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Transcribed from the 1916 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org





                         THE FIGURE IN THE CARPET


                              BY HENRY JAMES

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                                * * * * *

                          LONDON; MARTIN SECKER
                     NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI

                                * * * * *

                    This edition first published 1916
                       The text follows that of the
                            Definitive Edition




CHAPTER I


I HAD done a few things and earned a few pence--I had perhaps even had
time to begin to think I was finer than was perceived by the patronising;
but when I take the little measure of my course (a fidgety habit, for
it's none of the longest yet) I count my real start from the evening
George Corvick, breathless and worried, came in to ask me a service.  He
had done more things than I, and earned more pence, though there were
chances for cleverness I thought he sometimes missed.  I could only
however that evening declare to him that he never missed one for
kindness.  There was almost rapture in hearing it proposed to me to
prepare for _The Middle_, the organ of our lucubrations, so called from
the position in the week of its day of appearance, an article for which
he had made himself responsible and of which, tied up with a stout
string, he laid on my table the subject.  I pounced upon my
opportunity--that is on the first volume of it--and paid scant attention
to my friend's explanation of his appeal.  What explanation could be more
to the point than my obvious fitness for the task?  I had written on Hugh
Vereker, but never a word in _The Middle_, where my dealings were mainly
with the ladies and the minor poets.  This was his new novel, an advance
copy, and whatever much or little it should do for his reputation I was
clear 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 him I had a particular reason for
wishing to read him now: I had accepted an invitation to Bridges for the
following Sunday, and it had been mentioned in Lady Jane's note that Mr.
Vereker was to be there.  I was young enough for a flutter at meeting a
man of his renown, and innocent enough to believe the occasion would
demand the display of an acquaintance with his "last."

Corvick, who had promised a review of it, had not even had time to read
it; he had gone to pieces in consequence of news requiring--as on
precipitate reflexion he judged--that he should catch the night-mail to
Paris.  He had had a telegram from Gwendolen Erme in answer to his letter
offering to fly to her aid.  I knew already about Gwendolen Erme; I had
never seen her, but I had my ideas, which were mainly to the effect that
Corvick would marry her if her mother would only die.  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 from abroad.
Her daughter, unsupported and alarmed, desiring to make a rush for home
but hesitating at the risk, had accepted our friend's assistance, and it
was my secret belief that at sight of him Mrs. Erme would pull round.
His own belief was scarcely to be called secret; it discernibly at any
rate differed from mine.  He had showed me Gwendolen's photograph with
the remark that she wasn't pretty but was awfully interesting; she had
published at the age of nineteen a novel in three volumes, "Deep Down,"
about which, in _The Middle_, he had been really splendid.  He
