The Lesson of the Master | Page 3

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The Lesson of the Master by Henry James Scanned and proofed by
David Price [email protected]

The Lesson of the Master

He had been told the ladies were at church, but this was corrected by
what he saw from the top of the steps - they descended from a great
height in two arms, with a circular sweep of the most charming effect -
at the threshold of the door which, from the long bright gallery,
overlooked the immense lawn. Three gentlemen, on the grass, at a
distance, sat under the great trees, while the fourth figure showed a
crimson dress that told as a "bit of colour" amid the fresh rich green.
The servant had so far accompanied Paul Overt as to introduce him to
this view, after asking him if he wished first to go to his room. The
young man declined that privilege, conscious of no disrepair from so
short and easy a journey and always liking to take at once a general
perceptive possession of a new scene. He stood there a little with his
eyes on the group and on the admirable picture, the wide grounds of an
old country-house near London - that only made it better - on a
splendid Sunday in June. "But that lady, who's SHE?" he said to the
servant before the man left him.
"I think she's Mrs. St. George, sir."
"Mrs. St. George, the wife of the distinguished - " Then Paul Overt
checked himself, doubting if a footman would know.

"Yes, sir - probably, sir," said his guide, who appeared to wish to
intimate that a person staying at Summersoft would naturally be, if only
by alliance, distinguished. His tone, however, made poor Overt himself
feel for the moment scantly so.
"And the gentlemen?" Overt went on.
"Well, sir, one of them's General Fancourt."
"Ah yes, I know; thank you." General Fancourt was distinguished, there
was no doubt of that, for something he had done, or perhaps even
hadn't done - the young man couldn't remember which - some years
before in India. The servant went away, leaving the glass doors open
into the gallery, and Paul Overt remained at the head of the wide
double staircase, saying to himself that the place was sweet and
promised a pleasant visit, while he leaned on the balustrade of fine old
ironwork which, like all the other details, was of the same period as the
house. It all went together and spoke in one voice - a rich English voice
of the early part of the eighteenth century. It might have been
church-time on a summer's day in the reign of Queen Anne; the
stillness was too perfect to be modern, the nearness counted so as
distance, and there was something so fresh and sound in the originality
of the large smooth house, the expanse of beautiful brickwork that
showed for pink rather than red and that had been kept clear of messy
creepers by the law under which a woman with a rare complexion
disdains a veil. When Paul Overt became aware that the people under
the trees had noticed him he turned back through the open doors into
the great gallery which was the pride of the place. It marched across
from end to end and seemed - with its bright colours, its high panelled
windows, its faded flowered chintzes, its quickly-recognised portraits
and pictures, the blue-and-white china of its cabinets and the attenuated
festoons and rosettes of its ceiling - a cheerful upholstered avenue into
the other century.
Our friend was slightly nervous; that went with his character as a
student of fine prose, went with the artist's general disposition to
vibrate; and there was a particular thrill in the idea that Henry St.
George might be a member of the party. For the young aspirant he had
remained a high literary figure, in spite of the lower range of
production to which he had fallen after his first three great