Transcribed from the 1916 Martin Secker edition by DavidPrice,
THE FIGURE IN THE CARPET
BY HENRY JAMES
LONDON; MARTIN SECKER
NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI
This edition first published1916
The text follows that of the
Definitive Edition
CHAPTER I
I had done a few things and earneda few pence—I had perhaps even had time to begin to think Iwas finer than was perceived by the patronising; but when I takethe little measure of my course (a fidgety habit, for it’snone of the longest yet) I count my real start from the eveningGeorge Corvick, breathless and worried, came in to ask me aservice. He had done more things than I, and earned morepence, though there were chances for cleverness I thought hesometimes missed. I could only however that evening declareto him that he never missed one for kindness. There wasalmost rapture in hearing it proposed to me to prepare for TheMiddle, the organ of our lucubrations, so called from theposition in the week of its day of appearance, an article forwhich he had made himself responsible and of which, tied up witha stout string, he laid on my table the subject. I pouncedupon my opportunity—that is on the first volume ofit—and paid scant attention to my friend’sexplanation of his appeal. What explanation could be moreto the point than my obvious fitness for the task? I hadwritten on Hugh Vereker, but never a word in The Middle,where my dealings were mainly with the ladies and the minorpoets. This was his new novel, an advance copy, andwhatever much or little it should do for his reputation I wasclear on the spot as to what it should do for mine. Moreover if I always read him as soon as I could get hold of himI had a particular reason for wishing to read him now: I hadaccepted an invitation to Bridges for the following Sunday, andit had been mentioned in Lady Jane’s note that Mr. Verekerwas to be there. I was young enough for a flutter atmeeting a man of his renown, and innocent enough to believe theoccasion would demand the display of an acquaintance with his“last.”
Corvick, who had promised a review of it, had not even hadtime to read it; he had gone to pieces in consequence of newsrequiring—as on precipitate reflexion he judged—thathe should catch the night-mail to Paris. He had had atelegram from Gwendolen Erme in answer to his letter offering tofly to her aid. I knew already about Gwendolen Erme; I hadnever seen her, but I had my ideas, which were mainly to theeffect that Corvick would marry her if her mother would onlydie. That lady seemed now in a fair way to oblige him;after some dreadful mistake about a climate or a“cure” she had suddenly collapsed on the return fromabroad. Her daughter, unsupported and alarmed, desiring tomake a rush for home but hesitating at the risk, had accepted ourfriend’s assistance, and it was my secret belief that atsight of him Mrs. Erme would pull round. His own belief wasscarcely to be called secret; it discernibly at any rate differedfrom mine. He had showed me Gwendolen’s photographwith the remark that she wasn’t pretty but was awfullyinteresting; she had published at the age of nineteen a novel inthree volumes, “Deep Down,” about which, in TheMiddle, he had been really splendid. He appreciated mypresent eagerness and undertook