Location via proxy:   [ UP ]  
[Report a bug]   [Manage cookies]                
Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Bostonians
    The Bostonians
    The Bostonians
    Ebook554 pages14 hours

    The Bostonians

    By Henry James

    3.5/5

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Henry James’s tragicomic masterpiece pits a headstrong Mississippi lawyer against his feminist cousin in a no-holds-barred fight for the heart of an impressionable young suffragette

    When Basil Ransom, a headstrong Mississippi lawyer, comes to Boston to call on his wealthy activist cousin, Olive, an epic battle of wills ensues. Basil is a conservative of the most ardent type while Cousin Olive is steadfast in her radicalism. Perhaps for a laugh, perhaps for a story to tell his lawyer friends back in Mississippi, Basil accompanies Olive to a women’s emancipation rally, whereupon he falls irrevocably in love with a young suffragette, Miss Verena Tarrant, and sets about trying to rewrite her beliefs. The problem is that Olive has been grooming Miss Tarrant as her protégé. Will Basil reform the lovely young activist orator, or will Olive win the young woman’s heart and mind?
     
    Often proclaimed James’s funniest novel and regarded as his most successful political work, The Bostonians deals with love and friendship in the awkward landscape of shifting social roles, feminism in post–Civil War America, and a woman’s place in this brave new world. Funny, astute, and merciless, The Bostonians is one of James’s most successful portrayals of a world teetering between old values and the relentless march of social progress.
     
    This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateFeb 24, 2015
    ISBN9781497665866
    Author

    Henry James

    Henry James (1843–1916) was an American writer, highly regarded as one of the key proponents of literary realism, as well as for his contributions to literary criticism. His writing centres on the clash and overlap between Europe and America, and The Portrait of a Lady is regarded as his most notable work.

    Read more from Henry James

    Related to The Bostonians

    Related ebooks

    Satire For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      Human, All Too Human

      Jul 29, 2019

      Human, All Too Human
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Why Read John Milton?

      Aug 3, 2023

      You should read John Milton because he will take your fucking head off. The post Why Read John Milton? appeared first on The Millions.

      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Black Turtlenecks, Hoop Earrings

      Jun 1, 2021

      Black Turtlenecks, Hoop Earrings
      18 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      January Fiction

      Dec 14, 2021

      The Maid by Nita Prose HarperCollins, £14.99 Molly Gray, the narrator of Nita Prose’s startlingly good debut novel, is a young woman who knows her place—and who rather likes it. For “approximately four years, 13 weeks, and five days” she’s been worki

      2 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Write As You Live

      Aug 14, 2024

      IN 2019 I quit my full-time job to turn a short story I’d been working on for years into a book. My husband agreed to cover our living expenses while I wrote and “figured things out.” I wanted to appear serious. So I sought guidance. I signed up for

      2 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      In Summary

      Jul 1, 2021

      There’s some good writing here. This short extract has covered a lot of ground and established that Edwina is a recently widowed woman thanks to the sinking of the Titanic. Her interior voice is skilfully rendered and there are some subtle touches su

      1 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Oh, The Agony!

      Mar 25, 2020

      QI don’t agree with sending children to boarding school and never have done—I think it causes all sorts of emotional issues, but, more importantly, I believe they should be at home with their parents. Why have them otherwise? My wife, however, is det

      1 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Venice Peach

      Oct 2, 2023

      1. THE DRESSMAKER AND THE HIDDEN SOLDIER by Doug Gold (A&U) WWII thriller about Kiwi soldier and Greek dressmaker 2. SUMMER FAVOURITES by Vanya Insull (A&U) Recipes from @vj_cooks 3. TE REO KAPEKAPE: Māori Wit and Humour by Hona Black (Oratia) Having

      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Table Talk

      Dec 1, 2024

      Table Talk
      11 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Duplex

      Jun 9, 2020

      I moved to Los Angeles to sing. When was this? August? June? I was twenty-nine, and those were shapeless months, when the days blended together and I refused to pull them apart. My landlord was unusually close to her adult son. His name was Jeffrey,

      21 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Prevarication Jones

      May 1, 2019

      Prevarication Jones
      16 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Mrs Simpson Learns A Lesson

      Jul 29, 2021

      Mrs Simpson Learns A Lesson
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      City Journal’s Leonardo

      Jun 22, 2018

      City Journal’s Leonardo
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      House of Glass

      Mar 3, 2020

      House of Glass
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Grand Canal, Venice, 1970

      Mar 1, 2024

      The Grand Canal, Venice, 1970
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      THE Dark Light

      Oct 21, 2020

      THE Dark Light
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Ice cream DREAMS

      Jul 28, 2021

      Ice cream DREAMS
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A double LIFE

      Sep 13, 2022

      A double LIFE
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      That Summer

      Jun 18, 2024

      That summer we had decided we were past caring. It was just too tiring, rushing back and forth between mental institutions. My father was in a well-known sanatorium in Switzerland, but to see him each month mistaking himself for Alfred de Musset, tal

      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      I'll Be Seeing You

      Mar 1, 2023

      I'll Be Seeing You
      25 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Man Behind the Counter

      Mar 4, 2019

      The Man Behind the Counter
      8 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Bostonians

    3.5/5

    14 ratings13 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 5/5
      I read this book because I just moved to Boston and hoped it would give me a sense of atmosphere, which it did. I was not expecting it to be as hilarious as it was. Unfortunately the humor tones down a little bit after the first hundred pages. It starts out absolutely ruthless but then you get the sense he maybe relented a little, because after all he loves these Bostonians, doesn't he? And so do we. (Or if you don't, you might be heartless.) Anyway, as the humor starts to fade the book becomes completely gripping in a dramatic way, so it is a win-win. Have you ever had friends or maybe even people you don't like very much who, for some reason, enter your consciousness such that even their smallest gestures or off-handed comments seem extremely significant, even urgent, fraught with a kind of meaning that points way beyond themselves? That's how these characters are, I think. (Maybe all Henry James?) And I guess I could see how it could get tiresome for some people, but I disagree with them. So, anyway, I read this book on the edge of my seat and was blown away at the end.
    • 4/5
      Olive Chancellor, a confirmed old maid (at the age of 30), desires nothing more than to see the day when women will earn the right to vote, just as the men do. She attends many lectures and salons of Boston, listening to the great ladies of her day espousing the virtues of allowing women the right to vote and to aid in running the government. Though the talks are edifying, momentum has yet to pick up and spread the women's suffrage movement outside of a few notable cities. And then, while attending one such lecture at the home of Miss Birdseye -- one of the local leaders of the suffrage movement -- Olive hears the voice of young Verena Tarrant. Trained by her parents as a gifted speaker, Verena mesmerizes the small gathering as she speaks, and Olive realizes that Verena is just the voice she has been waiting for to lead the movement. Olive immediately conspires to take Verena under her wing and away from her parents, preparing her for a role as the new voice of the suffrage movement.One obstacle stands in their way, though: Olive's cousin Basil Ransom, a Southerner visiting from Mississippi with the hope of beginning a law practice in Boston. He happens to be at the same salon, noticing Verena more for her looks rather than her vocal abilities. Something about her lights a fire in his heart, and he sets out to win her heart -- much to the dismay of Olive who vows to keep Verena at the forefront of the suffrage movement any way she can.What makes the story worth reading is the characters. Olive Chancellor comes across as cold and determined, knowing exactly what she wants and how to get it. Her hold on Verena and her need to mold her into a figurehead of the suffrage movement borders on obsessive, in a Mrs. Danvers kind of way. As for Ransom, he gently laughs away the thought of women having the right to vote, burying his real feelings behind slick Southern charm, and he would like nothing more than to prove to Olive that her struggle will never succeed by making Verena his wife. Two perfectly drawn warriors, and neither is at all likeable -- which may be how James intended it. But I found some mad delight in watching the two of them try to outmaneuver one another, using Verena as the rope in their tug-of-war."The Bostonians" displays this struggle between the two cousins, making for an interesting battle of the sexes played out during the late 19th century. Definitely worth a read.
    • 4/5
      Not an easy read by any means but timely and the book is written in 1886.
    • 2/5
      Zeer weinig spanning en actie. De moeite voor een schildering van het deftige bostoniaanse milieu dat zich inbeeldt heel idealistisch te zijn
    • 4/5
      This book made me so angry that I almost had an aneurism. Then I calmed down and realized anew Mr. James' talent for depicting brilliant women in abusive romances, and I loved him anew for understanding what a scary tragedy that situation is.
    • 2/5
      Most of all: boring. This time Henry James didn't even succeed in manipulating the reader (or just me?) to feel anxiety on behalf of the characters. I was left wondering whether this was a failed satire or not, because the themes of emancipation were brushed aside as if the male narrator didn't know at all what the women actually stood for. Also the female characters remained unapproachable and one-dimensional.
    • 2/5
       This is my least favorite of all of James' novels. He descends into his worst impulses towards misogyny, self-lacerating homophobia, and anti-Americanism in his supposed design to tell a tale of American manners and the triumph of the Old South over Puritan New England.
    • 2/5
      Henry James's female characters, whether stupid, manipulative, or simply weak, never fail to disappoint.
    • 4/5
      An emotional romance between a Southerner and an emancipationist--windy but pointed
    • 4/5
      Audiobook.....Surprisingly radical! This is a metaphorical story about the tug of war between men and women. A native Mississippian strives to conquer a lovely young feminist reformer in post Civil War Boston. I say conquer, because to succumb to him means forever relinquishing her right to express herself on any feminist issue. The closing line is something like,".......I fear these tears are only a few of those she will shed in the future."
    • 3/5
      I must admit I’m not a huge fan of Henry James. I can read his jewel-like short novels like “The Turn of the Screw”, but his longer works just take more patience than I have in me. But my reading group wanted to read James, and we picked The Bostonians. OKFade in on post Civil War Boston -- interior - the home of a wealthy young woman named Olive Chancellor. (She's such a prig and a priss - and a snob - that you have to look twice to see how young she really is) She is an active and passionate advocate for the rights of women and “the downtrodden”. We meet her distant cousin Basil Ransom from Mississippi. He is a none to well off lawyer (and a "Manly Man") currently trying to make his way in New York City. Quite by chance Olive invites Basil to a meeting at the home of a none-too-wealthy but lifelong committed activist named Miss Birdseye. There they meet a young woman named Verona who turns out to be a passionate and effective speaker for the cause of woman’s rights. (But is she just a performer - or does she really believe in it? Hmmm). (We forget that in the days before movies and radio going to a platform lecture was a popular form of entertainment.) Olive and Basil are each in their own ways drawn to this young lovely, and the book is basically their tug of war over her life and fate and freedom. James was one who never used one word when twenty could do, and the book reads long. He is alternately snarky and sympathetic to the woman’s movement and its place in the Boston community. But he writes well and with tiny elegant strokes of the brush builds up a complex portrait of this very insular society in this time and this place. Still thinking about the ending. You will too. Still in two minds about Henry James. But I'm not sorry we read this.
    • 3/5
      Not quite sure what to make of this. It has a few Jamesian qualities: the enormous significance of details, general tragic view of life etc... But this is surrounded by mind-numbing detail and a set of characters with uninteresting psychologies. James is at his best when he's finding the complexity in the simple. But the main characters here are a caricature of an early feminist; a caricature of a post-war Southern gent; and a girl who's a bit too good to be anything but stupid. When the characters are this one dimensional, the usual James pyrotechnics can't do their thing. It's like watching fireworks during the day.
      The whole thing is very uneven. To begin with, we sympathise with the Southern gent. At the end, you want nothing so much as to kick him in the head. Did James change his mind? Is this change intentional? It's certainly infuriating. It was always obvious that Ransom (the Southerner) was a horrible human being, just as it was always obvious that Olive was at least partially good.
      The final forty pages are brilliant, but the 400 or so before them are pretty tough going. I wouldn't recommend this to anyone, really. You're much better off with the other novels of this period- Portrait of a Lady, Washington Square - and, before them, The Europeans. Still, it's James. So I can't go below three stars.
    • 3/5
      Read this in the 1970s, and remembered liking it. This time around, I read it with a more critical eye. First thing I realize it that this book was published first in serial form, which explains how the story, which is really very simple, just goes on and on. You see how James is making fun of feminists, Boston spinsters, and post-Reconstruction southerners. But the mystery is: why is anyone so taken with Verena? Because she's such a beautiful vessel into which others can pour their thoughts and opinions, I guess. The way Basil Ransom pursues Verena is improbable, but the outcome is not, I expect, even today. It just would have made a better short story. I think if I were going to reread Henry James, whose work I very much liked, overall, I might have picked a better book to start with. I guess I'm just partial to anything having to do with Boston.

    Book preview

    The Bostonians - Henry James

    I

    Olive will come down in about ten minutes; she told me to tell you that. About ten; that is exactly like Olive. Neither five nor fifteen, and yet not ten exactly, but either nine or eleven. She didn’t tell me to say she was glad to see you, because she doesn’t know whether she is or not, and she wouldn’t for the world expose herself to telling a fib. She is very honest, is Olive Chancellor; she is full of rectitude. Nobody tells fibs in Boston; I don’t know what to make of them all. Well, I am very glad to see you, at any rate.

    These words were spoken with much volubility by a fair, plump, smiling woman who entered a narrow drawing-room in which a visitor, kept waiting for a few moments, was already absorbed in a book. The gentleman had not even needed to sit down to become interested: apparently he had taken up the volume from a table as soon as he came in, and, standing there, after a single glance round the apartment, had lost himself in its pages. He threw it down at the approach of Mrs. Luna, laughed, shook hands with her, and said in answer to her last remark, You imply that you do tell fibs. Perhaps that is one.

    Oh no; there is nothing wonderful in my being glad to see you, Mrs. Luna rejoined, when I tell you that I have been three long weeks in this unprevaricating city.

    That has an unflattering sound for me, said the young man. I pretend not to prevaricate.

    Dear me, what’s the good of being a Southerner? the lady asked. Olive told me to tell you she hoped you will stay to dinner. And if she said it, she does really hope it. She is willing to risk that.

    Just as I am? the visitor inquired, presenting himself with rather a work-a-day aspect.

    Mrs. Luna glanced at him from head to foot, and gave a little smiling sigh, as if he had been a long sum in addition. And, indeed, he was very long, Basil Ransom, and he even looked a little hard and discouraging, like a column of figures, in spite of the friendly face which he bent upon his hostess’s deputy, and which, in its thinness, had a deep dry line, a sort of premature wrinkle, on either side of the mouth. He was tall and lean, and dressed throughout in black; his shirt-collar was low and wide, and the triangle of linen, a little crumpled, exhibited by the opening of his waistcoat, was adorned by a pin containing a small red stone. In spite of this decoration the young man looked poor—as poor as a young man could look who had such a fine head and such magnificent eyes. Those of Basil Ransom were dark, deep, and glowing; his head had a character of elevation which fairly added to his stature; it was a head to be seen above the level of a crowd, on some judicial bench or political platform, or even on a bronze medal. His forehead was high and broad, and his thick black hair, perfectly straight and glossy, and without any division, rolled back from it in a leonine manner. These things, the eyes especially, with their smouldering fire, might have indicated that he was to be a great American statesman; or, on the other hand, they might simply have proved that he came from Carolina or Alabama. He came, in fact, from Mississippi, and he spoke very perceptibly with the accent of that country. It is not in my power to reproduce by any combination of characters this charming dialect; but the initiated reader will have no difficulty in evoking the sound, which is to be associated in the present instance with nothing vulgar or vain. This lean, pale, sallow, shabby, striking young man, with his superior head, his sedentary shoulders, his expression of bright grimness and hard enthusiasm, his provincial, distinguished appearance, is, as a representative of his sex, the most important personage in my narrative; he played a very active part in the events I have undertaken in some degree to set forth. And yet the reader who likes a complete image, who desires to read with the senses as well as with the reason, is entreated not to forget that he prolonged his consonants and swallowed his vowels, that he was guilty of elisions and interpolations which were equally unexpected, and that his discourse was pervaded by something sultry and vast, something almost African in its rich, basking tone, something that suggested the teeming expanse of the cotton-field. Mrs. Luna looked up at all this, but saw only a part of it; otherwise she would not have replied in a bantering manner, in answer to his inquiry: Are you ever different from this? Mrs. Luna was familiar—intolerably familiar.

    Basil Ransom coloured a little. Then he said: Oh yes; when I dine out I usually carry a six-shooter and a bowie-knife. And he took up his hat vaguely—a soft black hat with a low crown and an immense straight brim. Mrs. Luna wanted to know what he was doing. She made him sit down; she assured him that her sister quite expected him, would feel as sorry as she could ever feel for anything—for she was a kind of fatalist, anyhow—if he didn’t stay to dinner. It was an immense pity—she herself was going out; in Boston you must jump at invitations. Olive, too, was going somewhere after dinner, but he mustn’t mind that; perhaps he would like to go with her. It wasn’t a party—Olive didn’t go to parties; it was one of those weird meetings she was so fond of.

    What kind of meetings do you refer to? You speak as if it were a rendezvous of witches on the Brocken.

    Well, so it is; they are all witches and wizards, mediums, and spirit-rappers, and roaring radicals.

    Basil Ransom stared; the yellow light in his brown eyes deepened. Do you mean to say your sister’s a roaring radical?

    A radical? She’s a female Jacobin—she’s a nihilist. Whatever is, is wrong, and all that sort of thing. If you are going to dine with her, you had better know it.

    Oh, murder! murmured the young man vaguely, sinking back in his chair with his arms folded. He looked at Mrs. Luna with intelligent incredulity. She was sufficiently pretty; her hair was in clusters of curls, like bunches of grapes; her tight bodice seemed to crack with her vivacity; and from beneath the stiff little plaits of her petticoat a small fat foot protruded, resting upon a stilted heel. She was attractive and impertinent, especially the latter. He seemed to think it was a great pity, what she had told him; but he lost himself in this consideration, or, at any rate, said nothing for some time, while his eyes wandered over Mrs. Luna, and he probably wondered what body of doctrine she represented, little as she might partake of the nature of her sister. Many things were strange to Basil Ransom; Boston especially was strewn with surprises, and he was a man who liked to understand. Mrs. Luna was drawing on her gloves; Ransom had never seen any that were so long; they reminded him of stockings, and he wondered how she managed without garters above the elbow. Well, I suppose I might have known that, he continued, at last.

    You might have known what?

    Well, that Miss Chancellor would be all that you say. She was brought up in the city of reform.

    Oh, it isn’t the city; it’s just Olive Chancellor. She would reform the solar system if she could get hold of it. She’ll reform you, if you don’t look out. That’s the way I found her when I returned from Europe.

    Have you been in Europe? Ransom asked.

    Mercy, yes! Haven’t you?

    No, I haven’t been anywhere. Has your sister?

    Yes; but she stayed only an hour or two. She hates it; she would like to abolish it. Didn’t you know I had been to Europe? Mrs. Luna went on, in the slightly aggrieved tone of a woman who discovers the limits of her reputation.

    Ransom reflected he might answer her that until five minutes ago he didn’t know she existed; but he remembered that this was not the way in which a Southern gentleman spoke to ladies, and he contented himself with saying that he must condone his Boeotian ignorance (he was fond of an elegant phrase); that he lived in a part of the country where they didn’t think much about Europe, and that he had always supposed she was domiciled in New York. This last remark he made at a venture, for he had, naturally, not devoted any supposition whatever to Mrs. Luna. His dishonesty, however, only exposed him the more.

    If you thought I lived in New York, why in the world didn’t you come and see me? the lady inquired.

    Well, you see, I don’t go out much, except to the courts.

    Do you mean the law-courts? Everyone has got some profession over here! Are you very ambitious? You look as if you were.

    Yes, very, Basil Ransom replied, with a smile, and the curious feminine softness with which Southern gentlemen enunciate that adverb.

    Mrs. Luna explained that she had been living in Europe for several years—ever since her husband died—but had come home a month before, come home with her little boy, the only thing she had in the world, and was paying a visit to her sister, who, of course, was the nearest thing after the child. But it isn’t the same, she said. Olive and I disagree so much.

    While you and your little boy don’t, the young man remarked.

    Oh no, I never differ from Newton! And Mrs. Luna added that now she was back she didn’t know what she should do. That was the worst of coming back; it was like being born again, at one’s age—one had to begin life afresh. One didn’t even know what one had come back for. There were people who wanted one to spend the winter in Boston; but she couldn’t stand that—she knew, at least, what she had not come back for. Perhaps she should take a house in Washington; did he ever hear of that little place? They had invented it while she was away. Besides, Olive didn’t want her in Boston, and didn’t go through the form of saying so. That was one comfort with Olive; she never went through any forms.

    Basil Ransom had got up just as Mrs. Luna made this last declaration; for a young lady had glided into the room, who stopped short as it fell upon her ears. She stood there looking, consciously and rather seriously, at Mr. Ransom; a smile of exceeding faintness played about her lips—it was just perceptible enough to light up the native gravity of her face. It might have been likened to a thin ray of moonlight resting upon the wall of a prison.

    If that were true, she said, I shouldn’t tell you that I am very sorry to have kept you waiting.

    Her voice was low and agreeable—a cultivated voice—and she extended a slender white hand to her visitor, who remarked with some solemnity (he felt a certain guilt of participation in Mrs. Luna’s indiscretion) that he was intensely happy to make her acquaintance. He observed that Miss Chancellor’s hand was at once cold and limp; she merely placed it in his, without exerting the smallest pressure. Mrs. Luna explained to her sister that her freedom of speech was caused by his being a relation—though, indeed, he didn’t seem to know much about them. She didn’t believe he had ever heard of her, Mrs. Luna, though he pretended, with his Southern chivalry, that he had. She must be off to her dinner now, she saw the carriage was there, and in her absence Olive might give any version of her she chose.

    I have told him you are a radical, and you may tell him, if you like, that I am a painted Jezebel. Try to reform him; a person from Mississippi is sure to be all wrong. I shall be back very late; we are going to a theatre-party; that’s why we dine so early. Good-bye, Mr. Ransom, Mrs. Luna continued, gathering up the feathery white shawl which added to the volume of her fairness. I hope you are going to stay a little, so that you may judge us for yourself. I should like you to see Newton, too; he is a noble little nature, and I want some advice about him. You only stay to-morrow? Why, what’s the use of that? Well, mind you come and see me in New York; I shall be sure to be part of the winter there. I shall send you a card; I won’t let you off. Don’t come out; my sister has the first claim. Olive, why don’t you take him to your female convention? Mrs. Luna’s familiarity extended even to her sister; she remarked to Miss Chancellor that she looked as if she were got up for a sea-voyage. I am glad I haven’t opinions that prevent my dressing in the evening! she declared from the doorway. The amount of thought they give to their clothing, the people who are afraid of looking frivolous!

    II

    Whether much or little consideration had been directed to the result, Miss Chancellor certainly would not have incurred this reproach. She was habited in a plain dark dress, without any ornaments, and her smooth, colourless hair was confined as carefully as that of her sister was encouraged to stray. She had instantly seated herself, and while Mrs. Luna talked she kept her eyes on the ground, glancing even less toward Basil Ransom than toward that woman of many words. The young man was therefore free to look at her; a contemplation which showed him that she was agitated and trying to conceal it. He wondered why she was agitated, not foreseeing that he was destined to discover, later, that her nature was like a skiff in a stormy sea. Even after her sister had passed out of the room she sat there with her eyes turned away, as if there had been a spell upon her which forbade her to raise them. Miss Olive Chancellor, it may be confided to the reader, to whom in the course of our history I shall be under the necessity of imparting much occult information, was subject to fits of tragic shyness, during which she was unable to meet even her own eyes in the mirror. One of these fits had suddenly seized her now, without any obvious cause, though, indeed, Mrs. Luna had made it worse by becoming instantly so personal. There was nothing in the world so personal as Mrs. Luna; her sister could have hated her for it if she had not forbidden herself this emotion as directed to individuals. Basil Ransom was a young man of first-rate intelligence, but conscious of the narrow range, as yet, of his experience. He was on his guard against generalisations which might be hasty; but he had arrived at two or three that were of value to a gentleman lately admitted to the New York bar and looking out for clients. One of them was to the effect that the simplest division it is possible to make of the human race is into the people who take things hard and the people who take them easy. He perceived very quickly that Miss Chancellor belonged to the former class. This was written so intensely in her delicate face that he felt an unformulated pity for her before they had exchanged twenty words. He himself, by nature, took things easy; if he had put on the screw of late, it was after reflexion, and because circumstances pressed him close. But this pale girl, with her light-green eyes, her pointed features and nervous manner, was visibly morbid; it was as plain as day that she was morbid. Poor Ransom announced this fact to himself as if he had made a great discovery; but in reality he had never been so Boeotian as at that moment. It proved nothing of any importance, with regard to Miss Chancellor, to say that she was morbid; any sufficient account of her would lie very much to the rear of that. Why was she morbid, and why was her morbidness typical? Ransom might have exulted if he had gone back far enough to explain that mystery. The women he had hitherto known had been mainly of his own soft clime, and it was not often they exhibited the tendency he detected (and cursorily deplored) in Mrs. Luna’s sister. That was the way he liked them—not to think too much, not to feel any responsibility for the government of the world, such as he was sure Miss Chancellor felt. If they would only be private and passive, and have no feeling but for that, and leave publicity to the sex of tougher hide! Ransom was pleased with the vision of that remedy; it must be repeated that he was very provincial.

    These considerations were not present to him as definitely as I have written them here; they were summed up in the vague compassion which his cousin’s figure excited in his mind, and which was yet accompanied with a sensible reluctance to know her better, obvious as it was that with such a face as that she must be remarkable. He was sorry for her, but he saw in a flash that no one could help her: that was what made her tragic. He had not, seeking his fortune, come away from the blighted South, which weighed upon his heart, to look out for tragedies; at least he didn’t want them outside of his office in Pine Street. He broke the silence ensuing upon Mrs. Luna’s departure by one of the courteous speeches to which blighted regions may still encourage a tendency, and presently found himself talking comfortably enough with his hostess. Though he had said to himself that no one could help her, the effect of his tone was to dispel her shyness; it was her great advantage (for the career she had proposed to herself) that in certain conditions she was liable suddenly to become bold. She was reassured at finding that her visitor was peculiar; the way he spoke told her that it was no wonder he had fought on the Southern side. She had never yet encountered a personage so exotic, and she always felt more at her ease in the presence of anything strange. It was the usual things of life that filled her with silent rage; which was natural enough, inasmuch as, to her vision, almost everything that was usual was iniquitous. She had no difficulty in asking him now whether he would not stay to dinner—she hoped Adeline had given him her message. It had been when she was upstairs with Adeline, as his card was brought up, a sudden and very abnormal inspiration to offer him this (for her) really ultimate favour; nothing could be further from her common habit than to entertain alone, at any repast, a gentleman she had never seen.

    It was the same sort of impulse that had moved her to write to Basil Ransom, in the spring, after hearing accidentally that he had come to the North and intended, in New York, to practise his profession. It was her nature to look out for duties, to appeal to her conscience for tasks. This attentive organ, earnestly consulted, had represented to her that he was an offshoot of the old slave-holding oligarchy which, within her own vivid remembrance, had plunged the country into blood and tears, and that, as associated with such abominations, he was not a worthy object of patronage for a person whose two brothers—her only ones—had given up life for the Northern cause. It reminded her, however, on the other hand, that he too had been much bereaved, and, moreover, that he had fought and offered his own life, even if it had not been taken. She could not defend herself against a rich admiration—a kind of tenderness of envy—of any one who had been so happy as to have that opportunity. The most secret, the most sacred hope of her nature was that she might some day have such a chance, that she might be a martyr and die for something. Basil Ransom had lived, but she knew he had lived to see bitter hours. His family was ruined; they had lost their slaves, their property, their friends and relations, their home; had tasted of all the cruelty of defeat. He had tried for a while to carry on the plantation himself, but he had a millstone of debt round his neck, and he longed for some work which would transport him to the haunts of men. The State of Mississippi seemed to him the state of despair; so he surrendered the remnants of his patrimony to his mother and sisters, and, at nearly thirty years of age, alighted for the first time in New York, in the costume of his province, with fifty dollars in his pocket and a gnawing hunger in his heart.

    That this incident had revealed to the young man his ignorance of many things—only, however, to make him say to himself, after the first angry blush, that here he would enter the game and here he would win it—so much Olive Chancellor could not know; what was sufficient for her was that he had rallied, as the French say, had accepted the accomplished fact, had admitted that North and South were a single, indivisible political organism. Their cousinship—that of Chancellors and Ransoms—was not very close; it was the kind of thing that one might take up or leave alone, as one pleased. It was in the female line, as Basil Ransom had written, in answering her letter with a good deal of form and flourish; he spoke as if they had been royal houses. Her mother had wished to take it up; it was only the fear of seeming patronising to people in misfortune that had prevented her from writing to Mississippi. If it had been possible to send Mrs. Ransom money, or even clothes, she would have liked that; but she had no means of ascertaining how such an offering would be taken. By the time Basil came to the North—making advances, as it were—Mrs. Chancellor had passed away; so it was for Olive, left alone in the little house in Charles Street (Adeline being in Europe), to decide.

    She knew what her mother would have done, and that helped her decision; for her mother always chose the positive course. Olive had a fear of everything, but her greatest fear was of being afraid. She wished immensely to be generous, and how could one be generous unless one ran a risk? She had erected it into a sort of rule of conduct that whenever she saw a risk she was to take it; and she had frequent humiliations at finding herself safe after all. She was perfectly safe after writing to Basil Ransom; and, indeed, it was difficult to see what he could have done to her except thank her (he was only exceptionally superlative) for her letter, and assure her that he would come and see her the first time his business (he was beginning to get a little) should take him to Boston. He had now come, in redemption of his grateful vow, and even this did not make Miss Chancellor feel that she had courted danger. She saw (when once she had looked at him) that he would not put those worldly interpretations on things which, with her, it was both an impulse and a principle to defy. He was too simple—too Mississippian—for that; she was almost disappointed. She certainly had not hoped that she might have struck him as making unwomanly overtures (Miss Chancellor hated this epithet almost as much as she hated its opposite); but she had a presentiment that he would be too good-natured, primitive to that degree. Of all things in the world, contention was most sweet to her (though why it is hard to imagine, for it always cost her tears, headaches, a day or two in bed, acute emotion), and it was very possible Basil Ransom would not care to contend. Nothing could be more displeasing than this indifference when people didn’t agree with you. That he should agree she did not in the least expect of him; how could a Mississippian agree? If she had supposed he would agree, she would not have written to him.

    III

    When he had told her that if she would take him as he was he should be very happy to dine with her, she excused herself a moment and went to give an order in the dining-room. The young man, left alone, looked about the parlour—the two parlours which, in their prolonged, adjacent narrowness, formed evidently one apartment—and wandered to the windows at the back, where there was a view of the water; Miss Chancellor having the good fortune to dwell on that side of Charles Street toward which, in the rear, the afternoon sun slants redly, from an horizon indented at empty intervals with wooden spires, the masts of lonely boats, the chimneys of dirty works, over a brackish expanse of anomalous character, which is too big for a river and too small for a bay. The view seemed to him very picturesque, though in the gathered dusk little was left of it save a cold yellow streak in the west, a gleam of brown water, and the reflexion of the lights that had begun to show themselves in a row of houses, impressive to Ransom in their extreme modernness, which overlooked the same lagoon from a long embankment on the left, constructed of stones roughly piled. He thought this prospect, from a city-house, almost romantic; and he turned from it back to the interior illuminated now by a lamp which the parlour-maid had placed on a table while he stood at the window as to something still more genial and interesting. The artistic sense in Basil Ransom had not been highly cultivated; neither (though he had passed his early years as the son of a rich man) was his conception of material comfort very definite; it consisted mainly of the vision of plenty of cigars and brandy and water and newspapers, and a cane-bottomed arm-chair of the right inclination, from which he could stretch his legs. Nevertheless it seemed to him he had never seen an interior that was so much an interior as this queer corridor-shaped drawing-room of his new-found kinswoman; he had never felt himself in the presence of so much organised privacy or of so many objects that spoke of habits and tastes. Most of the people he had hitherto known had no tastes; they had a few habits, but these were not of a sort that required much upholstery. He had not as yet been in many houses in New York, and he had never before seen so many accessories. The general character of the place struck him as Bostonian; this was, in fact, very much what he had supposed Boston to be. He had always heard Boston was a city of culture, and now there was culture in Miss Chancellor’s tables and sofas, in the books that were everywhere, on little shelves like brackets (as if a book were a statuette), in the photographs and watercolours that covered the walls, in the curtains that were festooned rather stiffly in the doorways. He looked at some of the books and saw that his cousin read German; and his impression of the importance of this (as a symptom of superiority) was not diminished by the fact that he himself had mastered the tongue (knowing it contained a large literature of jurisprudence) during a long, empty, deadly summer on the plantation. It is a curious proof of a certain crude modesty inherent in Basil Ransom that the main effect of his observing his cousin’s German books was to give him an idea of the natural energy of Northerners. He had noticed it often before; he had already told himself that he must count with it. It was only after much experience he made the discovery that few Northerners were, in their secret soul, so energetic as he. Many other persons had made it before that. He knew very little about Miss Chancellor; he had come to see her only because she wrote to him; he would never have thought of looking her up, and since then there had been no one in New York he might ask about her. Therefore he could only guess that she was a rich young woman; such a house, inhabited in such a way by a quiet spinster, implied a considerable income. How much? he asked himself; five thousand, ten thousand, fifteen thousand a year? There was richness to our panting young man in the smallest of these figures. He was not of a mercenary spirit, but he had an immense desire for success, and he had more than once reflected that a moderate capital was an aid to achievement. He had seen in his younger years one of the biggest failures that history commemorates, an immense national fiasco, and it had implanted in his mind a deep aversion to the ineffectual. It came over him, while he waited for his hostess to reappear, that she was unmarried as well as rich, that she was sociable (her letter answered for that) as well as single; and he had for a moment a whimsical vision of becoming a partner in so flourishing a firm. He ground his teeth a little as he thought of the contrasts of the human lot; this cushioned feminine nest made him feel unhoused and underfed. Such a mood, however, could only be momentary, for he was conscious at bottom of a bigger stomach than all the culture of Charles Street could fill.

    Afterwards, when his cousin had come back and they had gone down to dinner together, where he sat facing her at a little table decorated in the middle with flowers, a position from which he had another view, through a window where the curtain remained undrawn by her direction (she called his attention to this—it was for his benefit), of the dusky, empty river, spotted with points of light—at this period, I say, it was very easy for him to remark to himself that nothing would induce him to make love to such a type as that. Several months later, in New York, in conversation with Mrs. Luna, of whom he was destined to see a good deal, he alluded by chance to this repast, to the way her sister had placed him at table, and to the remark with which she had pointed out the advantage of his seat.

    That’s what they call in Boston being very ‘thoughtful,’ Mrs. Luna said, giving you the Back Bay (don’t you hate the name?) to look at, and then taking credit for it.

    This, however, was in the future; what Basil Ransom actually perceived was that Miss Chancellor was a signal old maid. That was her quality, her destiny; nothing could be more distinctly written. There are women who are unmarried by accident, and others who are unmarried by option; but Olive Chancellor was unmarried by every implication of her being. She was a spinster as Shelley was a lyric poet, or as the month of August is sultry. She was so essentially a celibate that Ransom found himself thinking of her as old, though when he came to look at her (as he said to himself) it was apparent that her years were fewer than his own. He did not dislike her, she had been so friendly; but, little by little, she gave him an uneasy feeling—the sense that you could never be safe with a person who took things so hard. It came over him that it was because she took things hard she had sought his acquaintance; it had been because she was strenuous, not because she was genial; she had had in her eye—and what an extraordinary eye it was!—not a pleasure, but a duty. She would expect him to be strenuous in return; but he couldn’t—in private life, he couldn’t; privacy for Basil Ransom consisted entirely in what he called laying off. She was not so plain on further acquaintance as she had seemed to him at first; even the young Mississippian had culture enough to see that she was refined. Her white skin had a singular look of being drawn tightly across her face; but her features, though sharp and irregular, were delicate in a fashion that suggested good breeding. Their line was perverse, but it was not poor. The curious tint of her eyes was a living colour; when she turned it upon you, you thought vaguely of the glitter of green ice. She had absolutely no figure, and presented a certain appearance of feeling cold. With all this, there was something very modern and highly developed in her aspect; she had the advantages as well as the drawbacks of a nervous organisation. She smiled constantly at her guest, but from the beginning to the end of dinner, though he made several remarks that he thought might prove amusing, she never once laughed. Later, he saw that she was a woman without laughter; exhilaration, if it ever visited her, was dumb. Once only, in the course of his subsequent acquaintance with her, did it find a voice; and then the sound remained in Ransom’s ear as one of the strangest he had heard.

    She asked him a great many questions, and made no comment on his answers, which only served to suggest to her fresh inquiries. Her shyness had quite left her, it did not come back; she had confidence enough to wish him to see that she took a great interest in him. Why should she? he wondered, He couldn’t believe he was one of her kind; he was conscious of much Bohemianism—he drank beer, in New York, in cellars, knew no ladies, and was familiar with a variety actress. Certainly, as she knew him better, she would disapprove of him, though, of course, he would never mention the actress, nor even, if necessary, the beer. Ransom’s conception of vice was purely as a series of special cases, of explicable accidents. Not that he cared; if it were a part of the Boston character to be inquiring, he would be to the last a courteous Mississippian. He would tell her about Mississippi as much as she liked; he didn’t care how much he told her that the old ideas in the South were played out. She would not understand him any the better for that; she would not know how little his own views could be gathered from such a limited admission. What her sister imparted to him about her mania for reform had left in his mouth a kind of unpleasant aftertaste; he felt, at any rate, that if she had the religion of humanity—Basil Ransom had read Comte, he had read everything—she would never understand him. He, too, had a private vision of reform, but the first principle of it was to reform the reformers. As they drew to the close of a meal which, in spite of all latent incompatibilities, had gone off brilliantly, she said to him that she should have to leave him after dinner, unless perhaps he should be inclined to accompany her. She was going to a small gathering at the house of a friend who had asked a few people, interested in new ideas, to meet Mrs. Farrinder.

    Oh, thank you, said Basil Ransom. Is it a party? I haven’t been to a party since Mississippi seceded.

    No; Miss Birdseye doesn’t give parties. She’s an ascetic.

    Oh, well, we have had our dinner, Ransom rejoined, laughing.

    His hostess sat silent a moment, with her eyes on the ground; she looked at such times as if she were hesitating greatly between several things she might say, all so important that it was difficult to choose.

    I think it might interest you, she remarked presently. You will hear some discussion, if you are fond of that. Perhaps you wouldn’t agree, she added, resting her strange eyes on him.

    Perhaps I shouldn’t—I don’t agree with everything, he said, smiling and stroking his leg.

    Don’t you care for human progress? Miss Chancellor went on.

    I don’t know—I never saw any. Are you going to show me some?

    I can show you an earnest effort towards it. That’s the most one can be sure of. But I am not sure you are worthy.

    Is it something very Bostonian? I should like to see that, said Basil Ransom.

    There are movements in other cities. Mrs. Farrinder goes everywhere; she may speak to-night.

    Mrs. Farrinder, the celebrated—?

    Yes, the celebrated; the great apostle of the emancipation of women. She is a great friend of Miss Birdseye.

    And who is Miss Birdseye?

    She is one of our celebrities. She is the woman in the world, I suppose, who has laboured most for every wise reform. I think I ought to tell you, Miss Chancellor went on in a moment, she was one of the earliest, one of the most passionate, of the old Abolitionists.

    She had thought, indeed, she ought to tell him that, and it threw her into a little tremor of excitement to do so. Yet, if she had been afraid he would show some irritation at this news, she was disappointed at the geniality with which he exclaimed:

    Why, poor old lady—she must be quite mature!

    It was therefore with some severity that she rejoined:

    She will never be old. She is the youngest spirit I know. But if you are not in sympathy, perhaps you had better not come, she went on.

    In sympathy with what, dear madam? Basil Ransom asked, failing still, to her perception, to catch the tone of real seriousness. If, as you say, there is to be a discussion, there will be different sides, and of course one can’t sympathise with both.

    Yes, but everyone will, in his way—or in her way—plead the cause of the new truths. If you don’t care for them, you won’t go with us.

    "I tell you I haven’t the least idea what they are! I have never yet encountered in the world any but old truths—as old as the sun and moon. How can I know? But do take me; it’s such a chance to see Boston."

    It isn’t Boston—it’s humanity! Miss Chancellor, as she made this remark, rose from her chair, and her movement seemed to say that she consented. But before she quitted her kinsman to get ready, she observed to him that she was sure he knew what she meant; he was only pretending he didn’t.

    Well, perhaps, after all, I have a general idea, he confessed; but don’t you see how this little reunion will give me a chance to fix it?

    She lingered an instant, with her anxious face. Mrs. Farrinder will fix it! she said; and she went to prepare herself.

    It was in this poor young lady’s nature to be anxious, to have scruple within scruple and to forecast the consequences of things. She returned in ten minutes, in her bonnet, which she had apparently assumed in recognition of Miss Birdseye’s asceticism. As she stood there drawing on her gloves—her visitor had fortified himself against Mrs. Farrinder by another glass of wine—she declared to him that she quite repented of having proposed to him to go; something told her that he would be an unfavourable element.

    "Why, is it going to be a spiritual séance?" Basil Ransom asked.

    Well, I have heard at Miss Birdseye’s some inspirational speaking. Olive Chancellor was determined to look him straight in the face as she said this; her sense of the way it might strike him operated as a cogent, not as a deterrent, reason.

    Why, Miss Olive, it’s just got up on purpose for me! cried the young Mississippian, radiant, and clasping his hands. She thought him very handsome as he said this, but reflected that unfortunately men didn’t care for the truth, especially the new kinds, in proportion as they were good-looking. She had, however, a moral resource that she could always fall back upon; it had already been a comfort to her, on occasions of acute feeling, that she hated men, as a class, anyway. And I want so much to see an old Abolitionist; I have never laid eyes on one, Basil Ransom added.

    Of course you couldn’t see one in the South; you were too afraid of them to let them come there! She was now trying to think of something she might say that would be sufficiently disagreeable to make him cease to insist on accompanying her; for, strange to record—if anything, in a person of that intense sensibility, be stranger than any other—her second thought with regard to having asked him had deepened with the elapsing moments into an unreasoned terror of the effect of his presence. Perhaps Miss Birdseye won’t like you, she went on, as they waited for the carriage.

    I don’t know; I reckon she will, said Basil Ransom good-humouredly. He evidently had no intention of giving up his opportunity.

    From the window of the dining-room, at that moment, they heard the carriage drive up. Miss Birdseye lived at the South End; the distance was considerable, and Miss Chancellor had ordered a hackney-coach, it being one of the advantages of living in Charles Street that stables were near. The logic of her conduct was none of the clearest; for if she had been alone she would have proceeded to her destination by the aid of the street-car; not from economy (for she had the good fortune not to be obliged to consult it to that degree), and not from any love of wandering about Boston at night (a kind of exposure she greatly disliked), but by reason of a theory she devotedly nursed, a theory which bade her put off invidious differences and mingle in the common life. She would have gone on foot to Boylston Street, and there she would have taken the public conveyance (in her heart she loathed it) to the South End. Boston was full of poor girls who had to walk about at night and to squeeze into horse-cars in which every sense was displeased; and why should she hold herself superior to these? Olive Chancellor regulated her conduct on lofty principles, and this is why, having to-night the advantage of a gentleman’s protection, she sent for a carriage to obliterate that patronage. If they had gone together in the common way she would have seemed to owe it to him that she should be so daring, and he belonged to a sex to which she wished to be under no obligations. Months before, when she wrote to him, it had been with the sense, rather, of putting him in debt. As they rolled toward the South End, side by side, in a good deal of silence, bouncing and bumping over the railway-tracks very little less, after all, than if their wheels had been fitted to them, and looking out on either side at rows of red houses, dusky in the lamp-light, with protuberant fronts, approached by ladders of stone; as they proceeded, with these contemplative undulations, Miss Chancellor said to her companion, with a concentrated desire to defy him, as a punishment for having thrown her (she couldn’t tell why) into such a tremor:

    Don’t you believe, then, in the coming of a better day—in its being possible to do something for the human race?

    Poor Ransom perceived the defiance, and he felt rather bewildered; he wondered what type, after all, he had got hold of, and what game was being played with him. Why had she made advances, if she wanted to pinch him this way? However, he was good for any game—that one as well as another—and he saw that he was in for something of which he had long desired to have a nearer view. Well, Miss Olive, he answered, putting on again his big hat, which he had been holding in his lap, what strikes me most is that the human race has got to bear its troubles.

    That’s what men say to women, to make them patient in the position they have made for them.

    Oh, the position of women! Basil Ransom exclaimed. The position of women is to make fools of men. I would change my position for yours any day, he went on. That’s what I said to myself as I sat there in your elegant home.

    He could not see, in the dimness of the carriage, that she had flushed quickly, and he did not know that she disliked to be reminded of certain things which, for her, were mitigations of the hard feminine lot. But the passionate quaver with which, a moment later, she answered him sufficiently assured him that he had touched her at a tender point.

    Do you make it a reproach to me that I happen to have a little money? The dearest wish of my heart is to do something with it for others—for the miserable.

    Basil Ransom might have greeted this last declaration with the sympathy it deserved, might have commended the noble aspirations of his kinswoman. But what struck him, rather, was the oddity of so sudden a sharpness of pitch in an intercourse which, an hour or two before, had begun in perfect amity, and he burst once more into an irrepressible laugh. This made his companion feel, with intensity, how little she was joking. I don’t know why I should care what you think, she said.

    Don’t care—don’t care. What does it matter? It is not of the slightest importance.

    He might say that, but it was not true; she felt that there were reasons why she should care. She had brought him into her life, and she should have to pay for it. But she wished to know the worst at once. Are you against our emancipation? she asked, turning a white face on him in the momentary radiance of a street-lamp.

    Do you mean your voting and preaching and all that sort of thing? He made this inquiry, but seeing how seriously she would take his answer, he was almost frightened, and hung fire. I will tell you when I have heard Mrs. Farrinder.

    They had arrived at the address given by Miss Chancellor to the coachman, and their vehicle stopped with a lurch. Basil Ransom got out; he stood at the door with an extended hand, to assist the young lady. But she seemed to hesitate; she sat there with her spectral face. You hate it! she exclaimed, in a low tone.

    Miss Birdseye will convert me, said Ransom, with intention; for he had grown very curious, and he was afraid that now, at the last, Miss Chancellor would prevent his entering the house. She alighted without his help, and behind her he ascended the high steps of Miss Birdseye’s residence. He had grown very curious, and among the things he wanted to know was why in the world this ticklish spinster had written to him.

    IV

    She had told him before they started that they should be early; she wished to see Miss Birdseye alone, before the arrival of any one else. This was just for the pleasure of seeing her—it was an opportunity; she was always so taken up with others. She received Miss Chancellor in the hall of the mansion, which had a salient front, an enormous and very high number—756—painted in gilt on the glass light above the door, a tin sign bearing the name of a doctress (Mary J. Prance) suspended from one of the windows of the basement, and a peculiar look of being both new and faded—a kind of modern

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1