In retrospect it becomes clear that the events and acquaintances that alter one’s life irreversibly are called up by the deepest needs of one’s being. After sixteen years of being shuffled back and forth between various families in England and the continent, and having no knowledge of my parentage, Henry James was the first person to take interest in me and my ambitions.
We met on Easter weekend in March of 1888 at Aston Clinton in Tring Park where we were both guests of the Cyril Flowers’. Lizzy Duveneck had just passed and Mr. James was almost inconsolable. I had never met Mrs. Duveneck but understood at once that Mr. James felt not only personal loss but also a keen awareness of the human tragedy encapsulated in the particulars of her demise. I did not know her and I did not pretend to know about her. I think he appreciated that. We were introduced very simply. Our host had forgotten, or perhaps had not taken seriously, my own literary ambitions and so I was introduced simply by my name, Julian Dublin.
The Master was very kind even in the midst of his personal distress. I made no attempt to flatter him but instead spoke to him about my own interests, and the next day I received a note inviting me to dine with him. That was how our friendship began.
Over duck liver pate’, roast mutton, and Claret, at the Rotary Club, Mr. James inquired about my background and I related what little I knew. I was told that I was born in Ireland in the spring of 1872. I spent my winters studying in England and during the summer holidays I was tossed around between the country homes of various families, though my preference was to stay at Knole.
My constitution had never been well suited for the English climate. My transluscent skin has always been intolerant to direct sunlight and yet chilled dampness has a detremental effect on my nerves, so I was sent to stay with my governess in Italy during the winter holidays. I admitted that I have always envied other men their robustness. I felt I compared unfavorably to the type of man with weathered skin and fresh air in his lungs.
I also related my uncertain parentage and the unwillingness of my governess, or the families that took an interest in me, to provide me with any further information concerning my origins. The mysterious nature of my background intrigued Mr. James as it had many of my contemporaries.
In my own mind, I had filled in the unknowns with the worst sorts of imaginings. Certainly my parents must not have been married, at least not to each other. Perhaps I was the product of a broken vow of celibacy taken by a nun or a priest. Though it was a time and place when one’s lineage made the man, I somehow didn’t require parentage in order to take myself seriously. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t wonder. These were the sorts of questions that filled my childhood and these were the thoughts that I related to Mr. James on the occasion of our dinner together.
As is often the case, my personal disclosures elicited a response of like kind, and so it was that Mr. James spoke to me of his own childhood, “My father was an enthusiast in most things, but he was particularly enthusiastic about the pursuit of knowledge for it’s own sake.” He noticed that my mouth was full and so he went on, “He would not hear of his sons pursuing an occupation but rather insisted that we pursue ‘interests’ and ‘studies’ that would enlarge our understanding and the quality of our being.”
Now he noticed that I was about to speak but continued on nontheless, “You see, we didn’t have the problems resulting from the separation of art from life that you have today. These days young men go around wondering about the value of reading Plato and Aristotle in light of all the human suffering that surrounds us. In those days we thought of our studies as being immersed in the very nature and causes of suffering. We were not avoiding the ‘realities of life’; we were examining the very nature of “reality”.
Mr. James was portly, balding, his eyes were grave and his voice was deep. He was ever-cordial, was never jolly but was often amused and always amusing. There was nothing casual about Mr. James; he did nothing unintentionally. Every word, every gesture, was calculated, not so much for the external effect, but for internal consistency. Mr. James preferred to be seated with his back to the wall and that is how he was positioned that evening at the Club when he caught sight of something alarming over my shoulder. It was apparently some sort of “image” that glared at him as it passed by the window. I looked too late and saw nothing. Mr. James was considerably shaken, and seemed nearly to loose his composure, but he insisted that I stay seated, otherwise I would have pursued the matter out-of-doors. Previous to meeting Mr. James for myself, I heard the rumor that his father’s mental breakdown was preceded by a visitation from a devil, whom he came upon, quite by chance, crouching near the fireplace in his American library. I admit that I wondered at the possibility of hereditary mental instability.
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