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This document was prepared for Project Gutenberg and the HTML Writers Guild. This etext was
prepared by Judith Boss. XML markup by Arthur Wendover. July 20, 2000. (See source file for
details.)
Daisy Miller:
A Study In Two Parts
by Henry James
PART I
At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel.
There are, indeed, many hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the business of the
place, which, as many travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a
remarkably blue lake--a lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore of the
lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category,
from the "grand hotel" of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred
balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an
elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow
wall and an awkward summerhouse in the angle of the garden. One of the hotels at
Vevey, however, is famous, even classical, being distinguished from many of its
upstart neighbors by an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the
month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed,
that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American
watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vision, an echo, of
Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither and thither of "stylish" young girls, a
rustling of muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of
high-pitched voices at all times. You receive an impression of these things at the
excellent inn of the "Trois Couronnes" and are transported in fancy to the Ocean
House or to Congress Hall. But at the "Trois Couronnes," it must be added, there are
other features that are much at variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters,
who look like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little
Polish boys walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the
sunny crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of Chillon.
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
1 of 44
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 afterward 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 aunt's 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 attache.
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
spindle-shanks; 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
flowerbeds, 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 don't 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
Winterbourne's bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.
"Oh, blazes; it's har-r-d!" he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar
manner.
Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming
him as a fellow countryman. "Take care you don't hurt your teeth," he said,
paternally.
"I haven't 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 afterward. She said she'd
slap me if any more came out. I can't help it. It's this old Europe. It's the climate that
makes them come out. In America they didn't come out. It's these hotels."
2 of 44
Winterbourne was much amused. "If you eat three lumps of sugar, your mother will
certainly slap you," he said.
"She's got to give me some candy, then," rejoined his young interlocutor. "I can't get
any candy here--any American candy. American candy's the best candy."
"And are American little boys the best little boys?" asked Winterbourne.
"I don't know. I'm 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
Winterbourne's 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. "She's an American girl."
Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing.
"American girls are the best girls," he said cheerfully to his young companion.
"My sister ain't the best!" the child declared. "She's always blowing at me."
"I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne. The young lady
meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills
and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she
balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was
strikingly, admirably pretty. "How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne,
straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise.
The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which
overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting
pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a
little.
"Randolph," said the young lady, "what Are you doing?"
"I'm going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!" And he gave another
little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne's ears.
"That's the way they come down," said Winterbourne.
"He's an American man!" cried Randolph, in his little hard voice.
The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her
brother. "Well, I guess you had better be quiet," she simply observed.
It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and
3 of 44
stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. "This little boy
and I have made acquaintance," he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been
perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady
except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions
could be better than these?-- a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of
you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne's
observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the
parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone
too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was
thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again.
"I should like to know where you got that pole," she said.
"I bought it," responded Randolph.
"You don't mean to say you're going to take it to Italy?"
"Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared.
The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of
ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had
better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment.
"Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect.
The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir," she replied. And she said nothing
more.
"Are you--a-- going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed.
"I don't know," she said. "I suppose it's some mountain. Randolph, what mountain
are we going over?"
"Going where?" the child demanded.
"To Italy," Winterbourne explained.
"I don't know," said Randolph. "I don't want to go to Italy. I want to go to America."
"Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man.
"Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired.
"I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks
so too."
"I haven't had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping
about.
The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and
Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was
ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least
4 of 44
embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming
complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another
way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply
her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the
objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she
gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance
was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been
called an immodest glance, for the young girl's eyes were singularly honest and fresh.
They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a
long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman's various features--her
complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty;
he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady's face
he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly
expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused
it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master
Randolph's sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her
bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it
became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that
they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She
asked him if he was a "real American"; she shouldn't have taken him for one; he
seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation-- especially when
he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke
like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who
spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in
sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked
standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was
from New York State--"if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more
about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few
minutes by his side.
"Tell me your name, my boy," he said.
"Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I'll tell you her name"; and he
leveled his alpenstock at his sister.
"You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly.
"I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne.
"Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn't her real name; that isn't
her name on her cards."
"It's a pity you haven't got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller.
"Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on.
"Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.
But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply
information with regard to his own family. "My father's name is Ezra B. Miller," he
announced. "My father ain't in Europe; my father's in a better place than Europe;."
5 of 44
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This document was prepared for Project Gutenberg and the HTML Writers Guild. This etext was
prepared by Judith Boss. XML markup by Arthur Wendover. July 20, 2000. (See source file for
details.)
Daisy Miller:
A Study In Two Parts
by Henry James
PART I
At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel.
There are, indeed, many hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the business of the
place, which, as many travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a
remarkably blue lake--a lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore of the
lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category,
from the "grand hotel" of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred
balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an
elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow
wall and an awkward summerhouse in the angle of the garden. One of the hotels at
Vevey, however, is famous, even classical, being distinguished from many of its
upstart neighbors by an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the
month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed,
that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American
watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vision, an echo, of
Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither and thither of "stylish" young girls, a
rustling of muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of
high-pitched voices at all times. You receive an impression of these things at the
excellent inn of the "Trois Couronnes" and are transported in fancy to the Ocean
House or to Congress Hall. But at the "Trois Couronnes," it must be added, there are
other features that are much at variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters,
who look like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little
Polish boys walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the
sunny crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of Chillon.
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
1 of 44
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 afterward 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 aunt's 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 attache.
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
spindle-shanks; 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
flowerbeds, 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 don't 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
Winterbourne's bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.
"Oh, blazes; it's har-r-d!" he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar
manner.
Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming
him as a fellow countryman. "Take care you don't hurt your teeth," he said,
paternally.
"I haven't 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 afterward. She said she'd
slap me if any more came out. I can't help it. It's this old Europe. It's the climate that
makes them come out. In America they didn't come out. It's these hotels."
2 of 44
Winterbourne was much amused. "If you eat three lumps of sugar, your mother will
certainly slap you," he said.
"She's got to give me some candy, then," rejoined his young interlocutor. "I can't get
any candy here--any American candy. American candy's the best candy."
"And are American little boys the best little boys?" asked Winterbourne.
"I don't know. I'm 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
Winterbourne's 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. "She's an American girl."
Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing.
"American girls are the best girls," he said cheerfully to his young companion.
"My sister ain't the best!" the child declared. "She's always blowing at me."
"I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne. The young lady
meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills
and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she
balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was
strikingly, admirably pretty. "How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne,
straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise.
The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which
overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting
pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a
little.
"Randolph," said the young lady, "what Are you doing?"
"I'm going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!" And he gave another
little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne's ears.
"That's the way they come down," said Winterbourne.
"He's an American man!" cried Randolph, in his little hard voice.
The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her
brother. "Well, I guess you had better be quiet," she simply observed.
It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and
3 of 44
stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. "This little boy
and I have made acquaintance," he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been
perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady
except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions
could be better than these?-- a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of
you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne's
observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the
parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone
too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was
thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again.
"I should like to know where you got that pole," she said.
"I bought it," responded Randolph.
"You don't mean to say you're going to take it to Italy?"
"Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared.
The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of
ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had
better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment.
"Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect.
The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir," she replied. And she said nothing
more.
"Are you--a-- going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed.
"I don't know," she said. "I suppose it's some mountain. Randolph, what mountain
are we going over?"
"Going where?" the child demanded.
"To Italy," Winterbourne explained.
"I don't know," said Randolph. "I don't want to go to Italy. I want to go to America."
"Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man.
"Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired.
"I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks
so too."
"I haven't had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping
about.
The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and
Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was
ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least
4 of 44
embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming
complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another
way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply
her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the
objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she
gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance
was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been
called an immodest glance, for the young girl's eyes were singularly honest and fresh.
They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a
long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman's various features--her
complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty;
he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady's face
he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly
expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused
it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master
Randolph's sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her
bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it
became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that
they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She
asked him if he was a "real American"; she shouldn't have taken him for one; he
seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation-- especially when
he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke
like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who
spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in
sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked
standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was
from New York State--"if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more
about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few
minutes by his side.
"Tell me your name, my boy," he said.
"Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I'll tell you her name"; and he
leveled his alpenstock at his sister.
"You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly.
"I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne.
"Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn't her real name; that isn't
her name on her cards."
"It's a pity you haven't got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller.
"Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on.
"Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.
But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply
information with regard to his own family. "My father's name is Ezra B. Miller," he
announced. "My father ain't in Europe; my father's in a better place than Europe;."
5 of 44
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