The Master (43 page)

‘It will be cold,’ he said. ‘I can tell by looking.’

Henry watched him as he waded into the water, jumping to avoid each wave before diving under the water and swimming out, the strokes strong and firm. At times he disappeared under the waves,
allowing himself to float in towards the shore, waving at Henry who stood fully clothed, enjoying the heat of the sun.

When Andersen had dried himself and changed back into his clothes they walked for miles along the strand, meeting almost no one. Both of them stopped regularly for no reason to look out to sea,
studying the far horizon or a boat in the distance. Andersen listened when Henry explained how the land had been reclaimed, thus making inland towns out of places which had once been harbours.

‘If this was Newport,’ Andersen said, ‘we would be able to walk to the pier and watch them unloading the catch or preparing for a night’s fishing.’

Andersen began to talk then about the Newport he had first seen as a child, arriving from Norway with his parents, his two brothers and his sister. That was when he had heard of the James
family, he said. He knew where they had lived and that the son had become a writer because everyone told him so. The Andersens, he said, had everything except money; his brother was so clearly a
talented painter when he was a mere child, just as he too was precociously talented, just as his younger brother was a promising musician. Old Newport, the old ladies and the half-Europeanized
families, believed in talent, he said, more than they did in money, but that was because they had plenty of money, or had inherited enough never to think about it. The Andersens, he said, might
have seemed like that too when they went visiting or went to church, but at home they had no money, so money was all they thought about.

‘They bought us oil paint and easels,’ he said, ‘and pretended not to notice our patched clothes. They discussed great art with us in the late afternoon and we could smell
their hot suppers being made knowing that we were going home to cold suppers or grim suppers.’

‘Rome,’ Henry said, ‘must have been a relief.’

‘If only Rome had beaches and salt water,’ Andersen said.

‘And if only Newport had the Colosseum,’ Henry replied, ‘and if only the Andersens had possessed a fortune.’

‘And if only the James brothers had had patches in their trousers,’ Andersen laughed and punched Henry freely and softly in the stomach before putting his arm around him.

They freewheeled homewards in the twilight, dismounting briefly when they came to Udimore and again as they approached close to Lamb House. They arranged to meet in the garden for drinks after
dressing for the evening.

As Henry waited for Andersen to come down, the scale of the garden, its modest and guarded proportions, in the raw slanted light which came from the dying sun, appeared more natural, closer to
the scale of the landscape they had been moving in, and strangely closer to their range of feeling, Henry thought, than the openness and grand vistas of Rome. It might be easier, he thought, now
that the rain had lifted and now that Andersen had seemed to settle, for them to relax together, to enjoy one another.

When Andersen came down, his hair was freshly washed and still wet at the ends and his light skin had been reddened by the day’s sun. He smiled and made himself comfortable and sipped a
drink and slowly examined the garden as though he had not seen it before. Henry had previously indicated the garden room to him as the place where he worked in the summer, but had not as yet
invited him into the room. When he did so now, they walked slowly, drinks in hand, across the lawn.

‘This is where all your work is done,’ Andersen said when Henry had closed the door behind them.

‘This is where the tales are told,’ Henry said.

To the left of the entrance there was a wall of books, and when Andersen had studied the view and marvelled at the light, he walked over to inspect the books, not appearing to realize at first
that all of them bore his host’s name. He took down one or two and then gradually it seemed to dawn on him that this large high bookcase contained the novels and stories of Henry James in all
their editions from both sides of the Atlantic. He became agitated and excited as he took volumes down and looked at the spines and the title pages.

‘You have written a whole library,’ he said. ‘I will have to read them all.’

He turned and looked at Henry.

‘Did you always know that you would write all these books?’

‘I know the next sentence,’ Henry said, ‘and often the next story and I take notes for novels.’

‘But did you not once plan it all? Did you not say this is what I will do with my life?’

By the time he asked the second question, Henry had turned away from him and was facing towards the window with no idea why his eyes had filled with tears.

W
HEN THEY HAD
talked for a while after supper, Henry went to bed leaving Andersen downstairs reading one of his collections, insisting that he would
finish at least a substantial number of the stories before he left Rye the next day. After a time he heard the stairs creak and he began to imagine Andersen’s tall frame, book in hand,
arriving on the landing; he pictured him opening his door and going into his bedroom. Soon, he heard him cross the landing to go to the bathroom and then return to the bedroom and close the
door.

As the floorboards creaked under Andersen’s feet, Henry imagined his friend undressing, removing his jacket and his tie. And then he heard only silence as perhaps Andersen sat on the bed
to remove his shoes and his socks. Henry waited, listening. And now after an interval came further creaks as, Henry surmised, he must have been removing his shirt; he dreamed of him standing
bare-chested in the room, and then reaching to find his night attire. Henry did not know what Andersen would do now. He wondered if he would not remove his trousers and his underwear and stand
naked studying himself in the mirror, looking at how the sun had marked his neck, observing how strong he was, staring at the blue of his own eyes, not making a sound.

And then he heard another creak as though Andersen had briefly changed his position. Henry imagined the room, the dark green curtains and light green wallpaper, the rugs on the floor and the
large old bed which Lady Wolseley had made him buy, and the lamps on small tables on each side of the bed which Burgess Noakes would have lit, having, as was his custom, turned the main light off
in each bedroom. Henry, as he lay on his back with the book he was reading left to one side, his own lamp still switched on and shining, closed his eyes and envisioned his guest now, naked in
lamplight, his body powerful and perfect, his skin smooth and soft to the touch, the floorboards creaking under him as, having inspected himself in the mirror one more time, he got into his night
attire and crossed the room to fetch his book perhaps, and returned to the bed. Then there was silence. Henry could hear only his own breathing. He waited, not moving. Andersen, he thought, must be
in bed. He wondered if he were lying in the dark, or if he had continued reading. He heard the sound of a cough or a clearing of his throat, but nothing else. He took up the book and found his
place and resumed reading, concentrating as hard as he could on the words, turning the page in the silence which had now descended on Lamb House.

I
N THE MORNING
, under clear skies, they went for a stroll through the town as Burgess Noakes packed Andersen’s baggage and the Scot made clean
copies of a number of stories which were ready to be sent to magazines. After lunch, the cases lying waiting in the hall and the train for London due within an hour, Henry and Andersen busied
themselves with keeping the wasps from feasting on the desserts which they had taken on a tray into the garden with them.

Henry did not know how Andersen would remember his visit to Rye, or how genuinely he meant it when he said that he regretted the shortness of his stay and intended to return and remain longer at
Lamb House very soon. He noticed in him a great restlessness which interested him but which he did not envy. He knew that in New York and later in Rome Andersen would attract friends and admirers
with his good looks and his unsettling charm. Henry felt strangely protective of him and possessive. He imagined Andersen’s mother in Newport, the effort she had made to find a place for her
children in the world, and how this one, this golden youth, guileless and mercurial and vulnerable and surely not a regular correspondent, might preoccupy her, how she might want him home, as Henry
wanted him here. Andersen, Henry thought, was ready for everything, except homecoming in any form it might take. The idea of the clash between the son’s golden manners and his ambitions, so
carefully refined by his Roman sojourn, and his mother’s needs and worries and longing fascinated Henry now as a possible drama.

Andersen, he saw, was not interested in drama; he was in love with the future. He was what he appeared to be – a young man happily waiting for a train. He was affectionate and grateful,
but more than anything, he was looking forward to the journey.

Andersen held Henry by the hand and then embraced him as his luggage was hauled into the compartment.

‘You’ve been so good for me,’ he said. ‘It’s so important that you believe in me.’

He embraced Henry once more before turning and stepping into the train, awkwardly handing Burgess Noakes a small consideration as he edged past him. Henry and Noakes stood on the platform,
Noakes remaining still while Henry waved as the train left Rye on its journey to London.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
NDERSEN, HIMSELF SO FULL
of plans, had asked him casually on his last morning in Rye what his plans were – where, for example, he proposed to
travel, or what he thought he might write, or, indeed, if he had any visitors coming to Lamb House who would occupy the space which Andersen was about to vacate. Henry had hesitated and then smiled
and said that he believed that he would spend the coming months working on stories and perhaps be fortunate enough not to have the inspiration for a new novel until well into the new year.

Later, when Andersen had gone, Henry had regretted not telling him that he was, indeed, expecting visitors, his brother William, his sister-in-law Alice and his niece Peggy. He regretted also
that he had not told Andersen about his appearance on the stage at the end of the opening performance of
Guy Domville
. It had been easier to present a self in full possession of pride and
confidence. He wondered if this might have changed had his friend stayed for two or three more days, but he thought not. Past failure did not interest Andersen who remained fascinated by future
triumph. He knew that the young man would be puzzled by his involvement in something as dire and disastrous as
Guy Domville
and he was glad that he had preserved his own thick shell during
Andersen’s stay in Rye.

He was taken aback at how ready Andersen was to attack his own father, or discuss, in casual terms, his close and difficult relationship with his older brother. Since Henry had not responded by
discussing the many vagaries of Henry James senior, or his own brother’s constant willingness to wound him, believing that his father and his brother had first call on his loyalty, then he
could not blame Andersen for feeling that he had nothing to say on these matters.

Andersen had made several references, during their meetings in Rome, and again in Rye, to the wealth of the James family, having heard of it discussed in Newport. He was, Henry knew, surprised
at the modesty of his hotel in Rome and at the relative smallness of Lamb House. He had presumed that Henry’s industry arose from his desire for regular publication rather than an income.
Before his arrival, the matter of money had been at the front of Henry’s mind and had become entwined with William’s proprietorial interest in the family’s business,
William’s need to offer advice when none was sought.

Lamb House, whose owner had died, had been offered for sale some time earlier by the widow for two thousand pounds. The prospect of possessing the place filled Henry with an anxiety to move
quickly in case it should be lost to him and a deep satisfaction at the idea that he could shut his door and turn the key without anyone having the right to enter his domain. The money would have
to be raised quickly, however, and he did not have ready money. He covered his expenses by his writing and paid great attention to the money he received for stories and serializations. His
inheritance, his capital and the dividends which came from them were controlled by William. They consisted mainly of the rents received from certain buildings in the town of Syracuse, which he had
seen once and hoped never to have to view again, which William managed with, as far as he could make out, competence and prudence. But he did not think, even as he wrote to William, that he would
need to take money from the capital, or borrow money using the Syracuse properties as the bond. The money, he believed, could be raised more simply from his own bank and paid back quickly by the
fruits of his own industry.

Since William was coming to Europe, he had written to him to say that his apartment in Kensington, which had been briefly sublet, would now be free, and he hoped William and his family would
install themselves there for a time before coming to Lamb House. He had meant the offer in all kindness, but William made clear that he wished to make his own arrangements. William James and Alice,
Henry was told, would be travelling first to Germany where he would go to Nauheim to take the cure and then to England. He seemed to be declining the offer of the apartment.

Henry wrote to him at Nauheim about his interest in purchasing Lamb House. Later, he realized that he had explained far too much, as though he were an errant son writing to a parent, or indeed a
profligate younger brother writing to his wiser, older sibling.

He had not asked William for advice, or for money. In retrospect, he wondered why he had written to him at all, why he had not gone ahead and purchased Lamb House without consulting a living
soul other than his bank’s manager. He had described his new opportunity unthinkingly, in great excitement, and then had suffered the consequences.William had written him two letters in quick
succession; the tone of the first was hortatory and hectoring: William as expert on the purchasing and disposal of real estate, on interest rates, and on the need for toughness and cunning in
negotiation. Then, having met someone in Nauheim who had once seen the house and having discussed the entire matter freely with him, William wrote a second time to say that he believed the asking
price was very extravagant and advising Henry that he should consult some wary business friend before in any way committing himself.