Europe was best described, to his mind, as an elaborate engine for dissociating the confined American from that indispensable knowledge, and was accordingly only rendered bearable by these occasional stations of relief, traps for the arrest of wandering western airs.Strether, on his side, set himself to walk again--he had his relief in his pocket; and indeed, much as he had desired his budget, the growth of restlessness might have been marked in him from the moment he had assured himself of the superscription of most of the missives it contained.This restlessness became therefore his temporary law; he knew he should recognise as soon as see it the best place of all for settling down with his chief correspondent.He had for the next hour an accidental air of looking for it in the windows of shops; he came down the Rue de la Paix in the sun and, passing across the Tuileries and the river, indulged more than once--as if on finding himself determined--in a sudden pause before the book-stalls of the opposite quay.In the garden of the Tuileries he had lingered, on two or three spots, to look; it was as if the wonderful Paris spring had stayed him as he roamed.The prompt Paris morning struck its cheerful notes--in a soft breeze and a sprinkled smell, in the light flit, over the garden-floor, of bareheaded girls with the buckled strap of oblong boxes, in the type of ancient thrifty persons basking betimes where terrace-walls were warm, in the blue-frocked brass-labelled officialism of humble rakers and scrapers, in the deep references of a straight-pacing priest or the sharp ones of a white-gaitered red-legged soldier.He watched little brisk figures, figures whose movement was as the tick of the great Paris clock, take their smooth diagonal from point to point; the air had a taste as of something mixed with art, something that presented nature as a white-capped master-chef.The palace was gone, Strether remembered the palace; and when he gazed into the irremediable void of its site the historic sense in him might have been freely at play--the play under which in Paris indeed it so often winces like a touched nerve.He filled out spaces with dim symbols of scenes; he caught the gleam of white statues at the base of which, with his letters out, he could tilt back a straw-bottomed chair.But his drift was, for reasons, to the other side, and it floated him unspent up the Rue de Seine and as far as the Luxembourg.In the Luxembourg Gardens he pulled up; here at last he found his nook, and here, on a penny chair from which terraces, alleys, vistas, fountains, little trees in green tubs, little women in white caps and shrill little girls at play all sunnily "composed" together, he passed an hour in which the cup of his impressions seemed truly to overflow.
But a week had elapsed since he quitted the ship, and there were more things in his mind than so few days could account for.More than once, during the time, he had regarded himself as admonished;but the admonition this morning was formidably sharp.It took as it hadn't done yet the form of a question--the question of what he was doing with such an extraordinary sense of escape.This sense was sharpest after he had read his letters, but that was also precisely why the question pressed.Four of the letters were from Mrs.Newsome and none of them short; she had lost no time, had followed on his heels while he moved, so expressing herself that he now could measure the probable frequency with which he should hear.They would arrive, it would seem, her communications, at the rate of several a week; he should be able to count, it might even prove, on more than one by each mail.If he had begun yesterday with a small grievance he had therefore an opportunity to begin to-day with its opposite.He read the letters successively and slowly, putting others back into his pocket but keeping these for a long time afterwards gathered in his lap.He held them there, lost in thought, as if to prolong the presence of what they gave him; or as if at the least to assure them their part in the constitution of some lucidity.His friend wrote admirably, and her tone was even more in her style than in her voice--he might almost, for the hour, have had to come this distance to get its full carrying quality; yet the plentitude of his consciousness of difference consorted perfectly with the deepened intensity of the connexion.It was the difference, the difference of being just where he was and AS he was, that formed the escape--this difference was so much greater than he had dreamed it would be;and what he finally sat there turning over was the strange logic of his finding himself so free.He felt it in a manner his duty to think out his state, to approve the process, and when he came in fact to trace the steps and add up the items they sufficiently accounted for the sum.He had never expected--that was the truth of it--again to find himself young, and all the years and other things it had taken to make him so were exactly his present arithmetic.He had to make sure of them to put his scruple to rest.
It all sprang at bottom from the beauty of Mrs.Newsome's desire that he should be worried with nothing that was not of the essence of his task; by insisting that he should thoroughly intermit and break she had so provided for his ******* that she would, as it were, have only herself to thank.Strether could not at this point indeed have completed his thought by the image of what she might have to thank herself FOR: the image, at best, of his own likeness-poor Lambert Strether washed up on the sunny strand by the waves of a single day, poor Lambert Strether thankful for breathing-time and stiffening himself while he gasped.There he was, and with nothing in his aspect or his posture to scandalise:
