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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Daisy Miller: a Study, by Henry James
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Daisy Miller, by Henry James
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Daisy Miller
Author: Henry James
Release Date: July 3, 2008 [EBook #208]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAISY MILLER ***
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<div style="height: 8em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h1>
DAISY MILLER: A STUDY
</h1>
<h3>
IN TWO PARTS
</h3>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<h2>
By Henry James
</h2>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<h4>
The text is that of the first American appearance in book form, 1879.
</h4>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<h2>
Contents
</h2>
<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
<tr>
<td>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2H_PART1"> PART I </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2H_PART"> PART II </a>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<h2>
PART I
</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“Will you give me a lump of sugar?” he asked in a sharp, hard little voice—a
voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, blazes; it’s har-r-d!” he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a
peculiar manner.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was much amused. “If you eat three lumps of sugar, your
mother will certainly slap you,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“And are American little boys the best little boys?” asked Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. I’m an American boy,” said the child.
</p>
<p>
“I see you are one of the best!” laughed Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Are you an American man?” pursued this vivacious infant. And then, on
Winterbourne’s affirmative reply—“American men are the best,” he
declared.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“Here comes my sister!” cried the child in a moment. “She’s an American
girl.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“My sister ain’t the best!” the child declared. “She’s always blowing at
me.”
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“Randolph,” said the young lady, “what ARE you doing?”
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
“That’s the way they come down,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“He’s an American man!” cried Randolph, in his little hard voice.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“I should like to know where you got that pole,” she said.
</p>
<p>
“I bought it,” responded Randolph.
</p>
<p>
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to take it to Italy?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I am going to take it to Italy,” the child declared.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“Are you going to Italy?” Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great
respect.
</p>
<p>
The young lady glanced at him again. “Yes, sir,” she replied. And she said
nothing more.
</p>
<p>
“Are you—a—going over the Simplon?” Winterbourne pursued, a
little embarrassed.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s some mountain. Randolph, what
mountain are we going over?”
</p>
<p>
“Going where?” the child demanded.
</p>
<p>
“To Italy,” Winterbourne explained.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know,” said Randolph. “I don’t want to go to Italy. I want to go
to America.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!” rejoined the young man.
</p>
<p>
“Can you get candy there?” Randolph loudly inquired.
</p>
<p>
“I hope not,” said his sister. “I guess you have had enough candy, and
mother thinks so too.”
</p>
<p>
“I haven’t had any for ever so long—for a hundred weeks!” cried the
boy, still jumping about.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“Tell me your name, my boy,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Randolph C. Miller,” said the boy sharply. “And I’ll tell you her name;”
and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister.
</p>
<p>
“You had better wait till you are asked!” said this young lady calmly.
</p>
<p>
“I should like very much to know your name,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Her name is Daisy Miller!” cried the child. “But that isn’t her real
name; that isn’t her name on her cards.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s a pity you haven’t got one of my cards!” said Miss Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Her real name is Annie P. Miller,” the boy went on.
</p>
<p>
“Ask him HIS name,” said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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!”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“To Schenectady, you mean?”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“And your brother hasn’t any teacher?” Winterbourne inquired.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said Winterbourne; “he seems very smart.”
</p>
<p>
“Mother’s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can
you get good teachers in Italy?”
</p>
<p>
“Very good, I should think,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
“It was a kind of a wishing cap,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, formerly, more than once,” said Winterbourne. “You too, I suppose,
have seen it?”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“You can go in the cars,” said Miss Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; you can go in the cars,” Winterbourne assented.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments?” Winterbourne
inquired, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
“I should think it might be arranged,” said Winterbourne. “Couldn’t you
get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?”
</p>
<p>
Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, “I wish YOU
would stay with him!” she said.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne hesitated a moment. “I should much rather go to Chillon with
you.”
</p>
<p>
“With me?” asked the young girl with the same placidity.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
“Most earnestly,” Winterbourne declared.
</p>
<p>
“Then we may arrange it. If mother will stay with Randolph, I guess
Eugenio will.”
</p>
<p>
“Eugenio?” the young man inquired.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
Miss Miller slowly rose. “See here, Eugenio!” she said; “I’m going to that
old castle, anyway.”
</p>
<p>
“To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?” the courier inquired.
“Mademoiselle has made arrangements?” he added in a tone which struck
Winterbourne as very impertinent.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“I shall not be happy till we go!” he protested.
</p>
<p>
“And you are staying in this hotel?” she went on. “And you are really an
American?”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“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 sick headaches,
she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a
long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white
hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head.
She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe.
This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his
travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment
selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had
come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than
those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the
idea that one must always be attentive to one’s aunt. Mrs. Costello had
not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him,
manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of
that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the
American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he
were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her
picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that
city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to
Winterbourne’s imagination, almost oppressively striking.
</p>
<p>
He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller’s place in
the social scale was low. “I am afraid you don’t approve of them,” he
said.
</p>
<p>
“They are very common,” Mrs. Costello declared. “They are the sort of
Americans that one does one’s duty by not—not accepting.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, you don’t accept them?” said the young man.
</p>
<p>
“I can’t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can’t.”
</p>
<p>
“The young girl is very pretty,” said Winterbourne in a moment.
</p>
<p>
“Of course she’s pretty. But she is very common.”
</p>
<p>
“I see what you mean, of course,” said Winterbourne after another pause.
</p>
<p>
“She has that charming look that they all have,” his aunt resumed. “I
can’t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection—no,
you don’t know how well she dresses. I can’t think where they get their
taste.”
</p>
<p>
“But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage.”
</p>
<p>
“She is a young lady,” said Mrs. Costello, “who has an intimacy with her
mamma’s courier.”
</p>
<p>
“An intimacy with the courier?” the young man demanded.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar
friend—like a gentleman. I shouldn’t wonder if he dines with them.
Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine
clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady’s
idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think
he smokes.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him
to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild.
“Well,” he said, “I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to
me.”
</p>
<p>
“You had better have said at first,” said Mrs. Costello with dignity,
“that you had made her acquaintance.”
</p>
<p>
“We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit.”
</p>
<p>
“Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?”
</p>
<p>
“I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable
aunt.”
</p>
<p>
“I am much obliged to you.”
</p>
<p>
“It was to guarantee my respectability,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“And pray who is to guarantee hers?”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, you are cruel!” said the young man. “She’s a very nice young girl.”
</p>
<p>
“You don’t say that as if you believed it,” Mrs. Costello observed.
</p>
<p>
“She is completely uncultivated,” Winterbourne went on. “But she is
wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I
believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon.”
</p>
<p>
“You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the
contrary. How long had you known her, may I ask, when this interesting
project was formed? You haven’t been twenty-four hours in the house.”
</p>
<p>
“I have known her half an hour!” said Winterbourne, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Dear me!” cried Mrs. Costello. “What a dreadful girl!”
</p>
<p>
Her nephew was silent for some moments. “You really think, then,” he began
earnestly, and with a desire for trustworthy information—“you really
think that—” But he paused again.
</p>
<p>
“Think what, sir?” said his aunt.
</p>
<p>
“That she is the sort of young lady who expects a man, sooner or later, to
carry her off?”
</p>
<p>
“I haven’t the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do. But I
really think that you had better not meddle with little American girls
that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of
the country. You will be sure to make some great mistake. You are too
innocent.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear aunt, I am not so innocent,” said Winterbourne, smiling and
curling his mustache.
</p>
<p>
“You are guilty too, then!”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne continued to curl his mustache meditatively. “You won’t let
the poor girl know you then?” he asked at last.
</p>
<p>
“Is it literally true that she is going to the Chateau de Chillon with
you?”
</p>
<p>
“I think that she fully intends it.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, my dear Frederick,” said Mrs. Costello, “I must decline the honor
of her acquaintance. I am an old woman, but I am not too old, thank
Heaven, to be shocked!”
</p>
<p>
“But don’t they all do these things—the young girls in America?”
Winterbourne inquired.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Costello stared a moment. “I should like to see my granddaughters do
them!” she declared grimly.
</p>
<p>
This seemed to throw some light upon the matter, for Winterbourne
remembered to have heard that his pretty cousins in New York were
“tremendous flirts.” If, therefore, Miss Daisy Miller exceeded the liberal
margin allowed to these young ladies, it was probable that anything might
be expected of her. Winterbourne was impatient to see her again, and he
was vexed with himself that, by instinct, he should not appreciate her
justly.
</p>
<p>
Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he should say to
her about his aunt’s refusal to become acquainted with her; but he
discovered, promptly enough, that with Miss Daisy Miller there was no
great need of walking on tiptoe. He found her that evening in the garden,
wandering about in the warm starlight like an indolent sylph, and swinging
to and fro the largest fan he had ever beheld. It was ten o’clock. He had
dined with his aunt, had been sitting with her since dinner, and had just
taken leave of her till the morrow. Miss Daisy Miller seemed very glad to
see him; she declared it was the longest evening she had ever passed.
</p>
<p>
“Have you been all alone?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“I have been walking round with mother. But mother gets tired walking
round,” she answered.
</p>
<p>
“Has she gone to bed?”
</p>
<p>
“No; she doesn’t like to go to bed,” said the young girl. “She doesn’t
sleep—not three hours. She says she doesn’t know how she lives.
She’s dreadfully nervous. I guess she sleeps more than she thinks. She’s
gone somewhere after Randolph; she wants to try to get him to go to bed.
He doesn’t like to go to bed.”
</p>
<p>
“Let us hope she will persuade him,” observed Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“She will talk to him all she can; but he doesn’t like her to talk to
him,” said Miss Daisy, opening her fan. “She’s going to try to get Eugenio
to talk to him. But he isn’t afraid of Eugenio. Eugenio’s a splendid
courier, but he can’t make much impression on Randolph! I don’t believe
he’ll go to bed before eleven.” It appeared that Randolph’s vigil was in
fact triumphantly prolonged, for Winterbourne strolled about with the
young girl for some time without meeting her mother. “I have been looking
round for that lady you want to introduce me to,” his companion resumed.
“She’s your aunt.” Then, on Winterbourne’s admitting the fact and
expressing some curiosity as to how she had learned it, she said she had
heard all about Mrs. Costello from the chambermaid. She was very quiet and
very comme il faut; she wore white puffs; she spoke to no one, and she
never dined at the table d’hote. Every two days she had a headache. “I
think that’s a lovely description, headache and all!” said Miss Daisy,
chattering along in her thin, gay voice. “I want to know her ever so much.
I know just what YOUR aunt would be; I know I should like her. She would
be very exclusive. I like a lady to be exclusive; I’m dying to be
exclusive myself. Well, we ARE exclusive, mother and I. We don’t speak to
everyone—or they don’t speak to us. I suppose it’s about the same
thing. Anyway, I shall be ever so glad to know your aunt.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was embarrassed. “She would be most happy,” he said; “but I
am afraid those headaches will interfere.”
</p>
<p>
The young girl looked at him through the dusk. “But I suppose she doesn’t
have a headache every day,” she said sympathetically.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was silent a moment. “She tells me she does,” he answered at
last, not knowing what to say.
</p>
<p>
Miss Daisy Miller stopped and stood looking at him. Her prettiness was
still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing her enormous
fan. “She doesn’t want to know me!” she said suddenly. “Why don’t you say
so? You needn’t be afraid. I’m not afraid!” And she gave a little laugh.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched,
shocked, mortified by it. “My dear young lady,” he protested, “she knows
no one. It’s her wretched health.”
</p>
<p>
The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. “You needn’t be
afraid,” she repeated. “Why should she want to know me?” Then she paused
again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was
the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the
distance were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the
mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh. “Gracious! she
IS exclusive!” she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously
wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be
such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her.
He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for
consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to
sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude
woman, and to declare that they needn’t mind her. But before he had time
to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the
young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone.
“Well, here’s Mother! I guess she hasn’t got Randolph to go to bed.” The
figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness,
and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to
pause.
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick
dusk?” Winterbourne asked.
</p>
<p>
“Well!” cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; “I guess I know my own
mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my
things.”
</p>
<p>
The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot
at which she had checked her steps.
</p>
<p>
“I am afraid your mother doesn’t see you,” said Winterbourne. “Or
perhaps,” he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible—“perhaps
she feels guilty about your shawl.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it’s a fearful old thing!” the young girl replied serenely. “I told
her she could wear it. She won’t come here because she sees you.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, then,” said Winterbourne, “I had better leave you.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no; come on!” urged Miss Daisy Miller.
</p>
<p>
“I’m afraid your mother doesn’t approve of my walking with you.”
</p>
<p>
Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. “It isn’t for me; it’s for you—that
is, it’s for HER. Well, I don’t know who it’s for! But mother doesn’t like
any of my gentlemen friends. She’s right down timid. She always makes a
fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them—almost
always. If I didn’t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother,” the young
girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, “I shouldn’t think I was
natural.”
</p>
<p>
“To introduce me,” said Winterbourne, “you must know my name.” And he
proceeded to pronounce it.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, dear, I can’t say all that!” said his companion with a laugh. But by
this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked
to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the
lake and turning her back to them. “Mother!” said the young girl in a tone
of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. “Mr. Winterbourne,”
said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and
prettily. “Common,” she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it
was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a
singularly delicate grace.
</p>
<p>
Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very
exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of
thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with
extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as
Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting—she certainly
was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight.
“What are you doing, poking round here?” this young lady inquired, but by
no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may
imply.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know,” said her mother, turning toward the lake again.
</p>
<p>
“I shouldn’t think you’d want that shawl!” Daisy exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
“Well I do!” her mother answered with a little laugh.
</p>
<p>
“Did you get Randolph to go to bed?” asked the young girl.
</p>
<p>
“No; I couldn’t induce him,” said Mrs. Miller very gently. “He wants to
talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter.”
</p>
<p>
“I was telling Mr. Winterbourne,” the young girl went on; and to the young
man’s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his
name all her life.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes!” said Winterbourne; “I have the pleasure of knowing your son.”
</p>
<p>
Randolph’s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at
last she spoke. “Well, I don’t see how he lives!”
</p>
<p>
“Anyhow, it isn’t so bad as it was at Dover,” said Daisy Miller.
</p>
<p>
“And what occurred at Dover?” Winterbourne asked.
</p>
<p>
“He wouldn’t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public
parlor. He wasn’t in bed at twelve o’clock: I know that.”
</p>
<p>
“It was half-past twelve,” declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis.
</p>
<p>
“Does he sleep much during the day?” Winterbourne demanded.
</p>
<p>
“I guess he doesn’t sleep much,” Daisy rejoined.
</p>
<p>
“I wish he would!” said her mother. “It seems as if he couldn’t.”
</p>
<p>
“I think he’s real tiresome,” Daisy pursued.
</p>
<p>
Then, for some moments, there was silence. “Well, Daisy Miller,” said the
elder lady, presently, “I shouldn’t think you’d want to talk against your
own brother!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he IS tiresome, Mother,” said Daisy, quite without the asperity of
a retort.
</p>
<p>
“He’s only nine,” urged Mrs. Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Well, he wouldn’t go to that castle,” said the young girl. “I’m going
there with Mr. Winterbourne.”
</p>
<p>
To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy’s mamma offered no
response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the
projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily
managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the
edge from her displeasure. “Yes,” he began; “your daughter has kindly
allowed me the honor of being her guide.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Miller’s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing
air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming
to herself. “I presume you will go in the cars,” said her mother.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, or in the boat,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Well, of course, I don’t know,” Mrs. Miller rejoined. “I have never been
to that castle.”
</p>
<p>
“It is a pity you shouldn’t go,” said Winterbourne, beginning to feel
reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find
that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter.
</p>
<p>
“We’ve been thinking ever so much about going,” she pursued; “but it seems
as if we couldn’t. Of course Daisy—she wants to go round. But
there’s a lady here—I don’t know her name—she says she
shouldn’t think we’d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we’d
want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many
there,” continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. “Of
course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in
England,” she presently added.
</p>
<p>
“Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles,” said Winterbourne. “But
Chillon here, is very well worth seeing.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if Daisy feels up to it—” said Mrs. Miller, in a tone
impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. “It seems as
if there was nothing she wouldn’t undertake.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I think she’ll enjoy it!” Winterbourne declared. And he desired more
and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a
tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of
them, softly vocalizing. “You are not disposed, madam,” he inquired, “to
undertake it yourself?”
</p>
<p>
Daisy’s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward
in silence. Then—“I guess she had better go alone,” she said simply.
Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of
maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the
forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of
the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very
distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller’s unprotected daughter.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Winterbourne!” murmured Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“Mademoiselle!” said the young man.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t you want to take me out in a boat?”
</p>
<p>
“At present?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“Of course!” said Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Annie Miller!” exclaimed her mother.
</p>
<p>
“I beg you, madam, to let her go,” said Winterbourne ardently; for he had
never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a
skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl.
</p>
<p>
“I shouldn’t think she’d want to,” said her mother. “I should think she’d
rather go indoors.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me,” Daisy declared. “He’s so
awfully devoted!”
</p>
<p>
“I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t believe it!” said Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“Well!” ejaculated the elder lady again.
</p>
<p>
“You haven’t spoken to me for half an hour,” her daughter went on.
</p>
<p>
“I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother,”
said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!” Daisy repeated. They had all
stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her
face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was
swinging her great fan about. No; it’s impossible to be prettier than
that, thought Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place,” he said,
pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. “If
you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of
them.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little,
light laugh. “I like a gentleman to be formal!” she declared.
</p>
<p>
“I assure you it’s a formal offer.”
</p>
<p>
“I was bound I would make you say something,” Daisy went on.
</p>
<p>
“You see, it’s not very difficult,” said Winterbourne. “But I am afraid
you are chaffing me.”
</p>
<p>
“I think not, sir,” remarked Mrs. Miller very gently.
</p>
<p>
“Do, then, let me give you a row,” he said to the young girl.
</p>
<p>
“It’s quite lovely, the way you say that!” cried Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“It will be still more lovely to do it.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it would be lovely!” said Daisy. But she made no movement to
accompany him; she only stood there laughing.
</p>
<p>
“I should think you had better find out what time it is,” interposed her
mother.
</p>
<p>
“It is eleven o’clock, madam,” said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of
the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid
personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently
just approached.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Eugenio,” said Daisy, “I am going out in a boat!”
</p>
<p>
Eugenio bowed. “At eleven o’clock, mademoiselle?”
</p>
<p>
“I am going with Mr. Winterbourne—this very minute.”
</p>
<p>
“Do tell her she can’t,” said Mrs. Miller to the courier.
</p>
<p>
“I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle,” Eugenio
declared.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with
her courier; but he said nothing.
</p>
<p>
“I suppose you don’t think it’s proper!” Daisy exclaimed. “Eugenio doesn’t
think anything’s proper.”
</p>
<p>
“I am at your service,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Does mademoiselle propose to go alone?” asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no; with this gentleman!” answered Daisy’s mamma.
</p>
<p>
The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne—the latter thought
he was smiling—and then, solemnly, with a bow, “As mademoiselle
pleases!” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss!” said Daisy. “I don’t care to go now.”
</p>
<p>
“I myself shall make a fuss if you don’t go,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“That’s all I want—a little fuss!” And the young girl began to laugh
again.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Randolph has gone to bed!” the courier announced frigidly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Daisy; now we can go!” said Mrs. Miller.
</p>
<p>
Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning
herself. “Good night,” she said; “I hope you are disappointed, or
disgusted, or something!”
</p>
<p>
He looked at her, taking the hand she offered him. “I am puzzled,” he
answered.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I hope it won’t keep you awake!” she said very smartly; and, under
the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed toward the
house.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled. He lingered
beside the lake for a quarter of an hour, turning over the mystery of the
young girl’s sudden familiarities and caprices. But the only very definite
conclusion he came to was that he should enjoy deucedly “going off” with
her somewhere.
</p>
<p>
Two days afterward he went off with her to the Castle of Chillon. He
waited for her in the large hall of the hotel, where the couriers, the
servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring. It was
not the place he should have chosen, but she had appointed it. She came
tripping downstairs, buttoning her long gloves, squeezing her folded
parasol against her pretty figure, dressed in the perfection of a soberly
elegant traveling costume. Winterbourne was a man of imagination and, as
our ancestors used to say, sensibility; as he looked at her dress and, on
the great staircase, her little rapid, confiding step, he felt as if there
were something romantic going forward. He could have believed he was going
to elope with her. He passed out with her among all the idle people that
were assembled there; they were all looking at her very hard; she had
begun to chatter as soon as she joined him. Winterbourne’s preference had
been that they should be conveyed to Chillon in a carriage; but she
expressed a lively wish to go in the little steamer; she declared that she
had a passion for steamboats. There was always such a lovely breeze upon
the water, and you saw such lots of people. The sail was not long, but
Winterbourne’s companion found time to say a great many things. To the
young man himself their little excursion was so much of an escapade—an
adventure—that, even allowing for her habitual sense of freedom, he
had some expectation of seeing her regard it in the same way. But it must
be confessed that, in this particular, he was disappointed. Daisy Miller
was extremely animated, she was in charming spirits; but she was
apparently not at all excited; she was not fluttered; she avoided neither
his eyes nor those of anyone else; she blushed neither when she looked at
him nor when she felt that people were looking at her. People continued to
look at her a great deal, and Winterbourne took much satisfaction in his
pretty companion’s distinguished air. He had been a little afraid that she
would talk loud, laugh overmuch, and even, perhaps, desire to move about
the boat a good deal. But he quite forgot his fears; he sat smiling, with
his eyes upon her face, while, without moving from her place, she
delivered herself of a great number of original reflections. It was the
most charming garrulity he had ever heard. He had assented to the idea
that she was “common”; but was she so, after all, or was he simply getting
used to her commonness? Her conversation was chiefly of what
metaphysicians term the objective cast, but every now and then it took a
subjective turn.
</p>
<p>
“What on EARTH are you so grave about?” she suddenly demanded, fixing her
agreeable eyes upon Winterbourne’s.
</p>
<p>
“Am I grave?” he asked. “I had an idea I was grinning from ear to ear.”
</p>
<p>
“You look as if you were taking me to a funeral. If that’s a grin, your
ears are very near together.”
</p>
<p>
“Should you like me to dance a hornpipe on the deck?”
</p>
<p>
“Pray do, and I’ll carry round your hat. It will pay the expenses of our
journey.”
</p>
<p>
“I never was better pleased in my life,” murmured Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
She looked at him a moment and then burst into a little laugh. “I like to
make you say those things! You’re a queer mixture!”
</p>
<p>
In the castle, after they had landed, the subjective element decidedly
prevailed. Daisy tripped about the vaulted chambers, rustled her skirts in
the corkscrew staircases, flirted back with a pretty little cry and a
shudder from the edge of the oubliettes, and turned a singularly
well-shaped ear to everything that Winterbourne told her about the place.
But he saw that she cared very little for feudal antiquities and that the
dusky traditions of Chillon made but a slight impression upon her. They
had the good fortune to have been able to walk about without other
companionship than that of the custodian; and Winterbourne arranged with
this functionary that they should not be hurried—that they should
linger and pause wherever they chose. The custodian interpreted the
bargain generously—Winterbourne, on his side, had been generous—and
ended by leaving them quite to themselves. Miss Miller’s observations were
not remarkable for logical consistency; for anything she wanted to say she
was sure to find a pretext. She found a great many pretexts in the rugged
embrasures of Chillon for asking Winterbourne sudden questions about
himself—his family, his previous history, his tastes, his habits,
his intentions—and for supplying information upon corresponding
points in her own personality. Of her own tastes, habits, and intentions
Miss Miller was prepared to give the most definite, and indeed the most
favorable account.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I hope you know enough!” she said to her companion, after he had
told her the history of the unhappy Bonivard. “I never saw a man that knew
so much!” The history of Bonivard had evidently, as they say, gone into
one ear and out of the other. But Daisy went on to say that she wished
Winterbourne would travel with them and “go round” with them; they might
know something, in that case. “Don’t you want to come and teach Randolph?”
she asked. Winterbourne said that nothing could possibly please him so
much, but that he had unfortunately other occupations. “Other occupations?
I don’t believe it!” said Miss Daisy. “What do you mean? You are not in
business.” The young man admitted that he was not in business; but he had
engagements which, even within a day or two, would force him to go back to
Geneva. “Oh, bother!” she said; “I don’t believe it!” and she began to
talk about something else. But a few moments later, when he was pointing
out to her the pretty design of an antique fireplace, she broke out
irrelevantly, “You don’t mean to say you are going back to Geneva?”
</p>
<p>
“It is a melancholy fact that I shall have to return to Geneva tomorrow.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Mr. Winterbourne,” said Daisy, “I think you’re horrid!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things!” said Winterbourne—“just at the
last!”
</p>
<p>
“The last!” cried the young girl; “I call it the first. I have half a mind
to leave you here and go straight back to the hotel alone.” And for the
next ten minutes she did nothing but call him horrid. Poor Winterbourne
was fairly bewildered; no young lady had as yet done him the honor to be
so agitated by the announcement of his movements. His companion, after
this, ceased to pay any attention to the curiosities of Chillon or the
beauties of the lake; she opened fire upon the mysterious charmer in
Geneva whom she appeared to have instantly taken it for granted that he
was hurrying back to see. How did Miss Daisy Miller know that there was a
charmer in Geneva? Winterbourne, who denied the existence of such a
person, was quite unable to discover, and he was divided between amazement
at the rapidity of her induction and amusement at the frankness of her
persiflage. She seemed to him, in all this, an extraordinary mixture of
innocence and crudity. “Does she never allow you more than three days at a
time?” asked Daisy ironically. “Doesn’t she give you a vacation in summer?
There’s no one so hard worked but they can get leave to go off somewhere
at this season. I suppose, if you stay another day, she’ll come after you
in the boat. Do wait over till Friday, and I will go down to the landing
to see her arrive!” Winterbourne began to think he had been wrong to feel
disappointed in the temper in which the young lady had embarked. If he had
missed the personal accent, the personal accent was now making its
appearance. It sounded very distinctly, at last, in her telling him she
would stop “teasing” him if he would promise her solemnly to come down to
Rome in the winter.
</p>
<p>
“That’s not a difficult promise to make,” said Winterbourne. “My aunt has
taken an apartment in Rome for the winter and has already asked me to come
and see her.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t want you to come for your aunt,” said Daisy; “I want you to come
for me.” And this was the only allusion that the young man was ever to
hear her make to his invidious kinswoman. He declared that, at any rate,
he would certainly come. After this Daisy stopped teasing. Winterbourne
took a carriage, and they drove back to Vevey in the dusk; the young girl
was very quiet.
</p>
<p>
In the evening Winterbourne mentioned to Mrs. Costello that he had spent
the afternoon at Chillon with Miss Daisy Miller.
</p>
<p>
“The Americans—of the courier?” asked this lady.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, happily,” said Winterbourne, “the courier stayed at home.”
</p>
<p>
“She went with you all alone?”
</p>
<p>
“All alone.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. “And that,” she
exclaimed, “is the young person whom you wanted me to know!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
PART II
</h2>
<p>
Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to
Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been
established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of
letters from her. “Those people you were so devoted to last summer at
Vevey have turned up here, courier and all,” she wrote. “They seem to have
made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most
intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some
third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much
talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez’s—Paule Mere—and
don’t come later than the 23rd.”
</p>
<p>
In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would
presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller’s address at the American banker’s
and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. “After what happened
at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,” he said to Mrs.
Costello.
</p>
<p>
“If, after what happens—at Vevey and everywhere—you desire to
keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know
everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!”
</p>
<p>
“Pray what is it that happens—here, for instance?” Winterbourne
demanded.
</p>
<p>
“The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens
further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half
a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to
people’s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman
with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache.”
</p>
<p>
“And where is the mother?”
</p>
<p>
“I haven’t the least idea. They are very dreadful people.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne meditated a moment. “They are very ignorant—very
innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad.”
</p>
<p>
“They are hopelessly vulgar,” said Mrs. Costello. “Whether or no being
hopelessly vulgar is being ‘bad’ is a question for the metaphysicians.
They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that
is quite enough.”
</p>
<p>
The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful
mustaches checked Winterbourne’s impulse to go straightway to see her. He
had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an
ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a
state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately
flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl
looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr.
Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little
before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went
very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends
was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she
had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and
she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little
crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern
sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in,
announcing “Madame Mila!” This announcement was presently followed by the
entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room
and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister
crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs.
Miller slowly advanced.
</p>
<p>
“I know you!” said Randolph.
</p>
<p>
“I’m sure you know a great many things,” exclaimed Winterbourne, taking
him by the hand. “How is your education coming on?”
</p>
<p>
Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when
she heard Winterbourne’s voice she quickly turned her head. “Well, I
declare!” she said.
</p>
<p>
“I told you I should come, you know,” Winterbourne rejoined, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I didn’t believe it,” said Miss Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“I am much obliged to you,” laughed the young man.
</p>
<p>
“You might have come to see me!” said Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“I arrived only yesterday.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t believe that!” the young girl declared.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady
evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son.
“We’ve got a bigger place than this,” said Randolph. “It’s all gold on the
walls.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. “I told you if I were to bring
you, you would say something!” she murmured.
</p>
<p>
“I told YOU!” Randolph exclaimed. “I tell YOU, sir!” he added jocosely,
giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. “It IS bigger, too!”
</p>
<p>
Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess;
Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. “I
hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey,” he said.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him—at his chin. “Not very well,
sir,” she answered.
</p>
<p>
“She’s got the dyspepsia,” said Randolph. “I’ve got it too. Father’s got
it. I’ve got it most!”
</p>
<p>
This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve
her. “I suffer from the liver,” she said. “I think it’s this climate; it’s
less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don’t
know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that
I certainly hadn’t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn’t believe I
should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him.
He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. He
said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it.
I’m sure there was nothing he wouldn’t try. He was just going to try
something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for
herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that it seems as if I couldn’t get on
without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and there’s a
great deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis’s
patient, during which Daisy chattered unremittingly to her own companion.
The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with Rome. “Well, I
must say I am disappointed,” she answered. “We had heard so much about it;
I suppose we had heard too much. But we couldn’t help that. We had been
led to expect something different.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, wait a little, and you will become very fond of it,” said
Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“I hate it worse and worse every day!” cried Randolph.
</p>
<p>
“You are like the infant Hannibal,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“No, I ain’t!” Randolph declared at a venture.
</p>
<p>
“You are not much like an infant,” said his mother. “But we have seen
places,” she resumed, “that I should put a long way before Rome.” And in
reply to Winterbourne’s interrogation, “There’s Zurich,” she concluded, “I
think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn’t heard half so much about it.”
</p>
<p>
“The best place we’ve seen is the City of Richmond!” said Randolph.
</p>
<p>
“He means the ship,” his mother explained. “We crossed in that ship.
Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s the best place I’ve seen,” the child repeated. “Only it was turned
the wrong way.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, we’ve got to turn the right way some time,” said Mrs. Miller with a
little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least
found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite
carried away. “It’s on account of the society—the society’s
splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of
acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they
have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows
a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there’s nothing like Rome. Of
course, it’s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty
of gentlemen.”
</p>
<p>
By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. “I’ve
been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!” the young girl announced.
</p>
<p>
“And what is the evidence you have offered?” asked Winterbourne, rather
annoyed at Miss Miller’s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer
who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at
Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He
remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women—the
pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom—were at once the
most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of
indebtedness.
</p>
<p>
“Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey,” said Daisy. “You wouldn’t do
anything. You wouldn’t stay there when I asked you.”
</p>
<p>
“My dearest young lady,” cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, “have I come
all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?”
</p>
<p>
“Just hear him say that!” said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a
bow on this lady’s dress. “Did you ever hear anything so quaint?”
</p>
<p>
“So quaint, my dear?” murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of
Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I don’t know,” said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker’s ribbons. “Mrs.
Walker, I want to tell you something.”
</p>
<p>
“Mother-r,” interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, “I tell
you you’ve got to go. Eugenio’ll raise—something!”
</p>
<p>
“I’m not afraid of Eugenio,” said Daisy with a toss of her head. “Look
here, Mrs. Walker,” she went on, “you know I’m coming to your party.”
</p>
<p>
“I am delighted to hear it.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve got a lovely dress!”
</p>
<p>
“I am very sure of that.”
</p>
<p>
“But I want to ask a favor—permission to bring a friend.”
</p>
<p>
“I shall be happy to see any of your friends,” said Mrs. Walker, turning
with a smile to Mrs. Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, they are not my friends,” answered Daisy’s mamma, smiling shyly in
her own fashion. “I never spoke to them.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s an intimate friend of mine—Mr. Giovanelli,” said Daisy without
a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little
face.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne.
“I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli,” she then said.
</p>
<p>
“He’s an Italian,” Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. “He’s a
great friend of mine; he’s the handsomest man in the world—except
Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some
Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He’s tremendously clever.
He’s perfectly lovely!”
</p>
<p>
It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs.
Walker’s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. “I guess
we’ll go back to the hotel,” she said.
</p>
<p>
“You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I’m going to take a walk,” said
Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“She’s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli,” Randolph proclaimed.
</p>
<p>
“I am going to the Pincio,” said Daisy, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Alone, my dear—at this hour?” Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was
drawing to a close—it was the hour for the throng of carriages and
of contemplative pedestrians. “I don’t think it’s safe, my dear,” said
Mrs. Walker.
</p>
<p>
“Neither do I,” subjoined Mrs. Miller. “You’ll get the fever, as sure as
you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!”
</p>
<p>
“Give her some medicine before she goes,” said Randolph.
</p>
<p>
The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth,
bent over and kissed her hostess. “Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,” she
said. “I’m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend.”
</p>
<p>
“Your friend won’t keep you from getting the fever,” Mrs. Miller observed.
</p>
<p>
“Is it Mr. Giovanelli?” asked the hostess.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention
quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she
glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered,
without a shade of hesitation, “Mr. Giovanelli—the beautiful
Giovanelli.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear young friend,” said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly,
“don’t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he speaks English,” said Mrs. Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Gracious me!” Daisy exclaimed, “I don’t to do anything improper. There’s
an easy way to settle it.” She continued to glance at Winterbourne. “The
Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as
polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne’s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl
gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before
her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller’s carriage
drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at
Vevey seated within. “Goodbye, Eugenio!” cried Daisy; “I’m going to take a
walk.” The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the
other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day
was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and
loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed.
This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his
consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing
Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young
foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what
on earth had been in Daisy’s mind when she proposed to expose herself,
unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense,
apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but
Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no
such thing.
</p>
<p>
“Why haven’t you been to see me?” asked Daisy. “You can’t get out of
that.”
</p>
<p>
“I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of
the train.”
</p>
<p>
“You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!” cried
the young girl with her little laugh. “I suppose you were asleep. You have
had time to go to see Mrs. Walker.”
</p>
<p>
“I knew Mrs. Walker—” Winterbourne began to explain.
</p>
<p>
“I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well,
you knew me at Vevey. That’s just as good. So you ought to have come.” She
asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle about her own
affairs. “We’ve got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they’re the
best rooms in Rome. We are going to stay all winter, if we don’t die of
the fever; and I guess we’ll stay then. It’s a great deal nicer than I
thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be
awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of
those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we
only had about a week of that, and now I’m enjoying myself. I know ever so
many people, and they are all so charming. The society’s extremely select.
There are all kinds—English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I
like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are
some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There’s
something or other every day. There’s not much dancing; but I must say I
never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I
guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker’s, her rooms are so small.” When
they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to
wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. “We had better go straight to that
place in front,” she said, “where you look at the view.”
</p>
<p>
“I certainly shall not help you to find him,” Winterbourne declared.
</p>
<p>
“Then I shall find him without you,” cried Miss Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“You certainly won’t leave me!” cried Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
She burst into her little laugh. “Are you afraid you’ll get lost—or
run over? But there’s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He’s staring
at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded
arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a
glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at
him a moment and then said, “Do you mean to speak to that man?”
</p>
<p>
“Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don’t suppose I mean to communicate
by signs?”
</p>
<p>
“Pray understand, then,” said Winterbourne, “that I intend to remain with
you.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness
in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her
happy dimples. “Well, she’s a cool one!” thought the young man.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t like the way you say that,” said Daisy. “It’s too imperious.”
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an
idea of my meaning.”
</p>
<p>
The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were
prettier than ever. “I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or
to interfere with anything I do.”
</p>
<p>
“I think you have made a mistake,” said Winterbourne. “You should
sometimes listen to a gentleman—the right one.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy began to laugh again. “I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!” she
exclaimed. “Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?”
</p>
<p>
The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two
friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He
bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter’s companion; he had a
brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a
bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, “No, he’s not the
right one.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she
mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled
alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke
English very cleverly—Winterbourne afterward learned that he had
practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses—addressed
her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the
young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of
Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in
proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course,
had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party
of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested
far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had
taken his measure. “He is not a gentleman,” said the young American; “he
is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a
penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!” Mr.
Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a
superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman’s not knowing
the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli
chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true
that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. “Nevertheless,”
Winterbourne said to himself, “a nice girl ought to know!” And then he
came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a
nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make a
rendezvous with a presumably low-lived foreigner? The rendezvous in this
case, indeed, had been in broad daylight and in the most crowded corner of
Rome, but was it not impossible to regard the choice of these
circumstances as a proof of extreme cynicism? Singular though it may seem,
Winterbourne was vexed that the young girl, in joining her amoroso, should
not appear more impatient of his own company, and he was vexed because of
his inclination. It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly
well-conducted young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable
delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly to be able to treat
her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by romancers
“lawless passions.” That she should seem to wish to get rid of him would
help him to think more lightly of her, and to be able to think more
lightly of her would make her much less perplexing. But Daisy, on this
occasion, continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of
audacity and innocence.
</p>
<p>
She had been walking some quarter of an hour, attended by her two
cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety, as it seemed
to Winterbourne, to the pretty speeches of Mr. Giovanelli, when a carriage
that had detached itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path.
At the same moment Winterbourne perceived that his friend Mrs. Walker—the
lady whose house he had lately left—was seated in the vehicle and
was beckoning to him. Leaving Miss Miller’s side, he hastened to obey her
summons. Mrs. Walker was flushed; she wore an excited air. “It is really
too dreadful,” she said. “That girl must not do this sort of thing. She
must not walk here with you two men. Fifty people have noticed her.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne raised his eyebrows. “I think it’s a pity to make too much
fuss about it.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s a pity to let the girl ruin herself!”
</p>
<p>
“She is very innocent,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“She’s very crazy!” cried Mrs. Walker. “Did you ever see anything so
imbecile as her mother? After you had all left me just now, I could not
sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt
to save her. I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet, and came here as
quickly as possible. Thank Heaven I have found you!”
</p>
<p>
“What do you propose to do with us?” asked Winterbourne, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“To ask her to get in, to drive her about here for half an hour, so that
the world may see she is not running absolutely wild, and then to take her
safely home.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t think it’s a very happy thought,” said Winterbourne; “but you can
try.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Walker tried. The young man went in pursuit of Miss Miller, who had
simply nodded and smiled at his interlocutor in the carriage and had gone
her way with her companion. Daisy, on learning that Mrs. Walker wished to
speak to her, retraced her steps with a perfect good grace and with Mr.
Giovanelli at her side. She declared that she was delighted to have a
chance to present this gentleman to Mrs. Walker. She immediately achieved
the introduction, and declared that she had never in her life seen
anything so lovely as Mrs. Walker’s carriage rug.
</p>
<p>
“I am glad you admire it,” said this lady, smiling sweetly. “Will you get
in and let me put it over you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Daisy. “I shall admire it much more as I see you
driving round with it.”
</p>
<p>
“Do get in and drive with me!” said Mrs. Walker.
</p>
<p>
“That would be charming, but it’s so enchanting just as I am!” and Daisy
gave a brilliant glance at the gentlemen on either side of her.
</p>
<p>
“It may be enchanting, dear child, but it is not the custom here,” urged
Mrs. Walker, leaning forward in her victoria, with her hands devoutly
clasped.
</p>
<p>
“Well, it ought to be, then!” said Daisy. “If I didn’t walk I should
expire.”
</p>
<p>
“You should walk with your mother, dear,” cried the lady from Geneva,
losing patience.
</p>
<p>
“With my mother dear!” exclaimed the young girl. Winterbourne saw that she
scented interference. “My mother never walked ten steps in her life. And
then, you know,” she added with a laugh, “I am more than five years old.”
</p>
<p>
“You are old enough to be more reasonable. You are old enough, dear Miss
Miller, to be talked about.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely. “Talked about? What do you
mean?”
</p>
<p>
“Come into my carriage, and I will tell you.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside
her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli was bowing to and fro, rubbing down his
gloves and laughing very agreeably; Winterbourne thought it a most
unpleasant scene. “I don’t think I want to know what you mean,” said Daisy
presently. “I don’t think I should like it.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her carriage rug and
drive away, but this lady did not enjoy being defied, as she afterward
told him. “Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?” she
demanded.
</p>
<p>
“Gracious!” exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she
turned to Winterbourne. There was a little pink flush in her cheek; she
was tremendously pretty. “Does Mr. Winterbourne think,” she asked slowly,
smiling, throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot,
“that, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the carriage?”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so
strange to hear her speak that way of her “reputation.” But he himself, in
fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here,
was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the
few indications I have been able to give have made him known to the
reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker’s advice. He looked
at her exquisite prettiness, and then he said, very gently, “I think you
should get into the carriage.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy gave a violent laugh. “I never heard anything so stiff! If this is
improper, Mrs. Walker,” she pursued, “then I am all improper, and you must
give me up. Goodbye; I hope you’ll have a lovely ride!” and, with Mr.
Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker’s
eyes. “Get in here, sir,” she said to Winterbourne, indicating the place
beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss
Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor
she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest.
Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young
girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon
his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather
free, something to commit herself still further to that “recklessness”
from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But
she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade
him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in
Mrs. Walker’s victoria. “That was not clever of you,” he said candidly,
while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.
</p>
<p>
“In such a case,” his companion answered, “I don’t wish to be clever; I
wish to be EARNEST!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off.”
</p>
<p>
“It has happened very well,” said Mrs. Walker. “If she is so perfectly
determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one
can act accordingly.”
</p>
<p>
“I suspect she meant no harm,” Winterbourne rejoined.
</p>
<p>
“So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far.”
</p>
<p>
“What has she been doing?”
</p>
<p>
“Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick
up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening
with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o’clock at night. Her
mother goes away when visitors come.”
</p>
<p>
“But her brother,” said Winterbourne, laughing, “sits up till midnight.”
</p>
<p>
“He must be edified by what he sees. I’m told that at their hotel everyone
is talking about her, and that a smile goes round among all the servants
when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller.”
</p>
<p>
“The servants be hanged!” said Winterbourne angrily. “The poor girl’s only
fault,” he presently added, “is that she is very uncultivated.”
</p>
<p>
“She is naturally indelicate,” Mrs. Walker declared.
</p>
<p>
“Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vevey?”
</p>
<p>
“A couple of days.”
</p>
<p>
“Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should have left
the place!”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was silent for some moments; then he said, “I suspect, Mrs.
Walker, that you and I have lived too long at Geneva!” And he added a
request that she should inform him with what particular design she had
made him enter her carriage.
</p>
<p>
“I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller—not to
flirt with her—to give her no further opportunity to expose herself—to
let her alone, in short.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Winterbourne. “I like her extremely.”
</p>
<p>
“All the more reason that you shouldn’t help her to make a scandal.”
</p>
<p>
“There shall be nothing scandalous in my attentions to her.”
</p>
<p>
“There certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said what I
had on my conscience,” Mrs. Walker pursued. “If you wish to rejoin the
young lady I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a chance.”
</p>
<p>
The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden that overhangs
the wall of Rome and overlooks the beautiful Villa Borghese. It is
bordered by a large parapet, near which there are several seats. One of
the seats at a distance was occupied by a gentleman and a lady, toward
whom Mrs. Walker gave a toss of her head. At the same moment these persons
rose and walked toward the parapet. Winterbourne had asked the coachman to
stop; he now descended from the carriage. His companion looked at him a
moment in silence; then, while he raised his hat, she drove majestically
away. Winterbourne stood there; he had turned his eyes toward Daisy and
her cavalier. They evidently saw no one; they were too deeply occupied
with each other. When they reached the low garden wall, they stood a
moment looking off at the great flat-topped pine clusters of the Villa
Borghese; then Giovanelli seated himself, familiarly, upon the broad ledge
of the wall. The western sun in the opposite sky sent out a brilliant
shaft through a couple of cloud bars, whereupon Daisy’s companion took her
parasol out of her hands and opened it. She came a little nearer, and he
held the parasol over her; then, still holding it, he let it rest upon her
shoulder, so that both of their heads were hidden from Winterbourne. This
young man lingered a moment, then he began to walk. But he walked—not
toward the couple with the parasol; toward the residence of his aunt, Mrs.
Costello.
</p>
<p>
He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling among
the servants when he, at least, asked for Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This
lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next day
after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the misfortune not to
find them. Mrs. Walker’s party took place on the evening of the third day,
and, in spite of the frigidity of his last interview with the hostess,
Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those American
ladies who, while residing abroad, make a point, in their own phrase, of
studying European society, and she had on this occasion collected several
specimens of her diversely born fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as
textbooks. When Winterbourne arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a
few moments he saw her mother come in alone, very shyly and ruefully. Mrs.
Miller’s hair above her exposed-looking temples was more frizzled than
ever. As she approached Mrs. Walker, Winterbourne also drew near.
</p>
<p>
“You see, I’ve come all alone,” said poor Mrs. Miller. “I’m so frightened;
I don’t know what to do. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to a party
alone, especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph or Eugenio,
or someone, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain’t used to going
round alone.”
</p>
<p>
“And does not your daughter intend to favor us with her society?” demanded
Mrs. Walker impressively.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Daisy’s all dressed,” said Mrs. Miller with that accent of the
dispassionate, if not of the philosophic, historian with which she always
recorded the current incidents of her daughter’s career. “She got dressed
on purpose before dinner. But she’s got a friend of hers there; that
gentleman—the Italian—that she wanted to bring. They’ve got
going at the piano; it seems as if they couldn’t leave off. Mr. Giovanelli
sings splendidly. But I guess they’ll come before very long,” concluded
Mrs. Miller hopefully.
</p>
<p>
“I’m sorry she should come in that way,” said Mrs. Walker.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed before
dinner if she was going to wait three hours,” responded Daisy’s mamma. “I
didn’t see the use of her putting on such a dress as that to sit round
with Mr. Giovanelli.”
</p>
<p>
“This is most horrible!” said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing
herself to Winterbourne. “Elle s’affiche. It’s her revenge for my having
ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I shall not speak to
her.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy came after eleven o’clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a
young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant
loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended
by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her.
She came straight to Mrs. Walker. “I’m afraid you thought I never was
coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli
practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I
want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced
him to you; he’s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming
set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the
greatest time at the hotel.” Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the
sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round
the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to
the edges of her dress. “Is there anyone I know?” she asked.
</p>
<p>
“I think every one knows you!” said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a
very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself
gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his
mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a
handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen
songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite
unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had
given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though
she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing,
talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on.
</p>
<p>
“It’s a pity these rooms are so small; we can’t dance,” she said to
Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before.
</p>
<p>
“I am not sorry we can’t dance,” Winterbourne answered; “I don’t dance.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course you don’t dance; you’re too stiff,” said Miss Daisy. “I hope
you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!”
</p>
<p>
“No. I didn’t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you.”
</p>
<p>
“We paired off: that was much better,” said Daisy. “But did you ever hear
anything so cool as Mrs. Walker’s wanting me to get into her carriage and
drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People
have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking
about that walk for ten days.”
</p>
<p>
“He should not have talked about it at all,” said Winterbourne; “he would
never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the
streets with him.”
</p>
<p>
“About the streets?” cried Daisy with her pretty stare. “Where, then,
would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets,
either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The
young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as
I can learn; I don’t see why I should change my habits for THEM.”
</p>
<p>
“I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt,” said Winterbourne gravely.
</p>
<p>
“Of course they are,” she cried, giving him her little smiling stare
again. “I’m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl
that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice
girl.”
</p>
<p>
“You’re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me
only,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Ah! thank you—thank you very much; you are the last man I should
think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you
are too stiff.”
</p>
<p>
“You say that too often,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
Daisy gave a delighted laugh. “If I could have the sweet hope of making
you angry, I should say it again.”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t do that; when I am angry I’m stiffer than ever. But if you won’t
flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano;
they don’t understand that sort of thing here.”
</p>
<p>
“I thought they understood nothing else!” exclaimed Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“Not in young unmarried women.”
</p>
<p>
“It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old
married ones,” Daisy declared.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said Winterbourne, “when you deal with natives you must go by the
custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn’t
exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and
without your mother—”
</p>
<p>
“Gracious! poor Mother!” interposed Daisy.
</p>
<p>
“Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something
else.”
</p>
<p>
“He isn’t preaching, at any rate,” said Daisy with vivacity. “And if you
want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good
friends for that: we are very intimate friends.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” rejoined Winterbourne, “if you are in love with each other, it is
another affair.”
</p>
<p>
She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no
expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got
up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little
American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. “Mr. Giovanelli,
at least,” she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, “never says
such very disagreeable things to me.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had
finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. “Won’t you
come into the other room and have some tea?” he asked, bending before her
with his ornamental smile.
</p>
<p>
Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more
perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it
seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that
reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. “It has never occurred
to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,” she said with her little
tormenting manner.
</p>
<p>
“I have offered you advice,” Winterbourne rejoined.
</p>
<p>
“I prefer weak tea!” cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant
Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of
the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting
performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to
it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady
conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the
moment of the young girl’s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss
Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was
standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked
at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of
the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous
impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. “Good
night, Mrs. Walker,” she said; “we’ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if
I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don’t want her to go away
without me.” Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the
circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was
too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was
greatly touched.
</p>
<p>
“That was very cruel,” he said to Mrs. Walker.
</p>
<p>
“She never enters my drawing room again!” replied his hostess.
</p>
<p>
Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker’s drawing room, he
went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller’s hotel. The ladies were rarely
at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always
present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room
with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion
that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at
first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed
or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that
she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the
only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with
Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with
two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same
odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself
that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular
that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their
interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking
indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly
have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At
the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader’s part, I may
affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it
very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given
certain contingencies, he should be afraid—literally afraid—of
these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of
Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether
flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his
apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person.
</p>
<p>
But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at
him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to
do that; she was constantly “chaffing” and abusing him. She appeared
completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to
displease her at Mrs. Walker’s little party. One Sunday afternoon, having
gone to St. Peter’s with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling
about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli.
Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello.
This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said:
</p>
<p>
“That’s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?”
</p>
<p>
“I had not the least idea I was pensive,” said the young man.
</p>
<p>
“You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something.”
</p>
<p>
“And what is it,” he asked, “that you accuse me of thinking of?”
</p>
<p>
“Of that young lady’s—Miss Baker’s, Miss Chandler’s—what’s her
name?—Miss Miller’s intrigue with that little barber’s block.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you call it an intrigue,” Winterbourne asked—“an affair that
goes on with such peculiar publicity?”
</p>
<p>
“That’s their folly,” said Mrs. Costello; “it’s not their merit.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which
his aunt had alluded. “I don’t believe that there is anything to be called
an intrigue.”
</p>
<p>
“I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried
away by him.”
</p>
<p>
“They are certainly very intimate,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical
instrument. “He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks
him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never
seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the
courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the
young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t believe she thinks of marrying him,” said Winterbourne, “and I
don’t believe he hopes to marry her.”
</p>
<p>
“You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day,
from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing
more vulgar. And at the same time,” added Mrs. Costello, “depend upon it
that she may tell you any moment that she is ‘engaged.’”
</p>
<p>
“I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Who is Giovanelli?”
</p>
<p>
“The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned
something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe
he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn’t move in what
are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely
impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely
charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the
world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with
such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady’s. And
then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather
doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too
impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer,
and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars.
Giovanelli knows that he hasn’t a title to offer. If he were only a count
or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him
up.”
</p>
<p>
“He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young
lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!” said Mrs. Costello.
</p>
<p>
“It is very true,” Winterbourne pursued, “that Daisy and her mamma have
not yet risen to that stage of—what shall I call it?—of
culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I
believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah! but the avvocato can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Costello.
</p>
<p>
Of the observation excited by Daisy’s “intrigue,” Winterbourne gathered
that day at St. Peter’s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American
colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little
portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper
service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the
adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends,
there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller’s going really
“too far.” Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when,
coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had
emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away
through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she
was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her—not exactly
that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was
painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural
assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an
attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the
Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria
Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His
friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by
Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,
“And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating
a picture of a different kind—that pretty American girl whom you
pointed out to me last week.” In answer to Winterbourne’s inquiries, his
friend narrated that the pretty American girl—prettier than ever—was
seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal
portrait was enshrined.
</p>
<p>
“Who was her companion?” asked Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is
delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day
that she was a young lady du meilleur monde.”
</p>
<p>
“So she is!” answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his
informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he
jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but
she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy’s absence.
</p>
<p>
“She’s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,” said Mrs. Miller. “She’s
always going round with Mr. Giovanelli.”
</p>
<p>
“I have noticed that they are very intimate,” Winterbourne observed.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it seems as if they couldn’t live without each other!” said Mrs.
Miller. “Well, he’s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she’s
engaged!”
</p>
<p>
“And what does Daisy say?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, she says she isn’t engaged. But she might as well be!” this impartial
parent resumed; “she goes on as if she was. But I’ve made Mr. Giovanelli
promise to tell me, if SHE doesn’t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller
about it—shouldn’t you?”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of
Daisy’s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental
vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her
upon her guard.
</p>
<p>
After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at
the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these
shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far.
They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express
to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was
a young American lady, her behavior was not representative—was
regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she
felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and
sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said
to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and
unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even
to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried
about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant,
passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she
produced. He asked himself whether Daisy’s defiance came from the
consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person
of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one’s self to a
belief in Daisy’s “innocence” came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a
matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate,
he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young
lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her
eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal.
From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too
late. She was “carried away” by Mr. Giovanelli.
</p>
<p>
A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her
in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the
Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume,
and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure.
Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin
that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental
inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just
then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color
that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and
feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm
themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had
never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever
he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an
aspect of even unwonted brilliancy.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said Daisy, “I should think you would be lonesome!”
</p>
<p>
“Lonesome?” asked Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“You are always going round by yourself. Can’t you get anyone to walk with
you?”
</p>
<p>
“I am not so fortunate,” said Winterbourne, “as your companion.”
</p>
<p>
Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished
politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed
punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his
belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in
no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he
had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even
seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain
mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him—to
say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how
extraordinary was this young lady, and didn’t flatter himself with
delusive—or at least TOO delusive—hopes of matrimony and
dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a
sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole.
</p>
<p>
“I know why you say that,” said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. “Because you
think I go round too much with HIM.” And she nodded at her attendant.
</p>
<p>
“Every one thinks so—if you care to know,” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
“Of course I care to know!” Daisy exclaimed seriously. “But I don’t
believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don’t really care
a straw what I do. Besides, I don’t go round so much.”
</p>
<p>
“I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy looked at him a moment. “How disagreeably?”
</p>
<p>
“Haven’t you noticed anything?” Winterbourne asked.
</p>
<p>
“I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the
first time I saw you.”
</p>
<p>
“You will find I am not so stiff as several others,” said Winterbourne,
smiling.
</p>
<p>
“How shall I find it?”
</p>
<p>
“By going to see the others.”
</p>
<p>
“What will they do to me?”
</p>
<p>
“They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?”
</p>
<p>
Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. “Do you mean as
Mrs. Walker did the other night?”
</p>
<p>
“Exactly!” said Winterbourne.
</p>
<p>
She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond
blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, “I shouldn’t think you would
let people be so unkind!” she said.
</p>
<p>
“How can I help it?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“I should think you would say something.”
</p>
<p>
“I do say something;” and he paused a moment. “I say that your mother
tells me that she believes you are engaged.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, she does,” said Daisy very simply.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne began to laugh. “And does Randolph believe it?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“I guess Randolph doesn’t believe anything,” said Daisy. Randolph’s
skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that
Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed
herself again to her countryman. “Since you have mentioned it,” she said,
“I AM engaged.” * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing.
“You don’t believe!” she added.
</p>
<p>
He was silent a moment; and then, “Yes, I believe it,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no, you don’t!” she answered. “Well, then—I am not!”
</p>
<p>
The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the
enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently
took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa
on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The
evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking
home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted
monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her
radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain
which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the
villa (it was eleven o’clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of
the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the
interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned
aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed,
an open carriage—one of the little Roman streetcabs—was
stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great
structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had
never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was
in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood
there he began to murmur Byron’s famous lines, out of “Manfred,” but
before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal
meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are
deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly;
but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than
a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to
take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat.
The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he
drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons
were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was
a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her.
</p>
<p>
Presently the sound of the woman’s voice came to him distinctly in the
warm night air. “Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers
may have looked at the Christian martyrs!” These were the words he heard,
in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Let us hope he is not very hungry,” responded the ingenious Giovanelli.
“He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a
sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon
the ambiguity of Daisy’s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read.
She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to
respect. He stood there, looking at her—looking at her companion and
not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been
more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so
much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was
going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was
doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing
unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism.
He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he
heard Daisy speak again.
</p>
<p>
“Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!”
</p>
<p>
What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at
injured innocence! But he wouldn’t cut her. Winterbourne came forward
again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted
his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from
a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the
evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little
reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. “How long
have you been here?” he asked almost brutally.
</p>
<p>
Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then—“All
the evening,” she answered, gently. * * * “I never saw anything so
pretty.”
</p>
<p>
“I am afraid,” said Winterbourne, “that you will not think Roman fever
very pretty. This is the way people catch it. I wonder,” he added, turning
to Giovanelli, “that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a
terrible indiscretion.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah,” said the handsome native, “for myself I am not afraid.”
</p>
<p>
“Neither am I—for you! I am speaking for this young lady.”
</p>
<p>
Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth.
But he took Winterbourne’s rebuke with docility. “I told the signorina it
was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?”
</p>
<p>
“I never was sick, and I don’t mean to be!” the signorina declared. “I
don’t look like much, but I’m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by
moonlight; I shouldn’t have wanted to go home without that; and we have
had the most beautiful time, haven’t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been
any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid
pills.”
</p>
<p>
“I should advise you,” said Winterbourne, “to drive home as fast as
possible and take one!”
</p>
<p>
“What you say is very wise,” Giovanelli rejoined. “I will go and make sure
the carriage is at hand.” And he went forward rapidly.
</p>
<p>
Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not
in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about
the beauty of the place. “Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!”
she exclaimed. “That’s one good thing.” Then, noticing Winterbourne’s
silence, she asked him why he didn’t speak. He made no answer; he only
began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was
in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the
young American. “DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?” she asked.
</p>
<p>
“It doesn’t matter what I believed the other day,” said Winterbourne,
still laughing.
</p>
<p>
“Well, what do you believe now?”
</p>
<p>
“I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or
not!”
</p>
<p>
He felt the young girl’s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick
gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli
hurried her forward. “Quick! quick!” he said; “if we get in by midnight we
are quite safe.”
</p>
<p>
Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed
himself beside her. “Don’t forget Eugenio’s pills!” said Winterbourne as
he lifted his hat.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t care,” said Daisy in a little strange tone, “whether I have Roman
fever or not!” Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they rolled
away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that he
had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colosseum with a
gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her
having been there under these circumstances was known to every member of
the little American circle, and commented accordingly. Winterbourne
reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after
Daisy’s return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter
and the cab driver. But the young man was conscious, at the same moment,
that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little
American flirt should be “talked about” by low-minded menials. These
people, a day or two later, had serious information to give: the little
American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came to
him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that two or
three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they were being
entertained in Mrs. Miller’s salon by Randolph.
</p>
<p>
“It’s going round at night,” said Randolph—“that’s what made her
sick. She’s always going round at night. I shouldn’t think she’d want to,
it’s so plaguy dark. You can’t see anything here at night, except when
there’s a moon. In America there’s always a moon!” Mrs. Miller was
invisible; she was now, at least, giving her daughter the advantage of her
society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs.
Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise, perfectly
composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse. She
talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the
compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such a
monstrous goose. “Daisy spoke of you the other day,” she said to him.
“Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but that time I think
she did. She gave me a message she told me to tell you. She told me to
tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure I
am very glad; Mr. Giovanelli hasn’t been near us since she was taken ill.
I thought he was so much of a gentleman; but I don’t call that very
polite! A lady told me that he was afraid I was angry with him for taking
Daisy round at night. Well, so I am, but I suppose he knows I’m a lady. I
would scorn to scold him. Anyway, she says she’s not engaged. I don’t know
why she wanted you to know, but she said to me three times, ‘Mind you tell
Mr. Winterbourne.’ And then she told me to ask if you remembered the time
you went to that castle in Switzerland. But I said I wouldn’t give any
such messages as that. Only, if she is not engaged, I’m sure I’m glad to
know it.”
</p>
<p>
But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little. A week after this,
the poor girl died; it had been a terrible case of the fever. Daisy’s
grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of the wall of
imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring flowers.
Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a number of other mourners, a
number larger than the scandal excited by the young lady’s career would
have led you to expect. Near him stood Giovanelli, who came nearer still
before Winterbourne turned away. Giovanelli was very pale: on this
occasion he had no flower in his buttonhole; he seemed to wish to say
something. At last he said, “She was the most beautiful young lady I ever
saw, and the most amiable;” and then he added in a moment, “and she was
the most innocent.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne looked at him and presently repeated his words, “And the most
innocent?”
</p>
<p>
“The most innocent!”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne felt sore and angry. “Why the devil,” he asked, “did you take
her to that fatal place?”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Giovanelli’s urbanity was apparently imperturbable. He looked on the
ground a moment, and then he said, “For myself I had no fear; and she
wanted to go.”
</p>
<p>
“That was no reason!” Winterbourne declared.
</p>
<p>
The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes. “If she had lived, I should have
got nothing. She would never have married me, I am sure.”
</p>
<p>
“She would never have married you?”
</p>
<p>
“For a moment I hoped so. But no. I am sure.”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne listened to him: he stood staring at the raw protuberance
among the April daisies. When he turned away again, Mr. Giovanelli, with
his light, slow step, had retired.
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne almost immediately left Rome; but the following summer he
again met his aunt, Mrs. Costello at Vevey. Mrs. Costello was fond of
Vevey. In the interval Winterbourne had often thought of Daisy Miller and
her mystifying manners. One day he spoke of her to his aunt—said it
was on his conscience that he had done her injustice.
</p>
<p>
“I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Costello. “How did your injustice
affect her?”
</p>
<p>
“She sent me a message before her death which I didn’t understand at the
time; but I have understood it since. She would have appreciated one’s
esteem.”
</p>
<p>
“Is that a modest way,” asked Mrs. Costello, “of saying that she would
have reciprocated one’s affection?”
</p>
<p>
Winterbourne offered no answer to this question; but he presently said,
“You were right in that remark that you made last summer. I was booked to
make a mistake. I have lived too long in foreign parts.”
</p>
<p>
Nevertheless, he went back to live at Geneva, whence there continue to
come the most contradictory accounts of his motives of sojourn: a report
that he is “studying” hard—an intimation that he is much interested
in a very clever foreign lady.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
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