Henry James / Генри Джеймс Daisy Miller / Дейзи Миллер
© КАРО, 2016
Daisy Miller
I
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the Trois Couronnes, looking about him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming. He had come from Geneva the day before, by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache his aunt had almost always a headache and now she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at Geneva, studying. When his enemies spoke of him they said but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there a foreign lady a person older than himself. Very few Americans indeed I think none had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a boy, and he had afterwards gone to college there circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to him.
After knocking at his aunts door and learning that she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come in to his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attaché. At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path an urchin of nine or ten. The child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his poor little spindleshanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. He carried in his hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point
of which he thrust into everything that he approached the flower-beds, the garden-benches, the trains of the ladies dresses. In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes.
Will you give me a lump of sugar? he asked, in a sharp, hard little voice a voice immature, and yet, somehow, not young.
Winterbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee-service rested, and saw that several morsels of sugar remained. Yes, you may take one, he answered; but I dont think sugar is good for little boys.
This little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the coveted fragments, two of which he buried in the pocket of his knickerbockers, depositing the other as promptly in another place. He poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into Winterbournes bench, and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.
Oh, blazes; its har-r-d! he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner.
Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honour of claiming him as a fellow-countryman. Take care you dont hurt your teeth, he said, paternally.
I havent got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only got seven teeth. My mother counted them last night, and one came out right afterwards. She said shed slap me if any more came out. I cant help it. Its this old Europe. Its the climate that makes them come out. In America they didnt come out. Its these hotels.
Winterbourne was much amused. If you eat three lumps of sugar, your mother will certainly slap you, he said.
Shes got to give me some candy, then, rejoined his young interlocutor. I cant get any candy here any American candy. American candys the best candy.
And are American little boys the best little boys? asked Winterbourne.
I dont know. Im an American boy, said the child.
I see you are one of the best! laughed Winterbourne.
Are you an American man? pursued this vivacious infant. And then, on Winterbournes affirmative reply American men are the best, he declared.
His companion thanked him for the compliment; and the child, who had now got astride of his alpenstock, stood looking about him, while he attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne wondered if he himself had been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about this age.
Here comes my sister! cried the child, in a moment. Shes an American girl.