Life Lately: New Illustrations & Book recommendations (Henry James)
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THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE, HENRY JAMES
“You know you told me something I’ve never forgotten and that again and again has made me think of you since; it was that tremendously hot day when we went to Sorrento, across the bay, for the breeze. What I allude to was what you said to me, on the way back, as we sat under the awning of the boat enjoying the cool. Have you forgotten?”
He had forgotten, and was even more surprised than ashamed. But the great thing was that he saw in this no vulgar reminder of any “sweet” speech. The vanity of women had long memories, but she was making no claim on him of a compliment or a mistake. With another woman, a totally different one, he might have feared the recall possibly even some imbecile “offer.” So, in having to say that he had indeed forgotten, he was conscious rather of a loss than of a gain; he already saw an interest in the matter of her mention. “I try to think—but I give it up. Yet I remember the Sorrento day.”
“I’m not very sure you do,” May Bartram after a moment said; “and I’m not very sure I ought to want you to. It’s dreadful to bring a person back at any time to what he was ten years before. If you’ve lived away from it,” she smiled, “so much the better.”
“Ah if you haven’t why should I?” he asked.
“Lived away, you mean, from what I myself was?”
“From what I was. I was of course an ass,” Marcher went on; “but I would rather know from you just the sort of ass I was than—from the moment you have something in your mind—not know anything.”
Still, however, she hesitated. “But if you’ve completely ceased to be that sort—?”
“Why I can then all the more bear to know. Besides, perhaps I haven’t.”
“Perhaps. Yet if you haven’t,” she added, “I should suppose you’d remember. Not indeed that I in the least connect with my impression the invidious name you use. If I had only thought you foolish,” she explained, “the thing I speak of wouldn’t so have remained with me. It was about yourself.” She waited as if it might come to him; but as, only meeting her eyes in wonder, he gave no sign, she burnt her ships. “Has it ever happened?”
Then it was that, while he continued to stare, a light broke for him and the blood slowly came to his face, which began to burn with recognition.
“Do you mean I told you—?” But he faltered, lest what came to him shouldn’t be right, lest he should only give himself away.
“It was something about yourself that it was natural one shouldn’t forget—that is if one remembered you at all. That’s why I ask you,” she smiled, “if the thing you then spoke of has ever come to pass?”
Oh then he saw, but he was lost in wonder and found himself embarrassed. This, he also saw, made her sorry for him, as if her allusion had been a mistake. It took him but a moment, however, to feel it hadn’t been, much as it had been a surprise. After the first little shock of it her knowledge on the contrary began, even if rather strangely, to taste sweet to him. She was the only other person in the world then who would have it, and she had had it all these years, while the fact of his having so breathed his secret had unaccountably faded from him. No wonder they couldn’t have met as if nothing had happened. “I judge,” he finally said, “that I know what you mean. Only I had strangely enough lost any sense of having taken you so far into my confidence.”
“Is it because you’ve taken so many others as well?”
“I’ve taken nobody. Not a creature since then.”
“So that I’m the only person who knows?”
“The only person in the world.”
“Well,” she quickly replied, “I myself have never spoken. I’ve never, never repeated of you what you told me.” She looked at him so that he perfectly believed her. Their eyes met over it in such a way that he was without a doubt. “And I never will.”
She spoke with an earnestness that, as if almost excessive, put him at ease about her possible derision. Somehow the whole question was a new luxury to him—that is from the moment she was in possession. If she didn’t take the sarcastic view she clearly took the sympathetic, and that was what he had had, in all the long time, from no one whomsoever. What he felt was that he couldn’t at present have begun to tell her, and yet could profit perhaps exquisitely by the accident of having done so of old. “Please don’t then. We’re just right as it is.”
“Oh I am,” she laughed, “if you are!” To which she added: “Then you do still feel in the same way?”
“Do you mean because you’ve been in love?” And then as he but looked at her in silence: “You’ve been in love, and it hasn’t meant such a cataclysm, hasn’t proved the great affair?”
“Here I am, you see. It hasn’t been overwhelming.”
“Then it hasn’t been love,” said May Bartram.
“Well, I at least thought it was. I took it for that—I’ve taken it till now. It was agreeable, it was delightful, it was miserable,” he explained. “But it wasn’t strange. It wasn’t what my affair’s to be.”
“You want something all to yourself—something that nobody else knows or has known?”
“It isn’t a question of what I ‘want’—God knows I don’t want anything. It’s only a question of the apprehension that haunts me—that I live with day by day.”
He said this so lucidly and consistently that he could see it further impose itself. If she hadn’t been interested before she’d have been interested now.
“Is it a sense of coming violence?”
Evidently now too again he liked to talk of it. “I don’t think of it as—when it does come—necessarily violent. I only think of it as natural and as of course above all unmistakeable. I think of it simply as the thing. The thing will of itself appear natural.”
“Then how will it appear strange?”
Marcher bethought himself. “It won’t—to me.”
“To whom then?”
“Well,” he replied, smiling at last, “say to you.”
“Oh then I’m to be present?”
“Why you are present—since you know.”
“I see.” She turned it over. “But I mean at the catastrophe.”
At this, for a minute, their lightness gave way to their gravity; it was as if the long look they exchanged held them together. “It will only depend on yourself—if you’ll watch with me.”
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
“Don’t leave me now,” he went on.
“Are you afraid?” she repeated.
“Do you think me simply out of my mind?” he pursued instead of answering. “Do I merely strike you as a harmless lunatic?”
“No,” said May Bartram. “I understand you. I believe you.”
“You mean you feel how my obsession—poor old thing—may correspond to some possible reality?”
“To some possible reality.”
“Then you will watch with me?”
She hesitated, then for the third time put her question. “Are you afraid?”
“Did I tell you I was—at Naples?”
“No, you said nothing about it.”
“Then I don’t know. And I should like to know,” said John Marcher. “You’ll tell me yourself whether you think so. If you’ll watch with me you’ll see.”
“Very good then.” They had been moving by this time across the room, and at the door, before passing out, they paused as for the full wind-up of their understanding. “I’ll watch with you,” said May Bartram.
I saw her only four times, but I remember them vividly; she made an impression upon me. I thought her very pretty and very interesting,—a charming specimen of a type. I am very sorry to hear of her death; and yet, when I think of it, why should I be sorry? The last time I saw her she was certainly not—But I will describe all our meetings in order.I saw her only four times, but I remember them vividly; she made an impression upon me. I thought her very pretty and very interesting,—a charming specimen of a type. I am very sorry to hear of her death; and yet, when I think of it, why should I be sorry? The last time I saw her she was certainly not—But I will describe all our meetings in order.
The first one took place in the country, at a little tea-party, one snowy night. It must have been some seventeen years ago. My friend Latouche, going to spend Christmas with his mother, had persuaded me to go with him, and the good lady had given in our honor the entertainment of which I speak. To me it was really entertaining; I had never been in the depths of New England at that season. It had been snowing all day, and the drifts were knee-high. I wondered how the ladies had made their way to the house; but I perceived that at Grimwinter a conversazione offering the attraction of two gentlemen from New York was felt to be worth an effort.
Mrs. Latouche, in the course of the evening, asked me if I “didn’t want to” show the photographs to some of the young ladies. The photographs were in a couple of great portfolios, and had been brought home by her son, who, like myself, was lately returned from Europe. I looked round and was struck with the fact that most of the young ladies were provided with an object of interest more absorbing than the most vivid sun-picture. But there was a person standing alone near the mantelshelf, and looking round the room with a small gentle smile which seemed at odds, somehow, with her isolation. I looked at her a moment, and then said, “I should like to show them to that young lady.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Latouche, “she is just the person. She doesn’t care for flirting; I will speak to her.”
I rejoined that if she did not care for flirting, she was, perhaps, not just the person; but Mrs. Latouche had already gone to propose the photographs to her.
“She’s delighted,” she said, coming back. “She is just the person, so quiet and so bright.” And then she told me the young lady was, by name, Miss Caroline Spencer, and with this she introduced me.
Miss Caroline Spencer was not exactly a beauty, but she was a charming little figure. She must have been close upon thirty, but she was made almost like a little girl, and she had the complexion of a child. She had a very pretty head, and her hair was arranged as nearly as possible like the hair of a Greek bust, though indeed it was to be doubted if she had ever seen a Greek bust. She was “artistic,” I suspected, so far as Grimwinter allowed such tendencies. She had a soft, surprised eye, and thin lips, with very pretty teeth. Round her neck she wore what ladies call, I believe, a “ruche,” fastened with a very small pin in pink coral, and in her hand she carried a fan made of plaited straw and adorned with pink ribbon. She wore a scanty black silk dress. She spoke with a kind of soft precision, showing her white teeth between her narrow but tender-looking lips, and she seemed extremely pleased, even a little fluttered, at the prospect of my demonstrations. These went forward very smoothly, after I had moved the portfolios out of their corner and placed a couple of chairs near a lamp. The photographs were usually things I knew,—large views of Switzerland, Italy, and Spain, landscapes, copies of famous buildings, pictures, and statues. I said what I could about them, and my companion, looking at them as I held them up, sat perfectly still, with her straw fan raised to her underlip. Occasionally, as I laid one of the pictures down, she said very softly, “Have you seen that place?” I usually answered that I had seen it several times (I had been a great traveller), and then I felt that she looked at me askance for a moment with her pretty eyes. I had asked her at the outset whether she had been to Europe; to this she answered, “No, no, no,” in a little quick, confidential whisper. But after that, though she never took her eyes off the pictures, she said so little that I was afraid she was bored. Accordingly, after we had finished one portfolio, I offered, if she desired it, to desist. I felt that she was not bored, but her reticence puzzled me, and I wished to make her speak. I turned round to look at her, and saw that there was a faint flush in each of her cheeks. She was waving her little fan to and fro. Instead of looking at me she fixed her eyes upon the other portfolio, which was leaning against the table.
“Won’t you show me that?” she asked, with a little tremor in her voice. I could almost have believed she was agitated.
“With pleasure,” I answered, “if you are not tired.”
“No, I am not tired,” she affirmed. “I like it—I love it.”
Henry James wrote some amazing women characters. Tragic heroines seem to be his specialty. The story is perhaps a bit predictable, but honestly I found it so easy to relate to it. It's a very touching story indeed. I could really sympathize with the heroine of this story. Bless her poor puritan heart. However, I don't feel sorry for her. I feel there is bravery in her innocence, something that I can't help but respect. Perhaps her illusions have a value of their own? Perhaps her fate is not so tragic? Perhaps it is better to believe in something that isn't true than to be vulgar? Who is really the victim? I had a lot of questions upon finishing this story, and I happen to think that's a sign of good writing.
She fanned herself a moment, and then repeated the lines correctly, in a soft, flat, and yet agreeable voice. By the time she had finished she was blushing. I complimented her and told her she was perfectly equipped for visiting Switzerland and Italy. She looked at me askance again, to see whether I was serious, and I added, that if she wished to recognize Byron’s descriptions she must go abroad speedily; Europe was getting sadly dis-Byronized.
“How soon must I go?” she asked.
“Oh, I will give you ten years.”
“I think I can go within ten years,” she answered very soberly.
“Well,” I said, “you will enjoy it immensely; you will find it very charming.” And just then I came upon a photograph of some nook in a foreign city which I had been very fond of, and which recalled tender memories. I discoursed (as I suppose) with a certain eloquence; my companion sat listening, breathless.
“Have you been very long in foreign lands?” she asked, some time after I had ceased.
“Many years,” I said.
“And have you travelled everywhere?”
“I have travelled a great deal. I am very fond of it; and, happily, I have been able.”
Again she gave me her sidelong gaze. “And do you know the foreign languages?”
“After a fashion.”
“Is it hard to speak them?”
“I don’t believe you would find it hard,” I gallantly responded.
“Oh, I shouldn’t want to speak; I should only want to listen,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added, “They say the French theatre is so beautiful.”
“It is the best in the world.”
“Did you go there very often?”
“When I was first in Paris I went every night.”
“Every night!” And she opened her clear eyes very wide. “That to me is:—” and she hesitated a moment—“is very wonderful.” A few minutes later she asked, “Which country do you prefer?”
“There is one country I prefer to all others. I think you would do the same.”
She looked at me a moment, and then she said softly, “Italy?”
“Italy,” I answered softly, too; and for a moment we looked at each other. She looked as pretty as if, instead of showing her photographs, I had been making love to her. To increase the analogy, she glanced away, blushing. There was a silence, which she broke at last by saying,—
“That is the place which, in particular, I thought of going to.”
“Oh, that’s the place, that’s the place!” I said.
She looked at two or three photographs in silence. “They say it is not so dear.”
“As some other countries? Yes, that is not the least of its charms.”
“But it is all very dear, is it not?”
“Europe, you mean?”
“Going there and travelling. That has been the trouble. I have very little money. I give lessons,” said Miss Spencer.
“Of course one must have money,” I said, “but one can manage with a moderate amount.”
I can definitely recommend this one to fans of Henry James. It's very much his signature style. If you liked Daisy Miller, you'll probably like this one as well. On the other hand, I can see how it might seem naive to a cynic. I suppose it's not a story for everyone, but it definitely has its place among the classics.
I love your approach Ivana. It's true we have to practice, practice and keep practicing in everything we do.
ReplyDeleteIs it bad to admit that I've never read Henry James? But you've spiked my interest and I'll have to get one of his books from the library!!
XOOX
Jodie
www.jtouchofstyle.com
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DeleteI'm sure you'll like his works. If you don't have time for novels and longer works, his novellas and short stories are wonderful as well.
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DeleteSuch a fun way you've incorporated your illustration into your OOTD pics! :)
ReplyDeleteI agree it's good to have a few minutes a day to focus on something you love even if you can't get any more time than that :)
Hope that you are having a good week so far! Our heatwave has finally ended which is a relief! :)
Away From The Blue Blog
thank you, and yes sometimes even a few minutes can make such a difference.
DeleteI love this all illustrations - so so good . Sometimes it's a fact that its difficult to find the time for art but it's worth to do it. Especially if you feel it inside. Henry James sounds good :-)
ReplyDeleteHave a lovely week xx
absolutely, when we feel inside ourselves the need to do it, then we really should do our best to find some time for it.
DeleteFantastic, i love your Illustrations! Great Work Ivana <3
ReplyDeletekisses
<3
DeleteGood one. I truly like what you do.This is meaningful and interesting as it is relatable. Keep up the good work!
ReplyDeleteI agree with you that sketching is important.
ReplyDeleteyou have such fantastic sketching.
greeting- evi erlinda
<3
DeleteIt's nice how you work in your art practice whenever you can. And it's interesting how you developed these illustrations. I try to take at least one photo a day to make sure my eye stays fresh.
ReplyDeletethat's a great practice too.
DeleteWOAH!!! Amazing is an understatement! Thank you very much sharing this. I remembered I used to sketch before. xo
ReplyDeleteI tuoi schizzi sono sempre molto interessanti, e soprattutto è bello vedere come riesci poi a svilupparli! :)
ReplyDeleteQuanto ai libri che consigli, io di Henry James ho letto solo "ritratto di Signora" e mi è piaciuto, non conoscevo questi altri romanzi, magari però li terrò a mente per il futuro!
Io attualmente sto leggendo "Veronika decide di morire"di Paulo Coelho (che è uno degli autori che preferisco) :)
Baci!
S
https://s-fashion-avenue.blogspot.com/
vorrei leggere Veronica!
Deleteyou are super talented! this is neat!
ReplyDeletekelseybang.com
<3
DeleteI agree finding a few minutes a day doing something you love is so important! Beautiful illustrations Ivana!
ReplyDelete<3
DeleteThese are wonderful. It's so important to find time to do what you enjoy doing each day, it really makes the stress go away!! x
ReplyDeleteyes, it can help with the stress!
DeleteIf only I’ve those inspiration to draw. Pretty! xoxo
ReplyDelete<3
DeleteHello,
ReplyDeleteSo beautiful !
Sarah, https://sarahmodeee.fr
<3
DeleteDear Ivana, I read once that when we do something 10.000 hours than we are know how to do this. I think this is absolutely true and therefore I understand your approach. Btw all the sketches you show here turned out beautifully and it makes me smile that in the end of the post you mixed the illustration with your picture. It shows again how good you are! Corresponding books - I think you know that I try to read as much as possible. This means normally 1 - 2 books per week. At the moment I'm reading about a German girl who is as exchange pupil in Japan in a Japanese family. Although this book was written 2003 it is very interesting and I'm looking forward to each evening when I have time to read it. Fortunately, the letters in the book are tiny what means there is a lot of stuff in it and I can read it longer than a normal book. Because when I like a book I'm always sad when I have finished it ... Have a wonderful Thursday and hopefully one day you'll own the culottes you want!
ReplyDeletexx from Bavaria/Germany, Rena
www.dressedwithsoul.com
I heard about the 10.000 hours theory and I agree with it! 1 or 2 books per week is amazing.
DeleteThanks for the book recommendations! The illustrations are incredible.
ReplyDelete<3
DeleteIn love with the phone case!
ReplyDeletethanks darling.
DeletePractise makes a man perfect and you have really good sketching skills
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thank you Priya.
DeleteYour illustrations are so amazing. You are so talented and I really like how you combine photos and illustrations. So wonderful.
ReplyDeleteBlog - http://www.exclusivebeautydiary.com/search/label/en
YouTube – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lElpv4yu1_k&t=59s
I agree about sketching- it's like exercising and doing a warmup! You can't do all the sports without warming up properly Your artwork continues to impress me so much! Henry James is an interesting author. I was thoroughly creeped out by The Turn of The screw!
ReplyDeleteI was freaked out by The Turn of the Screw too, it's a very creepy novel.
DeleteYou are so talented! I really love your art style! It has a beautiful flow to it and very inspirational! I love the designs you make as well.
ReplyDeletewould you like to be a friend and follow each other? If you follow me,
I'll follow you back. Thank you! ^^
www.okcheori.com
thank you dear.
DeleteWow, such a interesting post, you practicaly told an entire article using drawings, that is outstanding! I love your originality and genuineness and I want to congratulate you for your work. As for what you wrote, you definitively convinced me to check out those books and read them and I believe that keep trying it applies in everything in life non only in drawing or dodling.
ReplyDeleteRegards,
Flo
I do agree, we should always keep trying.
DeleteOdliÄŤan post draga Ivana. Zanimljive ilustracije, jako si talentovana! :)
ReplyDeleteNovi post - www.minniearts.com
hvala
DeleteWhat a wonderful post, dear! Great photos!
ReplyDeleteA big hello from Germany!
Hugs ♥
Thanks a lot :D
ReplyDeleteso fantastic, my friend :D
I need a bag with my photo :o :o :o
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Instagram ∫ Facebook Official Page ∫ Miguel Gouveia / Blog Pieces Of Me :D
<3 You can open your own account there!
DeleteSo amazing that you keep sketching whenever you can and definitely keep on getting better. I'm sure it's a great way to relax and just enjoy the moment. It takes you to another place.
ReplyDeleteI love the illustration with the camel culottes. Super cute!
Happy weekend!
www.fashionradi.com
it is indeed.
DeleteYou're right, dear Ivana, sketching is one thing that I should remember as well. As a girl and a young woman, I've always sketched something, in textbooks, on beer mats, on newspapers, on any blank piece of paper ... I don't even know why I stopped doing it ... your sketches and the creative things you do with them are really wonderful!
ReplyDeleteHugs, my dear! And Happy 2nd "Advent"-Sunday!
Traude
https://rostrose.blogspot.com/2018/12/thailand-reisebericht-teil-8-chiang-mai.html
Happy second week of Advent.
DeleteLovely illustrations!
ReplyDeleteI use to do a lot of watercoloring, and I really miss it
S
thank you. I hope you'll get to do it again.
DeleteLove your sketches dear. So creative!
ReplyDeleteJessica | notjessfashion.com
thanks
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ReplyDeleteGrazie della visita molto bello quello che presenti. Presumo tu capisca italiano per cui ti risparmio il mio ormai pessimo inglese. Bui a settimana.
ReplyDeletesi, capisco
DeleteThe illustration is so classy one.The sketches reminds me of my old days.Loved your work.
ReplyDeletehttp://www.rakhshanda-chamberofbeauty.com/
thanks
DeleteChe carine!!!!
ReplyDeleteFederica
www.federicadinardo.com
thabk you
Deleteadoro le stampe personalizzate *_* sei stata bravissima
ReplyDeletegrazie
DeleteOh you are so talented!
ReplyDeletex Lisa | lisaautumn.com
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ReplyDeleteSo talented you are! Great post x
ReplyDeleteAdventures in May | Miss Nev
Great illustrations babe.
ReplyDeleteIt looks amazing.
Much Love,
Jane | The Bandwagon Chic
Amazing blog <3 I follow you <3 http://mysterious-natalia.blogspot.com/
ReplyDeleteThis is so cool. Love your work
ReplyDeleteGemma x
www.jacquardflower.uk
thank you
DeleteCute sketches!
ReplyDeleteI've been really lacking with my creativity this past year and this post has inspired me so thank you!
A Shimmer, A Shadow
Practicing is mus for any art. I totally agree with you. These illustration are perfect. You are really creative and always inspire me.
ReplyDeleteHave a great day.
Kisses <3
http://www.rakhshanda-chamberofbeauty.com/
passo per un saluto tesoro :)
ReplyDeleteI like the helpful info you provide in your articles. I will bookmark your blog and check again here regularly. I am quite sure I will learn lots of new stuff right here! Good luck for the next!
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<3
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