DAISY MILLER

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 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.”
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 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
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.”
Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this
was the manner in which the child had been taught to
intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere
of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added,
“My father’s in Schenectady. He’s got a big business.
My father’s rich, you bet!”
“Well!” ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her
parasol and looking at the embroidered border.
Winterbourne presently released the child, who
departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. “He
doesn’t like Europe,” said the young girl. “He wants to
go back.”
“To Schenectady, you mean?”
“Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn’t got
any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always
goes round with a teacher; they won’t let him play.”
“And your brother hasn’t any teacher?”
Winterbourne inquired.
“Mother thought of getting him one, to travel
round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good
teacher; an American lady-perhaps you know her-Mrs.
Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of
this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel
round with us. But Randolph said he didn’t want a
teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn’t
have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in
the cars about half the time. There was an English lady
we met in the cars-I think her name was Miss
Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to
know why I didn’t give Randolph lessons-give him
‘instruction,’ she called it. I guess he could give me
more instruction than I could give him. He’s very
smart.”
“Yes,” said Winterbourne; “he seems very
smart.”
“Mother’s going to get a teacher for him as soon
as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?”
“Very good, I should think,” said Winterbourne.
“Or else she’s going to find some school. He
ought to learn some more. He’s only nine. He’s going
to college.” And in this way Miss Miller continued to
converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other
topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands,
ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap,
and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of
Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the
people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She
talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long
time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since
he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have
been said of this unknown young lady, who had come
and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she
chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming,
tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were
constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable
voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave
Winterbourne a history of her movements and
intentions and those of her mother and brother, in
Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various
hotels at which they had stopped. “That English lady in
the cars,” she said-“Miss Featherstone-asked me if we
didn’t all live in hotels in America. I told her I had
never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came
to Europe. I have never seen so many-it’s nothing but
hotels.” But Miss Miller did not make this remark with
a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best
humor with everything. She declared that the hotels
were very good, when once you got used to their ways,
and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not
disappointed-not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had
heard so much about it before. She had ever so many
intimate friends that had been there ever so many times.
And then she had had ever so many dresses and things
from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt
as if she were in Europe.
“It was a kind of a wishing cap,” said
Winterbourne.
“Yes,” said Miss Miller without examining this
analogy; “it always made me wish I was here. But I
needn’t have done that for dresses. I am sure they send
all the pretty ones to America; you see the most
frightful things here. The only thing I don’t like,” she
proceeded, “is the society. There isn’t any society; or, if
there is, I don’t know where it keeps itself. Do you? I
suppose there is some society somewhere, but I haven’t
seen anything of it. I’m very fond of society, and I have
always had a great deal of it. I don’t mean only in
Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New
York every winter. In New York I had lots of society.
Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three
of them were by gentlemen,” added Daisy Miller. “I
have more friends in New York than in
Schenectady-more gentleman friends; and more young
lady friends too,” she resumed in a moment. She
paused again for an instant; she was looking at
Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes
and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. “I have
always had,” she said, “a great deal of gentlemen’s
society.”
Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and
decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl
express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save
in cases where to say such things seemed a kind of
demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of
deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy
Miller of actual or potential inconduite, as they said at
Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long
that he had lost a good deal; he had become
dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed,
since he had grown old enough to appreciate things,
had he encountered a young American girl of so
pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very
charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply
a pretty girl from New York State? Were they all like
that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of
gentlemen’s society? Or was she also a designing, an
audacious, an unscrupulous young person?
Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his
reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked
extremely innocent. Some people had told him that,
after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent;
and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He
was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt-a
pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any
relations with young ladies of this category. He had
known, here in Europe, two or three women-persons
older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for
respectability’s sake, with husbands-who were great
coquettes-dangerous, terrible women, with whom one’s
relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this
young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was
very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American
flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having
found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He
leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she
had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he
wondered what were the regular conditions and
limitations of one’s intercourse with a pretty American
flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the
way to learn.
“Have you been to that old castle?” asked the
young girl, pointing with her parasol to the
far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon.
 “Yes, formerly, more than once,” said
Winterbourne. “You too, I suppose, have seen it?”
“No; we haven’t been there. I want to go there
dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn’t go
away from here without having seen that old castle.”
“It’s a very pretty excursion,” said Winterbourne,
“and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or
you can go by the little steamer.”
“You can go in the cars,” said Miss Miller.
“Yes; you can go in the cars,” Winterbourne
assented.
“Our courier says they take you right up to the
castle,” the young girl continued. “We were going last
week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully
from dyspepsia. She said she couldn’t go. Randolph
wouldn’t go either; he says he doesn’t think much of
old castles. But I guess we’ll go this week, if we can get
Randolph.”
“Your brother is not interested in ancient
monuments?” Winterbourne inquired, smiling.
“He says he don’t care much about old castles.
He’s only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mother’s
afraid to leave him alone, and the courier won’t stay
with him; so we haven’t been to many places. But it
will be too bad if we don’t go up there.” And Miss
Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon.
“I should think it might be arranged,” said
Winterbourne. “Couldn’t you get some one to stay for
the afternoon with Randolph?”
Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then,
very placidly, “I wish YOU would stay with him!” she
said.
Winterbourne hesitated a moment. “I should
much rather go to Chillon with you.”
“With me?” asked the young girl with the same
placidity.
She didn’t rise, blushing, as a young girl at
Geneva would have done; and yet Winterbourne,
conscious that he had been very bold, thought it
possible she was offended. “With your mother,” he
answered very respectfully.
But it seemed that both his audacity and his
respect were lost upon Miss Daisy Miller. “I guess my
mother won’t go, after all,” she said. “She don’t like to
ride round in the afternoon. But did you really mean
what you said just now-that you would like to go up
there?”
“Most earnestly,” Winterbourne declared.
“Then we may arrange it. If mother will stay with
Randolph, I guess Eugenio will.”
“Eugenio?” the young man inquired.
“Eugenio’s our courier. He doesn’t like to stay
with Randolph; he’s the most fastidious man I ever
saw. But he’s a splendid courier. I guess he’ll stay at
home with Randolph if mother does, and then we can
go to the castle.”
 Winterbourne reflected for an instant as lucidly as
possible-“we” could only mean Miss Daisy Miller and
himself. This program seemed almost too agreeable for
credence; he felt as if he ought to kiss the young lady’s
hand. Possibly he would have done so and quite spoiled
the project, but at this moment another person,
presumably Eugenio, appeared. A tall, handsome man,
with superb whiskers, wearing a velvet morning coat
and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller,
looking sharply at her companion. “Oh, Eugenio!” said
Miss Miller with the friendliest accent.
Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head
to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady. “I
have the honor to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is
upon the table.”
Miss Miller slowly rose. “See here, Eugenio!” she
said; “I’m going to that old castle, anyway.”
“To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?” the
courier inquired. “Mademoiselle has made
arrangements?” he added in a tone which struck
Winterbourne as very impertinent.
Eugenio’s tone apparently threw, even to Miss
Miller’s own apprehension, a slightly ironical light
upon the young girl’s situation. She turned to
Winterbourne, blushing a little-a very little. “You won’t
back out?” she said.
“I shall not be happy till we go!” he protested.
“And you are staying in this hotel?” she went on.
“And you are really an American?”
The courier stood looking at Winterbourne
offensively. The young man, at least, thought his
manner of looking an offense to Miss Miller; it
conveyed an imputation that she “picked up”
acquaintances. “I shall have the honor of presenting to
you a person who will tell you all about me,” he said,
smiling and referring to his aunt.
“Oh, well, we’ll go some day,” said Miss Miller.
And she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up
her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio.
Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she
moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the
gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a
princess.
He had, however, engaged to do more than
proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs.
Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former
lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her
in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in
regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in
the hotel an American family-a mamma, a daughter,
and a little boy.
“And a courier?” said Mrs. Costello. “Oh yes, I
have observed them. Seen them-heard them-and kept
out of their way.” Mrs. Costello was a widow with a
fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently
intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to