
us."
Only this, in truth, had made him frown a little.
"What do you mean, please, by my having 'done' with you?"
"Why, found out about us all there is to find."
He had been able to take it indeed easily as a joke. "Ah, love, I began
with that. I know enough, I feel, never to be surprised. It's you
yourselves meanwhile," he continued, "who really know nothing. There
are two parts of me"--yes, he had been moved to go on. "One is made
up of the history, the