I
I knew nothing of Henry James beyond the revelation of his novels and
tales before the summer of 1907. Then, as I sat in a top-floor office
near Whitehall one August morning, compiling a very full index to the
Report of the Royal Commission on Coast Erosion, my ears were struck by
the astonishing sound of passages from _The Ambassadors_ being dictated
to a young typist. Neglecting my Blue-book, I turned round to watch the
operator ticking off sentences which seemed to be at least as much of a
surprise to her as they were to me. When my bewilderment had broken into
a question, I learnt that Henry James was on the point of coming back
from Italy, that he had asked to be provided with an amanuensis, and
that the lady at the typewriter was making acquaintance with his style.
Without any hopeful design of supplanting her, I lodged an immediate
petition that I might be allowed the next opportunity of filling the
post, supposing she should ever abandon it. I was told, to my amazement,
that I need not wait. The established candidate was not enthusiastic
about the prospect before her, was even genuinely relieved to look in
another direction. If I set about practising typewriting on a Remington
machine at once, I could be interviewed by Henry James as soon as he
arrived in London. Within an hour I had begun work on the typewriter. By
the time he was ready to interview me, I could tap out paragraphs of
_The Ambassadors_ at quite a fair speed.
He asked no questions at that interview about my speed on a typewriter
or about anything else. The friend to whom he had applied for an
amanuensis had told him that I was sufficiently the right young woman
for his purpose and he relied on her word. He had, at the best, little
hope of any young woman beyond docility. We sat in armchairs on either
side of a fireless grate while we observed each other. I suppose he
found me harmless and I know that I found him overwhelming. He was much
more massive than I had expected, much broader and stouter and stronger.
I remembered that someone had told me he used to be taken for a
sea-captain when he wore a beard, but it was clear that now, with the
beard shaved away, he would hardly have passed for, say, an admiral, in
spite of the keen gray eyes set in a face burned to a colourable
sea-faring brown by the Italian sun. No successful naval officer could
have afforded to keep that sensitive mobile mouth. After the interview I
wondered what kind of impression one might have gained from a chance
encounter in some such observation cell as a railway carriage. Would it
have been possible to fit him confidently into any single category? He
had reacted with so much success against both the American accent and
the English manner that he seemed only doubtfully Anglo-Saxon. He might
perhaps have been some species of disguised cardinal, or even a Roman
nobleman amusing himself by playing the part of a Sussex squire. The
observer could at least have guessed that any part he chose to assume
would be finely conceived and generously played, for his features were
all cast in the classical mould of greatness. He might very well have
been a merciful Cæsar or a benevolent Napoleon, and a painter who
worked at his portrait a year or two later was excusably reminded of so
many illustrious makers of history that he declared it to be a hard task
to isolate the individual character of the model.
If the interview was overwhelming, it had none of the usual awkwardness
of such curious conversations. Instead of critical angles and
disconcerting silences, there were only benign curves and ample
reassurances. There was encouraging gaiety in an expanse of bright check
waistcoat. He invited me to ask any questions I liked, but I had none to
ask. I wanted nothing but to be allowed to go to Rye and work his
typewriter. He was prepared, however, with his statements and, once I
was seated opposite to him, the strong, slow stream of his deliberate
speech played over me without ceasing. He had it on his mind to tell me
the conditions of life and labour at Rye, and he unburdened himself
fully, with numberless amplifications and qualifications but without any
real break. It would be a dull business, he warned me, and I should
probably find Rye a dull place. He told me of rooms in Mermaid Street,
"very simple, rustic and antique--but that is the case for everything
near my house, and this particular little old house is very near mine,
and I know the good woman for kind and worthy and a convenient cook and
in short----." It was settled at once that I should take the rooms, that
I should begin my duties in October.