diff options
Diffstat (limited to '2833-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 2833-h/2833-h.htm | 15731 |
1 files changed, 15731 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/2833-h/2833-h.htm b/2833-h/2833-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff23c33 --- /dev/null +++ b/2833-h/2833-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15731 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 1 (of 2) by Henry James + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portrait of a Lady, 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: The Portrait of a Lady + Volume 1 (of 2) + +Author: Henry James + +Release Date: December 1, 2008 [EBook #2833] +Last Updated: December 10, 2012 +Last Updated: September 20, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY + </h1> + <h2> + VOLUME I (of II) + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Henry James + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <table summary="" border="3" cellpadding="4"> + <tbody> + <tr> + <td> + <a + href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2834/2834-h/2834-h.htm">Next + Volume</a> + </td> + </tr> + </tbody> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + “<i>The Portrait of a Lady</i>” was, like “<i>Roderick Hudson</i>,” begun + in Florence, during three months spent there in the spring of 1879. Like “<i>Roderick</i>” + and like “<i>The American</i>,” it had been designed for publication in “<i>The + Atlantic Monthly</i>,” where it began to appear in 1880. It differed from + its two predecessors, however, in finding a course also open to it, from + month to month, in “<i>Macmillan’s Magazine</i>”; which was to be for me + one of the last occasions of simultaneous “serialisation” in the two + countries that the changing conditions of literary intercourse between + England and the United States had up to then left unaltered. It is a long + novel, and I was long in writing it; I remember being again much occupied + with it, the following year, during a stay of several weeks made in + Venice. I had rooms on Riva Schiavoni, at the top of a house near the + passage leading off to San Zaccaria; the waterside life, the wondrous + lagoon spread before me, and the ceaseless human chatter of Venice came in + at my windows, to which I seem to myself to have been constantly driven, + in the fruitless fidget of composition, as if to see whether, out in the + blue channel, the ship of some right suggestion, of some better phrase, of + the next happy twist of my subject, the next true touch for my canvas, + mightn’t come into sight. But I recall vividly enough that the response + most elicited, in general, to these restless appeals was the rather grim + admonition that romantic and historic sites, such as the land of Italy + abounds in, offer the artist a questionable aid to concentration when they + themselves are not to be the subject of it. They are too rich in their own + life and too charged with their own meanings merely to help him out with a + lame phrase; they draw him away from his small question to their own + greater ones; so that, after a little, he feels, while thus yearning + toward them in his difficulty, as if he were asking an army of glorious + veterans to help him to arrest a peddler who has given him the wrong + change. + </p> + <p> + There are pages of the book which, in the reading over, have seemed to + make me see again the bristling curve of the wide Riva, the large + colour-spots of the balconied houses and the repeated undulation of the + little hunchbacked bridges, marked by the rise and drop again, with the + wave, of foreshortened clicking pedestrians. The Venetian footfall and the + Venetian cry—all talk there, wherever uttered, having the pitch of a + call across the water—come in once more at the window, renewing + one’s old impression of the delighted senses and the divided, frustrated + mind. How can places that speak <i>in general</i> so to the imagination + not give it, at the moment, the particular thing it wants? I recollect + again and again, in beautiful places, dropping into that wonderment. The + real truth is, I think, that they express, under this appeal, only too + much—more than, in the given case, one has use for; so that one + finds one’s self working less congruously, after all, so far as the + surrounding picture is concerned, than in presence of the moderate and the + neutral, to which we may lend something of the light of our vision. Such a + place as Venice is too proud for such charities; Venice doesn’t borrow, + she but all magnificently gives. We profit by that enormously, but to do + so we must either be quite off duty or be on it in her service alone. + Such, and so rueful, are these reminiscences; though on the whole, no + doubt, one’s book, and one’s “literary effort” at large, were to be the + better for them. Strangely fertilising, in the long run, does a wasted + effort of attention often prove. It all depends on <i>how</i> the + attention has been cheated, has been squandered. There are high-handed + insolent frauds, and there are insidious sneaking ones. And there is, I + fear, even on the most designing artist’s part, always witless enough good + faith, always anxious enough desire, to fail to guard him against their + deceits. + </p> + <p> + Trying to recover here, for recognition, the germ of my idea, I see that + it must have consisted not at all in any conceit of a “plot,” nefarious + name, in any flash, upon the fancy, of a set of relations, or in any one + of those situations that, by a logic of their own, immediately fall, for + the fabulist, into movement, into a march or a rush, a patter of quick + steps; but altogether in the sense of a single character, the character + and aspect of a particular engaging young woman, to which all the usual + elements of a “subject,” certainly of a setting, were to need to be super + added. Quite as interesting as the young woman herself at her best, do I + find, I must again repeat, this projection of memory upon the whole matter + of the growth, in one’s imagination, of some such apology for a motive. + These are the fascinations of the fabulist’s art, these lurking forces of + expansion, these necessities of upspringing in the seed, these beautiful + determinations, on the part of the idea entertained, to grow as tall as + possible, to push into the light and the air and thickly flower there; + and, quite as much, these fine possibilities of recovering, from some good + standpoint on the ground gained, the intimate history of the business—of + retracing and reconstructing its steps and stages. I have always fondly + remembered a remark that I heard fall years ago from the lips of Ivan + Turgenieff in regard to his own experience of the usual origin of the + fictive picture. It began for him almost always with the vision of some + person or persons, who hovered before him, soliciting him, as the active + or passive figure, interesting him and appealing to him just as they were + and by what they were. He saw them, in that fashion, as disponibles, saw + them subject to the chances, the complications of existence, and saw them + vividly, but then had to find for them the right relations, those that + would most bring them out; to imagine, to invent and select and piece + together the situations most useful and favourable to the sense of the + creatures themselves, the complications they would be most likely to + produce and to feel. + </p> + <p> + “To arrive at these things is to arrive at my story,” he said, “and that’s + the way I look for it. The result is that I’m often accused of not having + ‘story’ enough. I seem to myself to have as much as I need—to show + my people, to exhibit their relations with each other; for that is all my + measure. If I watch them long enough I see them come together, I see them + <i>placed</i>, I see them engaged in this or that act and in this or that + difficulty. How they look and move and speak and behave, always in the + setting I have found for them, is my account of them—of which I dare + say, alas, <i>que cela manque souvent d’architecture</i>. But I would + rather, I think, have too little architecture than too much—when + there’s danger of its interfering with my measure of the truth. The French + of course like more of it than I give—having by their own genius + such a hand for it; and indeed one must give all one can. As for the + origin of one’s wind-blown germs themselves, who shall say, as you ask, + where <i>they</i> come from? We have to go too far back, too far behind, + to say. Isn’t it all we can say that they come from every quarter of + heaven, that they are <i>there</i> at almost any turn of the road? They + accumulate, and we are always picking them over, selecting among them. + They are the breath of life—by which I mean that life, in its own + way, breathes them upon us. They are so, in a manner prescribed and + imposed—floated into our minds by the current of life. That reduces + to imbecility the vain critic’s quarrel, so often, with one’s subject, + when he hasn’t the wit to accept it. Will he point out then which other it + should properly have been?—his office being, essentially to point + out. <i>Il en serait bien embarrassé</i>. Ah, when he points out what I’ve + done or failed to do with it, that’s another matter: there he’s on his + ground. I give him up my ‘sarchitecture,’” my distinguished friend + concluded, “as much as he will.” + </p> + <p> + So this beautiful genius, and I recall with comfort the gratitude I drew + from his reference to the intensity of suggestion that may reside in the + stray figure, the unattached character, the image <i>en disponibilité</i>. + It gave me higher warrant than I seemed then to have met for just that + blest habit of one’s own imagination, the trick of investing some + conceived or encountered individual, some brace or group of individuals, + with the germinal property and authority. I was myself so much more + antecedently conscious of my figures than of their setting—a too + preliminary, a preferential interest in which struck me as in general such + a putting of the cart before the horse. I might envy, though I couldn’t + emulate, the imaginative writer so constituted as to see his fable first + and to make out its agents afterwards. I could think so little of any + fable that didn’t need its agents positively to launch it; I could think + so little of any situation that didn’t depend for its interest on the + nature of the persons situated, and thereby on their way of taking it. + There are methods of so-called presentation, I believe among novelists who + have appeared to flourish—that offer the situation as indifferent to + that support; but I have not lost the sense of the value for me, at the + time, of the admirable Russian’s testimony to my not needing, all + superstitiously, to try and perform any such gymnastic. Other echoes from + the same source linger with me, I confess, as unfadingly—if it be + not all indeed one much-embracing echo. It was impossible after that not + to read, for one’s uses, high lucidity into the tormented and disfigured + and bemuddled question of the objective value, and even quite into that of + the critical appreciation, of “subject” in the novel. + </p> + <p> + One had had from an early time, for that matter, the instinct of the right + estimate of such values and of its reducing to the inane the dull dispute + over the “immoral” subject and the moral. Recognising so promptly the one + measure of the worth of a given subject, the question about it that, + rightly answered, disposes of all others—is it valid, in a word, is + it genuine, is it sincere, the result of some direct impression or + perception of life?—I had found small edification, mostly, in a + critical pretension that had neglected from the first all delimitation of + ground and all definition of terms. The air of my earlier time shows, to + memory, as darkened, all round, with that vanity—unless the + difference to-day be just in one’s own final impatience, the lapse of + one’s attention. There is, I think, no more nutritive or suggestive truth + in this connexion than that of the perfect dependence of the “moral” sense + of a work of art on the amount of felt life concerned in producing it. The + question comes back thus, obviously, to the kind and the degree of the + artist’s prime sensibility, which is the soil out of which his subject + springs. The quality and capacity of that soil, its ability to “grow” with + due freshness and straightness any vision of life, represents, strongly or + weakly, the projected morality. That element is but another name for the + more or less close connexion of the subject with some mark made on the + intelligence, with some sincere experience. By which, at the same time, of + course, one is far from contending that this enveloping air of the + artist’s humanity—which gives the last touch to the worth of the + work—is not a widely and wondrously varying element; being on one + occasion a rich and magnificent medium and on another a comparatively poor + and ungenerous one. Here we get exactly the high price of the novel as a + literary form—its power not only, while preserving that form with + closeness, to range through all the differences of the individual relation + to its general subject-matter, all the varieties of outlook on life, of + disposition to reflect and project, created by conditions that are never + the same from man to man (or, so far as that goes, from man to woman), but + positively to appear more true to its character in proportion as it + strains, or tends to burst, with a latent extravagance, its mould. + </p> + <p> + The house of fiction has in short not one window, but a million—a + number of possible windows not to be reckoned, rather; every one of which + has been pierced, or is still pierceable, in its vast front, by the need + of the individual vision and by the pressure of the individual will. These + apertures, of dissimilar shape and size, hang so, all together, over the + human scene that we might have expected of them a greater sameness of + report than we find. They are but windows at the best, mere holes in a + dead wall, disconnected, perched aloft; they are not hinged doors opening + straight upon life. But they have this mark of their own that at each of + them stands a figure with a pair of eyes, or at least with a field-glass, + which forms, again and again, for observation, a unique instrument, + insuring to the person making use of it an impression distinct from every + other. He and his neighbours are watching the same show, but one seeing + more where the other sees less, one seeing black where the other sees + white, one seeing big where the other sees small, one seeing coarse where + the other sees fine. And so on, and so on; there is fortunately no saying + on what, for the particular pair of eyes, the window may <i>not</i> open; + “fortunately” by reason, precisely, of this incalculability of range. The + spreading field, the human scene, is the “choice of subject”; the pierced + aperture, either broad or balconied or slit-like and low-browed, is the + “literary form”; but they are, singly or together, as nothing without the + posted presence of the watcher—without, in other words, the + consciousness of the artist. Tell me what the artist is, and I will tell + you of what he has <i>been</i> conscious. Thereby I shall express to you + at once his boundless freedom and his “moral” reference. + </p> + <p> + All this is a long way round, however, for my word about my dim first move + toward “The Portrait,” which was exactly my grasp of a single character—an + acquisition I had made, moreover, after a fashion not here to be retraced. + Enough that I was, as seemed to me, in complete possession of it, that I + had been so for a long time, that this had made it familiar and yet had + not blurred its charm, and that, all urgently, all tormentingly, I saw it + in motion and, so to speak, in transit. This amounts to saying that I saw + it as bent upon its fate—some fate or other; which, among the + possibilities, being precisely the question. Thus I had my vivid + individual—vivid, so strangely, in spite of being still at large, + not confined by the conditions, not engaged in the tangle, to which we + look for much of the impress that constitutes an identity. If the + apparition was still all to be placed how came it to be vivid?—since + we puzzle such quantities out, mostly, just by the business of placing + them. One could answer such a question beautifully, doubtless, if one + could do so subtle, if not so monstrous, a thing as to write the history + of the growth of one’s imagination. One would describe then what, at a + given time, had extraordinarily happened to it, and one would so, for + instance, be in a position to tell, with an approach to clearness, how, + under favour of occasion, it had been able to take over (take over + straight from life) such and such a constituted, animated figure or form. + The figure has to that extent, as you see, <i>been</i> placed—placed + in the imagination that detains it, preserves, protects, enjoys it, + conscious of its presence in the dusky, crowded, heterogeneous back-shop + of the mind very much as a wary dealer in precious odds and ends, + competent to make an “advance” on rare objects confided to him, is + conscious of the rare little “piece” left in deposit by the reduced, + mysterious lady of title or the speculative amateur, and which is already + there to disclose its merit afresh as soon as a key shall have clicked in + a cupboard-door. + </p> + <p> + That may he, I recognise, a somewhat superfine analogy for the particular + “value” I here speak of, the image of the young feminine nature that I had + had for so considerable a time all curiously at my disposal; but it + appears to fond memory quite to fit the fact—with the recall, in + addition, of my pious desire but to place my treasure right. I quite + remind myself thus of the dealer resigned not to “realise,” resigned to + keeping the precious object locked up indefinitely rather than commit it, + at no matter what price, to vulgar hands. For there <i>are</i> dealers in + these forms and figures and treasures capable of that refinement. The + point is, however, that this single small corner-stone, the conception of + a certain young woman affronting her destiny, had begun with being all my + outfit for the large building of “<i>The Portrait of a Lady</i>.” It came + to be a square and spacious house—or has at least seemed so to me in + this going over it again; but, such as it is, it had to be put up round my + young woman while she stood there in perfect isolation. That is to me, + artistically speaking, the circumstance of interest; for I have lost + myself once more, I confess, in the curiosity of analysing the structure. + By what process of logical accretion was this slight “personality,” the + mere slim shade of an intelligent but presumptuous girl, to find itself + endowed with the high attributes of a Subject?—and indeed by what + thinness, at the best, would such a subject not be vitiated? Millions of + presumptuous girls, intelligent or not intelligent, daily affront their + destiny, and what is it open to their destiny to be, at the most, that we + should make an ado about it? The novel is of its very nature an “ado,” an + ado about something, and the larger the form it takes the greater of + course the ado. Therefore, consciously, that was what one was in for—for + positively organising an ado about Isabel Archer. + </p> + <p> + One looked it well in the face, I seem to remember, this extravagance; and + with the effect precisely of recognising the charm of the problem. + Challenge any such problem with any intelligence, and you immediately see + how full it is of substance; the wonder being, all the while, as we look + at the world, how absolutely, how inordinately, the Isabel Archers, and + even much smaller female fry, insist on mattering. George Eliot has + admirably noted it—“In these frail vessels is borne onward through + the ages the treasure of human affection.” In “<i>Romeo and Juliet</i>” + Juliet has to be important, just as, in “<i>Adam Bede</i>” and “<i>The + Mill on the Floss</i>” and “<i>Middlemarch</i>” and “Daniel Deronda,” + Hetty Sorrel and Maggie Tulliver and Rosamond Vincy and Gwendolen Harleth + have to be; with that much of firm ground, that much of bracing air, at + the disposal all the while of their feet and their lungs. They are + typical, none the less, of a class difficult, in the individual case, to + make a centre of interest; so difficult in fact that many an expert + painter, as for instance Dickens and Walter Scott, as for instance even, + in the main, so subtle a hand as that of R. L. Stevenson, has preferred to + leave the task unattempted. There are in fact writers as to whom we make + out that their refuge from this is to assume it to be not worth their + attempting; by which pusillanimity in truth their honour is scantly saved. + It is never an attestation of a value, or even of our imperfect sense of + one, it is never a tribute to any truth at all, that we shall represent + that value badly. It never makes up, artistically, for an artist’s dim + feeling about a thing that he shall “do” the thing as ill as possible. + There are better ways than that, the best of all of which is to begin with + less stupidity. + </p> + <p> + It may be answered meanwhile, in regard to Shakespeare’s and to George + Eliot’s testimony, that their concession to the “importance” of their + Juliets and Cleopatras and Portias (even with Portia as the very type and + model of the young person intelligent and presumptuous) and to that of + their Hettys and Maggies and Rosamonds and Gwendolens, suffers the + abatement that these slimnesses are, when figuring as the main props of + the theme, never suffered to be sole ministers of its appeal, but have + their inadequacy eked out with comic relief and underplots, as the + playwrights say, when not with murders and battles and the great mutations + of the world. If they are shown as “mattering” as much as they could + possibly pretend to, the proof of it is in a hundred other persons, made + of much stouter stuff; and each involved moreover in a hundred relations + which matter to <i>them</i> concomitantly with that one. Cleopatra + matters, beyond bounds, to Antony, but his colleagues, his antagonists, + the state of Rome and the impending battle also prodigiously matter; + Portia matters to Antonio, and to Shylock, and to the Prince of Morocco, + to the fifty aspiring princes, but for these gentry there are other lively + concerns; for Antonio, notably, there are Shylock and Bassanio and his + lost ventures and the extremity of his predicament. This extremity indeed, + by the same token, matters to Portia—though its doing so becomes of + interest all by the fact that Portia matters to <i>us</i>. That she does + so, at any rate, and that almost everything comes round to it again, + supports my contention as to this fine example of the value recognised in + the mere young thing. (I say “mere” young thing because I guess that even + Shakespeare, preoccupied mainly though he may have been with the passions + of princes, would scarce have pretended to found the best of his appeal + for her on her high social position.) It is an example exactly of the deep + difficulty braved—the difficulty of making George Eliot’s “frail + vessel,” if not the all-in-all for our attention, at least the clearest of + the call. + </p> + <p> + Now to see deep difficulty braved is at any time, for the really addicted + artist, to feel almost even as a pang the beautiful incentive, and to feel + it verily in such sort as to wish the danger intensified. The difficulty + most worth tackling can only be for him, in these conditions, the greatest + the case permits of. So I remember feeling here (in presence, always, that + is, of the particular uncertainty of my ground), that there would be one + way better than another—oh, ever so much better than any other!—of + making it fight out its battle. The frail vessel, that charged with George + Eliot’s “treasure,” and thereby of such importance to those who curiously + approach it, has likewise possibilities of importance to itself, + possibilities which permit of treatment and in fact peculiarly require it + from the moment they are considered at all. There is always the escape + from any close account of the weak agent of such spells by using as a + bridge for evasion, for retreat and flight, the view of her relation to + those surrounding her. Make it predominantly a view of <i>their</i> + relation and the trick is played: you give the general sense of her + effect, and you give it, so far as the raising on it of a superstructure + goes, with the maximum of ease. Well, I recall perfectly how little, in my + now quite established connexion, the maximum of ease appealed to me, and + how I seemed to get rid of it by an honest transposition of the weights in + the two scales. “Place the centre of the subject in the young woman’s own + consciousness,” I said to myself, “and you get as interesting and as + beautiful a difficulty as you could wish. Stick to <i>that</i>—for + the centre; put the heaviest weight into <i>that</i> scale, which will be + so largely the scale of her relation to herself. Make her only interested + enough, at the same time, in the things that are not herself, and this + relation needn’t fear to be too limited. Place meanwhile in the other + scale the lighter weight (which is usually the one that tips the balance + of interest): press least hard, in short, on the consciousness of your + heroine’s satellites, especially the male; make it an interest + contributive only to the greater one. See, at all events, what can be done + in this way. What better field could there be for a due ingenuity? The + girl hovers, inextinguishable, as a charming creature, and the job will be + to translate her into the highest terms of that formula, and as nearly as + possible moreover into <i>all</i> of them. To depend upon her and her + little concerns wholly to see you through will necessitate, remember, your + really ‘doing’ her.” + </p> + <p> + So far I reasoned, and it took nothing less than that technical rigour, I + now easily see, to inspire me with the right confidence for erecting on + such a plot of ground the neat and careful and proportioned pile of bricks + that arches over it and that was thus to form, constructionally speaking, + a literary monument. Such is the aspect that to-day “The Portrait” wears + for me: a structure reared with an “architectural” competence, as + Turgenieff would have said, that makes it, to the author’s own sense, the + most proportioned of his productions after “The Ambassadors” which was to + follow it so many years later and which has, no doubt, a superior + roundness. On one thing I was determined; that, though I should clearly + have to pile brick upon brick for the creation of an interest, I would + leave no pretext for saying that anything is out of line, scale or + perspective. I would build large—in fine embossed vaults and painted + arches, as who should say, and yet never let it appear that the chequered + pavement, the ground under the reader’s feet, fails to stretch at every + point to the base of the walls. That precautionary spirit, on re-perusal + of the book, is the old note that most touches me: it testifies so, for my + own ear, to the anxiety of my provision for the reader’s amusement. I + felt, in view of the possible limitations of my subject, that no such + provision could be excessive, and the development of the latter was simply + the general form of that earnest quest. And I find indeed that this is the + only account I can give myself of the evolution of the fable it is all + under the head thus named that I conceive the needful accretion as having + taken place, the right complications as having started. It was naturally + of the essence that the young woman should be herself complex; that was + rudimentary—or was at any rate the light in which Isabel Archer had + originally dawned. It went, however, but a certain way, and other lights, + contending, conflicting lights, and of as many different colours, if + possible, as the rockets, the Roman candles and Catherine-wheels of a + “pyrotechnic display,” would be employable to attest that she was. I had, + no doubt, a groping instinct for the right complications, since I am quite + unable to track the footsteps of those that constitute, as the case + stands, the general situation exhibited. They are there, for what they are + worth, and as numerous as might be; but my memory, I confess, is a blank + as to how and whence they came. + </p> + <p> + I seem to myself to have waked up one morning in possession of them—of + Ralph Touchett and his parents, of Madame Merle, of Gilbert Osmond and his + daughter and his sister, of Lord Warburton, Caspar Goodwood and Miss + Stackpole, the definite array of contributions to Isabel Archer’s history. + I recognised them, I knew them, they were the numbered pieces of my + puzzle, the concrete terms of my “plot.” It was as if they had simply, by + an impulse of their own, floated into my ken, and all in response to my + primary question: “Well, what will she <i>do</i>?” Their answer seemed to + be that if I would trust them they would show me; on which, with an urgent + appeal to them to make it at least as interesting as they could, I trusted + them. They were like the group of attendants and entertainers who come + down by train when people in the country give a party; they represented + the contract for carrying the party on. That was an excellent relation + with them—a possible one even with so broken a reed (from her + slightness of cohesion) as Henrietta Stackpole. It is a familiar truth to + the novelist, at the strenuous hour, that, as certain elements in any work + are of the essence, so others are only of the form; that as this or that + character, this or that disposition of the material, belongs to the + subject directly, so to speak, so this or that other belongs to it but + indirectly—belongs intimately to the treatment. This is a truth, + however, of which he rarely gets the benefit—since it could be + assured to him, really, but by criticism based upon perception, criticism + which is too little of this world. He must not think of benefits, + moreover, I freely recognise, for that way dishonour lies: he has, that + is, but one to think of—the benefit, whatever it may be, involved in + his having cast a spell upon the simpler, the very simplest, forms of + attention. This is all he is entitled to; he is entitled to nothing, he is + bound to admit, that can come to him, from the reader, as a result on the + latter’s part of any act of reflexion or discrimination. He may <i>enjoy</i> + this finer tribute—that is another affair, but on condition only of + taking it as a gratuity “thrown in,” a mere miraculous windfall, the fruit + of a tree he may not pretend to have shaken. Against reflexion, against + discrimination, in his interest, all earth and air conspire; wherefore it + is that, as I say, he must in many a case have schooled himself, from the + first, to work but for a “living wage.” The living wage is the reader’s + grant of the least possible quantity of attention required for + consciousness of a “spell.” The occasional charming “tip” is an act of his + intelligence over and beyond this, a golden apple, for the writer’s lap, + straight from the wind-stirred tree. The artist may of course, in wanton + moods, dream of some Paradise (for art) where the direct appeal to the + intelligence might be legalised; for to such extravagances as these his + yearning mind can scarce hope ever completely to close itself. The most he + can do is to remember they <i>are</i> extravagances. + </p> + <p> + All of which is perhaps but a gracefully devious way of saying that + Henrietta Stackpole was a good example, in “The Portrait,” of the truth to + which I just adverted—as good an example as I could name were it not + that Maria Gostrey, in “The Ambassadors,” then in the bosom of time, may + be mentioned as a better. Each of these persons is but wheels to the + coach; neither belongs to the body of that vehicle, or is for a moment + accommodated with a seat inside. There the subject alone is ensconced, in + the form of its “hero and heroine,” and of the privileged high officials, + say, who ride with the king and queen. There are reasons why one would + have liked this to be felt, as in general one would like almost anything + to be felt, in one’s work, that one has one’s self contributively felt. We + have seen, however, how idle is that pretension, which I should be sorry + to make too much of. Maria Gostrey and Miss Stackpole then are cases, + each, of the light <i>ficelle</i>, not of the true agent; they may run + beside the coach “for all they are worth,” they may cling to it till they + are out of breath (as poor Miss Stackpole all so visibly does), but + neither, all the while, so much as gets her foot on the step, neither + ceases for a moment to tread the dusty road. Put it even that they are + like the fishwives who helped to bring back to Paris from Versailles, on + that most ominous day of the first half of the French Revolution, the + carriage of the royal family. The only thing is that I may well be asked, + I acknowledge, why then, in the present fiction, I have suffered Henrietta + (of whom we have indubitably too much) so officiously, so strangely, so + almost inexplicably, to pervade. I will presently say what I can for that + anomaly—and in the most conciliatory fashion. + </p> + <p> + A point I wish still more to make is that if my relation of confidence + with the actors in my drama who <i>were</i>, unlike Miss Stackpole, true + agents, was an excellent one to have arrived at, there still remained my + relation with the reader, which was another affair altogether and as to + which I felt no one to be trusted but myself. That solicitude was to be + accordingly expressed in the artful patience with which, as I have said, I + piled brick upon brick. The bricks, for the whole counting-over—putting + for bricks little touches and inventions and enhancements by the way—affect + me in truth as well-nigh innumerable and as ever so scrupulously fitted + together and packed-in. It is an effect of detail, of the minutest; + though, if one were in this connexion to say all, one would express the + hope that the general, the ampler air of the modest monument still + survives. I do at least seem to catch the key to a part of this abundance + of small anxious, ingenious illustration as I recollect putting my finger, + in my young woman’s interest, on the most obvious of her predicates. “What + will she ‘do’? Why, the first thing she’ll do will be to come to Europe; + which in fact will form, and all inevitably, no small part of her + principal adventure. Coming to Europe is even for the ‘frail vessels,’ in + this wonderful age, a mild adventure; but what is truer than that on one + side—the side of their independence of flood and field, of the + moving accident, of battle and murder and sudden death—her + adventures are to be mild? Without her sense of them, her sense <i>for</i> + them, as one may say, they are next to nothing at all; but isn’t the + beauty and the difficulty just in showing their mystic conversion by that + sense, conversion into the stuff of drama or, even more delightful word + still, of ‘story’?” It was all as clear, my contention, as a silver bell. + Two very good instances, I think, of this effect of conversion, two cases + of the rare chemistry, are the pages in which Isabel, coming into the + drawing-room at Gardencourt, coming in from a wet walk or whatever, that + rainy afternoon, finds Madame Merle in possession of the place, Madame + Merle seated, all absorbed but all serene, at the piano, and deeply + recognises, in the striking of such an hour, in the presence there, among + the gathering shades, of this personage, of whom a moment before she had + never so much as heard, a turning-point in her life. It is dreadful to + have too much, for any artistic demonstration, to dot one’s i’s and insist + on one’s intentions, and I am not eager to do it now; but the question + here was that of producing the maximum of intensity with the minimum of + strain. + </p> + <p> + The interest was to be raised to its pitch and yet the elements to be kept + in their key; so that, should the whole thing duly impress, I might show + what an “exciting” inward life may do for the person leading it even while + it remains perfectly normal. And I cannot think of a more consistent + application of that ideal unless it be in the long statement, just beyond + the middle of the book, of my young woman’s extraordinary meditative vigil + on the occasion that was to become for her such a landmark. Reduced to its + essence, it is but the vigil of searching criticism; but it throws the + action further forward that twenty “incidents” might have done. It was + designed to have all the vivacity of incidents and all the economy of + picture. She sits up, by her dying fire, far into the night, under the + spell of recognitions on which she finds the last sharpness suddenly wait. + It is a representation simply of her motionlessly <i>seeing</i>, and an + attempt withal to make the mere still lucidity of her act as “interesting” + as the surprise of a caravan or the identification of a pirate. It + represents, for that matter, one of the identifications dear to the + novelist, and even indispensable to him; but it all goes on without her + being approached by another person and without her leaving her chair. It + is obviously the best thing in the book, but it is only a supreme + illustration of the general plan. As to Henrietta, my apology for whom I + just left incomplete, she exemplifies, I fear, in her superabundance, not + an element of my plan, but only an excess of my zeal. So early was to + begin my tendency to <i>overtreat</i>, rather than undertreat (when there + was choice or danger) my subject. (Many members of my craft, I gather, are + far from agreeing with me, but I have always held overtreating the minor + disservice.) “Treating” that of “The Portrait” amounted to never + forgetting, by any lapse, that the thing was under a special obligation to + be amusing. There was the danger of the noted “thinness”—which was + to be averted, tooth and nail, by cultivation of the lively. That is at + least how I see it to-day. Henrietta must have been at that time a part of + my wonderful notion of the lively. And then there was another matter. I + had, within the few preceding years, come to live in London, and the + “international” light lay, in those days, to my sense, thick and rich upon + the scene. It was the light in which so much of the picture hung. But that + <i>is</i> another matter. There is really too much to say. + </p> + <p> + HENRY JAMES <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable + than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are + circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not—some + people of course never do,—the situation is in itself delightful. + Those that I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history + offered an admirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of the + little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English + country-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid + summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much of it was + left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality. Real dusk + would not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun + to ebb, the air had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, + dense turf. They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressed that + sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief source of one’s + enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o’clock to eight is + on certain occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this + the interval could be only an eternity of pleasure. The persons concerned + in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not of the sex + which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have + mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular; they + were the shadows of an old man sitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low + table on which the tea had been served, and of two younger men strolling + to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him. The old man had his cup in + his hand; it was an unusually large cup, of a different pattern from the + rest of the set and painted in brilliant colours. He disposed of its + contents with much circumspection, holding it for a long time close to his + chin, with his face turned to the house. His companions had either + finished their tea or were indifferent to their privilege; they smoked + cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of them, from time to time, as + he passed, looked with a certain attention at the elder man, who, + unconscious of observation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of his + dwelling. The house that rose beyond the lawn was a structure to repay + such consideration and was the most characteristic object in the + peculiarly English picture I have attempted to sketch. + </p> + <p> + It stood upon a low hill, above the river—the river being the Thames + at some forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red brick, with + the complexion of which time and the weather had played all sorts of + pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented to + the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered + in creepers. The house had a name and a history; the old gentleman taking + his tea would have been delighted to tell you these things: how it had + been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night’s hospitality to + the great Elizabeth (whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, + magnificent and terribly angular bed which still formed the principal + honour of the sleeping apartments), had been a good deal bruised and + defaced in Cromwell’s wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and + much enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodelled and + disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed into the careful + keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originally because + (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was offered at a + great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness, its + antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of twenty years, had + become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all + its points and would tell you just where to stand to see them in + combination and just the hour when the shadows of its various + protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork—were + of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he could have counted + off most of the successive owners and occupants, several of whom were + known to general fame; doing so, however, with an undemonstrative + conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was not the least + honourable. The front of the house overlooking that portion of the lawn + with which we are concerned was not the entrance-front; this was in quite + another quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of turf + that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension of a luxurious + interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as + that of velvet curtains; and the place was furnished, like a room, with + cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs, with the books and papers that + lay upon the grass. The river was at some distance; where the ground began + to slope the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the less a + charming walk down to the water. + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty years + before, had brought with him, at the top of his baggage, his American + physiognomy; and he had not only brought it with him, but he had kept it + in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have taken it back to + his own country with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, + nevertheless, he was not likely to displace himself; his journeys were + over and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest. He had a + narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an + expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently a face in which the range + of representation was not large, so that the air of contented shrewdness + was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successful + in life, yet it seemed to tell also that his success had not been + exclusive and invidious, but had had much of the inoffensiveness of + failure. He had certainly had a great experience of men, but there was an + almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean, + spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly and + carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the table. He was neatly dressed, + in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees, and his feet + were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay + upon the grass near his chair, watching the master’s face almost as + tenderly as the master took in the still more magisterial physiognomy of + the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultory + attendance upon the other gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a + face as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched was + something else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair and + frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich + adornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate, + brilliant exceptional look—the air of a happy temperament fertilised + by a high civilisation—which would have made almost any observer + envy him at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted + from a long ride; he wore a white hat, which looked too large for him; he + held his two hands behind him, and in one of them—a large, white, + well-shaped fist—was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves. + </p> + <p> + His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person + of quite a different pattern, who, although he might have excited grave + curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked you to wish yourself, + almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly put together, + he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no means + decorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. He looked clever and + ill—a combination by no means felicitous; and he wore a brown velvet + jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there was something in + the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a + shambling, wandering quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have + said, whenever he passed the old man in the chair he rested his eyes upon + him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, you would + easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his son’s eye + at last and gave him a mild, responsive smile. + </p> + <p> + “I’m getting on very well,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Have you drunk your tea?” asked the son. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and enjoyed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I give you some more?” + </p> + <p> + The old man considered, placidly. “Well, I guess I’ll wait and see.” He + had, in speaking, the American tone. + </p> + <p> + “Are you cold?” the son enquired. + </p> + <p> + The father slowly rubbed his legs. “Well, I don’t know. I can’t tell till + I feel.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps some one might feel for you,” said the younger man, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don’t you feel for me, Lord + Warburton?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, immensely,” said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton, + promptly. “I’m bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose I am, in most respects.” And the old man looked down at + his green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. “The fact is I’ve been + comfortable so many years that I suppose I’ve got so used to it I don’t + know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s the bore of comfort,” said Lord Warburton. “We only know when + we’re uncomfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “It strikes me we’re rather particular,” his companion remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, there’s no doubt we’re particular,” Lord Warburton murmured. And + then the three men remained silent a while; the two younger ones standing + looking down at the other, who presently asked for more tea. “I should + think you would be very unhappy with that shawl,” Lord Warburton resumed + while his companion filled the old man’s cup again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, he must have the shawl!” cried the gentleman in the velvet coat. + “Don’t put such ideas as that into his head.” + </p> + <p> + “It belongs to my wife,” said the old man simply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if it’s for sentimental reasons—” And Lord Warburton made a + gesture of apology. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I must give it to her when she comes,” the old man went on. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll please to do nothing of the kind. You’ll keep it to cover your + poor old legs.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you mustn’t abuse my legs,” said the old man. “I guess they are as + good as yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re perfectly free to abuse mine,” his son replied, giving him his + tea. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we’re two lame ducks; I don’t think there’s much difference.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How’s your tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s rather hot.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s intended to be a merit.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there’s a great deal of merit,” murmured the old man, kindly. “He’s a + very good nurse, Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t he a bit clumsy?” asked his lordship. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, he’s not clumsy—considering that he’s an invalid himself. + He’s a very good nurse—for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse + because he’s sick himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, daddy!” the ugly young man exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are; I wish you weren’t. But I suppose you can’t help it.” + </p> + <p> + “I might try: that’s an idea,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?” his father asked. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton considered a moment. “Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s making light of you, daddy,” said the other young man. “That’s a + sort of joke.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there seem to be so many sorts now,” daddy replied, serenely. “You + don’t look as if you had been sick, anyway, Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about + it,” said Lord Warburton’s friend. + </p> + <p> + “Is that true, sir?” asked the old man gravely. + </p> + <p> + “If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He’s a wretched fellow to talk + to—a regular cynic. He doesn’t seem to believe in anything.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s another sort of joke,” said the person accused of cynicism. + </p> + <p> + “It’s because his health is so poor,” his father explained to Lord + Warburton. “It affects his mind and colours his way of looking at things; + he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it’s almost entirely + theoretical, you know; it doesn’t seem to affect his spirits. I’ve hardly + ever seen him when he wasn’t cheerful—about as he is at present. He + often cheers me up.” + </p> + <p> + The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. “Is it a + glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should you like me to carry out + my theories, daddy?” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, we should see some queer things!” cried Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you haven’t taken up that sort of tone,” said the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Warburton’s tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I’m not in + the least bored; I find life only too interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, too interesting; you shouldn’t allow it to be that, you know!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m never bored when I come here,” said Lord Warburton. “One gets such + uncommonly good talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that another sort of joke?” asked the old man. “You’ve no excuse for + being bored anywhere. When I was your age I had never heard of such a + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have developed very late.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twenty + years old I was very highly developed indeed. I was working tooth and + nail. You wouldn’t be bored if you had something to do; but all you young + men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You’re too + fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say,” cried Lord Warburton, “you’re hardly the person to accuse a + fellow-creature of being too rich!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean because I’m a banker?” asked the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Because of that, if you like; and because you have—haven’t you?—such + unlimited means.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t very rich,” the other young man mercifully pleaded. “He has + given away an immense deal of money.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose it was his own,” said Lord Warburton; “and in that case + could there be a better proof of wealth? Let not a public benefactor talk + of one’s being too fond of pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Daddy’s very fond of pleasure—of other people’s.” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “I don’t pretend to have contributed anything + to the amusement of my contemporaries.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear father, you’re too modest!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a kind of joke, sir,” said Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you’ve nothing + left.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately there are always more jokes,” the ugly young man remarked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it—I believe things are getting more serious. You + young men will find that out.” + </p> + <p> + “The increasing seriousness of things, then that’s the great opportunity + of jokes.” + </p> + <p> + “They’ll have to be grim jokes,” said the old man. “I’m convinced there + will be great changes, and not all for the better.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree with you, sir,” Lord Warburton declared. “I’m very sure + there will be great changes, and that all sorts of queer things will + happen. That’s why I find so much difficulty in applying your advice; you + know you told me the other day that I ought to ‘take hold’ of something. + One hesitates to take hold of a thing that may the next moment be knocked + sky-high.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to take hold of a pretty woman,” said his companion. “He’s + trying hard to fall in love,” he added, by way of explanation, to his + father. + </p> + <p> + “The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!” Lord Warburton + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, they’ll be firm,” the old man rejoined; “they’ll not be affected + by the social and political changes I just referred to.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean they won’t be abolished? Very well, then, I’ll lay hands on one + as soon as possible and tie her round my neck as a life-preserver.” + </p> + <p> + “The ladies will save us,” said the old man; “that is the best of them + will—for I make a difference between them. Make up to a good one and + marry her, and your life will become much more interesting.” + </p> + <p> + A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a sense of + the magnanimity of this speech, for it was a secret neither for his son + nor for his visitor that his own experiment in matrimony had not been a + happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and these words may + have been intended as a confession of personal error; though of course it + was not in place for either of his companions to remark that apparently + the lady of his choice had not been one of the best. + </p> + <p> + “If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what you + say?” Lord Warburton asked. “I’m not at all keen about marrying—your + son misrepresented me; but there’s no knowing what an interesting woman + might do with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman,” said his friend. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, you can’t see ideas—especially such highly ethereal + ones as mine. If I could only see it myself—that would be a great + step in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn’t + fall in love with my niece,” said the old man. + </p> + <p> + His son broke into a laugh. “He’ll think you mean that as a provocation! + My dear father, you’ve lived with the English for thirty years, and you’ve + picked up a good many of the things they say. But you’ve never learned the + things they don’t say!” + </p> + <p> + “I say what I please,” the old man returned with all his serenity. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the honour of knowing your niece,” Lord Warburton said. “I + think it’s the first time I’ve heard of her.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a niece of my wife’s; Mrs. Touchett brings her to England.” + </p> + <p> + Then young Mr. Touchett explained. “My mother, you know, has been spending + the winter in America, and we’re expecting her back. She writes that she + has discovered a niece and that she has invited her to come out with her.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,—very kind of her,” said Lord Warburton. Is the young lady + interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “We hardly know more about her than you; my mother has not gone into + details. She chiefly communicates with us by means of telegrams, and her + telegrams are rather inscrutable. They say women don’t know how to write + them, but my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of condensation. + ‘Tired America, hot weather awful, return England with niece, first + steamer decent cabin.’ That’s the sort of message we get from her—that + was the last that came. But there had been another before, which I think + contained the first mention of the niece. ‘Changed hotel, very bad, + impudent clerk, address here. Taken sister’s girl, died last year, go to + Europe, two sisters, quite independent.’ Over that my father and I have + scarcely stopped puzzling; it seems to admit of so many interpretations.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s one thing very clear in it,” said the old man; “she has given the + hotel-clerk a dressing.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the field. We + thought at first that the sister mentioned might be the sister of the + clerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece seems to prove that the + allusion is to one of my aunts. Then there was a question as to whose the + two other sisters were; they are probably two of my late aunt’s daughters. + But who’s ‘quite independent,’ and in what sense is the term used?—that + point’s not yet settled. Does the expression apply more particularly to + the young lady my mother has adopted, or does it characterise her sisters + equally?—and is it used in a moral or in a financial sense? Does it + mean that they’ve been left well off, or that they wish to be under no + obligations? or does it simply mean that they’re fond of their own way?” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever else it means, it’s pretty sure to mean that,” Mr. Touchett + remarked. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see for yourself,” said Lord Warburton. “When does Mrs. Touchett + arrive?” + </p> + <p> + “We’re quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decent cabin. She may + be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she may already have disembarked + in England.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you.” + </p> + <p> + “She never telegraphs when you would expect it—only when you don’t,” + said the old man. “She likes to drop on me suddenly; she thinks she’ll + find me doing something wrong. She has never done so yet, but she’s not + discouraged.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s her share in the family trait, the independence she speaks of.” Her + son’s appreciation of the matter was more favourable. “Whatever the high + spirit of those young ladies may be, her own is a match for it. She likes + to do everything for herself and has no belief in any one’s power to help + her. She thinks me of no more use than a postage-stamp without gum, and + she would never forgive me if I should presume to go to Liverpool to meet + her.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?” Lord Warburton + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Only on the condition I’ve mentioned—that you don’t fall in love + with her!” Mr. Touchett replied. + </p> + <p> + “That strikes me as hard, don’t you think me good enough?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you too good—because I shouldn’t like her to marry you. She + hasn’t come here to look for a husband, I hope; so many young ladies are + doing that, as if there were no good ones at home. Then she’s probably + engaged; American girls are usually engaged, I believe. Moreover I’m not + sure, after all, that you’d be a remarkable husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely she’s engaged; I’ve known a good many American girls, and + they always were; but I could never see that it made any difference, upon + my word! As for my being a good husband,” Mr. Touchett’s visitor pursued, + “I’m not sure of that either. One can but try!” + </p> + <p> + “Try as much as you please, but don’t try on my niece,” smiled the old + man, whose opposition to the idea was broadly humorous. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still, “perhaps, + after all, she’s not worth trying on!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + While this exchange of pleasantries took place between the two Ralph + Touchett wandered away a little, with his usual slouching gait, his hands + in his pockets and his little rowdyish terrier at his heels. His face was + turned toward the house, but his eyes were bent musingly on the lawn; so + that he had been an object of observation to a person who had just made + her appearance in the ample doorway for some moments before he perceived + her. His attention was called to her by the conduct of his dog, who had + suddenly darted forward with a little volley of shrill barks, in which the + note of welcome, however, was more sensible than that of defiance. The + person in question was a young lady, who seemed immediately to interpret + the greeting of the small beast. He advanced with great rapidity and stood + at her feet, looking up and barking hard; whereupon, without hesitation, + she stooped and caught him in her hands, holding him face to face while he + continued his quick chatter. His master now had had time to follow and to + see that Bunchie’s new friend was a tall girl in a black dress, who at + first sight looked pretty. She was bareheaded, as if she were staying in + the house—a fact which conveyed perplexity to the son of its master, + conscious of that immunity from visitors which had for some time been + rendered necessary by the latter’s ill-health. Meantime the two other + gentlemen had also taken note of the new-comer. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, who’s that strange woman?” Mr. Touchett had asked. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it’s Mrs. Touchett’s niece—the independent young lady,” + Lord Warburton suggested. “I think she must be, from the way she handles + the dog.” + </p> + <p> + The collie, too, had now allowed his attention to be diverted, and he + trotted toward the young lady in the doorway, slowly setting his tail in + motion as he went. + </p> + <p> + “But where’s my wife then?” murmured the old man. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the young lady has left her somewhere: that’s a part of the + independence.” + </p> + <p> + The girl spoke to Ralph, smiling, while she still held up the terrier. “Is + this your little dog, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “He was mine a moment ago; but you’ve suddenly acquired a remarkable air + of property in him.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t we share him?” asked the girl. “He’s such a perfect little + darling.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph looked at her a moment; she was unexpectedly pretty. “You may have + him altogether,” he then replied. + </p> + <p> + The young lady seemed to have a great deal of confidence, both in herself + and in others; but this abrupt generosity made her blush. “I ought to tell + you that I’m probably your cousin,” she brought out, putting down the dog. + “And here’s another!” she added quickly, as the collie came up. + </p> + <p> + “Probably?” the young man exclaimed, laughing. “I supposed it was quite + settled! Have you arrived with my mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “And has she deposited you and departed again?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she went straight to her room, and she told me that, if I should see + you, I was to say to you that you must come to her there at a quarter to + seven.” + </p> + <p> + The young man looked at his watch. “Thank you very much; I shall be + punctual.” And then he looked at his cousin. “You’re very welcome here. + I’m delighted to see you.” + </p> + <p> + She was looking at everything, with an eye that denoted clear perception—at + her companion, at the two dogs, at the two gentlemen under the trees, at + the beautiful scene that surrounded her. “I’ve never seen anything so + lovely as this place. I’ve been all over the house; it’s too enchanting.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry you should have been here so long without our knowing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother told me that in England people arrived very quietly; so I + thought it was all right. Is one of those gentlemen your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the elder one—the one sitting down,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + The girl gave a laugh. “I don’t suppose it’s the other. Who’s the other?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a friend of ours—Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it’s just like a novel!” And then, “Oh + you adorable creature!” she suddenly cried, stooping down and picking up + the small dog again. + </p> + <p> + She remained standing where they had met, making no offer to advance or to + speak to Mr. Touchett, and while she lingered so near the threshold, slim + and charming, her interlocutor wondered if she expected the old man to + come and pay her his respects. American girls were used to a great deal of + deference, and it had been intimated that this one had a high spirit. + Indeed Ralph could see that in her face. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you come and make acquaintance with my father?” he nevertheless + ventured to ask. “He’s old and infirm—he doesn’t leave his chair.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, poor man, I’m very sorry!” the girl exclaimed, immediately moving + forward. “I got the impression from your mother that he was rather + intensely active.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph Touchett was silent a moment. “She hasn’t seen him for a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he has a lovely place to sit. Come along, little hound.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a dear old place,” said the young man, looking sidewise at his + neighbour. + </p> + <p> + “What’s his name?” she asked, her attention having again reverted to the + terrier. + </p> + <p> + “My father’s name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the young lady with amusement; “but don’t tell him I asked + you.” + </p> + <p> + They had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was sitting, and he + slowly got up from his chair to introduce himself. + </p> + <p> + “My mother has arrived,” said Ralph, “and this is Miss Archer.” + </p> + <p> + The old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, looked at her a moment + with extreme benevolence and then gallantly kissed her. “It’s a great + pleasure to me to see you here; but I wish you had given us a chance to + receive you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we were received,” said the girl. “There were about a dozen servants + in the hall. And there was an old woman curtseying at the gate.” + </p> + <p> + “We can do better than that—if we have notice!” And the old man + stood there smiling, rubbing his hands and slowly shaking his head at her. + “But Mrs. Touchett doesn’t like receptions.” + </p> + <p> + “She went straight to her room.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and locked herself in. She always does that. Well, I suppose I + shall see her next week.” And Mrs. Touchett’s husband slowly resumed his + former posture. + </p> + <p> + “Before that,” said Miss Archer. “She’s coming down to dinner—at + eight o’clock. Don’t you forget a quarter to seven,” she added, turning + with a smile to Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “What’s to happen at a quarter to seven?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m to see my mother,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, happy boy!” the old man commented. “You must sit down—you must + have some tea,” he observed to his wife’s niece. + </p> + <p> + “They gave me some tea in my room the moment I got there,” this young lady + answered. “I’m sorry you’re out of health,” she added, resting her eyes + upon her venerable host. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m an old man, my dear; it’s time for me to be old. But I shall be + the better for having you here.” + </p> + <p> + She had been looking all round her again—at the lawn, the great + trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house; and while + engaged in this survey she had made room in it for her companions; a + comprehensiveness of observation easily conceivable on the part of a young + woman who was evidently both intelligent and excited. She had seated + herself and had put away the little dog; her white hands, in her lap, were + folded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye lighted, her + flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that, in sympathy with + the alertness with which she evidently caught impressions. Her impressions + were numerous, and they were all reflected in a clear, still smile. “I’ve + never seen anything so beautiful as this.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s looking very well,” said Mr. Touchett. “I know the way it strikes + you. I’ve been through all that. But you’re very beautiful yourself,” he + added with a politeness by no means crudely jocular and with the happy + consciousness that his advanced age gave him the privilege of saying such + things—even to young persons who might possibly take alarm at them. + </p> + <p> + What degree of alarm this young person took need not be exactly measured; + she instantly rose, however, with a blush which was not a refutation. “Oh + yes, of course I’m lovely!” she returned with a quick laugh. “How old is + your house? Is it Elizabethan?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s early Tudor,” said Ralph Touchett. + </p> + <p> + She turned toward him, watching his face. “Early Tudor? How very + delightful! And I suppose there are a great many others.” + </p> + <p> + “There are many much better ones.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say that, my son!” the old man protested. “There’s nothing better + than this.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a very good one; I think in some respects it’s rather better,” + said Lord Warburton, who as yet had not spoken, but who had kept an + attentive eye upon Miss Archer. He slightly inclined himself, smiling; he + had an excellent manner with women. The girl appreciated it in an instant; + she had not forgotten that this was Lord Warburton. “I should like very + much to show it to you,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t believe him,” cried the old man; “don’t look at it! It’s a wretched + old barrack—not to be compared with this.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—I can’t judge,” said the girl, smiling at Lord + Warburton. + </p> + <p> + In this discussion Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever; he stood with + his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if he should like to renew + his conversation with his new-found cousin. + </p> + <p> + “Are you very fond of dogs?” he enquired by way of beginning. He seemed to + recognise that it was an awkward beginning for a clever man. + </p> + <p> + “Very fond of them indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “You must keep the terrier, you know,” he went on, still awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll keep him while I’m here, with pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “That will be for a long time, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very kind. I hardly know. My aunt must settle that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll settle it with her—at a quarter to seven.” And Ralph looked at + his watch again. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to be here at all,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you allow things to be settled for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; if they’re settled as I like them.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall settle this as I like it,” said Ralph. “It’s most unaccountable + that we should never have known you.” + </p> + <p> + “I was there—you had only to come and see me.” + </p> + <p> + “There? Where do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “In the United States: in New York and Albany and other American places.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been there—all over, but I never saw you. I can’t make it + out.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Archer just hesitated. “It was because there had been some + disagreement between your mother and my father, after my mother’s death, + which took place when I was a child. In consequence of it we never + expected to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I don’t embrace all my mother’s quarrels—heaven forbid!” + the young man cried. “You’ve lately lost your father?” he went on more + gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; more than a year ago. After that my aunt was very kind to me; she + came to see me and proposed that I should come with her to Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Ralph. “She has adopted you.” + </p> + <p> + “Adopted me?” The girl stared, and her blush came back to her, together + with a momentary look of pain which gave her interlocutor some alarm. He + had underestimated the effect of his words. Lord Warburton, who appeared + constantly desirous of a nearer view of Miss Archer, strolled toward the + two cousins at the moment, and as he did so she rested her wider eyes on + him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; she has not adopted me. I’m not a candidate for adoption.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg a thousand pardons,” Ralph murmured. “I meant—I meant—” + He hardly knew what he meant. + </p> + <p> + “You meant she has taken me up. Yes; she likes to take people up. She has + been very kind to me; but,” she added with a certain visible eagerness of + desire to be explicit, “I’m very fond of my liberty.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you talking about Mrs. Touchett?” the old man called out from his + chair. “Come here, my dear, and tell me about her. I’m always thankful for + information.” + </p> + <p> + The girl hesitated again, smiling. “She’s really very benevolent,” she + answered; after which she went over to her uncle, whose mirth was excited + by her words. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton was left standing with Ralph Touchett, to whom in a moment + he said: “You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting woman. + There it is!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett was certainly a person of many oddities, of which her + behaviour on returning to her husband’s house after many months was a + noticeable specimen. She had her own way of doing all that she did, and + this is the simplest description of a character which, although by no + means without liberal motions, rarely succeeded in giving an impression of + suavity. Mrs. Touchett might do a great deal of good, but she never + pleased. This way of her own, of which she was so fond, was not + intrinsically offensive—it was just unmistakeably distinguished from + the ways of others. The edges of her conduct were so very clear-cut that + for susceptible persons it sometimes had a knife-like effect. That hard + fineness came out in her deportment during the first hours of her return + from America, under circumstances in which it might have seemed that her + first act would have been to exchange greetings with her husband and son. + Mrs. Touchett, for reasons which she deemed excellent, always retired on + such occasions into impenetrable seclusion, postponing the more + sentimental ceremony until she had repaired the disorder of dress with a + completeness which had the less reason to be of high importance as neither + beauty nor vanity were concerned in it. She was a plain-faced old woman, + without graces and without any great elegance, but with an extreme respect + for her own motives. She was usually prepared to explain these—when + the explanation was asked as a favour; and in such a case they proved + totally different from those that had been attributed to her. She was + virtually separated from her husband, but she appeared to perceive nothing + irregular in the situation. It had become clear, at an early stage of + their community, that they should never desire the same thing at the same + moment, and this appearance had prompted her to rescue disagreement from + the vulgar realm of accident. She did what she could to erect it into a + law—a much more edifying aspect of it—by going to live in + Florence, where she bought a house and established herself; and by leaving + her husband to take care of the English branch of his bank. This + arrangement greatly pleased her; it was so felicitously definite. It + struck her husband in the same light, in a foggy square in London, where + it was at times the most definite fact he discerned; but he would have + preferred that such unnatural things should have a greater vagueness. To + agree to disagree had cost him an effort; he was ready to agree to almost + anything but that, and saw no reason why either assent or dissent should + be so terribly consistent. Mrs. Touchett indulged in no regrets nor + speculations, and usually came once a year to spend a month with her + husband, a period during which she apparently took pains to convince him + that she had adopted the right system. She was not fond of the English + style of life, and had three or four reasons for it to which she currently + alluded; they bore upon minor points of that ancient order, but for Mrs. + Touchett they amply justified non-residence. She detested bread-sauce, + which, as she said, looked like a poultice and tasted like soap; she + objected to the consumption of beer by her maid-servants; and she affirmed + that the British laundress (Mrs. Touchett was very particular about the + appearance of her linen) was not a mistress of her art. At fixed intervals + she paid a visit to her own country; but this last had been longer than + any of its predecessors. + </p> + <p> + She had taken up her niece—there was little doubt of that. One wet + afternoon, some four months earlier than the occurrence lately narrated, + this young lady had been seated alone with a book. To say she was so + occupied is to say that her solitude did not press upon her; for her love + of knowledge had a fertilising quality and her imagination was strong. + There was at this time, however, a want of fresh taste in her situation + which the arrival of an unexpected visitor did much to correct. The + visitor had not been announced; the girl heard her at last walking about + the adjoining room. It was in an old house at Albany, a large, square, + double house, with a notice of sale in the windows of one of the lower + apartments. There were two entrances, one of which had long been out of + use but had never been removed. They were exactly alike—large white + doors, with an arched frame and wide side-lights, perched upon little + “stoops” of red stone, which descended sidewise to the brick pavement of + the street. The two houses together formed a single dwelling, the + party-wall having been removed and the rooms placed in communication. + These rooms, above-stairs, were extremely numerous, and were painted all + over exactly alike, in a yellowish white which had grown sallow with time. + On the third floor there was a sort of arched passage, connecting the two + sides of the house, which Isabel and her sisters used in their childhood + to call the tunnel and which, though it was short and well lighted, always + seemed to the girl to be strange and lonely, especially on winter + afternoons. She had been in the house, at different periods, as a child; + in those days her grandmother lived there. Then there had been an absence + of ten years, followed by a return to Albany before her father’s death. + Her grandmother, old Mrs. Archer, had exercised, chiefly within the limits + of the family, a large hospitality in the early period, and the little + girls often spent weeks under her roof—weeks of which Isabel had the + happiest memory. The manner of life was different from that of her own + home—larger, more plentiful, practically more festal; the discipline + of the nursery was delightfully vague and the opportunity of listening to + the conversation of one’s elders (which with Isabel was a highly-valued + pleasure) almost unbounded. There was a constant coming and going; her + grandmother’s sons and daughters and their children appeared to be in the + enjoyment of standing invitations to arrive and remain, so that the house + offered to a certain extent the appearance of a bustling provincial inn + kept by a gentle old landlady who sighed a great deal and never presented + a bill. Isabel of course knew nothing about bills; but even as a child she + thought her grandmother’s home romantic. There was a covered piazza behind + it, furnished with a swing which was a source of tremulous interest; and + beyond this was a long garden, sloping down to the stable and containing + peach-trees of barely credible familiarity. Isabel had stayed with her + grandmother at various seasons, but somehow all her visits had a flavour + of peaches. On the other side, across the street, was an old house that + was called the Dutch House—a peculiar structure dating from the + earliest colonial time, composed of bricks that had been painted yellow, + crowned with a gable that was pointed out to strangers, defended by a + rickety wooden paling and standing sidewise to the street. It was occupied + by a primary school for children of both sexes, kept or rather let go, by + a demonstrative lady of whom Isabel’s chief recollection was that her hair + was fastened with strange bedroomy combs at the temples and that she was + the widow of some one of consequence. The little girl had been offered the + opportunity of laying a foundation of knowledge in this establishment; but + having spent a single day in it, she had protested against its laws and + had been allowed to stay at home, where, in the September days, when the + windows of the Dutch House were open, she used to hear the hum of childish + voices repeating the multiplication table—an incident in which the + elation of liberty and the pain of exclusion were indistinguishably + mingled. The foundation of her knowledge was really laid in the idleness + of her grandmother’s house, where, as most of the other inmates were not + reading people, she had uncontrolled use of a library full of books with + frontispieces, which she used to climb upon a chair to take down. When she + had found one to her taste—she was guided in the selection chiefly + by the frontispiece—she carried it into a mysterious apartment which + lay beyond the library and which was called, traditionally, no one knew + why, the office. Whose office it had been and at what period it had + flourished, she never learned; it was enough for her that it contained an + echo and a pleasant musty smell and that it was a chamber of disgrace for + old pieces of furniture whose infirmities were not always apparent (so + that the disgrace seemed unmerited and rendered them victims of injustice) + and with which, in the manner of children, she had established relations + almost human, certainly dramatic. There was an old haircloth sofa in + especial, to which she had confided a hundred childish sorrows. The place + owed much of its mysterious melancholy to the fact that it was properly + entered from the second door of the house, the door that had been + condemned, and that it was secured by bolts which a particularly slender + little girl found it impossible to slide. She knew that this silent, + motionless portal opened into the street; if the sidelights had not been + filled with green paper she might have looked out upon the little brown + stoop and the well-worn brick pavement. But she had no wish to look out, + for this would have interfered with her theory that there was a strange, + unseen place on the other side—a place which became to the child’s + imagination, according to its different moods, a region of delight or of + terror. + </p> + <p> + It was in the “office” still that Isabel was sitting on that melancholy + afternoon of early spring which I have just mentioned. At this time she + might have had the whole house to choose from, and the room she had + selected was the most depressed of its scenes. She had never opened the + bolted door nor removed the green paper (renewed by other hands) from its + sidelights; she had never assured herself that the vulgar street lay + beyond. A crude, cold rain fell heavily; the spring-time was indeed an + appeal—and it seemed a cynical, insincere appeal—to patience. + Isabel, however, gave as little heed as possible to cosmic treacheries; + she kept her eyes on her book and tried to fix her mind. It had lately + occurred to her that her mind was a good deal of a vagabond, and she had + spent much ingenuity in training it to a military step and teaching it to + advance, to halt, to retreat, to perform even more complicated manoeuvres, + at the word of command. Just now she had given it marching orders and it + had been trudging over the sandy plains of a history of German Thought. + Suddenly she became aware of a step very different from her own + intellectual pace; she listened a little and perceived that some one was + moving in the library, which communicated with the office. It struck her + first as the step of a person from whom she was looking for a visit, then + almost immediately announced itself as the tread of a woman and a stranger—her + possible visitor being neither. It had an inquisitive, experimental + quality which suggested that it would not stop short of the threshold of + the office; and in fact the doorway of this apartment was presently + occupied by a lady who paused there and looked very hard at our heroine. + She was a plain, elderly woman, dressed in a comprehensive waterproof + mantle; she had a face with a good deal of rather violent point. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she began, “is that where you usually sit?” She looked about at the + heterogeneous chairs and tables. + </p> + <p> + “Not when I have visitors,” said Isabel, getting up to receive the + intruder. + </p> + <p> + She directed their course back to the library while the visitor continued + to look about her. “You seem to have plenty of other rooms; they’re in + rather better condition. But everything’s immensely worn.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you come to look at the house?” Isabel asked. “The servant will show + it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Send her away; I don’t want to buy it. She has probably gone to look for + you and is wandering about upstairs; she didn’t seem at all intelligent. + You had better tell her it’s no matter.” And then, since the girl stood + there hesitating and wondering, this unexpected critic said to her + abruptly: “I suppose you’re one of the daughters?” + </p> + <p> + Isabel thought she had very strange manners. “It depends upon whose + daughters you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “The late Mr. Archer’s—and my poor sister’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel slowly, “you must be our crazy Aunt Lydia!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that what your father told you to call me? I’m your Aunt Lydia, but + I’m not at all crazy: I haven’t a delusion! And which of the daughters are + you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m the youngest of the three, and my name’s Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the others are Lilian and Edith. And are you the prettiest?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the least idea,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I think you must be.” And in this way the aunt and the niece made + friends. The aunt had quarrelled years before with her brother-in-law, + after the death of her sister, taking him to task for the manner in which + he brought up his three girls. Being a high-tempered man he had requested + her to mind her own business, and she had taken him at his word. For many + years she held no communication with him and after his death had addressed + not a word to his daughters, who had been bred in that disrespectful view + of her which we have just seen Isabel betray. Mrs. Touchett’s behaviour + was, as usual, perfectly deliberate. She intended to go to America to look + after her investments (with which her husband, in spite of his great + financial position, had nothing to do) and would take advantage of this + opportunity to enquire into the condition of her nieces. There was no need + of writing, for she should attach no importance to any account of them she + should elicit by letter; she believed, always, in seeing for one’s self. + Isabel found, however, that she knew a good deal about them, and knew + about the marriage of the two elder girls; knew that their poor father had + left very little money, but that the house in Albany, which had passed + into his hands, was to be sold for their benefit; knew, finally, that + Edmund Ludlow, Lilian’s husband, had taken upon himself to attend to this + matter, in consideration of which the young couple, who had come to Albany + during Mr. Archer’s illness, were remaining there for the present and, as + well as Isabel herself, occupying the old place. + </p> + <p> + “How much money do you expect for it?” Mrs. Touchett asked of her + companion, who had brought her to sit in the front parlour, which she had + inspected without enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the least idea,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the second time you have said that to me,” her aunt rejoined. “And + yet you don’t look at all stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not stupid; but I don’t know anything about money.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s the way you were brought up—as if you were to inherit a + million. What have you in point of fact inherited?” + </p> + <p> + “I really can’t tell you. You must ask Edmund and Lilian; they’ll be back + in half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “In Florence we should call it a very bad house,” said Mrs. Touchett; “but + here, I dare say, it will bring a high price. It ought to make a + considerable sum for each of you. In addition to that you must have + something else; it’s most extraordinary your not knowing. The position’s + of value, and they’ll probably pull it down and make a row of shops. I + wonder you don’t do that yourself; you might let the shops to great + advantage.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel stared; the idea of letting shops was new to her. “I hope they + won’t pull it down,” she said; “I’m extremely fond of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what makes you fond of it; your father died here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I don’t dislike it for that,” the girl rather strangely + returned. “I like places in which things have happened—even if + they’re sad things. A great many people have died here; the place has been + full of life.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that what you call being full of life?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean full of experience—of people’s feelings and sorrows. And not + of their sorrows only, for I’ve been very happy here as a child.” + </p> + <p> + “You should go to Florence if you like houses in which things have + happened—especially deaths. I live in an old palace in which three + people have been murdered; three that were known and I don’t know how many + more besides.” + </p> + <p> + “In an old palace?” Isabel repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear; a very different affair from this. This is very bourgeois.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel felt some emotion, for she had always thought highly of her + grandmother’s house. But the emotion was of a kind which led her to say: + “I should like very much to go to Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you’ll be very good, and do everything I tell you I’ll take you + there,” Mrs. Touchett declared. + </p> + <p> + Our young woman’s emotion deepened; she flushed a little and smiled at her + aunt in silence. “Do everything you tell me? I don’t think I can promise + that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you don’t look like a person of that sort. You’re fond of your own + way; but it’s not for me to blame you.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet, to go to Florence,” the girl exclaimed in a moment, “I’d promise + almost anything!” + </p> + <p> + Edmund and Lilian were slow to return, and Mrs. Touchett had an hour’s + uninterrupted talk with her niece, who found her a strange and interesting + figure: a figure essentially—almost the first she had ever met. She + was as eccentric as Isabel had always supposed; and hitherto, whenever the + girl had heard people described as eccentric, she had thought of them as + offensive or alarming. The term had always suggested to her something + grotesque and even sinister. But her aunt made it a matter of high but + easy irony, or comedy, and led her to ask herself if the common tone, + which was all she had known, had ever been as interesting. No one + certainly had on any occasion so held her as this little thin-lipped, + bright-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who retrieved an insignificant + appearance by a distinguished manner and, sitting there in a well-worn + waterproof, talked with striking familiarity of the courts of Europe. + There was nothing flighty about Mrs. Touchett, but she recognised no + social superiors, and, judging the great ones of the earth in a way that + spoke of this, enjoyed the consciousness of making an impression on a + candid and susceptible mind. Isabel at first had answered a good many + questions, and it was from her answers apparently that Mrs. Touchett + derived a high opinion of her intelligence. But after this she had asked a + good many, and her aunt’s answers, whatever turn they took, struck her as + food for deep reflexion. Mrs. Touchett waited for the return of her other + niece as long as she thought reasonable, but as at six o’clock Mrs. Ludlow + had not come in she prepared to take her departure. + </p> + <p> + “Your sister must be a great gossip. Is she accustomed to staying out so + many hours?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been out almost as long as she,” Isabel replied; “she can have + left the house but a short time before you came in.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett looked at the girl without resentment; she appeared to enjoy + a bold retort and to be disposed to be gracious. “Perhaps she hasn’t had + so good an excuse as I. Tell her at any rate that she must come and see me + this evening at that horrid hotel. She may bring her husband if she likes, + but she needn’t bring you. I shall see plenty of you later.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Ludlow was the eldest of the three sisters, and was usually thought + the most sensible; the classification being in general that Lilian was the + practical one, Edith the beauty and Isabel the “intellectual” superior. + Mrs. Keyes, the second of the group, was the wife of an officer of the + United States Engineers, and as our history is not further concerned with + her it will suffice that she was indeed very pretty and that she formed + the ornament of those various military stations, chiefly in the + unfashionable West, to which, to her deep chagrin, her husband was + successively relegated. Lilian had married a New York lawyer, a young man + with a loud voice and an enthusiasm for his profession; the match was not + brilliant, any more than Edith’s, but Lilian had occasionally been spoken + of as a young woman who might be thankful to marry at all—she was so + much plainer than her sisters. She was, however, very happy, and now, as + the mother of two peremptory little boys and the mistress of a wedge of + brown stone violently driven into Fifty-third Street, seemed to exult in + her condition as in a bold escape. She was short and solid, and her claim + to figure was questioned, but she was conceded presence, though not + majesty; she had moreover, as people said, improved since her marriage, + and the two things in life of which she was most distinctly conscious were + her husband’s force in argument and her sister Isabel’s originality. “I’ve + never kept up with Isabel—it would have taken all my time,” she had + often remarked; in spite of which, however, she held her rather wistfully + in sight; watching her as a motherly spaniel might watch a free greyhound. + “I want to see her safely married—that’s what I want to see,” she + frequently noted to her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must say I should have no particular desire to marry her,” Edmund + Ludlow was accustomed to answer in an extremely audible tone. + </p> + <p> + “I know you say that for argument; you always take the opposite ground. I + don’t see what you’ve against her except that she’s so original.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t like originals; I like translations,” Mr. Ludlow had more + than once replied. “Isabel’s written in a foreign tongue. I can’t make her + out. She ought to marry an Armenian or a Portuguese.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I’m afraid she’ll do!” cried Lilian, who thought Isabel + capable of anything. + </p> + <p> + She listened with great interest to the girl’s account of Mrs. Touchett’s + appearance and in the evening prepared to comply with their aunt’s + commands. Of what Isabel then said no report has remained, but her + sister’s words had doubtless prompted a word spoken to her husband as the + two were making ready for their visit. “I do hope immensely she’ll do + something handsome for Isabel; she has evidently taken a great fancy to + her.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it you wish her to do?” Edmund Ludlow asked. “Make her a big + present?” + </p> + <p> + “No indeed; nothing of the sort. But take an interest in her—sympathise + with her. She’s evidently just the sort of person to appreciate her. She + has lived so much in foreign society; she told Isabel all about it. You + know you’ve always thought Isabel rather foreign.” + </p> + <p> + “You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh? Don’t you think + she gets enough at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she ought to go abroad,” said Mrs. Ludlow. “She’s just the person + to go abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “And you want the old lady to take her, is that it?” + </p> + <p> + “She has offered to take her—she’s dying to have Isabel go. But what + I want her to do when she gets her there is to give her all the + advantages. I’m sure all we’ve got to do,” said Mrs. Ludlow, “is to give + her a chance.” + </p> + <p> + “A chance for what?” + </p> + <p> + “A chance to develop.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh Moses!” Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. “I hope she isn’t going to develop + any more!” + </p> + <p> + “If I were not sure you only said that for argument I should feel very + badly,” his wife replied. “But you know you love her.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know I love you?” the young man said, jocosely, to Isabel a little + later, while he brushed his hat. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t care whether you do or not!” exclaimed the girl; whose + voice and smile, however, were less haughty than her words. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she feels so grand since Mrs. Touchett’s visit,” said her sister. + </p> + <p> + But Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of seriousness. “You + must not say that, Lily. I don’t feel grand at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure there’s no harm,” said the conciliatory Lily. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but there’s nothing in Mrs. Touchett’s visit to make one feel grand.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” exclaimed Ludlow, “she’s grander than ever!” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever I feel grand,” said the girl, “it will be for a better reason.” + </p> + <p> + Whether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt different, as if + something had happened to her. Left to herself for the evening she sat a + while under the lamp, her hands empty, her usual avocations unheeded. Then + she rose and moved about the room, and from one room to another, + preferring the places where the vague lamplight expired. She was restless + and even agitated; at moments she trembled a little. The importance of + what had happened was out of proportion to its appearance; there had + really been a change in her life. What it would bring with it was as yet + extremely indefinite; but Isabel was in a situation that gave a value to + any change. She had a desire to leave the past behind her and, as she said + to herself, to begin afresh. This desire indeed was not a birth of the + present occasion; it was as familiar as the sound of the rain upon the + window and it had led to her beginning afresh a great many times. She + closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners of the quiet + parlour; but it was not with a desire for dozing forgetfulness. It was on + the contrary because she felt too wide-eyed and wished to check the sense + of seeing too many things at once. Her imagination was by habit + ridiculously active; when the door was not open it jumped out of the + window. She was not accustomed indeed to keep it behind bolts; and at + important moments, when she would have been thankful to make use of her + judgement alone, she paid the penalty of having given undue encouragement + to the faculty of seeing without judging. At present, with her sense that + the note of change had been struck, came gradually a host of images of the + things she was leaving behind her. The years and hours of her life came + back to her, and for a long time, in a stillness broken only by the + ticking of the big bronze clock, she passed them in review. It had been a + very happy life and she had been a very fortunate person—this was + the truth that seemed to emerge most vividly. She had had the best of + everything, and in a world in which the circumstances of so many people + made them unenviable it was an advantage never to have known anything + particularly unpleasant. It appeared to Isabel that the unpleasant had + been even too absent from her knowledge, for she had gathered from her + acquaintance with literature that it was often a source of interest and + even of instruction. Her father had kept it away from her—her + handsome, much loved father, who always had such an aversion to it. It was + a great felicity to have been his daughter; Isabel rose even to pride in + her parentage. Since his death she had seemed to see him as turning his + braver side to his children and as not having managed to ignore the ugly + quite so much in practice as in aspiration. But this only made her + tenderness for him greater; it was scarcely even painful to have to + suppose him too generous, too good-natured, too indifferent to sordid + considerations. Many persons had held that he carried this indifference + too far, especially the large number of those to whom he owed money. Of + their opinions Isabel was never very definitely informed; but it may + interest the reader to know that, while they had recognised in the late + Mr. Archer a remarkably handsome head and a very taking manner (indeed, as + one of them had said, he was always taking something), they had declared + that he was making a very poor use of his life. He had squandered a + substantial fortune, he had been deplorably convivial, he was known to + have gambled freely. A few very harsh critics went so far as to say that + he had not even brought up his daughters. They had had no regular + education and no permanent home; they had been at once spoiled and + neglected; they had lived with nursemaids and governesses (usually very + bad ones) or had been sent to superficial schools, kept by the French, + from which, at the end of a month, they had been removed in tears. This + view of the matter would have excited Isabel’s indignation, for to her own + sense her opportunities had been large. Even when her father had left his + daughters for three months at Neufchatel with a French <i>bonne</i> who + had eloped with a Russian nobleman staying at the same hotel—even in + this irregular situation (an incident of the girl’s eleventh year) she had + been neither frightened nor ashamed, but had thought it a romantic episode + in a liberal education. Her father had a large way of looking at life, of + which his restlessness and even his occasional incoherency of conduct had + been only a proof. He wished his daughters, even as children, to see as + much of the world as possible; and it was for this purpose that, before + Isabel was fourteen, he had transported them three times across the + Atlantic, giving them on each occasion, however, but a few months’ view of + the subject proposed: a course which had whetted our heroine’s curiosity + without enabling her to satisfy it. She ought to have been a partisan of + her father, for she was the member of his trio who most “made up” to him + for the disagreeables he didn’t mention. In his last days his general + willingness to take leave of a world in which the difficulty of doing as + one liked appeared to increase as one grew older had been sensibly + modified by the pain of separation from his clever, his superior, his + remarkable girl. Later, when the journeys to Europe ceased, he still had + shown his children all sorts of indulgence, and if he had been troubled + about money-matters nothing ever disturbed their irreflective + consciousness of many possessions. Isabel, though she danced very well, + had not the recollection of having been in New York a successful member of + the choreographic circle; her sister Edith was, as every one said, so very + much more fetching. Edith was so striking an example of success that + Isabel could have no illusions as to what constituted this advantage, or + as to the limits of her own power to frisk and jump and shriek—above + all with rightness of effect. Nineteen persons out of twenty (including + the younger sister herself) pronounced Edith infinitely the prettier of + the two; but the twentieth, besides reversing this judgement, had the + entertainment of thinking all the others aesthetic vulgarians. Isabel had + in the depths of her nature an even more unquenchable desire to please + than Edith; but the depths of this young lady’s nature were a very + out-of-the-way place, between which and the surface communication was + interrupted by a dozen capricious forces. She saw the young men who came + in large numbers to see her sister; but as a general thing they were + afraid of her; they had a belief that some special preparation was + required for talking with her. Her reputation of reading a great deal hung + about her like the cloudy envelope of a goddess in an epic; it was + supposed to engender difficult questions and to keep the conversation at a + low temperature. The poor girl liked to be thought clever, but she hated + to be thought bookish; she used to read in secret and, though her memory + was excellent, to abstain from showy reference. She had a great desire for + knowledge, but she really preferred almost any source of information to + the printed page; she had an immense curiosity about life and was + constantly staring and wondering. She carried within herself a great fund + of life, and her deepest enjoyment was to feel the continuity between the + movements of her own soul and the agitations of the world. For this reason + she was fond of seeing great crowds and large stretches of country, of + reading about revolutions and wars, of looking at historical pictures—a + class of efforts as to which she had often committed the conscious + solecism of forgiving them much bad painting for the sake of the subject. + While the Civil War went on she was still a very young girl; but she + passed months of this long period in a state of almost passionate + excitement, in which she felt herself at times (to her extreme confusion) + stirred almost indiscriminately by the valour of either army. Of course + the circumspection of suspicious swains had never gone the length of + making her a social proscript; for the number of those whose hearts, as + they approached her, beat only just fast enough to remind them they had + heads as well, had kept her unacquainted with the supreme disciplines of + her sex and age. She had had everything a girl could have: kindness, + admiration, bonbons, bouquets, the sense of exclusion from none of the + privileges of the world she lived in, abundant opportunity for dancing, + plenty of new dresses, the London <i>Spectator</i>, the latest + publications, the music of Gounod, the poetry of Browning, the prose of + George Eliot. + </p> + <p> + These things now, as memory played over them, resolved themselves into a + multitude of scenes and figures. Forgotten things came back to her; many + others, which she had lately thought of great moment, dropped out of + sight. The result was kaleidoscopic, but the movement of the instrument + was checked at last by the servant’s coming in with the name of a + gentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar Goodwood; he was a + straight young man from Boston, who had known Miss Archer for the last + twelvemonth and who, thinking her the most beautiful young woman of her + time, had pronounced the time, according to the rule I have hinted at, a + foolish period of history. He sometimes wrote to her and had within a week + or two written from New York. She had thought it very possible he would + come in—had indeed all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him. Now + that she learned he was there, nevertheless, she felt no eagerness to + receive him. He was the finest young man she had ever seen, was indeed + quite a splendid young man; he inspired her with a sentiment of high, of + rare respect. She had never felt equally moved to it by any other person. + He was supposed by the world in general to wish to marry her, but this of + course was between themselves. It at least may be affirmed that he had + travelled from New York to Albany expressly to see her; having learned in + the former city, where he was spending a few days and where he had hoped + to find her, that she was still at the State capital. Isabel delayed for + some minutes to go to him; she moved about the room with a new sense of + complications. But at last she presented herself and found him standing + near the lamp. He was tall, strong and somewhat stiff; he was also lean + and brown. He was not romantically, he was much rather obscurely, + handsome; but his physiognomy had an air of requesting your attention, + which it rewarded according to the charm you found in blue eyes of + remarkable fixedness, the eyes of a complexion other than his own, and a + jaw of the somewhat angular mould which is supposed to bespeak resolution. + Isabel said to herself that it bespoke resolution to-night; in spite of + which, in half an hour, Caspar Goodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well + as resolute, took his way back to his lodging with the feeling of a man + defeated. He was not, it may be added, a man weakly to accept defeat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his + mother’s door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness. Even + philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted that of his + progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the sweetness of + filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to himself, was the + more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was paternal, and even, + according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial. She was nevertheless + very fond of her only child and had always insisted on his spending three + months of the year with her. Ralph rendered perfect justice to her + affection and knew that in her thoughts and her thoroughly arranged and + servanted life his turn always came after the other nearest subjects of + her solicitude, the various punctualities of performance of the workers of + her will. He found her completely dressed for dinner, but she embraced her + boy with her gloved hands and made him sit on the sofa beside her. She + enquired scrupulously about her husband’s health and about the young man’s + own, and, receiving no very brilliant account of either, remarked that she + was more than ever convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the + English climate. In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled + at the idea of his mother’s giving way, but made no point of reminding her + that his own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from + which he absented himself for a considerable part of each year. + </p> + <p> + He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett, a + native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as subordinate + partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he gained + preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long residence + in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a simple, sane + and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had no intention of + disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his only son any such + subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a problem to live in + England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to him equally simple + his lawful heir should after his death carry on the grey old bank in the + white American light. He was at pains to intensify this light, however, by + sending the boy home for his education. Ralph spent several terms at an + American school and took a degree at an American university, after which, + as he struck his father on his return as even redundantly native, he was + placed for some three years in residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up + Harvard, and Ralph became at last English enough. His outward conformity + to the manners that surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind + that greatly enjoyed its independence, on which nothing long imposed + itself, and which, naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in + a boundless liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of + promise; at Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father’s ineffable + satisfaction, and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so + clever a fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a + career by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in + uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with him + (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put a watery + waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he regarded as his + best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father, he admired him—he + enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel Touchett, to his + perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself had no aptitude for + the banking mystery he made a point of learning enough of it to measure + the great figure his father had played. It was not this, however, he + mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface, polished as by the English + air, that the old man had opposed to possibilities of penetration. Daniel + Touchett had been neither at Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own + fault if he had placed in his son’s hands the key to modern criticism. + Ralph, whose head was full of ideas which his father had never guessed, + had a high esteem for the latter’s originality. Americans, rightly or + wrongly, are commended for the ease with which they adapt themselves to + foreign conditions; but Mr. Touchett had made of the very limits of his + pliancy half the ground of his general success. He had retained in their + freshness most of his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son + always noted with pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New + England. At the end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as + mellow as he was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the + disposition superficially to fraternise, and his “social position,” on + which he had never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed + fruit. It was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the + historic consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by + English life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. + There were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he + had never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards + these latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought + less well of him. + </p> + <p> + Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling; after + which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father’s bank. + The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I believe, + measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other + considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of + standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise, + however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end of + some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out of + health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs and + threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply, to the + letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he slighted + the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least he was taking + care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person with whom he had + nothing in common. This person, however, improved on acquaintance, and + Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging tolerance, even an + undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows, and + our young man, feeling that he had something at stake in the matter—it + usually struck him as his reputation for ordinary wit—devoted to his + graceless charge an amount of attention of which note was duly taken and + which had at least the effect of keeping the poor fellow alive. One of his + lungs began to heal, the other promised to follow its example, and he was + assured he might outweather a dozen winters if he would betake himself to + those climates in which consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown + extremely fond of London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same + time that he cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his + sensitive organ grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a + lighter hand. He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, + stopped at home when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once + or twice, when it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again. + </p> + <p> + A secret hoard of indifference—like a thick cake a fond old nurse + might have slipped into his first school outfit—came to his aid and + helped to reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for + aught but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really + nothing he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not + renounced the field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of + forbidden fruit seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that + the finest of pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was + like reading a good book in a poor translation—a meagre + entertainment for a young man who felt that he might have been an + excellent linguist. He had good winters and poor winters, and while the + former lasted he was sometimes the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. + But this vision was dispelled some three years before the occurrence of + the incidents with which this history opens: he had on that occasion + remained later than usual in England and had been overtaken by bad weather + before reaching Algiers. He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for + several weeks between life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but + the first use he made of it was to assure himself that such miracles + happen but once. He said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it + behoved him to keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to + spend the interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a + preoccupation. With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his + faculties became an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of + contemplation had never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had + found it hard that he should be obliged to give up the idea of + distinguishing himself; an idea none the less importunate for being vague + and none the less delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast + with bursts of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him + more cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their + heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but + the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin. + </p> + <p> + It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing in + itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph’s quickly-stirred interest in + the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was + consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough for + a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the + imagination of loving—as distinguished from that of being loved—had + still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the + riot of expression. However, he shouldn’t inspire his cousin with a + passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one. + “And now tell me about the young lady,” he said to his mother. “What do + you mean to do with her?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett was prompt. “I mean to ask your father to invite her to stay + three or four weeks at Gardencourt.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t stand on any such ceremony as that,” said Ralph. “My father + will ask her as a matter of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about that. She’s my niece; she’s not his.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That’s all the more + reason for his asking her. But after that—I mean after three months + (for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four + paltry weeks)—what do you mean to do with her?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, that’s of course. But independently of that?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t rise above detail, dear mother,” said Ralph. “I should like to + know what you mean to do with her in a general way.” + </p> + <p> + “My duty!” Mrs. Touchett declared. “I suppose you pity her very much,” she + added. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t think I pity her. She doesn’t strike me as inviting + compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a hint + of where you see your duty.” + </p> + <p> + “In showing her four European countries—I shall leave her the choice + of two of them—and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting + herself in French, which she already knows very well.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph frowned a little. “That sounds rather dry—even allowing her + the choice of two of the countries.” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s dry,” said his mother with a laugh, “you can leave Isabel alone + to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean she’s a gifted being?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether she’s a gifted being, but she’s a clever girl—with + a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being bored.” + </p> + <p> + “I can imagine that,” said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: “How do you + two get on?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean by that that I’m a bore? I don’t think she finds me one. Some + girls might, I know; but Isabel’s too clever for that. I think I greatly + amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort of girl she + is. She’s very frank, and I’m very frank: we know just what to expect of + each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, dear mother,” Ralph exclaimed, “one always knows what to expect of + you! You’ve never surprised me but once, and that’s to-day—in + presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never suspected.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think her so very pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Very pretty indeed; but I don’t insist upon that. It’s her general air of + being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare creature, + and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make her + acquaintance?” + </p> + <p> + “I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a + rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn’t + know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very + grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn’t have enlightened her—I + should have let her alone. There’s a good deal in that, but I acted + conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It occurred + to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and introduce her to + the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of it—like most + American girls; but like most American girls she’s ridiculously mistaken. + If you want to know, I thought she would do me credit. I like to be well + thought of, and for a woman of my age there’s no greater convenience, in + some ways, than an attractive niece. You know I had seen nothing of my + sister’s children for years; I disapproved entirely of the father. But I + always meant to do something for them when he should have gone to his + reward. I ascertained where they were to be found and, without any + preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There are two others of them, + both of whom are married; but I saw only the elder, who has, by the way, a + very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name is Lily, jumped at the idea of + my taking an interest in Isabel; she said it was just what her sister + needed—that some one should take an interest in her. She spoke of + her as you might speak of some young person of genius—in want of + encouragement and patronage. It may be that Isabel’s a genius; but in that + case I’ve not yet learned her special line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially + keen about my taking her to Europe; they all regard Europe over there as a + land of emigration, of rescue, a refuge for their superfluous population. + Isabel herself seemed very glad to come, and the thing was easily + arranged. There was a little difficulty about the money-question, as she + seemed averse to being under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small + income and she supposes herself to be travelling at her own expense.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his + interest in the subject of it was not impaired. “Ah, if she’s a genius,” + he said, “we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for + flirting?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so. You may suspect that at first, but you’ll be wrong. You + won’t, I think, in any way, be easily right about her.” + </p> + <p> + “Warburton’s wrong then!” Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. “He flatters + himself he has made that discovery.” + </p> + <p> + His mother shook her head. “Lord Warburton won’t understand her. He + needn’t try.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s very intelligent,” said Ralph; “but it’s right he should be puzzled + once in a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord,” Mrs. Touchett remarked. + </p> + <p> + Her son frowned a little. “What does she know about lords?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window. Then, + “Are you not going down to see my father?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “At a quarter to eight,” said Mrs. Touchett. + </p> + <p> + Her son looked at his watch. “You’ve another quarter of an hour then. Tell + me some more about Isabel.” After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined his + invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, “Well,” he + pursued, “she’ll certainly do you credit. But won’t she also give you + trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do that.” + </p> + <p> + “She strikes me as very natural,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Natural people are not the most trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Ralph; “you yourself are a proof of that. You’re extremely + natural, and I’m sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble to + do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of + making herself disagreeable?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried his mother, “you ask too many questions! Find that out for + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + His questions, however, were not exhausted. “All this time,” he said, + “you’ve not told me what you intend to do with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do + absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she + chooses. She gave me notice of that.” + </p> + <p> + “What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character’s + independent.” + </p> + <p> + “I never know what I mean in my telegrams—especially those I send + from America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not yet a quarter to eight,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “I must allow for his impatience,” Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew what + to think of his father’s impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he offered + his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they descended together, + to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the staircase—the + broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak which was one of + the most striking features of Gardencourt. “You’ve no plan of marrying + her?” he smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart from + that, she’s perfectly able to marry herself. She has every facility.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about a husband, but there’s a young man in Boston—!” + </p> + <p> + Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston. “As + my father says, they’re always engaged!” + </p> + <p> + His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the source, + and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He had a good + deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been left together + in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over from his own + house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his departure before + dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and Mrs. Touchett, who + appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their forms, withdrew, under + the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective apartments. The young + man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had been travelling half the + day she appeared in no degree spent. She was really tired; she knew it, + and knew she should pay for it on the morrow; but it was her habit at this + period to carry exhaustion to the furthest point and confess to it only + when dissimulation broke down. A fine hypocrisy was for the present + possible; she was interested; she was, as she said to herself, floated. + She asked Ralph to show her the pictures; there were a great many in the + house, most of them of his own choosing. The best were arranged in an + oaken gallery, of charming proportions, which had a sitting-room at either + end of it and which in the evening was usually lighted. The light was + insufficient to show the pictures to advantage, and the visit might have + stood over to the morrow. This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but + Isabel looked disappointed—smiling still, however—and said: + “If you please I should like to see them just a little.” She was eager, + she knew she was eager and now seemed so; she couldn’t help it. “She + doesn’t take suggestions,” Ralph said to himself; but he said it without + irritation; her pressure amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on + brackets, at intervals, and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It + fell upon the vague squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of + heavy frames; it made a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph + took a candlestick and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; + Isabel, inclining to one picture after another, indulged in little + exclamations and murmurs. She was evidently a judge; she had a natural + taste; he was struck with that. She took a candlestick herself and held it + slowly here and there; she lifted it high, and as she did so he found + himself pausing in the middle of the place and bending his eyes much less + upon the pictures than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by + these wandering glances, for she was better worth looking at than most + works of art. She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and + proveably tall; when people had wished to distinguish her from the other + two Miss Archers they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, + which was dark even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many + women; her light grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver + moments, had an enchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one + side of the gallery and down the other, and then she said: “Well, now I + know more than I did when I began!” + </p> + <p> + “You apparently have a great passion for knowledge,” her cousin returned. + </p> + <p> + “I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant.” + </p> + <p> + “You strike me as different from most girls.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, some of them would—but the way they’re talked to!” murmured + Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a moment, + to change the subject, “Please tell me—isn’t there a ghost?” she + went on. + </p> + <p> + “A ghost?” + </p> + <p> + “A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in America.” + </p> + <p> + “So we do here, when we see them.” + </p> + <p> + “You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a romantic old house,” said Ralph. “You’ll be disappointed if + you count on that. It’s a dismally prosaic one; there’s no romance here + but what you may have brought with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve brought a great deal; but it seems to me I’ve brought it to the + right place.” + </p> + <p> + “To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here, + between my father and me.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at him a moment. “Is there never any one here but your + father and you?” + </p> + <p> + “My mother, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know your mother; she’s not romantic. Haven’t you other people?” + </p> + <p> + “Very few.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for that; I like so much to see people.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we’ll invite all the county to amuse you,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re making fun of me,” the girl answered rather gravely. “Who was + the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?” + </p> + <p> + “A county neighbour; he doesn’t come very often.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for that; I liked him,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him,” Ralph objected. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too, immensely.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t do better than that. He’s the dearest of the dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m so sorry he is ill,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I am; I’ve been told I’m not; I’m said to have too many + theories. But you haven’t told me about the ghost,” she added. + </p> + <p> + Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. “You like my father and + you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “I like your mother very much, because—because—” And Isabel + found herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs. + Touchett. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, we never know why!” said her companion, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “I always know why,” the girl answered. “It’s because she doesn’t expect + one to like her. She doesn’t care whether one does or not.” + </p> + <p> + “So you adore her—out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my + mother,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try + to make them do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, how you see through one!” he cried with a dismay that was + not altogether jocular. + </p> + <p> + “But I like you all the same,” his cousin went on. “The way to clinch the + matter will be to show me the ghost.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph shook his head sadly. “I might show it to you, but you’d never see + it. The privilege isn’t given to every one; it’s not enviable. It has + never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must have + suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable + knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,” + said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “I told you just now I’m very fond of knowledge,” Isabel answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of happy knowledge—of pleasant knowledge. But you haven’t + suffered, and you’re not made to suffer. I hope you’ll never see the + ghost!” + </p> + <p> + She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with a + certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck him + as rather presumptuous—indeed it was a part of her charm; and he + wondered what she would say. “I’m not afraid, you know,” she said: which + seemed quite presumptuous enough. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not afraid of suffering?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m afraid of suffering. But I’m not afraid of ghosts. And I think + people suffer too easily,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you do,” said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in his + pockets. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that’s a fault,” she answered. “It’s not absolutely + necessary to suffer; we were not made for that.” + </p> + <p> + “You were not, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not speaking of myself.” And she wandered off a little. + </p> + <p> + “No, it isn’t a fault,” said her cousin. “It’s a merit to be strong.” + </p> + <p> + “Only, if you don’t suffer they call you hard,” Isabel remarked. + </p> + <p> + They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had returned + from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the staircase. + Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle, which he had + taken from a niche. “Never mind what they call you. When you do suffer + they call you an idiot. The great point’s to be as happy as possible.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot + on the oaken stair. “Well,” she said, “that’s what I came to Europe for, + to be as happy as possible. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to contribute + to it!” + </p> + <p> + She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with his + hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was + remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind than + most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger + perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was tinged + with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries she passed + for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these excellent people + never withheld their admiration from a reach of intellect of which they + themselves were not conscious, and spoke of Isabel as a prodigy of + learning, a creature reported to have read the classic authors—in + translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once spread the rumour that + Isabel was writing a book—Mrs. Varian having a reverence for books, + and averred that the girl would distinguish herself in print. Mrs. Varian + thought highly of literature, for which she entertained that esteem that + is connected with a sense of privation. Her own large house, remarkable + for its assortment of mosaic tables and decorated ceilings, was + unfurnished with a library, and in the way of printed volumes contained + nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on a shelf in the apartment of + one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs. Varian’s acquaintance with + literature was confined to The New York <i>Interviewer</i>; as she very + justly said, after you had read the <i>Interviewer</i> you had lost all + faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather to keep the <i>Interviewer</i> + out of the way of her daughters; she was determined to bring them up + properly, and they read nothing at all. Her impression with regard to + Isabel’s labours was quite illusory; the girl had never attempted to write + a book and had no desire for the laurels of authorship. She had no talent + for expression and too little of the consciousness of genius; she only had + a general idea that people were right when they treated her as if she were + rather superior. Whether or no she were superior, people were right in + admiring her if they thought her so; for it seemed to her often that her + mind moved more quickly than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience + that might easily be confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed + without delay that Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of + self-esteem; she often surveyed with complacency the field of her own + nature; she was in the habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, + that she was right; she treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile + her errors and delusions were frequently such as a biographer interested + in preserving the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her + thoughts were a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by + the judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion she + had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous + zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then she + treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she held her + head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an unquenchable + desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it was only under + this provision life was worth living; that one should be one of the best, + should be conscious of a fine organisation (she couldn’t help knowing her + organisation was fine), should move in a realm of light, of natural + wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully chronic. It was almost + as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one’s self as to cultivate doubt of + one’s best friend: one should try to be one’s own best friend and to give + one’s self, in this manner, distinguished company. The girl had a certain + nobleness of imagination which rendered her a good many services and + played her a great many tricks. She spent half her time in thinking of + beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had a fixed determination to + regard the world as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of + irresistible action: she held it must be detestable to be afraid or + ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never do anything wrong. + She had resented so strongly, after discovering them, her mere errors of + feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if she had escaped from + a trap which might have caught her and smothered her) that the chance of + inflicting a sensible injury upon another person, presented only as a + contingency, caused her at moments to hold her breath. That always struck + her as the worst thing that could happen to her. On the whole, + reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about the things that were wrong. + She had no love of their look, but when she fixed them hard she recognised + them. It was wrong to be mean, to be jealous, to be false, to be cruel; + she had seen very little of the evil of the world, but she had seen women + who lied and who tried to hurt each other. Seeing such things had + quickened her high spirit; it seemed indecent not to scorn them. Of course + the danger of a high spirit was the danger of inconsistency—the + danger of keeping up the flag after the place has surrendered; a sort of + behaviour so crooked as to be almost a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, + who knew little of the sorts of artillery to which young women are + exposed, flattered herself that such contradictions would never be noted + in her own conduct. Her life should always be in harmony with the most + pleasing impression she should produce; she would be what she appeared, + and she would appear what she was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish + that she might find herself some day in a difficult position, so that she + should have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. + Altogether, with her meagre knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence + at once innocent and dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, + her mixture of curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, + her desire to look very well and to be if possible even better, her + determination to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, + desultory, flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of + conditions: she would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she + were not intended to awaken on the reader’s part an impulse more tender + and more purely expectant. + </p> + <p> + It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in being + independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use of that + state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of singleness; + she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister Lily + constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose + acquaintance she had made shortly before her father’s death, who offered + so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her as + a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability; she + was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the <i>Interviewer</i>, + from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other places, were + universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence “ephemeral,” + but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the writer, who, + without parents and without property, had adopted three of the children of + an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their school-bills out of the + proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was in the van of progress and + had clear-cut views on most subjects; her cherished desire had long been + to come to Europe and write a series of letters to the <i>Interviewer</i> + from the radical point of view—an enterprise the less difficult as + she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions would be and to how many + objections most European institutions lay open. When she heard that Isabel + was coming she wished to start at once; thinking, naturally, that it would + be delightful the two should travel together. She had been obliged, + however, to postpone this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious + creature, and had spoken of her covertly in some of her letters, though + she never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not have taken + pleasure in it and was not a regular student of the <i>Interviewer</i>. + Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a woman might suffice to + herself and be happy. Her resources were of the obvious kind; but even if + one had not the journalistic talent and a genius for guessing, as + Henrietta said, what the public was going to want, one was not therefore + to conclude that one had no vocation, no beneficent aptitude of any sort, + and resign one’s self to being frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly + determined not to be hollow. If one should wait with the right patience + one would find some happy work to one’s hand. Of course, among her + theories, this young lady was not without a collection of views on the + subject of marriage. The first on the list was a conviction of the + vulgarity of thinking too much of it. From lapsing into eagerness on this + point she earnestly prayed she might be delivered; she held that a woman + ought to be able to live to herself, in the absence of exceptional + flimsiness, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy without the + society of a more or less coarse-minded person of another sex. The girl’s + prayer was very sufficiently answered; something pure and proud that there + was in her—something cold and dry an unappreciated suitor with a + taste for analysis might have called it—had hitherto kept her from + any great vanity of conjecture on the article of possible husbands. Few of + the men she saw seemed worth a ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile + to think that one of them should present himself as an incentive to hope + and a reward of patience. Deep in her soul—it was the deepest thing + there—lay a belief that if a certain light should dawn she could + give herself completely; but this image, on the whole, was too formidable + to be attractive. Isabel’s thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom + rested on it long; after a little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to + her that she thought too much about herself; you could have made her + colour, any day in the year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always + planning out her development, desiring her perfection, observing her + progress. Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a + suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and + lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection was, after all, + an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one’s + spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But + she was often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than + those of her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many + places which were not gardens at all—only dusky pestiferous tracts, + planted thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid + curiosity on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to + this beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she + often checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were + less happy than herself—a thought which for the moment made her + fine, full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do + with the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one’s self? + It must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too + young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always + returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one thought + clever should begin by getting a general impression of life. This + impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should be + secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject of + special attention. + </p> + <p> + England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a + child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had seen + only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not + London, was her father’s Mecca, and into many of his interests there his + children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had + grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that she + now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle’s house seemed a + picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon Isabel; + the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and gratified + a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the + deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark, polished + panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always peeping in, the + sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a “property”—a place + where sounds were felicitously accidental, where the tread was muffed by + the earth itself and in the thick mild air all friction dropped out of + contact and all shrillness out of talk—these things were much to the + taste of our young lady, whose taste played a considerable part in her + emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her uncle, and often sat by + his chair when he had had it moved out to the lawn. He passed hours in the + open air, sitting with folded hands like a placid, homely household god, a + god of service, who had done his work and received his wages and was + trying to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-days. Isabel + amused him more than she suspected—the effect she produced upon + people was often different from what she supposed—and he frequently + gave himself the pleasure of making her chatter. It was by this term that + he qualified her conversation, which had much of the “point” observable in + that of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear of the world is + more directly presented than to their sisters in other lands. Like the + mass of American girls Isabel had been encouraged to express herself; her + remarks had been attended to; she had been expected to have emotions and + opinions. Many of her opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of + her emotions passed away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in + giving her the habit of seeming at least to feel and think, and in + imparting moreover to her words when she was really moved that prompt + vividness which so many people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. + Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was + in her teens. It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to + understand, to speak—so many characteristics of her niece—that + he had fallen in love with Mrs. Touchett. He never expressed this analogy + to the girl herself, however; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like + Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of + kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they had had any + young life in the house; and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced + heroine was as agreeable to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He + wanted to do something for her and wished she would ask it of him. She + would ask nothing but questions; it is true that of these she asked a + quantity. Her uncle had a great fund of answers, though her pressure + sometimes came in forms that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely + about England, about the British constitution, the English character, the + state of politics, the manners and customs of the royal family, the + peculiarities of the aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his + neighbours; and in begging to be enlightened on these points she usually + enquired whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The + old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he + smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs. + </p> + <p> + “The books?” he once said; “well, I don’t know much about the books. You + must ask Ralph about that. I’ve always ascertained for myself—got my + information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even; I just + kept quiet and took notice. Of course I’ve had very good opportunities—better + than what a young lady would naturally have. I’m of an inquisitive + disposition, though you mightn’t think it if you were to watch me: however + much you might watch me I should be watching you more. I’ve been watching + these people for upwards of thirty-five years, and I don’t hesitate to say + that I’ve acquired considerable information. It’s a very fine country on + the whole—finer perhaps than what we give it credit for on the other + side. Several improvements I should like to see introduced; but the + necessity of them doesn’t seem to be generally felt as yet. When the + necessity of a thing is generally felt they usually manage to accomplish + it; but they seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then. I + certainly feel more at home among them than I expected to when I first + came over; I suppose it’s because I’ve had a considerable degree of + success. When you’re successful you naturally feel more at home.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose that if I’m successful I shall feel at home?” Isabel + asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful. + They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them a + great deal of kindness. But you mustn’t feel too much at home, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m by no means sure it will satisfy me,” Isabel judicially + emphasised. “I like the place very much, but I’m not sure I shall like the + people.” + </p> + <p> + “The people are very good people; especially if you like them.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no doubt they’re good,” Isabel rejoined; “but are they pleasant in + society? They won’t rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves + agreeable to me? That’s what I like people to do. I don’t hesitate to say + so, because I always appreciate it. I don’t believe they’re very nice to + girls; they’re not nice to them in the novels.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about the novels,” said Mr. Touchett. “I believe the novels + have a great deal but I don’t suppose they’re very accurate. We once had a + lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend of Ralph’s and he + asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to everything; but she was + not the sort of person you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy—I + suppose that was it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which + she was understood to have given a representation—something in the + nature of a caricature, as you might say—of my unworthy self. I + didn’t read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal + passages marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation; + American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and stripes. + Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn’t have listened very + attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report of my conversation, + if she liked but I didn’t like the idea that she hadn’t taken the trouble + to listen to it. Of course I talk like an American—I can’t talk like + a Hottentot. However I talk, I’ve made them understand me pretty well over + here. But I don’t talk like the old gentleman in that lady’s novel. He + wasn’t an American; we wouldn’t have him over there at any price. I just + mention that fact to show you that they’re not always accurate. Of course, + as I’ve no daughters, and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven’t + had much chance to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as + if the young women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I + guess their position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the + middle.” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious,” Isabel exclaimed; “how many classes have they? About fifty, I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice of + the classes. That’s the advantage of being an American here; you don’t + belong to any class.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so,” said Isabel. “Imagine one’s belonging to an English class!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable—especially + towards the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust + and the people I don’t. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the + first.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m much obliged to you,” said the girl quickly. Her way of taking + compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly as + possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was thought + insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to show how + infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much. “I’m sure + the English are very conventional,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve got everything pretty well fixed,” Mr. Touchett admitted. “It’s + all settled beforehand—they don’t leave it to the last moment.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like to have everything settled beforehand,” said the girl. “I + like more unexpectedness.” + </p> + <p> + Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. “Well, it’s + settled beforehand that you’ll have great success,” he rejoined. “I + suppose you’ll like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not have success if they’re too stupidly conventional. I’m not in + the least stupidly conventional. I’m just the contrary. That’s what they + won’t like.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, you’re all wrong,” said the old man. “You can’t tell what they’ll + like. They’re very inconsistent; that’s their principal interest.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well,” said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands clasped + about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the lawn—“that + will suit me perfectly!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude of + the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to appeal + to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present profoundly + indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped her, as her + cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty uncle received + very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having cultivated relations + with her husband’s neighbours, was not warranted in expecting visits from + them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she liked to receive cards. For + what is usually called social intercourse she had very little relish; but + nothing pleased her more than to find her hall-table whitened with oblong + morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She flattered herself that she was a very + just woman, and had mastered the sovereign truth that nothing in this + world is got for nothing. She had played no social part as mistress of + Gardencourt, and it was not to be supposed that, in the surrounding + country, a minute account should be kept of her comings and goings. But it + is by no means certain that she did not feel it to be wrong that so little + notice was taken of them and that her failure (really very gratuitous) to + make herself important in the neighbourhood had not much to do with the + acrimony of her allusions to her husband’s adopted country. Isabel + presently found herself in the singular situation of defending the British + constitution against her aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of + sticking pins into this venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an + impulse to pull out the pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any + damage on the tough old parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt + might make better use of her sharpness. She was very critical herself—it + was incidental to her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very + sentimental as well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett’s dryness + that set her own moral fountains flowing. + </p> + <p> + “Now what’s your point of view?” she asked of her aunt. “When you + criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn’t + seem to be American—you thought everything over there so + disagreeable. When I criticise I have mine; it’s thoroughly American!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear young lady,” said Mrs. Touchett, “there are as many points of + view in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may say + that doesn’t make them very numerous! American? Never in the world; that’s + shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a tolerable + description of her own manner of judging, but it would not have sounded + well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less advanced in life and + less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett such a declaration would + savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She risked it nevertheless in + talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a great deal and with whom her + conversation was of a sort that gave a large licence to extravagance. Her + cousin used, as the phrase is, to chaff her; he very soon established with + her a reputation for treating everything as a joke, and he was not a man + to neglect the privileges such a reputation conferred. She accused him of + an odious want of seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with + himself. Such slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly + upon his father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his + father’s son, this gentleman’s weak lungs, his useless life, his fantastic + mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted, and his + native country, his charming new-found cousin. “I keep a band of music in + my ante-room,” he said once to her. “It has orders to play without + stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the sounds of the + world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes the world think + that dancing’s going on within.” It was dance-music indeed that you + usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph’s band; the liveliest + waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often found herself irritated + by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked to pass through the + ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the private apartments. It + mattered little that he had assured her they were a very dismal place; she + would have been glad to undertake to sweep them and set them in order. It + was but half-hospitality to let her remain outside; to punish him for + which Isabel administered innumerable taps with the ferule of her straight + young wit. It must be said that her wit was exercised to a large extent in + self-defence, for her cousin amused himself with calling her “Columbia” + and accusing her of a patriotism so heated that it scorched. He drew a + caricature of her in which she was represented as a very pretty young + woman dressed, on the lines of the prevailing fashion, in the folds of the + national banner. Isabel’s chief dread in life at this period of her + development was that she should appear narrow-minded; what she feared next + afterwards was that she should really be so. But she nevertheless made no + scruple of abounding in her cousin’s sense and pretending to sigh for the + charms of her native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to + regard her, and if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of + occupation. She defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang + its praises on purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself + able to differ from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of + this small ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October + pear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which + enabled her to take her cousin’s chaff and return it in kind. If her + good-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself + ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to her + he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. “I don’t + know what’s the matter with you,” she observed to him once; “but I suspect + you’re a great humbug.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s your privilege,” Ralph answered, who had not been used to being so + crudely addressed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you care for; I don’t think you care for anything. You + don’t really care for England when you praise it; you don’t care for + America even when you pretend to abuse it.” + </p> + <p> + “I care for nothing but you, dear cousin,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “If I could believe even that, I should be very glad.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, I should hope so!” the young man exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He + thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind. At + a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her + sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of + fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something to + fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy; his + outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud. He had + grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to his legs, + had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had been gravely + ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to Ralph that another + attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now he appeared disburdened + of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a suspicion that this was a + subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to take him off his guard. If the + manoeuvre should succeed there would be little hope of any great + resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted that his father would + survive him—that his own name would be the first grimly called. The + father and son had been close companions, and the idea of being left alone + with the remnant of a tasteless life on his hands was not gratifying to + the young man, who had always and tacitly counted upon his elder’s help in + making the best of a poor business. At the prospect of losing his great + motive Ralph lost indeed his one inspiration. If they might die at the + same time it would be all very well; but without the encouragement of his + father’s society he should barely have patience to await his own turn. He + had not the incentive of feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; + it was a rule with his mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of + course that it had been a small kindness to his father to wish that, of + the two, the active rather than the passive party should know the felt + wound; he remembered that the old man had always treated his own forecast + of an early end as a clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to + discredit so far as he might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that + of refuting a sophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a + state of being which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no + sin to hope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett. + </p> + <p> + These were nice questions, but Isabel’s arrival put a stop to his puzzling + over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for the + intolerable <i>ennui</i> of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether + he were harbouring “love” for this spontaneous young woman from Albany; + but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for a + week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little + more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really + interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had found it + out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his friend’s + high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his cousin were to + be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was conscious she was + an entertainment of a high order. “A character like that,” he said to + himself—“a real little passionate force to see at play is the finest + thing in nature. It’s finer than the finest work of art—than a Greek + bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic cathedral. It’s very + pleasant to be so well treated where one had least looked for it. I had + never been more blue, more bored, than for a week before she came; I had + never expected less that anything pleasant would happen. Suddenly I + receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall—a Greek bas-relief + to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful edifice is thrust + into my hand, and I’m told to walk in and admire. My poor boy, you’ve been + sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very quiet and never grumble + again.” The sentiment of these reflexions was very just; but it was not + exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key put into his hand. His + cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take, as he said, a good deal + of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his attitude with regard to + her, though it was contemplative and critical, was not judicial. He + surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired it greatly; he looked in + at the windows and received an impression of proportions equally fair. But + he felt that he saw it only by glimpses and that he had not yet stood + under the roof. The door was fastened, and though he had keys in his + pocket he had a conviction that none of them would fit. She was + intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature; but what was she + going to do with herself? This question was irregular, for with most women + one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did with themselves nothing at + all; they waited, in attitudes more or less gracefully passive, for a man + to come that way and furnish them with a destiny. Isabel’s originality was + that she gave one an impression of having intentions of her own. “Whenever + she executes them,” said Ralph, “may I be there to see!” + </p> + <p> + It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr. + Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife’s position was that of + rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself + to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a great + walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin—a pastime + for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not allowed + for in Isabel’s somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate; and in the + long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of her gratified + eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little river, as Isabel + called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a part of the foreground + of the landscape; or drove over the country in a phaeton—a low, + capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by Mr. Touchett, but + which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it largely and, handling + the reins in a manner which approved itself to the groom as “knowing,” was + never weary of driving her uncle’s capital horses through winding lanes + and byways full of the rural incidents she had confidently expected to + find; past cottages thatched and timbered, past ale-houses latticed and + sanded, past patches of ancient common and glimpses of empty parks, + between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When they reached home they + usually found tea had been served on the lawn and that Mrs. Touchett had + not shrunk from the extremity of handing her husband his cup. But the two + for the most part sat silent; the old man with his head back and his eyes + closed, his wife occupied with her knitting and wearing that appearance of + rare profundity with which some ladies consider the movement of their + needles. + </p> + <p> + One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after + spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived + Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of + which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with + Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau + and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a dinner + and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of her + arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he had + indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and she had + thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him again—hoped + too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull; the place + itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a sort of golden + grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had ever encountered—her + idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her impressions were still so + fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as yet hardly a hint of + vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind herself that she was + interested in human nature and that her foremost hope in coming abroad had + been that she should see a great many people. When Ralph said to her, as + he had done several times, “I wonder you find this endurable; you ought to + see some of the neighbours and some of our friends, because we have really + got a few, though you would never suppose it”—when he offered to + invite what he called a “lot of people” and make her acquainted with + English society, she encouraged the hospitable impulse and promised in + advance to hurl herself into the fray. Little, however, for the present, + had come of his offers, and it may be confided to the reader that if the + young man delayed to carry them out it was because he found the labour of + providing for his companion by no means so severe as to require extraneous + help. Isabel had spoken to him very often about “specimens;” it was a word + that played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to + understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent + cases. + </p> + <p> + “Well now, there’s a specimen,” he said to her as they walked up from the + riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “A specimen of what?” asked the girl. + </p> + <p> + “A specimen of an English gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean they’re all like him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; they’re not all like him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a favourable specimen then,” said Isabel; “because I’m sure he’s + nice.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’s very nice. And he’s very fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine and + hoped she was very well. “But I needn’t ask that,” he said, “since you’ve + been handling the oars.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been rowing a little,” Isabel answered; “but how should you know + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know he doesn’t row; he’s too lazy,” said his lordship, indicating + Ralph Touchett with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “He has a good excuse for his laziness,” Isabel rejoined, lowering her + voice a little. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!” cried Lord Warburton, still + with his sonorous mirth. + </p> + <p> + “My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well,” said Ralph. + “She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn’t adorn!” + </p> + <p> + “It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer,” Lord Warburton declared. + </p> + <p> + “Be touched in the right sense and you’ll never look the worse for it,” + said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her + accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such + complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there + were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of + herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be + supported by proof. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was + persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was ended + he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During this + period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted this + evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself liking + him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had weight, but + at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce fell short of + seeing him—though quite without luridity—as a hero of romance. + She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a quickened + consciousness of possible felicities. “It’s very nice to know two such + charming people as those,” she said, meaning by “those” her cousin and her + cousin’s friend. It must be added moreover that an incident had occurred + which might have seemed to put her good-humour to the test. Mr. Touchett + went to bed at half-past nine o’clock, but his wife remained in the + drawing-room with the other members of the party. She prolonged her vigil + for something less than an hour, and then, rising, observed to Isabel that + it was time they should bid the gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no + desire to go to bed; the occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, + and feasts were not in the habit of terminating so early. So, without + further thought, she replied, very simply— + </p> + <p> + “Need I go, dear aunt? I’ll come up in half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s impossible I should wait for you,” Mrs. Touchett answered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you needn’t wait! Ralph will light my candle,” Isabel gaily engaged. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!” Lord + Warburton exclaimed. “Only I beg it shall not be before midnight.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and + transferred them coldly to her niece. “You can’t stay alone with the + gentlemen. You’re not—you’re not at your blest Albany, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel rose, blushing. “I wish I were,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, mother!” Ralph broke out. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. Touchett!” Lord Warburton murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t make your country, my lord,” Mrs. Touchett said majestically. “I + must take it as I find it.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I stay with my own cousin?” Isabel enquired. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I had better go to bed!” the visitor suggested. “That will + arrange it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. “Oh, if + it’s necessary I’ll stay up till midnight.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her; + it had seemed to him her temper was involved—an accident that might + be interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was + disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night and + withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his + mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies + separated at Mrs. Touchett’s door. Isabel had said nothing on her way up. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you’re vexed at my interfering with you,” said Mrs. Touchett. + </p> + <p> + Isabel considered. “I’m not vexed, but I’m surprised—and a good deal + mystified. Wasn’t it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. Young girls here—in decent houses—don’t sit + alone with the gentlemen late at night.” + </p> + <p> + “You were very right to tell me then,” said Isabel. “I don’t understand + it, but I’m very glad to know it. + </p> + <p> + “I shall always tell you,” her aunt answered, “whenever I see you taking + what seems to me too much liberty.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray do; but I don’t say I shall always think your remonstrance just.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely not. You’re too fond of your own ways.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think I’m very fond of them. But I always want to know the things + one shouldn’t do.” + </p> + <p> + “So as to do them?” asked her aunt. + </p> + <p> + “So as to choose,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to express + a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very curious old + place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she would bring her + niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness to attend the + ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord Warburton assured + our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would come and see her. She + knew something about his sisters, having sounded him, during the hours + they spent together while he was at Gardencourt, on many points connected + with his family. When Isabel was interested she asked a great many + questions, and as her companion was a copious talker she urged him on this + occasion by no means in vain. He told her he had four sisters and two + brothers and had lost both his parents. The brothers and sisters were very + good people—“not particularly clever, you know,” he said, “but very + decent and pleasant;” and he was so good as to hope Miss Archer might know + them well. One of the brothers was in the Church, settled in the family + living, that of Lockleigh, which was a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an + excellent fellow in spite of his thinking differently from himself on + every conceivable topic. And then Lord Warburton mentioned some of the + opinions held by his brother, which were opinions Isabel had often heard + expressed and that she supposed to be entertained by a considerable + portion of the human family. Many of them indeed she supposed she had held + herself, till he assured her she was quite mistaken, that it was really + impossible, that she had doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that + she might depend that, if she thought them over a little, she would find + there was nothing in them. When she answered that she had already thought + several of the questions involved over very attentively he declared that + she was only another example of what he had often been struck with—the + fact that, of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most + grossly superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of + them; there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle + and her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than + many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were + ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his + lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and dangers + of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it and owned + a considerable slice of it—the more shame to him! From all of which + Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest pattern, + a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other brother, who + was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed and had not been + of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to pay—one of the + most precious privileges of an elder brother. “I don’t think I shall pay + any more,” said her friend; “he lives a monstrous deal better than I do, + enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much finer gentleman than + I. As I’m a consistent radical I go in only for equality; I don’t go in + for the superiority of the younger brothers.” Two of his four sisters, the + second and fourth, were married, one of them having done very well, as + they said, the other only so-so. The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, + was a very good fellow, but unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, + like all good English wives, was worse than her husband. The other had + espoused a smallish squire in Norfolk and, though married but the other + day, had already five children. This information and much more Lord + Warburton imparted to his young American listener, taking pains to make + many things clear and to lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of + English life. Isabel was often amused at his explicitness and at the small + allowance he seemed to make either for her own experience or for her + imagination. “He thinks I’m a barbarian,” she said, “and that I’ve never + seen forks and spoons;” and she used to ask him artless questions for the + pleasure of hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the + trap, “It’s a pity you can’t see me in my war-paint and feathers,” she + remarked; “if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would + have brought over my native costume!” Lord Warburton had travelled through + the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he was so + good as to say that America was the most charming country in the world, + but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that Americans + in England would need to have a great many things explained to them. “If I + had only had you to explain things to me in America!” he said. “I was + rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite bewildered, and the + trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me more. You know I think + they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose; they’re rather clever about + that over there. But when I explain you can trust me; about what I tell + you there’s no mistake.” There was no mistake at least about his being + very intelligent and cultivated and knowing almost everything in the + world. Although he gave the most interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel + felt he never did it to exhibit himself, and though he had had rare + chances and had tumbled in, as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far + as possible from making a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of + life, but they had not spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a + mixture of the effect of rich experience—oh, so easily come by!—with + a modesty at times almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which—it + was as agreeable as something tasted—lost nothing from the addition + of a tone of responsible kindness. + </p> + <p> + “I like your specimen English gentleman very much,” Isabel said to Ralph + after Lord Warburton had gone. + </p> + <p> + “I like him too—I love him well,” Ralph returned. “But I pity him + more.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at him askance. “Why, that seems to me his only fault—that + one can’t pity him a little. He appears to have everything, to know + everything, to be everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s in a bad way!” Ralph insisted. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you don’t mean in health?” + </p> + <p> + “No, as to that he’s detestably sound. What I mean is that he’s a man with + a great position who’s playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn’t + take himself seriously.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he regard himself as a joke?” + </p> + <p> + “Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition—as an abuse.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps he is,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he is—though on the whole I don’t think so. But in that + case what’s more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by + other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice? For + me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha. He occupies + a position that appeals to my imagination. Great responsibilities, great + opportunities, great consideration, great wealth, great power, a natural + share in the public affairs of a great country. But he’s all in a muddle + about himself, his position, his power, and indeed about everything in the + world. He’s the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in + himself and he doesn’t know what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him + (because if I were he I know very well what I should believe in) he calls + me a pampered bigot. I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; + he says I don’t understand my time. I understand it certainly better than + he, who can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as + an institution.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t look very wretched,” Isabel observed. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I + think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being + of his opportunities that he’s not miserable? Besides, I believe he is.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” her cousin rejoined, “if he isn’t he ought to be!” + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the + old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup of + diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her what + she thought of their late visitor. + </p> + <p> + Isabel was prompt. “I think he’s charming.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a nice person,” said Mr. Touchett, “but I don’t recommend you to + fall in love with him.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your + recommendation. Moreover,” Isabel added, “my cousin gives me rather a sad + account of Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed? I don’t know what there may be to say, but you must remember + that Ralph must talk.” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks your friend’s too subversive—or not subversive enough! I + don’t quite understand which,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. “I don’t + know which either. He goes very far, but it’s quite possible he doesn’t go + far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but he + seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that’s natural, but it’s rather + inconsistent.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hope he’ll remain himself,” said Isabel. “If he were to be done + away with his friends would miss him sadly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the old man, “I guess he’ll stay and amuse his friends. I + should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always amuses + me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well. There’s a + considerable number like him, round in society; they’re very fashionable + just now. I don’t know what they’re trying to do—whether they’re + trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they’ll put it off till + after I’m gone. You see they want to disestablish everything; but I’m a + pretty big landowner here, and I don’t want to be disestablished. I + wouldn’t have come over if I had thought they were going to behave like + that,” Mr. Touchett went on with expanding hilarity. “I came over because + I thought England was a safe country. I call it a regular fraud if they + are going to introduce any considerable changes; there’ll be a large + number disappointed in that case.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do hope they’ll make a revolution!” Isabel exclaimed. “I should + delight in seeing a revolution.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see,” said her uncle, with a humorous intention; “I forget whether + you’re on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I’ve heard you + take such opposite views.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m on the side of both. I guess I’m a little on the side of everything. + In a revolution—after it was well begun—I think I should be a + high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they’ve a chance + to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely, + but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!” the girl interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid, after all, you won’t have the pleasure of going gracefully to + the guillotine here just now,” Mr. Touchett went on. “If you want to see a + big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come to the + point it wouldn’t suit them to be taken at their word.” + </p> + <p> + “Of whom are you speaking?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends—the radicals of the + upper class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about + the changes, but I don’t think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we + know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always + thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first. And + then I ain’t a lord; you’re a lady, my dear, but I ain’t a lord. Now over + here I don’t think it quite comes home to them. It’s a matter of every day + and every hour, and I don’t think many of them would find it as pleasant + as what they’ve got. Of course if they want to try, it’s their own + business; but I expect they won’t try very hard.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think they’re sincere?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they want to <i>feel</i> earnest,” Mr. Touchett allowed; “but it + seems as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a + kind of amusement; they’ve got to have some amusement, and they might have + coarser tastes than that. You see they’re very luxurious, and these + progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel + moral and yet don’t damage their position. They think a great deal of + their position; don’t let one of them ever persuade you he doesn’t, for if + you were to proceed on that basis you’d be pulled up very short.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel followed her uncle’s argument, which he unfolded with his quaint + distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the + British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions + of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord + Warburton’s behalf. “I don’t believe Lord Warburton’s a humbug; I don’t + care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the + test.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven deliver me from my friends!” Mr. Touchett answered. “Lord + Warburton’s a very amiable young man—a very fine young man. He has a + hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of this + little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a dozen + houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my own + dinner-table. He has elegant tastes—cares for literature, for art, + for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste for + the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure—more perhaps + than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over there—what + does he call it, Lockleigh?—is very attractive; but I don’t think + it’s as pleasant as this. That doesn’t matter, however—he has so + many others. His views don’t hurt any one as far as I can see; they + certainly don’t hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he + would come off very easily. They wouldn’t touch him, they’d leave him as + he is: he’s too much liked.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, he couldn’t be a martyr even if he wished!” Isabel sighed. “That’s a + very poor position.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll never be a martyr unless you make him one,” said the old man. + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the + fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. “I shall never make any + one a martyr.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll never be one, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. But you don’t pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?” + </p> + <p> + Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. “Yes, I do, after + all!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman’s sisters, came presently to call + upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to her + to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described them to + her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be less + applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there were fifty + thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them. Deprived of + this advantage, however, Isabel’s visitors retained that of an extreme + sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as she thought, eyes + like the balanced basins, the circles of “ornamental water,” set, in + parterres, among the geraniums. + </p> + <p> + “They’re not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are,” our heroine said to + herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the + friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they + would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel’s having + occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux + were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions and + something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel + admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a + generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness + was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they + seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the world + and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it clear to + her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh, where they + lived with their brother, and then they might see her very, very often. + They wondered if she wouldn’t come over some day, and sleep: they were + expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she would come while + the people were there. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid it isn’t any one very remarkable,” said the elder sister; “but + I dare say you’ll take us as you find us.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall find you delightful; I think you’re enchanting just as you are,” + replied Isabel, who often praised profusely. + </p> + <p> + Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone, that + if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she was in + some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the first + time they had been called enchanting. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help it,” Isabel answered. “I think it’s lovely to be so quiet + and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!” cried Ralph with ardour. + </p> + <p> + “I mean to try and imitate them,” said Isabel. “I want very much to see + them at home.” + </p> + <p> + She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother, + she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a + vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a + wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black + velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at + Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were + not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was a + want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep + emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one + side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs. + Touchett. + </p> + <p> + “Is it true your brother’s such a great radical?” Isabel asked. She knew + it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was keen, + and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, yes; he’s immensely advanced,” said Mildred, the younger sister. + </p> + <p> + “At the same time Warburton’s very reasonable,” Miss Molyneux observed. + </p> + <p> + Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was clearly + trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph had met the + frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the temperature of + an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not made an impertinence. + “Do you suppose your brother’s sincere?” Isabel enquired with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he must be, you know!” Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder + sister gazed at our heroine in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he would stand the test?” + </p> + <p> + “The test?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean for instance having to give up all this.” + </p> + <p> + “Having to give up Lockleigh?” said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the other places; what are they called?” + </p> + <p> + The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. “Do you mean—do + you mean on account of the expense?” the younger one asked. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say he might let one or two of his houses,” said the other. + </p> + <p> + “Let them for nothing?” Isabel demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t fancy his giving up his property,” said Miss Molyneux. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I’m afraid he is an impostor!” Isabel returned. “Don’t you think it’s + a false position?” + </p> + <p> + Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. “My brother’s position?” + Miss Molyneux enquired. + </p> + <p> + “It’s thought a very good position,” said the younger sister. “It’s the + first position in this part of the county.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you think me very irreverent,” Isabel took occasion to remark. + “I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course one looks up to one’s brother,” said Miss Molyneux simply. + </p> + <p> + “If you do that he must be very good—because you, evidently, are + beautifully good.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s most kind. It will never be known, the good he does.” + </p> + <p> + “His ability is known,” Mildred added; “every one thinks it’s immense.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can see that,” said Isabel. “But if I were he I should wish to + fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold it + tight.” + </p> + <p> + “I think one ought to be liberal,” Mildred argued gently. “We’ve always + been so, even from the earliest times.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well,” said Isabel, “you’ve made a great success of it; I don’t wonder + you like it. I see you’re very fond of crewels.” + </p> + <p> + When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to her + a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it had been + a good deal modernised—some of its best points had lost their + purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the + softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still + moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was + cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck, and + the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory gleams, + washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the ache of + antiquity was keenest. Her host’s brother, the Vicar, had come to + luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes’ talk with him—time enough + to institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as vain. + The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure, a candid, + natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to indiscriminate + laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin that before taking + orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he was still, on occasion—in + the privacy of the family circle as it were—quite capable of + flooring his man. Isabel liked him—she was in the mood for liking + everything; but her imagination was a good deal taxed to think of him as a + source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on leaving lunch, went to walk + in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised some ingenuity in engaging + his least familiar guest in a stroll apart from the others. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you to see the place properly, seriously,” he said. “You can’t do + so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip.” His own + conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which had + a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted at + intervals to matters more personal—matters personal to the young + lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration, + returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, “Ah, well,” he said, + “I’m very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see more + of it—that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an + immense fancy to you—if that would be any inducement.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no want of inducements,” Isabel answered; “but I’m afraid I can’t + make engagements. I’m quite in my aunt’s hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, pardon me if I say I don’t exactly believe that. I’m pretty sure you + can do whatever you want.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry if I make that impression on you; I don’t think it’s a nice + impression to make.” + </p> + <p> + “It has the merit of permitting me to hope.” And Lord Warburton paused a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “To hope what?” + </p> + <p> + “That in future I may see you often.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, “to enjoy that pleasure I needn’t be so terribly + emancipated.” + </p> + <p> + “Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don’t think your uncle likes + me.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very much mistaken. I’ve heard him speak very highly of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you have talked about me,” said Lord Warburton. “But, I + nevertheless don’t think he’d like me to keep coming to Gardencourt.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t answer for my uncle’s tastes,” the girl rejoined, “though I ought + as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I shall be + very glad to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Now that’s what I like to hear you say. I’m charmed when you say that.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re easily charmed, my lord,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not easily charmed!” And then he stopped a moment. “But you’ve + charmed me, Miss Archer.” + </p> + <p> + These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the + girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the + sound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for the + moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily as + possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would allow + her: “I’m afraid there’s no prospect of my being able to come here again.” + </p> + <p> + “Never?” said Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t say ‘never’; I should feel very melodramatic.” + </p> + <p> + “May I come and see you then some day next week?” + </p> + <p> + “Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I’ve a sort of sense + that you’re always summing people up.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t of necessity lose by that.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is + not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so.” + </p> + <p> + “Is England not good enough for you?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn’t deserve an answer. I want + to see as many countries as I can.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ll go on judging, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Enjoying, I hope, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s what you enjoy most; I can’t make out what you’re up to,” + said Lord Warburton. “You strike me as having mysterious purposes—vast + designs.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re so good as to have a theory about me which I don’t at all fill + out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and executed + every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of my + fellow-countrymen—the purpose of improving one’s mind by foreign + travel?” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t improve your mind, Miss Archer,” her companion declared. “It’s + already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises + us.” + </p> + <p> + “Despises you? You’re making fun of me,” said Isabel seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you think us ‘quaint’—that’s the same thing. I won’t be + thought ‘quaint,’ to begin with; I’m not so in the least. I protest.” + </p> + <p> + “That protest is one of the quaintest things I’ve ever heard,” Isabel + answered with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton was briefly silent. “You judge only from the outside—you + don’t care,” he said presently. “You only care to amuse yourself.” The + note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed with + it now was an audible strain of bitterness—a bitterness so abrupt + and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had often + heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she had even + read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most romantic of + races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic—was he going to + make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they had met? She + was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good manners, which + was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched the furthest + limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young lady who had + confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting to his good + manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and without a trace + of the accent that had discomposed her: “I don’t mean of course that you + amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials; the foibles, the + afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of nations!” + </p> + <p> + “As regards that,” said Isabel, “I should find in my own nation + entertainment for a lifetime. But we’ve a long drive, and my aunt will + soon wish to start.” She turned back toward the others and Lord Warburton + walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the others, “I shall + come and see you next week,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that + she couldn’t pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one. + Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, “Just as + you please.” And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect—a + game she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable + to many critics. It came from a certain fear. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend + Miss Stackpole—a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in + conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the + quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. “Here I + am, my lovely friend,” Miss Stackpole wrote; “I managed to get off at + last. I decided only the night before I left New York—the <i>Interviewer</i> + having come round to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a + veteran journalist, and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where + are you and where can we meet? I suppose you’re visiting at some castle or + other and have already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have + married a lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to + the first people and shall count on you for a few. The <i>Interviewer</i> + wants some light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at + large) are not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and + you know that, whatever I am, at least I’m not superficial. I’ve also + something very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as + you can; come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with + you) or else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with + pleasure; for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much + as possible of the inner life.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she + acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her + instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be + delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. “Though she’s a literary lady,” + he said, “I suppose that, being an American, she won’t show me up, as that + other one did. She has seen others like me.” + </p> + <p> + “She has seen no other so delightful!” Isabel answered; but she was not + altogether at ease about Henrietta’s reproductive instincts, which + belonged to that side of her friend’s character which she regarded with + least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would be + very welcome under Mr. Touchett’s roof; and this alert young woman lost no + time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to London, and it + was from that centre that she took the train for the station nearest to + Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting to receive her. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I love her or shall I hate her?” Ralph asked while they moved along + the platform. + </p> + <p> + “Whichever you do will matter very little to her,” said Isabel. “She + doesn’t care a straw what men think of her.” + </p> + <p> + “As a man I’m bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster. Is + she very ugly?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she’s decidedly pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “A female interviewer—a reporter in petticoats? I’m very curious to + see her,” Ralph conceded. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as she.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person require + more or less pluck. Do you suppose she’ll interview me?” + </p> + <p> + “Never in the world. She’ll not think you of enough importance.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see,” said Ralph. “She’ll send a description of us all, including + Bunchie, to her newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall ask her not to,” Isabel answered. + </p> + <p> + “You think she’s capable of it then?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you’ve made her your bosom-friend?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her + faults.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well,” said Ralph, “I’m afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her + merits.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days.” + </p> + <p> + “And have my love-letters published in the <i>Interviewer</i>? Never!” + cried the young man. + </p> + <p> + The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending, + proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather + provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature, with + a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown + ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking + eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the remarkable + fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or defiance, but + as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon every object it + happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, a + little arrested by Miss Stackpole’s gracious and comfortable aspect, which + hinted that it wouldn’t be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her. + She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph + saw at a glance that she was as crisp and new and comprehensive as a first + issue before the folding. From top to toe she had probably no misprint. + She spoke in a clear, high voice—a voice not rich but loud; yet + after she had taken her place with her companions in Mr. Touchett’s + carriage she struck him as not all in the large type, the type of horrid + “headings,” that he had expected. She answered the enquiries made of her + by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ventured to join, with + copious lucidity; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had + made the acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it + necessary to appear) did more to give the measure of her confidence in her + powers. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American or + English,” she broke out. “If once I knew I could talk to you accordingly.” + </p> + <p> + “Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful,” Ralph liberally answered. + </p> + <p> + She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character that + reminded him of large polished buttons—buttons that might have fixed + the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the + reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a button + is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss Stackpole’s + gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely embarrassed—less + inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This sensation, it must be + added, after he had spent a day or two in her company, sensibly + diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. “I don’t suppose that you’re + going to undertake to persuade me that you’re an American,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “To please you I’ll be an Englishman, I’ll be a Turk!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you can change about that way you’re very welcome,” Miss + Stackpole returned. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality + are no barrier to you,” Ralph went on. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. “Do you mean the foreign languages?” + </p> + <p> + “The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit—the genius.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure that I understand you,” said the correspondent of the <i>Interviewer</i>; + “but I expect I shall before I leave.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s what’s called a cosmopolite,” Isabel suggested. + </p> + <p> + “That means he’s a little of everything and not much of any. I must say I + think patriotism is like charity—it begins at home.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?” Ralph enquired. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long + time before I got here.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like it over here?” asked Mr. Touchett with his aged, innocent + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, I haven’t quite made up my mind what ground I shall take. I + feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to + London.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage,” Ralph suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but it was crowded with friends—party of Americans whose + acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little Rock, + Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped—I felt something pressing + upon me; I couldn’t tell what it was. I felt at the very commencement as + if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But I suppose I shall + make my own atmosphere. That’s the true way—then you can breathe. + Your surroundings seem very attractive.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, we too are a lovely group!” said Ralph. “Wait a little and you’ll + see.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was prepared + to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied herself in the + mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this Isabel spent many + hours with her friend, who, once her daily task performed, deprecated, in + fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found occasion to desire her to + desist from celebrating the charms of their common sojourn in print, + having discovered, on the second morning of Miss Stackpole’s visit, that + she was engaged on a letter to the <i>Interviewer</i>, of which the title, + in her exquisitely neat and legible hand (exactly that of the copybooks + which our heroine remembered at school) was “Americans and Tudors—Glimpses + of Gardencourt.” Miss Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, + offered to read her letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you ought to do that. I don’t think you ought to describe + the place.” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta gazed at her as usual. “Why, it’s just what the people want, and + it’s a lovely place.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it’s not what my uncle + wants.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you believe that!” cried Henrietta. “They’re always delighted + afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “My uncle won’t be delighted—nor my cousin either. They’ll consider + it a breach of hospitality.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen, + very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the + purpose, and put away her manuscript. “Of course if you don’t approve I + won’t do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject.” + </p> + <p> + “There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you. + We’ll take some drives; I’ll show you some charming scenery.” + </p> + <p> + “Scenery’s not my department; I always need a human interest. You know I’m + deeply human, Isabel; I always was,” Miss Stackpole rejoined. “I was going + to bring in your cousin—the alienated American. There’s a great + demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin’s a beautiful + specimen. I should have handled him severely.” + </p> + <p> + “He would have died of it!” Isabel exclaimed. “Not of the severity, but of + the publicity.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have + delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type—the + American faithful still. He’s a grand old man; I don’t see how he can + object to my paying him honour.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as + strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break + down so in spots. “My poor Henrietta,” she said, “you’ve no sense of + privacy.” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were + suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. “You do me + great injustice,” said Miss Stackpole with dignity. “I’ve never written a + word about myself!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for others + also!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s very good!” cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. “Just let + me make a note of it and I’ll put it in somewhere.” she was a thoroughly + good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as cheerful a mood + as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady in want of matter. + “I’ve promised to do the social side,” she said to Isabel; “and how can I + do it unless I get ideas? If I can’t describe this place don’t you know + some place I can describe?” Isabel promised she would bethink herself, and + the next day, in conversation with her friend, she happened to mention her + visit to Lord Warburton’s ancient house. “Ah, you must take me there—that’s + just the place for me!” Miss Stackpole cried. “I must get a glimpse of the + nobility.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t take you,” said Isabel; “but Lord Warburton’s coming here, and + you’ll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to + repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t do that,” her companion pleaded; “I want him to be natural.” + </p> + <p> + “An Englishman’s never so natural as when he’s holding his tongue,” Isabel + declared. + </p> + <p> + It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had, + according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he had + spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the park + together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was + delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place in + the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her + presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph had + expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect + solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the <i>Interviewer</i> + prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that the crescendo of + mirth should be the flower of his declining days. Henrietta, on her side, + failed a little to justify Isabel’s declaration with regard to her + indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph appeared to have + presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it would be + almost immoral not to work out. + </p> + <p> + “What does he do for a living?” she asked of Isabel the evening of her + arrival. “Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?” + </p> + <p> + “He does nothing,” smiled Isabel; “he’s a gentleman of large leisure.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I call that a shame—when I have to work like a + car-conductor,” Miss Stackpole replied. “I should like to show him up.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s in wretched health; he’s quite unfit for work,” Isabel urged. + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! don’t you believe it. I work when I’m sick,” cried her friend. + Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she + remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown + her. + </p> + <p> + “Ah no,” said Ralph, “I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you’d be + such an interesting one!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your prejudices; + that’s one comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “My prejudices? I haven’t a prejudice to bless myself with. There’s + intellectual poverty for you.” + </p> + <p> + “The more shame to you; I’ve some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your + flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don’t + care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She’ll see + how thin you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, do draw me out!” Ralph exclaimed. “So few people will take the + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort; + resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural + expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was bad, and + in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor amusement, + offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through the long + gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal ornaments and + mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked at the pictures + in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion, and Ralph was + gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none of the little + ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors to Gardencourt + were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do her justice, was + but little addicted to the use of conventional terms; there was something + earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times, in its strained + deliberation, suggested a person of high culture speaking a foreign + language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that she had at one time + officiated as art critic to a journal of the other world; but she + appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket none of the small + change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had called her attention to + a charming Constable, she turned and looked at him as if he himself had + been a picture. + </p> + <p> + “Do you always spend your time like this?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I seldom spend it so agreeably.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know what I mean—without any regular occupation.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Ralph, “I’m the idlest man living.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph bespoke + her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which represented a + gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning against the + pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing the guitar to + two ladies seated on the grass. “That’s my ideal of a regular occupation,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested upon + the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking of + something much more serious. “I don’t see how you can reconcile it to your + conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady, I have no conscience!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You’ll need it the next time you go + to America.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall probably never go again.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you ashamed to show yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Ralph meditated with a mild smile. “I suppose that if one has no + conscience one has no shame.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ve got plenty of assurance,” Henrietta declared. “Do you + consider it right to give up your country?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, one doesn’t give up one’s country any more than one gives <i>up</i> + one’s grandmother. They’re both antecedent to choice—elements of + one’s composition that are not to be eliminated.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that means that you’ve tried and been worsted. What do they + think of you over here?” + </p> + <p> + “They delight in me.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s because you truckle to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!” Ralph sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything about your natural charm. If you’ve got any charm + it’s quite unnatural. It’s wholly acquired—or at least you’ve tried + hard to acquire it, living over here. I don’t say you’ve succeeded. It’s a + charm that I don’t appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some way, + and then we’ll talk about it.” “Well, now, tell me what I shall do,” said + Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Go right home, to begin with.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see. And then?” + </p> + <p> + “Take right hold of something.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, what sort of thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big + work.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it very difficult to take hold?” Ralph enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Not if you put your heart into it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my heart,” said Ralph. “If it depends upon my heart—!” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you got a heart?” + </p> + <p> + “I had one a few days ago, but I’ve lost it since.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not serious,” Miss Stackpole remarked; “that’s what’s the matter + with you.” But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to + fix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause to + her mysterious perversity. “I know what’s the matter with you, Mr. + Touchett,” she said. “You think you’re too good to get married.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole,” Ralph answered; “and then + I suddenly changed my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh pshaw!” Henrietta groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Then it seemed to me,” said Ralph, “that I was not good enough.” + </p> + <p> + “It would improve you. Besides, it’s your duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried the young man, “one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is—did you never know that before? It’s every one’s + duty to get married.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in Miss + Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she was not a + charming woman she was at least a very good “sort.” She was wanting in + distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went into cages, + she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had not supposed her + to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words struck him as a false + note. When a marriageable young woman urges matrimony on an unencumbered + young man the most obvious explanation of her conduct is not the + altruistic impulse. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well now, there’s a good deal to be said about that,” Ralph rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “There may be, but that’s the principal thing. I must say I think it looks + very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman was good + enough for you. Do you think you’re better than any one else in the world? + In America it’s usual for people to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s my duty,” Ralph asked, “is it not, by analogy, yours as well?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole’s ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. “Have you the + fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I’ve as good a + right to marry as any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then,” said Ralph, “I won’t say it vexes me to see you single. It + delights me rather.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not serious yet. You never will be.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to give + up the practice of going round alone?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to + announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to his + great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an appearance + of alarm and even of resentment. “No, not even then,” she answered dryly. + After which she walked away. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not conceived a passion for your friend,” Ralph said that evening to + Isabel, “though we talked some time this morning about it.” + </p> + <p> + “And you said something she didn’t like,” the girl replied. + </p> + <p> + Ralph stared. “Has she complained of me?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me she thinks there’s something very low in the tone of + Europeans towards women.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she call me a European?” + </p> + <p> + “One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an + American never would have said. But she didn’t repeat it.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. “She’s an extraordinary + combination. Did she think I was making love to her?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you + mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind + construction on it.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that + unkind?” + </p> + <p> + Isabel smiled. “It was unkind to me. I don’t want you to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear cousin, what’s one to do among you all?” Ralph demanded. “Miss + Stackpole tells me it’s my bounden duty, and that it’s hers, in general, + to see I do mine!” + </p> + <p> + “She has a great sense of duty,” said Isabel gravely. “She has indeed, and + it’s the motive of everything she says. That’s what I like her for. She + thinks it’s unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself. That’s + what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to—to + attract you, you were very wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract + me. Forgive my depravity.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed + you would think she had.” + </p> + <p> + “One must be very modest then to talk with such women,” Ralph said humbly. + “But it’s a very strange type. She’s too personal—considering that + she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking at the + door.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Isabel admitted, “she doesn’t sufficiently recognise the existence + of knockers; and indeed I’m not sure that she doesn’t think them rather a + pretentious ornament. She thinks one’s door should stand ajar. But I + persist in liking her.” + </p> + <p> + “I persist in thinking her too familiar,” Ralph rejoined, naturally + somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in + Miss Stackpole. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Isabel, smiling, “I’m afraid it’s because she’s rather vulgar + that I like her.” + </p> + <p> + “She would be flattered by your reason!” + </p> + <p> + “If I should tell her I wouldn’t express it in that way. I should say it’s + because there’s something of the ‘people’ in her.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?” + </p> + <p> + “She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she’s a kind of + emanation of the great democracy—of the continent, the country, the + nation. I don’t say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to ask + of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it.” + </p> + <p> + “You like her then for patriotic reasons. I’m afraid it is on those very + grounds I object to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, “I like so many things! If a + thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don’t want to + swagger, but I suppose I’m rather versatile. I like people to be totally + different from Henrietta—in the style of Lord Warburton’s sisters + for instance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me to + answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I’m + straightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in + respect to what masses behind her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you mean the back view of her,” Ralph suggested. + </p> + <p> + “What she says is true,” his cousin answered; “you’ll never be serious. I + like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across the + prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the green + Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it, and Henrietta—pardon + my simile—has something of that odour in her garments.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush, + together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so becoming + to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she had ceased + speaking. “I’m not sure the Pacific’s so green as that,” he said; “but + you’re a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does smell of the + Future—it almost knocks one down!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when Miss + Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He bethought + himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous organisms, + and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a representative of the + nature of man to have a right to deal with her in strict reciprocity. He + carried out his resolve with a great deal of tact, and the young lady + found in renewed contact with him no obstacle to the exercise of her + genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general application of her confidence. + Her situation at Gardencourt therefore, appreciated as we have seen her to + be by Isabel and full of appreciation herself of that free play of + intelligence which, to her sense, rendered Isabel’s character a + sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose noble + tone, as she said, met with her full approval—her situation at + Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she not conceived an + irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she had at first + supposed herself obliged to “allow” as mistress of the house. She + presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of the lightest + and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole behaved. Mrs. + Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress and a bore—adventuresses + usually giving one more of a thrill; she had expressed some surprise at + her niece’s having selected such a friend, yet had immediately added that + she knew Isabel’s friends were her own affair and that she had never + undertaken to like them all or to restrict the girl to those she liked. + </p> + <p> + “If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you’d have a very + small society,” Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; “and I don’t think I like + any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When it comes to + recommending it’s a serious affair. I don’t like Miss Stackpole—everything + about her displeases me; she talks so much too loud and looks at one as if + one wanted to look at her—which one doesn’t. I’m sure she has lived + all her life in a boarding-house, and I detest the manners and the + liberties of such places. If you ask me if I prefer my own manners, which + you doubtless think very bad, I’ll tell you that I prefer them immensely. + Miss Stackpole knows I detest boarding-house civilisation, and she detests + me for detesting it, because she thinks it the highest in the world. She’d + like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, + I find it almost too much of one! We shall never get on together + therefore, and there’s no use trying.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her, but + she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after Miss + Stackpole’s arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on American + hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part of the + correspondent of the <i>Interviewer</i>, who in the exercise of her + profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form + of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels were + the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed struggle + with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst. Ralph, with his + experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing the breach, that the + truth lay between the two extremes and that the establishments in question + ought to be described as fair middling. This contribution to the + discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with scorn. Middling indeed! + If they were not the best in the world they were the worst, but there was + nothing middling about an American hotel. + </p> + <p> + “We judge from different points of view, evidently,” said Mrs. Touchett. + “I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a + ‘party.’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean,” Henrietta replied. “I like to be treated as + an American lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor American ladies!” cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. “They’re the + slaves of slaves.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re the companions of freemen,” Henrietta retorted. + </p> + <p> + “They’re the companions of their servants—the Irish chambermaid and + the negro waiter. They share their work.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call the domestics in an American household ‘slaves’?” Miss + Stackpole enquired. “If that’s the way you desire to treat them, no wonder + you don’t like America.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve not good servants you’re miserable,” Mrs. Touchett serenely + said. “They’re very bad in America, but I’ve five perfect ones in + Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what you want with five,” Henrietta couldn’t help observing. + “I don’t think I should like to see five persons surrounding me in that + menial position.” + </p> + <p> + “I like them in that position better than in some others,” proclaimed Mrs. + Touchett with much meaning. + </p> + <p> + “Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?” her husband + asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I should: you wouldn’t at all have the <i>tenue</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “The companions of freemen—I like that, Miss Stackpole,” said Ralph. + “It’s a beautiful description.” + </p> + <p> + “When I said freemen I didn’t mean you, sir!” + </p> + <p> + And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss + Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something + treasonable in Mrs. Touchett’s appreciation of a class which she privately + judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was perhaps because + her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered some days to + elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: “My dear friend, I + wonder if you’re growing faithless.” + </p> + <p> + “Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?” + </p> + <p> + “No, that would be a great pain; but it’s not that.” + </p> + <p> + “Faithless to my country then?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I said + I had something particular to tell you. You’ve never asked me what it is. + Is it because you’ve suspected?” + </p> + <p> + “Suspected what? As a rule I don’t think I suspect,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had forgotten + it. What have you to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it. “You don’t + ask that right—as if you thought it important. You’re changed—you’re + thinking of other things.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what you mean, and I’ll think of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you really think of it? That’s what I wish to be sure of.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not much control of my thoughts, but I’ll do my best,” said Isabel. + Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried Isabel’s + patience, so that our heroine added at last: “Do you mean that you’re + going to be married?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till I’ve seen Europe!” said Miss Stackpole. “What are you laughing + at?” she went on. “What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the + steamer with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” Isabel responded. + </p> + <p> + “You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come after + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he tell you so?” + </p> + <p> + “No, he told me nothing; that’s how I knew it,” said Henrietta cleverly. + “He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood’s name she had turned a + little pale. “I’m very sorry you did that,” she observed at last. + </p> + <p> + “It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have + talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he + drank it all in.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say about me?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn’t to + be encouraged.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his + earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so + handsome.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s very simple-minded,” said Isabel. “And he’s not so ugly.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing so simplifying as a grand passion.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a grand passion; I’m very sure it’s not that.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say that as if you were sure.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel gave rather a cold smile. “I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll soon give you a chance,” said Henrietta. Isabel offered no answer + to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great + confidence. “He’ll find you changed,” the latter pursued. “You’ve been + affected by your new surroundings.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. I’m affected by everything.” + </p> + <p> + “By everything but Mr. Goodwood!” Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a slightly + harsh hilarity. + </p> + <p> + Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: “Did he ask you + to speak to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it—and his handshake, when + he bade me good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for doing so.” And Isabel turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’re changed; you’ve got new ideas over here,” her friend + continued. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so,” said Isabel; “one should get as many new ideas as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but they shouldn’t interfere with the old ones when the old ones + have been the right ones.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel turned about again. “If you mean that I had any idea with regard to + Mr. Goodwood—!” But she faltered before her friend’s implacable + glitter. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, you certainly encouraged him.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which, + however, she presently answered: “It’s very true. I did encourage him.” + And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood what he + intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she disliked + discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy. + </p> + <p> + “I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing,” Miss Stackpole + answered. “But I don’t believe that; he’s not a man to do nothing. He is a + man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he’ll always do + something, and whatever he does will always be right.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite believe that.” Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it + touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you do care for him!” her visitor rang out. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever he does will always be right,” Isabel repeated. “When a man’s of + that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?” + </p> + <p> + “It may not matter to him, but it matters to one’s self.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, what it matters to me—that’s not what we’re discussing,” said + Isabel with a cold smile. + </p> + <p> + This time her companion was grave. “Well, I don’t care; you have changed. + You’re not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr. Goodwood will + see it. I expect him here any day.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he’ll hate me then,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it.” + </p> + <p> + To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the + alarm given her by Henrietta’s intimation that Caspar Goodwood would + present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however, that + she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her + disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless, she + stood prepared to hear the young man’s name announced. The feeling pressed + upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a change of + weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so agreeable during + Isabel’s stay at Gardencourt that any change would be for the worse. Her + suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She had walked into the + park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and after strolling about for + some time, in a manner at once listless and restless, had seated herself + on a garden-bench, within sight of the house, beneath a spreading beech, + where, in a white dress ornamented with black ribbons, she formed among + the flickering shadows a graceful and harmonious image. She entertained + herself for some moments with talking to the little terrier, as to whom + the proposal of an ownership divided with her cousin had been applied as + impartially as possible—as impartially as Bunchie’s own somewhat + fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was notified for the + first time, on this occasion, of the finite character of Bunchie’s + intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with its extent. It seemed + to her at last that she would do well to take a book; formerly, when + heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help of some well-chosen + volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. + Of late, it was not to be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, + and even after she had reminded herself that her uncle’s library was + provided with a complete set of those authors which no gentleman’s + collection should be without, she sat motionless and empty-handed, her + eyes bent on the cool green turf of the lawn. Her meditations were + presently interrupted by the arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. + The letter bore the London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew—that + came into her vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the + writer’s voice or his face. This document proved short and may be given + entire. + </p> + <p> + <span class="smcap">My Dear Miss Archerspan</span>—I don’t know + whether you will have heard of my coming to England, but even if you have + not it will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will remember that when you + gave me my dismissal at Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I + protested against it. You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to + admit that I had the right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope + that you would let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for + entertaining this hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I + found you changed, and you were able to give me no reason for the change. + You admitted that you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession + you would make; but it was a very cheap one, because that’s not your + character. No, you are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or + capricious. Therefore it is that I believe you will let me see you again. + You told me that I’m not disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I + don’t see why that should be. I shall always think of you; I shall never + think of any one else. I came to England simply because you are here; I + couldn’t stay at home after you had gone: I hated the country because you + were not in it. If I like this country at present it is only because it + holds you. I have been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. + May I not come and see you for half an hour? This at present is the + dearest wish of yours faithfully, + </p> + <p> + <span class="smcap">Caspar Goodwood</span>. + </p> + <p> + Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not + perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however, as + she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of + welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her + coolness. + </p> + <p> + “They told me you were out here,” said Lord Warburton; “and as there was + no one in the drawing-room and it’s really you that I wish to see, I came + out with no more ado.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not sit + down beside her. “I was just going indoors.” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t do that; it’s much jollier here; I’ve ridden over from + Lockleigh; it’s a lovely day.” His smile was peculiarly friendly and + pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of + good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl’s first + impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June weather. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll walk about a little then,” said Isabel, who could not divest + herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who + wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about it. + It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on that + occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of several + elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed spent some + days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the pleasant part + of the idea of Lord Warburton’s “making up” to her from the painful. It + may appear to some readers that the young lady was both precipitate and + unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if the charge be true, + may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of the former. She was not + eager to convince herself that a territorial magnate, as she had heard + Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her charms; the fact of a + declaration from such a source carrying with it really more questions than + it would answer. She had received a strong impression of his being a + “personage,” and she had occupied herself in examining the image so + conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence of her self-sufficiency it + must be said that there had been moments when this possibility of + admiration by a personage represented to her an aggression almost to the + degree of an affront, quite to the degree of an inconvenience. She had + never yet known a personage; there had been no personages, in this sense, + in her life; there were probably none such at all in her native land. When + she had thought of individual eminence she had thought of it on the basis + of character and wit—of what one might like in a gentleman’s mind + and in his talk. She herself was a character—she couldn’t help being + aware of that; and hitherto her visions of a completed consciousness had + concerned themselves largely with moral images—things as to which + the question would be whether they pleased her sublime soul. Lord + Warburton loomed up before her, largely and brightly, as a collection of + attributes and powers which were not to be measured by this simple rule, + but which demanded a different sort of appreciation—an appreciation + that the girl, with her habit of judging quickly and freely, felt she + lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to demand of her something that no + one else, as it were, had presumed to do. What she felt was that a + territorial, a political, a social magnate had conceived the design of + drawing her into the system in which he rather invidiously lived and + moved. A certain instinct, not imperious, but persuasive, told her to + resist—murmured to her that virtually she had a system and an orbit + of her own. It told her other things besides—things which both + contradicted and confirmed each other; that a girl might do much worse + than trust herself to such a man and that it would be very interesting to + see something of his system from his own point of view; that on the other + hand, however, there was evidently a great deal of it which she should + regard only as a complication of every hour, and that even in the whole + there was something stiff and stupid which would make it a burden. + Furthermore there was a young man lately come from America who had no + system at all, but who had a character of which it was useless for her to + try to persuade herself that the impression on her mind had been light. + The letter she carried in her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the + contrary. Smile not, however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young + woman from Albany who debated whether she should accept an English peer + before he had offered himself and who was disposed to believe that on the + whole she could do better. She was a person of great good faith, and if + there was a great deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely + may have the satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently + wise only at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a + direct appeal to charity. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that + Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air + of being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was, + nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside + her for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know it, + there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected + laughter. Yes, assuredly—as we have touched on the point, we may + return to it for a moment again—the English are the most romantic + people in the world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. + He was about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and + displease a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to + recommend it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a + queer country across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her + antecedents, her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far + as they were generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and + unimportant. Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that + justifies a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent + about twenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this—the + perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the most + liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as + exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had + looked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from his + thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his + buttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of a + lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable to + his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not + discredited by irritating associations. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you had a pleasant ride,” said Isabel, who observed her + companion’s hesitancy. + </p> + <p> + “It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me + here.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you so fond of Gardencourt?” the girl asked, more and more sure that + he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him if he + hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he + proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a + few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old + English country-house, with the foreground embellished by a “great” (as + she supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on + careful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with + herself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded + scarcely the less in looking at it from the outside. + </p> + <p> + “I care nothing for Gardencourt,” said her companion. “I care only for + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I can’t + believe you’re serious.” + </p> + <p> + These words of Isabel’s were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt + whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of + which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would have + excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if anything + beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton was not a + loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in which he + replied would quite have served the purpose. + </p> + <p> + “One’s right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer; + it’s measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it + would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I + am to-day. Of course I’ve seen you very little, but my impression dates + from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you + then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that’s not a + fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two + days I spent here settled it; I don’t know whether you suspected I was + doing so, but I paid—mentally speaking I mean—the greatest + possible attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost + upon me. When you came to Lockleigh the other day—or rather when you + went away—I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to + think it over and to question myself narrowly. I’ve done so; all these + days I’ve done nothing else. I don’t make mistakes about such things; I’m + a very judicious animal. I don’t go off easily, but when I’m touched, it’s + for life. It’s for life, Miss Archer, it’s for life,” Lord Warburton + repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever + heard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion + that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion—the heat, + the violence, the unreason—and that burned as steadily as a lamp in + a windless place. + </p> + <p> + By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly, and + at last they stopped and he took her hand. “Ah, Lord Warburton, how little + you know me!” Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her hand away. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t taunt me with that; that I don’t know you better makes me unhappy + enough already; it’s all my loss. But that’s what I want, and it seems to + me I’m taking the best way. If you’ll be my wife, then I shall know you, + and when I tell you all the good I think of you you’ll not be able to say + it’s from ignorance.” + </p> + <p> + “If you know me little I know you even less,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah, of + course that’s very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do, how + determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me rather, + don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I like you very much, Lord Warburton,” she answered; and at this moment + she liked him immensely. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you for saying that; it shows you don’t regard me as a stranger. + I really believe I’ve filled all the other relations of life very + creditably, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t fill this one—in which I + offer myself to you—seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask + the people who know me well; I’ve friends who’ll speak for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t need the recommendation of your friends,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Ah now, that’s delightful of you. You believe in me yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Completely,” Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with the + pleasure of feeling she did. + </p> + <p> + The light in her companion’s eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a long + exhalation of joy. “If you’re mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose all I + possess!” + </p> + <p> + She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and, + on the instant, felt sure that he didn’t. He was thinking that, as he + would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the memory + of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering his hand. + Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind was + tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it was + best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What she + should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say something + if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His words had + carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so + mysteriously, matter to him. “I thank you more than I can say for your + offer,” she returned at last. “It does me great honour.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t say that!” he broke out. “I was afraid you’d say something like + that. I don’t see what you’ve to do with that sort of thing. I don’t see + why you should thank me—it’s I who ought to thank you for listening + to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such a thumper! Of + course it’s a great question; I must tell you that I’d rather ask it than + have it to answer myself. But the way you’ve listened—or at least + your having listened at all—gives me some hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t hope too much,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh Miss Archer!” her companion murmured, smiling again, in his + seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play + of high spirits, the exuberance of elation. + </p> + <p> + “Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at all?” + Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “Surprised? I don’t know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn’t be that; + it would be a feeling very much worse.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. “I’m very sure + that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should + know you well, would only rise. But I’m by no means sure that you wouldn’t + be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of conventional + modesty; it’s perfectly sincere.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m willing to risk it, Miss Archer,” her companion replied. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a great question, as you say. It’s a very difficult question.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as long + as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I’ll gladly wait a long + time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on your + answer.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t mind. I’d much rather have a good answer six months hence than + a bad one to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s very probable that even six months hence I shouldn’t be able to + give you one that you’d think good.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not, since you really like me?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you must never doubt that,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Well then, I don’t see what more you ask!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not what I ask; it’s what I can give. I don’t think I should suit + you; I really don’t think I should.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t worry about that. That’s my affair. You needn’t be a better + royalist than the king.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not only that,” said Isabel; “but I’m not sure I wish to marry any + one.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely you don’t. I’ve no doubt a great many women begin that way,” + said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least believe in the + axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. “But they’re frequently + persuaded.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s because they want to be!” And Isabel lightly laughed. Her + suitor’s countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence. + “I’m afraid it’s my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate,” he said + presently. “I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own + country.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never + occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial + prospects with Lord Warburton. “Has he told you that?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans + generally.” + </p> + <p> + “He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England.” + Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but + which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle’s outward + felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a + restricted view. + </p> + <p> + It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: “Ah, my + dear Miss Archer, old England’s a very good sort of country, you know! And + it will be still better when we’ve furbished it up a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t furbish it, Lord Warburton—, leave it alone. I like it + this way.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, if you like it, I’m more and more unable to see your objection + to what I propose.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I can’t make you understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought at least to try. I’ve a fair intelligence. Are you afraid—afraid + of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know. You can pick out + your climate, the whole world over.” + </p> + <p> + These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the + embrace of strong arms—that was like the fragrance straight in her + face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange + gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at that + moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: “Lord Warburton, + it’s impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world, I think, than + commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty.” But though she was lost + in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move back into the deepest + shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in a vast cage. The + “splendid” security so offered her was not the greatest she could + conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was something very + different—something that deferred the need of really facing her + crisis. “Don’t think me unkind if I ask you to say no more about this + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, certainly!” her companion cried. “I wouldn’t bore you for the + world.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it + justice.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all I ask of you, of course—and that you’ll remember how + absolutely my happiness is in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said + after a minute: “I must tell you that what I shall think about is some way + of letting you know that what you ask is impossible—letting you know + it without making you miserable.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won’t say that if you refuse me + you’ll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall live + to no purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll live to marry a better woman than I.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say that, please,” said Lord Warburton very gravely. “That’s fair + to neither of us.” + </p> + <p> + “To marry a worse one then.” + </p> + <p> + “If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That’s all I + can say,” he went on with the same earnestness. “There’s no accounting for + tastes.” + </p> + <p> + His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again + requesting him to drop the subject for the present. “I’ll speak to you + myself—very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you.” + </p> + <p> + “At your convenience, yes,” he replied. “Whatever time you take, it must + seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a + little.” + </p> + <p> + He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his + hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. “Do you + know I’m very much afraid of it—of that remarkable mind of yours?” + </p> + <p> + Our heroine’s biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made her + start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his look a + moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have appealed + to his compassion, “So am I, my lord!” she oddly exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty + of pity was needed at home. “Ah! be merciful, be merciful,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I think you had better go,” said Isabel. “I’ll write to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good; but whatever you write I’ll come and see you, you know.” And + then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of + Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said and + of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of + curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. “There’s one thing more,” he + went on. “You know, if you don’t like Lockleigh—if you think it’s + damp or anything of that sort—you need never go within fifty miles + of it. It’s not damp, by the way; I’ve had the house thoroughly examined; + it’s perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn’t fancy it you needn’t + dream of living in it. There’s no difficulty whatever about that; there + are plenty of houses. I thought I’d just mention it; some people don’t + like a moat, you know. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “I adore a moat,” said Isabel. “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment—a moment long + enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still + agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he walked + rapidly away. He was evidently much upset. + </p> + <p> + Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would have + imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great difficulty + of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the question. + She couldn’t marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support any + enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she + had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining. She must + write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was comparatively + simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it struck her with + wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so little to refuse a + magnificent “chance.” With whatever qualifications one would, Lord + Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the situation might have + discomforts, might contain oppressive, might contain narrowing elements, + might prove really but a stupefying anodyne; but she did her sex no + injustice in believing that nineteen women out of twenty would have + accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then upon her also + should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she, what was she, that + she should hold herself superior? What view of life, what design upon + fate, what conception of happiness, had she that pretended to be larger + than these large these fabulous occasions? If she wouldn’t do such a thing + as that then she must do great things, she must do something greater. Poor + Isabel found ground to remind herself from time to time that she must not + be too proud, and nothing could be more sincere than her prayer to be + delivered from such a danger: the isolation and loneliness of pride had + for her mind the horror of a desert place. If it had been pride that + interfered with her accepting Lord Warburton such a <i>bêtise</i> was + singularly misplaced; and she was so conscious of liking him that she + ventured to assure herself it was the very softness, and the fine + intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too much to marry him, that was + the truth; something assured her there was a fallacy somewhere in the + glowing logic of the proposition—as he saw it—even though she + mightn’t put her very finest finger-point on it; and to inflict upon a man + who offered so much a wife with a tendency to criticise would be a + peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him she would consider his + question, and when, after he had left her, she wandered back to the bench + where he had found her and lost herself in meditation, it might have + seemed that she was keeping her vow. But this was not the case; she was + wondering if she were not a cold, hard, priggish person, and, on her at + last getting up and going rather quickly back to the house, felt, as she + had said to her friend, really frightened at herself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + It was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice—she had no desire + whatever for that—that led her to speak to her uncle of what had + taken place. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more + natural, more human, and her uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in + a more attractive light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her + cousin of course was a possible confidant; but she would have had to do + herself violence to air this special secret to Ralph. So the next day, + after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never left his + apartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, as he said, in + his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class so + designated, which, for the rest, included the old man’s son, his + physician, his personal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett + did not figure in the list, and this was an obstacle the less to Isabel’s + finding her host alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical chair, at the + open window of his room, looking westward over the park and the river, + with his newspapers and letters piled up beside him, his toilet freshly + and minutely made, and his smooth, speculative face composed to benevolent + expectation. + </p> + <p> + She approached her point directly. “I think I ought to let you know that + Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I ought to tell my + aunt; but it seems best to tell you first.” + </p> + <p> + The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the confidence she + showed him. “Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him?” he then + enquired. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not answered him definitely yet; I’ve taken a little time to think + of it, because that seems more respectful. But I shall not accept him.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air of thinking that, + whatever interest he might take in the matter from the point of view of + sociability, he had no active voice in it. “Well, I told you you’d be a + success over here. Americans are highly appreciated.” + </p> + <p> + “Very highly indeed,” said Isabel. “But at the cost of seeming both + tasteless and ungrateful, I don’t think I can marry Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” her uncle went on, “of course an old man can’t judge for a young + lady. I’m glad you didn’t ask me before you made up your mind. I suppose I + ought to tell you,” he added slowly, but as if it were not of much + consequence, “that I’ve known all about it these three days.” + </p> + <p> + “About Lord Warburton’s state of mind?” + </p> + <p> + “About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant + letter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see his letter?” the + old man obligingly asked. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; I don’t think I care about that. But I’m glad he wrote to you; + it was right that he should, and he would be certain to do what was + right.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, I guess you do like him!” Mr. Touchett declared. “You needn’t + pretend you don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I like him extremely; I’m very free to admit that. But I don’t wish to + marry any one just now.” + </p> + <p> + “You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well, that’s + very likely,” said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show his kindness + to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and finding cheerful + reasons for it. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care if I don’t meet any one else. I like Lord Warburton quite + well enough.” she fell into that appearance of a sudden change of point of + view with which she sometimes startled and even displeased her + interlocutors. + </p> + <p> + Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these impressions. + “He’s a very fine man,” he resumed in a tone which might have passed for + that of encouragement. “His letter was one of the pleasantest I’ve + received for some weeks. I suppose one of the reasons I liked it was that + it was all about you; that is all except the part that was about himself. + I suppose he told you all that.” + </p> + <p> + “He would have told me everything I wished to ask him,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “But you didn’t feel curious?” + </p> + <p> + “My curiosity would have been idle—once I had determined to decline + his offer.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t find it sufficiently attractive?” Mr. Touchett enquired. + </p> + <p> + She was silent a little. “I suppose it was that,” she presently admitted. + “But I don’t know why.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons,” said her uncle. + “There’s a great deal that’s attractive about such an idea; but I don’t + see why the English should want to entice us away from our native land. I + know that we try to attract them over there, but that’s because our + population is insufficient. Here, you know, they’re rather crowded. + However, I presume there’s room for charming young ladies everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “There seems to have been room here for you,” said Isabel, whose eyes had + been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. “There’s room everywhere, my + dear, if you’ll pay for it. I sometimes think I’ve paid too much for this. + Perhaps you also might have to pay too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I might,” the girl replied. + </p> + <p> + That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she had + found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her uncle’s + mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was concerned + with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and not altogether a + victim to intellectual eagerness and vague ambitions—ambitions + reaching beyond Lord Warburton’s beautiful appeal, reaching to something + indefinable and possibly not commendable. In so far as the indefinable had + an influence upon Isabel’s behaviour at this juncture, it was not the + conception, even unformulated, of a union with Caspar Goodwood; for + however she might have resisted conquest at her English suitor’s large + quiet hands she was at least as far removed from the disposition to let + the young man from Boston take positive possession of her. The sentiment + in which she sought refuge after reading his letter was a critical view of + his having come abroad; for it was part of the influence he had upon her + that he seemed to deprive her of the sense of freedom. There was a + disagreeably strong push, a kind of hardness of presence, in his way of + rising before her. She had been haunted at moments by the image, by the + danger, of his disapproval and had wondered—a consideration she had + never paid in equal degree to any one else—whether he would like + what she did. The difficulty was that more than any man she had ever + known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give his + lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood expressed for her + an energy—and she had already felt it as a power that was of his + very nature. It was in no degree a matter of his “advantages”—it was + a matter of the spirit that sat in his clear-burning eyes like some + tireless watcher at a window. She might like it or not, but he insisted, + ever, with his whole weight and force: even in one’s usual contact with + him one had to reckon with that. The idea of a diminished liberty was + particularly disagreeable to her at present, since she had just given a + sort of personal accent to her independence by looking so straight at Lord + Warburton’s big bribe and yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar + Goodwood had seemed to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the + stubbornest fact she knew; she said to herself at such moments that she + might evade him for a time, but that she must make terms with him at last—terms + which would be certain to be favourable to himself. Her impulse had been + to avail herself of the things that helped her to resist such an + obligation; and this impulse had been much concerned in her eager + acceptance of her aunt’s invitation, which had come to her at an hour when + she expected from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood and when she was glad to + have an answer ready for something she was sure he would say to her. When + she had told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchett’s visit, that + she couldn’t then discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by the + great immediate opening of her aunt’s offer of “Europe,” he declared that + this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtain a better one that he + was following her across the sea. To say to herself that he was a kind of + grim fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was able to take + much for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a nearer and a + clearer view. + </p> + <p> + He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in Massachusetts—a + gentleman who had accumulated a considerable fortune in the exercise of + this industry. Caspar at present managed the works, and with a judgement + and a temper which, in spite of keen competition and languid years, had + kept their prosperity from dwindling. He had received the better part of + his education at Harvard College, where, however, he had gained renown + rather as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a gleaner of more dispersed + knowledge. Later on he had learned that the finer intelligence too could + vault and pull and strain—might even, breaking the record, treat + itself to rare exploits. He had thus discovered in himself a sharp eye for + the mystery of mechanics, and had invented an improvement in the + cotton-spinning process which was now largely used and was known by his + name. You might have seen it in the newspapers in connection with this + fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he had given to Isabel by showing + her in the columns of the New York <i>Interviewer</i> an exhaustive + article on the Goodwood patent—an article not prepared by Miss + Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his more sentimental + interests. There were intricate, bristling things he rejoiced in; he liked + to organise, to contend, to administer; he could make people work his + will, believe in him, march before him and justify him. This was the art, + as they said, of managing men—which rested, in him, further, on a + bold though brooding ambition. It struck those who knew him well that he + might do greater things than carry on a cotton-factory; there was nothing + cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and his friends took for granted that he + would somehow and somewhere write himself in bigger letters. But it was as + if something large and confused, something dark and ugly, would have to + call upon him: he was not after all in harmony with mere smug peace and + greed and gain, an order of things of which the vital breath was + ubiquitous advertisement. It pleased Isabel to believe that he might have + ridden, on a plunging steed, the whirlwind of a great war—a war like + the Civil strife that had overdarkened her conscious childhood and his + ripening youth. + </p> + <p> + She liked at any rate this idea of his being by character and in fact a + mover of men—liked it much better than some other points in his + nature and aspect. She cared nothing for his cotton-mill—the + Goodwood patent left her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him no + ounce less of his manhood, but she sometimes thought he would be rather + nicer if he looked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too + square and set and his figure too straight and stiff: these things + suggested a want of easy consonance with the deeper rhythms of life. Then + she viewed with reserve a habit he had of dressing always in the same + manner; it was not apparently that he wore the same clothes continually, + for, on the contrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new. + But they all seemed of the same piece; the figure, the stuff, was so + drearily usual. She had reminded herself more than once that this was a + frivolous objection to a person of his importance; and then she had + amended the rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection only + if she were in love with him. She was not in love with him and therefore + might criticise his small defects as well as his great—which latter + consisted in the collective reproach of his being too serious, or, rather, + not of his being so, since one could never be, but certainly of his + seeming so. He showed his appetites and designs too simply and artlessly; + when one was alone with him he talked too much about the same subject, and + when other people were present he talked too little about anything. And + yet he was of supremely strong, clean make—which was so much she saw + the different fitted parts of him as she had seen, in museums and + portraits, the different fitted parts of armoured warriors—in plates + of steel handsomely inlaid with gold. It was very strange: where, ever, + was any tangible link between her impression and her act? Caspar Goodwood + had never corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and she + supposed that this was why he left her so harshly critical. When, however, + Lord Warburton, who not only did correspond with it, but gave an extension + to the term, appealed to her approval, she found herself still + unsatisfied. It was certainly strange. + </p> + <p> + The sense of her incoherence was not a help to answering Mr. Goodwood’s + letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while unhonoured. If he had + determined to persecute her he must take the consequences; foremost among + which was his being left to perceive how little it charmed her that he + should come down to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the incursions + of one suitor at this place, and though it might be pleasant to be + appreciated in opposite quarters there was a kind of grossness in + entertaining two such passionate pleaders at once, even in a case where + the entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She made no reply to + Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord Warburton, + and the letter belongs to our history. + </p> + <p> + <span class="smcap">Dear Lord Warburton</span>—A great deal of + earnest thought has not led me to change my mind about the suggestion you + were so kind as to make me the other day. I am not, I am really and truly + not, able to regard you in the light of a companion for life; or to think + of your home—your various homes—as the settled seat of my + existence. These things cannot be reasoned about, and I very earnestly + entreat you not to return to the subject we discussed so exhaustively. We + see our lives from our own point of view; that is the privilege of the + weakest and humblest of us; and I shall never be able to see mine in the + manner you proposed. Kindly let this suffice you, and do me the justice to + believe that I have given your proposal the deeply respectful + consideration it deserves. It is with this very great regard that I remain + sincerely yours, + </p> + <p> + <span class="smcap">Isabel Archer</span>. + </p> + <p> + While the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it + Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was accompanied by no demur. + She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and when + he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to testify to + his high expectations, she informed him that she had a favour to ask of + him. It may be admitted that at this information the young man flinched; + for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as apt to push an + advantage. The alarm was unreasoned, however; for he was clear about the + area of her indiscretion as little as advised of its vertical depth, and + he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He was afraid + of her and presently told her so. “When you look at me in a certain way my + knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I’m filled with trepidation + and I ask only for strength to execute your commands. You’ve an address + that I’ve never encountered in any woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Henrietta replied good-humouredly, “if I had not known before that + you were trying somehow to abash me I should know it now. Of course I’m + easy game—I was brought up with such different customs and ideas. + I’m not used to your arbitrary standards, and I’ve never been spoken to in + America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with me over + there were to speak to me like that I shouldn’t know what to make of it. + We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all, we’re a + great deal more simple. I admit that; I’m very simple myself. Of course if + you choose to laugh at me for it you’re very welcome; but I think on the + whole I would rather be myself than you. I’m quite content to be myself; I + don’t want to change. There are plenty of people that appreciate me just + as I am. It’s true they’re nice fresh free-born Americans!” Henrietta had + lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence and large concession. “I + want you to assist me a little,” she went on. “I don’t care in the least + whether I amuse you while you do so; or, rather, I’m perfectly willing + your amusement should be your reward. I want you to help me about Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she injured you?” Ralph asked. + </p> + <p> + “If she had I shouldn’t mind, and I should never tell you. What I’m afraid + of is that she’ll injure herself.” + </p> + <p> + “I think that’s very possible,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps the very + gaze that unnerved him. “That too would amuse you, I suppose. The way you + do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent.” + </p> + <p> + “To Isabel? Ah, not that!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’re not in love with her, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “How can that be, when I’m in love with Another?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re in love with yourself, that’s the Other!” Miss Stackpole declared. + “Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once in your life + here’s a chance; and if you really care for your cousin here’s an + opportunity to prove it. I don’t expect you to understand her; that’s too + much to ask. But you needn’t do that to grant my favour. I’ll supply the + necessary intelligence.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall enjoy that immensely!” Ralph exclaimed. “I’ll be Caliban and you + shall be Ariel.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not at all like Caliban, because you’re sophisticated, and Caliban + was not. But I’m not talking about imaginary characters; I’m talking about + Isabel. Isabel’s intensely real. What I wish to tell you is that I find + her fearfully changed.” + </p> + <p> + “Since you came, do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I came and before I came. She’s not the same as she once so + beautifully was.” + </p> + <p> + “As she was in America?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there. She can’t help + it, but she does.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to change her back again?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do, and I want you to help me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Ralph, “I’m only Caliban; I’m not Prospero.” + </p> + <p> + “You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You’ve acted on + Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett.” + </p> + <p> + “I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted on + me—yes; she acts on every one. But I’ve been absolutely passive.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re too passive then. You had better stir yourself and be careful. + Isabel’s changing every day; she’s drifting away—right out to sea. + I’ve watched her and I can see it. She’s not the bright American girl she + was. She’s taking different views, a different colour, and turning away + from her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that’s + where you come in.” + </p> + <p> + “Not surely as an ideal?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope not,” Henrietta replied promptly. “I’ve got a fear in my + heart that she’s going to marry one of these fell Europeans, and I want to + prevent it. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I see,” cried Ralph; “and to prevent it you want me to step in and + marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you’re the + typical, the fell European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I wish you + to take an interest in another person—a young man to whom she once + gave great encouragement and whom she now doesn’t seem to think good + enough. He’s a thoroughly grand man and a very dear friend of mine, and I + wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the credit + of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in the + simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his fault was + that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really be as + candid as this request of Miss Stackpole’s appeared. That a young woman + should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear friend + should be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable to + another young woman, a young woman whose attention had wandered and whose + charms were greater—this was an anomaly which for the moment + challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines + was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole + wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account was the + sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even from this + venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force + that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward light on the + subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the conviction that + it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent of the <i>Interviewer</i> + to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers. This conviction + passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was perhaps kindled by the + pure radiance of the young lady’s imperturbable gaze. He returned this + challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an inclination to frown as one + frowns in the presence of larger luminaries. “Who’s the gentleman you + speak of?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Caspar Goodwood—of Boston. He has been extremely attentive to + Isabel—just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her + out here and he’s at present in London. I don’t know his address, but I + guess I can obtain it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never heard of him,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose you haven’t heard of every one. I don’t believe he has + ever heard of you; but that’s no reason why Isabel shouldn’t marry him.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. “What a rage you have for marrying + people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got over that. You don’t know how to take such ideas. Mr. Goodwood + does, however; and that’s what I like about him. He’s a splendid man and a + perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she very fond of him?” + </p> + <p> + “If she isn’t she ought to be. He’s simply wrapped up in her.” + </p> + <p> + “And you wish me to ask him here,” said Ralph reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “It would be an act of true hospitality.” + </p> + <p> + “Caspar Goodwood,” Ralph continued—“it’s rather a striking name.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and I + should say the same. He’s the only man I have ever seen whom I think + worthy of Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very devoted friend,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don’t care.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say it to pour scorn on you; I’m very much struck with it.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr. + Goodwood.” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you I’m very serious; you ought to understand that,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + In a moment his companion understood it. “I believe you are; now you’re + too serious.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re difficult to please.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re very serious indeed. You won’t invite Mr. Goodwood.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Ralph. “I’m capable of strange things. Tell me a + little about Mr. Goodwood. What’s he like?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s just the opposite of you. He’s at the head of a cotton-factory; a + very fine one.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he pleasant manners?” asked Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid manners—in the American style.” + </p> + <p> + “Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he’d care much about our little circle. He’d concentrate on + Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “And how would my cousin like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call back + her thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + “Call them back—from where?” + </p> + <p> + “From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she gave + Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose he was acceptable to her, and it’s + not worthy of Isabel to go back on a real friend simply because she has + changed the scene. I’ve changed the scene too, and the effect of it has + been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It’s my + belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. I know her + well enough to know that she would never be truly happy over here, and I + wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a + preservative.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?” Ralph enquired. “Don’t + you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old England?” + </p> + <p> + “A chance to ruin her bright young life? One’s never too much in a hurry + to save a precious human creature from drowning.” + </p> + <p> + “As I understand it then,” said Ralph, “you wish me to push Mr. Goodwood + overboard after her. Do you know,” he added, “that I’ve never heard her + mention his name?” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta gave a brilliant smile. “I’m delighted to hear that; it proves + how much she thinks of him.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this, and he + surrendered to thought while his companion watched him askance. “If I + should invite Mr. Goodwood,” he finally said, “it would be to quarrel with + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t do that; he’d prove the better man.” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really don’t + think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s just as you please,” Henrietta returned. “I had no idea you were in + love with her yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really believe that?” the young man asked with lifted eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the most natural speech I’ve ever heard you make! Of course I + believe it,” Miss Stackpole ingeniously said. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Ralph concluded, “to prove to you that you’re wrong I’ll invite + him. It must be of course as a friend of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “It will not be as a friend of mine that he’ll come; and it will not be to + prove to me that I’m wrong that you’ll ask him—but to prove it to + yourself!” + </p> + <p> + These last words of Miss Stackpole’s (on which the two presently + separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged + to recognise; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a recognition + that, in spite of his suspecting it would be rather more indiscreet to + keep than to break his promise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six lines, + expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that he + should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole was a + valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker whom + Henrietta suggested) he waited in some suspense. He had heard this fresh + formidable figure named for the first time; for when his mother had + mentioned on her arrival that there was a story about the girl’s having an + “admirer” at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality and he had + taken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would involve only + the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native admiration of + which his cousin was the object had become more concrete; it took the form + of a young man who had followed her to London, who was interested in a + cotton-mill and had manners in the most splendid of the American styles. + Ralph had two theories about this intervenes. Either his passion was a + sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole’s (there was always a sort of tacit + understanding among women, born of the solidarity of the sex, that they + should discover or invent lovers for each other), in which case he was not + to be feared and would probably not accept the invitation; or else he + would accept the invitation and in this event prove himself a creature too + irrational to demand further consideration. The latter clause of Ralph’s + argument might have seemed incoherent; but it embodied his conviction that + if Mr. Goodwood were interested in Isabel in the serious manner described + by Miss Stackpole he would not care to present himself at Gardencourt on a + summons from the latter lady. “On this supposition,” said Ralph, “he must + regard her as a thorn on the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must + find her wanting in tact.” + </p> + <p> + Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short note + from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other + engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible and presenting many + compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, + when she had read it, exclaimed: “Well, I never have heard of anything so + stiff!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid he doesn’t care so much about my cousin as you suppose,” Ralph + observed. + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s not that; it’s some subtler motive. His nature’s very deep. But + I’m determined to fathom it, and I shall write to him to know what he + means.” + </p> + <p> + His refusal of Ralph’s overtures was vaguely disconcerting; from the + moment he declined to come to Gardencourt our friend began to think him of + importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether Isabel’s + admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not rivals of his + and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius. Nevertheless he felt + much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole’s promised enquiry into + the causes of Mr. Goodwood’s stiffness—a curiosity for the present + ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her three days later if she had + written to London she was obliged to confess she had written in vain. Mr. + Goodwood had not replied. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he’s thinking it over,” she said; “he thinks everything over; + he’s not really at all impetuous. But I’m accustomed to having my letters + answered the same day.” She presently proposed to Isabel, at all events, + that they should make an excursion to London together. “If I must tell the + truth,” she observed, “I’m not seeing much at this place, and I shouldn’t + think you were either. I’ve not even seen that aristocrat—what’s his + name?—Lord Washburton. He seems to let you severely alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord Warburton’s coming to-morrow, I happen to know,” replied her friend, + who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer to her own + letter. “You’ll have every opportunity of turning him inside out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he may do for one letter, but what’s one letter when you want to + write fifty? I’ve described all the scenery in this vicinity and raved + about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please, scenery + doesn’t make a vital letter. I must go back to London and get some + impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came away, + and that’s hardly time to get in touch.” + </p> + <p> + As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even less + of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of + Henrietta’s that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The + idea struck Isabel as charming; she was curious of the thick detail of + London, which had always loomed large and rich to her. They turned over + their schemes together and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They + would stay at some picturesque old inn—one of the inns described by + Dickens—and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. + Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a + literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They + would dine at a coffee-house and go afterwards to the play; they would + frequent the Abbey and the British Museum and find out where Doctor + Johnson had lived, and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager and + presently unveiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit of + laughter which scarce expressed the sympathy she had desired. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a delightful plan,” he said. “I advise you to go to the Duke’s Head + in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I’ll have + you put down at my club.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean it’s improper?” Isabel asked. “Dear me, isn’t anything proper + here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she isn’t hampered in that + way. She has travelled over the whole American continent and can at least + find her way about this minute island.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah then,” said Ralph, “let me take advantage of her protection to go up + to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as we + have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to + Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him. For + four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had + written, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later. + There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the + girl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient, + not to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied + that she was so sure he “really liked” her. Isabel told her uncle she had + written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the old man, + in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his appearance + at the two o’clock repast. This was by no means an act of vigilance on his + part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his being of the company + might help to cover any conjoined straying away in case Isabel should give + their noble visitor another hearing. That personage drove over from + Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters with him, a measure + presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order as Mr. Touchett’s. The + two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied + a seat adjoining Lord Warburton’s. Isabel, who was nervous and had no + relish for the prospect of again arguing the question he had so + prematurely opened, could not help admiring his good-humoured + self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of that preoccupation + with her presence it was natural she should suppose him to feel. He + neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion + was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty of talk for the + others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimination + and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun-like forehead and wore + a large silver cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied + with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a manner + suggesting a conflict between deep alienation and yearning wonder. Of the + two ladies from Lockleigh she was the one Isabel had liked best; there was + such a world of hereditary quiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her + mild forehead and silver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery—some + delightful reinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She + wondered what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had + refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never + know—that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond of + her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least, + was Isabel’s theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in conversation + she was usually occupied in forming theories about her neighbours. + According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what had passed + between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be shocked at + such a girl’s failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our heroine’s last + position) she would impute to the young American but a due consciousness + of inequality. + </p> + <p> + Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events, + Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which she + now found herself immersed. “Do you know you’re the first lord I’ve ever + seen?” she said very promptly to her neighbour. “I suppose you think I’m + awfully benighted.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve escaped seeing some very ugly men,” Lord Warburton answered, + looking a trifle absently about the table. + </p> + <p> + “Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they’re + all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and + crowns.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion,” said Lord Warburton, + “like your tomahawks and revolvers.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,” + Henrietta declared. “If it’s not that, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know, it isn’t much, at the best,” her neighbour allowed. “Won’t + you have a potato?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn’t know you from + an ordinary American gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Do talk to me as if I were one,” said Lord Warburton. “I don’t see how + you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to eat + over here.” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere. + “I’ve had hardly any appetite since I’ve been here,” she went on at last; + “so it doesn’t much matter. I don’t approve of you, you know; I feel as if + I ought to tell you that.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t approve of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I don’t suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did + they? I don’t approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has + got beyond them—far beyond.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so do I. I don’t approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes + over me—how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don’t + you know? But that’s rather good, by the way—not to be + vainglorious.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you give it up then?” Miss Stackpole enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Give up—a—?” asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh + inflexion with a very mellow one. + </p> + <p> + “Give up being a lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you + wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do think + of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see you do it!” Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll invite you to the ceremony; we’ll have a supper and a dance.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Miss Stackpole, “I like to see all sides. I don’t approve of + a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Mighty little, as you see!” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to draw you out a little more,” Henrietta continued. “But + you’re always looking away. You’re afraid of meeting my eye. I see you + want to escape me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m only looking for those despised potatoes.” + </p> + <p> + “Please explain about that young lady—your sister—then. I + don’t understand about her. Is she a Lady?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a capital good girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like the way you say that—as if you wanted to change the + subject. Is her position inferior to yours?” + </p> + <p> + “We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she’s better off than + I, because she has none of the bother.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she doesn’t look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little + bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you + may do.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole,” said Lord Warburton. + “And then you know we’re very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!” + </p> + <p> + “I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn’t know what to talk + to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross a + badge?” + </p> + <p> + “A badge?” + </p> + <p> + “A sign of rank.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton’s glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the + gaze of his neighbour. “Oh yes,” he answered in a moment; “the women go in + for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of + Viscounts.” Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had his + credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed to + Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though she + knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without + criticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since she + sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He walked + slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and saying + nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: “I hoped you wouldn’t write to me + that way.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the only way, Lord Warburton,” said the girl. “Do try and believe + that.” + </p> + <p> + “If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can’t + believe by willing it; and I confess I don’t understand. I could + understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you + should admit you do—” + </p> + <p> + “What have I admitted?” Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale. + </p> + <p> + “That you think me a good fellow; isn’t that it?” She said nothing, and he + went on: “You don’t seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of + injustice.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a reason, Lord Warburton.” She said it in a tone that made his + heart contract. + </p> + <p> + “I should like very much to know it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you some day when there’s more to show for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it.” + </p> + <p> + “You make me very unhappy,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you + kindly answer me a question?” Isabel made no audible assent, but he + apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. “Do + you prefer some one else?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a question I’d rather not answer.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you do then!” her suitor murmured with bitterness. + </p> + <p> + The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: “You’re mistaken! I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; + leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. “I can’t even be + glad of that,” he said at last, throwing himself back against the wall; + “for that would be an excuse.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “An excuse? Must I excuse myself?” + </p> + <p> + He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into + his head. “Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t object to your political opinions, because I don’t understand + them.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t care what I think!” he cried, getting up. “It’s all the same to + you.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing him + her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as + she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in + front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining it; and there + was something so young and free in her movement that her very pliancy + seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly + been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time + she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round her face was + pale and the expression of her eyes strange. “That reason that I wouldn’t + tell you—I’ll tell it you after all. It’s that I can’t escape my + fate.” + </p> + <p> + “Your fate?” + </p> + <p> + “I should try to escape it if I were to marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as anything + else?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s not,” said Isabel femininely. “I know it’s not. It’s not my + fate to give up—I know it can’t be.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. “Do you + call marrying me giving up?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the usual sense. It’s getting—getting—getting a great + deal. But it’s giving up other chances.” + </p> + <p> + “Other chances for what?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean chances to marry,” said Isabel, her colour quickly coming + back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if + it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you’ll gain more than + you’ll lose,” her companion observed. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t escape unhappiness,” said Isabel. “In marrying you I shall be + trying to.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether you’d try to, but you certainly would: that I must + in candour admit!” he exclaimed with an anxious laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I mustn’t—I can’t!” cried the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you’re bent on being miserable I don’t see why you should make + me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none for + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not bent on a life of misery,” said Isabel. “I’ve always been + intensely determined to be happy, and I’ve often believed I should be. + I’ve told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now + and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by + turning away, by separating myself.” + </p> + <p> + “By separating yourself from what?” + </p> + <p> + “From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know + and suffer.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. “Why, my dear + Miss Archer,” he began to explain with the most considerate eagerness, “I + don’t offer you any exoneration from life or from any chances or dangers + whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For what do you take me, + pray? Heaven help me, I’m not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the + chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common + lot? Why, I’m devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I + promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from + nothing whatever—not even from your friend Miss Stackpole.” + </p> + <p> + “She’d never approve of it,” said Isabel, trying to smile and take + advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for + doing so. + </p> + <p> + “Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?” his lordship asked impatiently. “I + never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Now I suppose you’re speaking of me,” said Isabel with humility; and she + turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery, + accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton’s sister addressed him with a certain timidity and reminded + him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was expecting company + to partake of it. He made no answer—apparently not having heard her; + he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss Molyneux—as if he had + been Royalty—stood like a lady-in-waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!” said Henrietta Stackpole. “If I wanted to + go he’d have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he’d have to do + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Warburton does everything one wants,” Miss Molyneux answered with a + quick, shy laugh. “How very many pictures you have!” she went on, turning + to Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “They look a good many, because they’re all put together,” said Ralph. + “But it’s really a bad way.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I think it’s so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I’m so + very fond of pictures,” Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph, as + if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta + appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her. + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, pictures are very convenient,” said Ralph, who appeared to know + better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her. + </p> + <p> + “They’re so very pleasant when it rains,” the young lady continued. “It + has rained of late so very often.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry you’re going away, Lord Warburton,” said Henrietta. “I wanted + to get a great deal more out of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going away,” Lord Warburton answered. + </p> + <p> + “Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid we have some people to tea,” said Miss Molyneux, looking at + her brother. + </p> + <p> + “Very good, my dear. We’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + “I hoped you would resist!” Henrietta exclaimed. “I wanted to see what + Miss Molyneux would do.” + </p> + <p> + “I never do anything,” said this young lady. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose in your position it’s sufficient for you to exist!” Miss + Stackpole returned. “I should like very much to see you at home.” + </p> + <p> + “You must come to Lockleigh again,” said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to + Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel’s friend. Isabel looked into her + quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey + depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord + Warburton—the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a + deep security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she + said: “I’m afraid I can never come again.” + </p> + <p> + “Never again?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’m going away.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” said Miss Molyneux. “I think that’s so very wrong + of you.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and stared + at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture with his + hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see you at home,” said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton + found beside him. “I should like an hour’s talk with you; there are a + great many questions I wish to ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be delighted to see you,” the proprietor of Lockleigh answered; + “but I’m certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When + will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We’re thinking of going to London, but + we’ll go and see you first. I’m determined to get some satisfaction out of + you.” + </p> + <p> + “If it depends upon Miss Archer I’m afraid you won’t get much. She won’t + come to Lockleigh; she doesn’t like the place.” + </p> + <p> + “She told me it was lovely!” said Henrietta. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton hesitated. “She won’t come, all the same. You had better + come alone,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. “Would you + make that remark to an English lady?” she enquired with soft asperity. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton stared. “Yes, if I liked her enough.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won’t visit your + place again it’s because she doesn’t want to take me. I know what she + thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same—that I oughtn’t to + bring in individuals.” Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been made + acquainted with Miss Stackpole’s professional character and failed to + catch her allusion. “Miss Archer has been warning you!” she therefore went + on. + </p> + <p> + “Warning me?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that why she came off alone with you here—to put you on your + guard?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no,” said Lord Warburton brazenly; “our talk had no such solemn + character as that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ve been on your guard—intensely. I suppose it’s natural + to you; that’s just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss Molyneux—she + wouldn’t commit herself. You have been warned, anyway,” Henrietta + continued, addressing this young lady; “but for you it wasn’t necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not,” said Miss Molyneux vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Stackpole takes notes,” Ralph soothingly explained. “She’s a great + satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!” + Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this + nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. “There’s something the matter with + you all; you’re as dismal as if you had got a bad cable.” + </p> + <p> + “You do see through us, Miss Stackpole,” said Ralph in a low tone, giving + her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the gallery. + “There’s something the matter with us all.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her + immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished floor. + Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind him and + his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then, “Is it true + you’re going to London?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I believe it has been arranged.” + </p> + <p> + “And when shall you come back?” + </p> + <p> + “In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I’m going to Paris + with my aunt.” + </p> + <p> + “When, then, shall I see you again?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for a good while,” said Isabel. “But some day or other, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really hope it?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much.” + </p> + <p> + He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand. + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it, + without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in + which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had + stopped on her way to the salon. “I may as well tell you,” said that lady, + “that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel considered. “Relations? They’re hardly relations. That’s the + strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?” Mrs. Touchett + dispassionately asked. + </p> + <p> + Again the girl hesitated. “Because he knows Lord Warburton better.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I know you better.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure of that,” said Isabel, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather + conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself and + had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer like Lord + Warburton’s it’s because you expect to do something better.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my uncle didn’t say that!” cried Isabel, smiling still. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + It had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed to London + under Ralph’s escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked with little favour on + the plan. It was just the sort of plan, she said, that Miss Stackpole + would be sure to suggest, and she enquired if the correspondent of the <i>Interviewer</i> + was to take the party to stay at her favourite boarding-house. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care where she takes us to stay, so long as there’s local + colour,” said Isabel. “That’s what we’re going to London for.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that after a girl has refused an English lord she may do + anything,” her aunt rejoined. “After that one needn’t stand on trifles.” + </p> + <p> + “Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton?” Isabel enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I should.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you disliked the English so much.” + </p> + <p> + “So I do; but it’s all the greater reason for making use of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that your idea of marriage?” And Isabel ventured to add that her aunt + appeared to her to have made very little use of Mr. Touchett. + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle’s not an English nobleman,” said Mrs. Touchett, “though even + if he had been I should still probably have taken up my residence in + Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any better than I am?” the girl + asked with some animation. “I don’t mean I’m too good to improve. I mean + that I don’t love Lord Warburton enough to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “You did right to refuse him then,” said Mrs. Touchett in her smallest, + sparest voice. “Only, the next great offer you get, I hope you’ll manage + to come up to your standard.” + </p> + <p> + “We had better wait till the offer comes before we talk about it. I hope + very much I may have no more offers for the present. They upset me + completely.” + </p> + <p> + “You probably won’t be troubled with them if you adopt permanently the + Bohemian manner of life. However, I’ve promised Ralph not to criticise.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do whatever Ralph says is right,” Isabel returned. “I’ve unbounded + confidence in Ralph.” + </p> + <p> + “His mother’s much obliged to you!” this lady dryly laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me indeed she ought to feel it!” Isabel irrepressibly + answered. + </p> + <p> + Ralph had assured her that there would be no violation of decency in their + paying a visit—the little party of three—to the sights of the + metropolis; but Mrs. Touchett took a different view. Like many ladies of + her country who had lived a long time in Europe, she had completely lost + her native tact on such points, and in her reaction, not in itself + deplorable, against the liberty allowed to young persons beyond the seas, + had fallen into gratuitous and exaggerated scruples. Ralph accompanied + their visitors to town and established them at a quiet inn in a street + that ran at right angles to Piccadilly. His first idea had been to take + them to his father’s house in Winchester Square, a large, dull mansion + which at this period of the year was shrouded in silence and brown + holland; but he bethought himself that, the cook being at Gardencourt, + there was no one in the house to get them their meals, and Pratt’s Hotel + accordingly became their resting-place. Ralph, on his side, found quarters + in Winchester Square, having a “den” there of which he was very fond and + being familiar with deeper fears than that of a cold kitchen. He availed + himself largely indeed of the resources of Pratt’s Hotel, beginning his + day with an early visit to his fellow travellers, who had Mr. Pratt in + person, in a large bulging white waistcoat, to remove their dish-covers. + Ralph turned up, as he said, after breakfast, and the little party made + out a scheme of entertainment for the day. As London wears in the month of + September a face blank but for its smears of prior service, the young man, + who occasionally took an apologetic tone, was obliged to remind his + companion, to Miss Stackpole’s high derision, that there wasn’t a creature + in town. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean the aristocracy are absent,” Henrietta answered; “but + I don’t think you could have a better proof that if they were absent + altogether they wouldn’t be missed. It seems to me the place is about as + full as it can be. There’s no one here, of course, but three or four + millions of people. What is it you call them—the lower-middle class? + They’re only the population of London, and that’s of no consequence.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph declared that for him the aristocracy left no void that Miss + Stackpole herself didn’t fill, and that a more contented man was nowhere + at that moment to be found. In this he spoke the truth, for the stale + September days, in the huge half-empty town, had a charm wrapped in them + as a coloured gem might be wrapped in a dusty cloth. When he went home at + night to the empty house in Winchester Square, after a chain of hours with + his comparatively ardent friends, he wandered into the big dusky + dining-room, where the candle he took from the hall-table, after letting + himself in, constituted the only illumination. The square was still, the + house was still; when he raised one of the windows of the dining-room to + let in the air he heard the slow creak of the boots of a lone constable. + His own step, in the empty place, seemed loud and sonorous; some of the + carpets had been raised, and whenever he moved he roused a melancholy + echo. He sat down in one of the armchairs; the big dark dining table + twinkled here and there in the small candle-light; the pictures on the + wall, all of them very brown, looked vague and incoherent. There was a + ghostly presence as of dinners long since digested, of table-talk that had + lost its actuality. This hint of the supernatural perhaps had something to + do with the fact that his imagination took a flight and that he remained + in his chair a long time beyond the hour at which he should have been in + bed; doing nothing, not even reading the evening paper. I say he did + nothing, and I maintain the phrase in the face of the fact that he thought + at these moments of Isabel. To think of Isabel could only be for him an + idle pursuit, leading to nothing and profiting little to any one. His + cousin had not yet seemed to him so charming as during these days spent in + sounding, tourist-fashion, the deeps and shallows of the metropolitan + element. Isabel was full of premises, conclusions, emotions; if she had + come in search of local colour she found it everywhere. She asked more + questions than he could answer, and launched brave theories, as to + historic cause and social effect, that he was equally unable to accept or + to refute. The party went more than once to the British Museum and to that + brighter palace of art which reclaims for antique variety so large an area + of a monotonous suburb; they spent a morning in the Abbey and went on a + penny-steamer to the Tower; they looked at pictures both in public and + private collections and sat on various occasions beneath the great trees + in Kensington Gardens. Henrietta proved an indestructible sight-seer and a + more lenient judge than Ralph had ventured to hope. She had indeed many + disappointments, and London at large suffered from her vivid remembrance + of the strong points of the American civic idea; but she made the best of + its dingy dignities and only heaved an occasional sigh and uttered a + desultory “Well!” which led no further and lost itself in retrospect. The + truth was that, as she said herself, she was not in her element. “I’ve not + a sympathy with inanimate objects,” she remarked to Isabel at the National + Gallery; and she continued to suffer from the meagreness of the glimpse + that had as yet been vouchsafed to her of the inner life. Landscapes by + Turner and Assyrian bulls were a poor substitute for the literary + dinner-parties at which she had hoped to meet the genius and renown of + Great Britain. + </p> + <p> + “Where are your public men, where are your men and women of intellect?” + she enquired of Ralph, standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square as if + she had supposed this to be a place where she would naturally meet a few. + “That’s one of them on the top of the column, you say—Lord Nelson. + Was he a lord too? Wasn’t he high enough, that they had to stick him a + hundred feet in the air? That’s the past—I don’t care about the + past; I want to see some of the leading minds of the present. I won’t say + of the future, because I don’t believe much in your future.” Poor Ralph + had few leading minds among his acquaintance and rarely enjoyed the + pleasure of buttonholing a celebrity; a state of things which appeared to + Miss Stackpole to indicate a deplorable want of enterprise. “If I were on + the other side I should call,” she said, “and tell the gentleman, whoever + he might be, that I had heard a great deal about him and had come to see + for myself. But I gather from what you say that this is not the custom + here. You seem to have plenty of meaningless customs, but none of those + that would help along. We are in advance, certainly. I suppose I shall + have to give up the social side altogether;” and Henrietta, though she + went about with her guidebook and pencil and wrote a letter to the <i>Interviewer</i> + about the Tower (in which she described the execution of Lady Jane Grey), + had a sad sense of falling below her mission. + </p> + <p> + The incident that had preceded Isabel’s departure from Gardencourt left a + painful trace in our young woman’s mind: when she felt again in her face, + as from a recurrent wave, the cold breath of her last suitor’s surprise, + she could only muffle her head till the air cleared. She could not have + done less than what she did; this was certainly true. But her necessity, + all the same, had been as graceless as some physical act in a strained + attitude, and she felt no desire to take credit for her conduct. Mixed + with this imperfect pride, nevertheless, was a feeling of freedom which in + itself was sweet and which, as she wandered through the great city with + her ill-matched companions, occasionally throbbed into odd demonstrations. + When she walked in Kensington Gardens she stopped the children (mainly of + the poorer sort) whom she saw playing on the grass; she asked them their + names and gave them sixpence and, when they were pretty, kissed them. + Ralph noticed these quaint charities; he noticed everything she did. One + afternoon, that his companions might pass the time, he invited them to tea + in Winchester Square, and he had the house set in order as much as + possible for their visit. There was another guest to meet them, an amiable + bachelor, an old friend of Ralph’s who happened to be in town and for whom + prompt commerce with Miss Stackpole appeared to have neither difficulty + nor dread. Mr. Bantling, a stout, sleek, smiling man of forty, wonderfully + dressed, universally informed and incoherently amused, laughed + immoderately at everything Henrietta said, gave her several cups of tea, + examined in her society the <i>bric-à-brac</i>, of which Ralph had a + considerable collection, and afterwards, when the host proposed they + should go out into the square and pretend it was a <i>fête-champetre</i>, + walked round the limited enclosure several times with her and, at a dozen + turns of their talk, bounded responsive—as with a positive passion + for argument—to her remarks upon the inner life. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see; I dare say you found it very quiet at Gardencourt. Naturally + there’s not much going on there when there’s such a lot of illness about. + Touchett’s very bad, you know; the doctors have forbidden his being in + England at all, and he has only come back to take care of his father. The + old man, I believe, has half a dozen things the matter with him. They call + it gout, but to my certain knowledge he has organic disease so developed + that you may depend upon it he’ll go, some day soon, quite quickly. Of + course that sort of thing makes a dreadfully dull house; I wonder they + have people when they can do so little for them. Then I believe Mr. + Touchett’s always squabbling with his wife; she lives away from her + husband, you know, in that extraordinary American way of yours. If you + want a house where there’s always something going on, I recommend you to + go down and stay with my sister, Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire. I’ll write + to her to-morrow and I’m sure she’ll be delighted to ask you. I know just + what you want—you want a house where they go in for theatricals and + picnics and that sort of thing. My sister’s just that sort of woman; she’s + always getting up something or other and she’s always glad to have the + sort of people who help her. I’m sure she’ll ask you down by return of + post: she’s tremendously fond of distinguished people and writers. She + writes herself, you know; but I haven’t read everything she has written. + It’s usually poetry, and I don’t go in much for poetry—unless it’s + Byron. I suppose you think a great deal of Byron in America,” Mr. Bantling + continued, expanding in the stimulating air of Miss Stackpole’s attention, + bringing up his sequences promptly and changing his topic with an easy + turn of hand. Yet he none the less gracefully kept in sight of the idea, + dazzling to Henrietta, of her going to stay with Lady Pensil in + Bedfordshire. “I understand what you want; you want to see some genuine + English sport. The Touchetts aren’t English at all, you know; they have + their own habits, their own language, their own food—some odd + religion even, I believe, of their own. The old man thinks it’s wicked to + hunt, I’m told. You must get down to my sister’s in time for the + theatricals, and I’m sure she’ll be glad to give you a part. I’m sure you + act well; I know you’re very clever. My sister’s forty years old and has + seven children, but she’s going to play the principal part. Plain as she + is she makes up awfully well—I will say for her. Of course you + needn’t act if you don’t want to.” + </p> + <p> + In this manner Mr. Bantling delivered himself while they strolled over the + grass in Winchester Square, which, although it had been peppered by the + London soot, invited the tread to linger. Henrietta thought her blooming, + easy-voiced bachelor, with his impressibility to feminine merit and his + splendid range of suggestion, a very agreeable man, and she valued the + opportunity he offered her. “I don’t know but I would go, if your sister + should ask me. I think it would be my duty. What do you call her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Pensil. It’s an odd name, but it isn’t a bad one.” + </p> + <p> + “I think one name’s as good as another. But what’s her rank?”. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she’s a baron’s wife; a convenient sort of rank. You’re fine enough + and you’re not too fine.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know but what she’d be too fine for me. What do you call the + place she lives in—Bedfordshire?” + </p> + <p> + “She lives away in the northern corner of it. It’s a tiresome country, but + I dare say you won’t mind it. I’ll try and run down while you’re there.” + </p> + <p> + All this was very pleasant to Miss Stackpole, and she was sorry to be + obliged to separate from Lady Pensil’s obliging brother. But it happened + that she had met the day before, in Piccadilly, some friends whom she had + not seen for a year: the Miss Climbers, two ladies from Wilmington, + Delaware, who had been travelling on the Continent and were now preparing + to re-embark. Henrietta had had a long interview with them on the + Piccadilly pavement, and though the three ladies all talked at once they + had not exhausted their store. It had been agreed therefore that Henrietta + should come and dine with them in their lodgings in Jermyn Street at six + o’clock on the morrow, and she now bethought herself of this engagement. + She prepared to start for Jermyn Street, taking leave first of Ralph + Touchett and Isabel, who, seated on garden chairs in another part of the + enclosure, were occupied—if the term may be used—with an + exchange of amenities less pointed than the practical colloquy of Miss + Stackpole and Mr. Bantling. When it had been settled between Isabel and + her friend that they should be reunited at some reputable hour at Pratt’s + Hotel, Ralph remarked that the latter must have a cab. She couldn’t walk + all the way to Jermyn Street. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean it’s improper for me to walk alone!” Henrietta + exclaimed. “Merciful powers, have I come to this?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s not the slightest need of your walking alone,” Mr. Bantling gaily + interposed. “I should be greatly pleased to go with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I simply meant that you’d be late for dinner,” Ralph returned. “Those + poor ladies may easily believe that we refuse, at the last, to spare you.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better have a hansom, Henrietta,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll get you a hansom if you’ll trust me,” Mr. Bantling went on. + </p> + <p> + “We might walk a little till we meet one.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why I shouldn’t trust him, do you?” Henrietta enquired of + Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what Mr. Bantling could do to you,” Isabel obligingly + answered; “but, if you like, we’ll walk with you till you find your cab.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind; we’ll go alone. Come on, Mr. Bantling, and take care you get + me a good one.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bantling promised to do his best, and the two took their departure, + leaving the girl and her cousin together in the square, over which a clear + September twilight had now begun to gather. It was perfectly still; the + wide quadrangle of dusky houses showed lights in none of the windows, + where the shutters and blinds were closed; the pavements were a vacant + expanse, and, putting aside two small children from a neighbouring slum, + who, attracted by symptoms of abnormal animation in the interior, poked + their faces between the rusty rails of the enclosure, the most vivid + object within sight was the big red pillar-post on the southeast corner. + </p> + <p> + “Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her to Jermyn + Street,” Ralph observed. He always spoke of Miss Stackpole as Henrietta. + </p> + <p> + “Very possibly,” said his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Or rather, no, she won’t,” he went on. “But Bantling will ask leave to + get in.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely again. I am very glad they are such good friends.” + </p> + <p> + “She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman. It may go far,” + said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + Isabel was briefly silent. “I call Henrietta a very brilliant woman, but I + don’t think it will go far. They would never really know each other. He + has not the least idea what she really is, and she has no just + comprehension of Mr. Bantling.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no more usual basis of union than a mutual misunderstanding. But + it ought not to be so difficult to understand Bob Bantling,” Ralph added. + “He is a very simple organism.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but Henrietta’s a simpler one still. And, pray, what am I to do?” + Isabel asked, looking about her through the fading light, in which the + limited landscape-gardening of the square took on a large and effective + appearance. “I don’t imagine that you’ll propose that you and I, for our + amusement, shall drive about London in a hansom.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no reason we shouldn’t stay here—if you don’t dislike it. + It’s very warm; there will be half an hour yet before dark; and if you + permit it I’ll light a cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + “You may do what you please,” said Isabel, “if you’ll amuse me till seven + o’clock. I propose at that hour to go back and partake of a simple and + solitary repast—two poached eggs and a muffin—at Pratt’s + Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “Mayn’t I dine with you?” Ralph asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, you’ll dine at your club.” + </p> + <p> + They had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the square again, + and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It would have given him extreme + pleasure to be present in person at the modest little feast she had + sketched; but in default of this he liked even being forbidden. For the + moment, however, he liked immensely being alone with her, in the + thickening dusk, in the centre of the multitudinous town; it made her seem + to depend upon him and to be in his power. This power he could exert but + vaguely; the best exercise of it was to accept her decisions submissively + which indeed there was already an emotion in doing. “Why won’t you let me + dine with you?” he demanded after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Because I don’t care for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you’re tired of me.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be an hour hence. You see I have the gift of foreknowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + But he said nothing more, and as she made no rejoinder they sat some time + in a stillness which seemed to contradict his promise of entertainment. It + seemed to him she was preoccupied, and he wondered what she was thinking + about; there were two or three very possible subjects. At last he spoke + again. “Is your objection to my society this evening caused by your + expectation of another visitor?” + </p> + <p> + She turned her head with a glance of her clear, fair eyes. “Another + visitor? What visitor should I have?” + </p> + <p> + He had none to suggest; which made his question seem to himself silly as + well as brutal. “You’ve a great many friends that I don’t know. You’ve a + whole past from which I was perversely excluded.” + </p> + <p> + “You were reserved for my future. You must remember that my past is over + there across the water. There’s none of it here in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you. Capital thing to + have your future so handy.” And Ralph lighted another cigarette and + reflected that Isabel probably meant she had received news that Mr. Caspar + Goodwood had crossed to Paris. After he had lighted his cigarette he + puffed it a while, and then he resumed. “I promised just now to be very + amusing; but you see I don’t come up to the mark, and the fact is there’s + a good deal of temerity in one’s undertaking to amuse a person like you. + What do you care for my feeble attempts? You’ve grand ideas—you’ve a + high standard in such matters. I ought at least to bring in a band of + music or a company of mountebanks.” + </p> + <p> + “One mountebank’s enough, and you do very well. Pray go on, and in another + ten minutes I shall begin to laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you I’m very serious,” said Ralph. “You do really ask a great + deal.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean. I ask nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “You accept nothing,” said Ralph. She coloured, and now suddenly it seemed + to her that she guessed his meaning. But why should he speak to her of + such things? He hesitated a little and then he continued: “There’s + something I should like very much to say to you. It’s a question I wish to + ask. It seems to me I’ve a right to ask it, because I’ve a kind of + interest in the answer.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask what you will,” Isabel replied gently, “and I’ll try to satisfy you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, I hope you won’t mind my saying that Warburton has told me of + something that has passed between you.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel suppressed a start; she sat looking at her open fan. “Very good; I + suppose it was natural he should tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He has some hope still,” + said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Still?” + </p> + <p> + “He had it a few days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe he has any now,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry for him then; he’s such an honest man.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray, did he ask you to talk to me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not that. But he told me because he couldn’t help it. We’re old + friends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent me a line asking me to + come and see him, and I drove over to Lockleigh the day before he and his + sister lunched with us. He was very heavy-hearted; he had just got a + letter from you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he show you the letter?” asked Isabel with momentary loftiness. + </p> + <p> + “By no means. But he told me it was a neat refusal. I was very sorry for + him,” Ralph repeated. + </p> + <p> + For some moments Isabel said nothing; then at last, “Do you know how often + he had seen me?” she enquired. “Five or six times.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s to your glory.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not for that I say it.” + </p> + <p> + “What then do you say it for. Not to prove that poor Warburton’s state of + mind’s superficial, because I’m pretty sure you don’t think that.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel certainly was unable to say she thought it; but presently she said + something else. “If you’ve not been requested by Lord Warburton to argue + with me, then you’re doing it disinterestedly—or for the love of + argument.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no wish to argue with you at all. I only wish to leave you alone. + I’m simply greatly interested in your own sentiments.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m greatly obliged to you!” cried Isabel with a slightly nervous laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you mean that I’m meddling in what doesn’t concern me. But why + shouldn’t I speak to you of this matter without annoying you or + embarrassing myself? What’s the use of being your cousin if I can’t have a + few privileges? What’s the use of adoring you without hope of a reward if + I can’t have a few compensations? What’s the use of being ill and disabled + and restricted to mere spectatorship at the game of life if I really can’t + see the show when I’ve paid so much for my ticket? Tell me this,” Ralph + went on while she listened to him with quickened attention. “What had you + in mind when you refused Lord Warburton?” + </p> + <p> + “What had I in mind?” + </p> + <p> + “What was the logic—the view of your situation—that dictated + so remarkable an act?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t wish to marry him—if that’s logic.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that’s not logic—and I knew that before. It’s really nothing, + you know. What was it you said to yourself? You certainly said more than + that.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel reflected a moment, then answered with a question of her own. “Why + do you call it a remarkable act? That’s what your mother thinks too.” + </p> + <p> + “Warburton’s such a thorough good sort; as a man, I consider he has hardly + a fault. And then he’s what they call here no end of a swell. He has + immense possessions, and his wife would be thought a superior being. He + unites the intrinsic and the extrinsic advantages.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel watched her cousin as to see how far he would go. “I refused him + because he was too perfect then. I’m not perfect myself, and he’s too good + for me. Besides, his perfection would irritate me.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s ingenious rather than candid,” said Ralph. “As a fact you think + nothing in the world too perfect for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I’m so good?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but you’re exacting, all the same, without the excuse of thinking + yourself good. Nineteen women out of twenty, however, even of the most + exacting sort, would have managed to do with Warburton. Perhaps you don’t + know how he has been stalked.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to know. But it seems to me,” said Isabel, “that one day + when we talked of him you mentioned odd things in him.” Ralph smokingly + considered. “I hope that what I said then had no weight with you; for they + were not faults, the things I spoke of: they were simply peculiarities of + his position. If I had known he wished to marry you I’d never have alluded + to them. I think I said that as regards that position he was rather a + sceptic. It would have been in your power to make him a believer.” + </p> + <p> + “I think not. I don’t understand the matter, and I’m not conscious of any + mission of that sort. You’re evidently disappointed,” Isabel added, + looking at her cousin with rueful gentleness. “You’d have liked me to make + such a marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. I’m absolutely without a wish on the subject. I don’t + pretend to advise you, and I content myself with watching you—with + the deepest interest.” + </p> + <p> + She gave rather a conscious sigh. “I wish I could be as interesting to + myself as I am to you!” + </p> + <p> + “There you’re not candid again; you’re extremely interesting to yourself. + Do you know, however,” said Ralph, “that if you’ve really given Warburton + his final answer I’m rather glad it has been what it was. I don’t mean I’m + glad for you, and still less of course for him. I’m glad for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you thinking of proposing to me?” + </p> + <p> + “By no means. From the point of view I speak of that would be fatal; I + should kill the goose that supplies me with the material of my inimitable + <i>omelettes</i>. I use that animal as the symbol of my insane illusions. + What I mean is that I shall have the thrill of seeing what a young lady + does who won’t marry Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what your mother counts upon too,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there will be plenty of spectators! We shall hang on the rest of your + career. I shall not see all of it, but I shall probably see the most + interesting years. Of course if you were to marry our friend you’d still + have a career—a very decent, in fact a very brilliant one. But + relatively speaking it would be a little prosaic. It would be definitely + marked out in advance; it would be wanting in the unexpected. You know I’m + extremely fond of the unexpected, and now that you’ve kept the game in + your hands I depend on your giving us some grand example of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you very well,” said Isabel, “but I do so well enough + to be able to say that if you look for grand examples of anything from me + I shall disappoint you.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll do so only by disappointing yourself and that will go hard with + you!” + </p> + <p> + To this she made no direct reply; there was an amount of truth in it that + would bear consideration. At last she said abruptly: “I don’t see what + harm there is in my wishing not to tie myself. I don’t want to begin life + by marrying. There are other things a woman can do.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing she can do so well. But you’re of course so many-sided.” + </p> + <p> + “If one’s two-sided it’s enough,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “You’re the most charming of polygons!” her companion broke out. At a + glance from his companion, however, he became grave, and to prove it went + on: “You want to see life—you’ll be hanged if you don’t, as the + young men say.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I want to see it as the young men want to see it. But I do + want to look about me.” + </p> + <p> + “You want to drain the cup of experience.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t wish to touch the cup of experience. It’s a poisoned drink! I + only want to see for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You want to see, but not to feel,” Ralph remarked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that if one’s a sentient being one can make the + distinction. I’m a good deal like Henrietta. The other day when I asked + her if she wished to marry she said: ‘Not till I’ve seen Europe!’ I too + don’t wish to marry till I’ve seen Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “You evidently expect a crowned head will be struck with you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that would be worse than marrying Lord Warburton. But it’s getting + very dark,” Isabel continued, “and I must go home.” She rose from her + place, but Ralph only sat still and looked at her. As he remained there + she stopped, and they exchanged a gaze that was full on either side, but + especially on Ralph’s, of utterances too vague for words. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve answered my question,” he said at last. “You’ve told me what I + wanted. I’m greatly obliged to you.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me I’ve told you very little.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve told me the great thing: that the world interests you and that you + want to throw yourself into it.” + </p> + <p> + Her silvery eyes shone a moment in the dusk. “I never said that.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you meant it. Don’t repudiate it. It’s so fine!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you’re trying to fasten upon me, for I’m not in the + least an adventurous spirit. Women are not like men.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph slowly rose from his seat and they walked together to the gate of + the square. “No,” he said; “women rarely boast of their courage. Men do so + with a certain frequency.” + </p> + <p> + “Men have it to boast of!” + </p> + <p> + “Women have it too. You’ve a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “Enough to go home in a cab to Pratt’s Hotel, but not more.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he fastened it. + “We’ll find your cab,” he said; and as they turned toward a neighbouring + street in which this quest might avail he asked her again if he mightn’t + see her safely to the inn. + </p> + <p> + “By no means,” she answered; “you’re very tired; you must go home and go + to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a moment at the + door. “When people forget I’m a poor creature I’m often incommoded,” he + said. “But it’s worse when they remember it!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + She had had no hidden motive in wishing him not to take her home; it + simply struck her that for some days past she had consumed an inordinate + quantity of his time, and the independent spirit of the American girl whom + extravagance of aid places in an attitude that she ends by finding + “affected” had made her decide that for these few hours she must suffice + to herself. She had moreover a great fondness for intervals of solitude, + which since her arrival in England had been but meagrely met. It was a + luxury she could always command at home and she had wittingly missed it. + That evening, however, an incident occurred which—had there been a + critic to note it—would have taken all colour from the theory that + the wish to be quite by herself had caused her to dispense with her + cousin’s attendance. Seated toward nine o’clock in the dim illumination of + Pratt’s Hotel and trying with the aid of two tall candles to lose herself + in a volume she had brought from Gardencourt, she succeeded only to the + extent of reading other words than those printed on the page—words + that Ralph had spoken to her that afternoon. Suddenly the well-muffed + knuckle of the waiter was applied to the door, which presently gave way to + his exhibition, even as a glorious trophy, of the card of a visitor. When + this memento had offered to her fixed sight the name of Mr. Caspar + Goodwood she let the man stand before her without signifying her wishes. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I show the gentleman up, ma’am?” he asked with a slightly + encouraging inflexion. + </p> + <p> + Isabel hesitated still and while she hesitated glanced at the mirror. “He + may come in,” she said at last; and waited for him not so much smoothing + her hair as girding her spirit. + </p> + <p> + Caspar Goodwood was accordingly the next moment shaking hands with her, + but saying nothing till the servant had left the room. “Why didn’t you + answer my letter?” he then asked in a quick, full, slightly peremptory + tone—the tone of a man whose questions were habitually pointed and + who was capable of much insistence. + </p> + <p> + She answered by a ready question, “How did you know I was here?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Stackpole let me know,” said Caspar Goodwood. “She told me you would + probably be at home alone this evening and would be willing to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did she see you—to tell you that?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t see me; she wrote to me.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel was silent; neither had sat down; they stood there with an air of + defiance, or at least of contention. “Henrietta never told me she was + writing to you,” she said at last. “This is not kind of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so disagreeable to you to see me?” asked the young man. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t expect it. I don’t like such surprises.” + </p> + <p> + “But you knew I was in town; it was natural we should meet.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call this meeting? I hoped I shouldn’t see you. In so big a place + as London it seemed very possible.” + </p> + <p> + “It was apparently repugnant to you even to write to me,” her visitor went + on. + </p> + <p> + Isabel made no reply; the sense of Henrietta Stackpole’s treachery, as she + momentarily qualified it, was strong within her. “Henrietta’s certainly + not a model of all the delicacies!” she exclaimed with bitterness. “It was + a great liberty to take.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I’m not a model either—of those virtues or of any others. + The fault’s mine as much as hers.” + </p> + <p> + As Isabel looked at him it seemed to her that his jaw had never been more + square. This might have displeased her, but she took a different turn. + “No, it’s not your fault so much as hers. What you’ve done was inevitable, + I suppose, for you.” + </p> + <p> + “It was indeed!” cried Caspar Goodwood with a voluntary laugh. + </p> + <p> + “And now that I’ve come, at any rate, mayn’t I stay?” + </p> + <p> + “You may sit down, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + She went back to her chair again, while her visitor took the first place + that offered, in the manner of a man accustomed to pay little thought to + that sort of furtherance. “I’ve been hoping every day for an answer to my + letter. You might have written me a few lines.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t the trouble of writing that prevented me; I could as easily + have written you four pages as one. But my silence was an intention,” + Isabel said. “I thought it the best thing.” + </p> + <p> + He sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she spoke; then he lowered them + and attached them to a spot in the carpet as if he were making a strong + effort to say nothing but what he ought. He was a strong man in the wrong, + and he was acute enough to see that an uncompromising exhibition of his + strength would only throw the falsity of his position into relief. Isabel + was not incapable of tasting any advantage of position over a person of + this quality, and though little desirous to flaunt it in his face she + could enjoy being able to say “You know you oughtn’t to have written to me + yourself!” and to say it with an air of triumph. + </p> + <p> + Caspar Goodwood raised his eyes to her own again; they seemed to shine + through the vizard of a helmet. He had a strong sense of justice and was + ready any day in the year—over and above this—to argue the + question of his rights. “You said you hoped never to hear from me again; I + know that. But I never accepted any such rule as my own. I warned you that + you should hear very soon.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say I hoped <i>never</i> to hear from you,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Not for five years then; for ten years; twenty years. It’s the same + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you find it so? It seems to me there’s a great difference. I can + imagine that at the end of ten years we might have a very pleasant + correspondence. I shall have matured my epistolary style.” + </p> + <p> + She looked away while she spoke these words, knowing them of so much less + earnest a cast than the countenance of her listener. Her eyes, however, at + last came back to him, just as he said very irrelevantly; “Are you + enjoying your visit to your uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much indeed.” She dropped, but then she broke out. “What good do you + expect to get by insisting?” + </p> + <p> + “The good of not losing you.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve no right to talk of losing what’s not yours. And even from your + own point of view,” Isabel added, “you ought to know when to let one + alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I disgust you very much,” said Caspar Goodwood gloomily; not as if to + provoke her to compassion for a man conscious of this blighting fact, but + as if to set it well before himself, so that he might endeavour to act + with his eyes on it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you don’t at all delight me, you don’t fit in, not in any way, just + now, and the worst is that your putting it to the proof in this manner is + quite unnecessary.” It wasn’t certainly as if his nature had been soft, so + that pin-pricks would draw blood from it; and from the first of her + acquaintance with him, and of her having to defend herself against a + certain air that he had of knowing better what was good for her than she + knew herself, she had recognised the fact that perfect frankness was her + best weapon. To attempt to spare his sensibility or to escape from him + edgewise, as one might do from a man who had barred the way less sturdily—this, + in dealing with Caspar Goodwood, who would grasp at everything of every + sort that one might give him, was wasted agility. It was not that he had + not susceptibilities, but his passive surface, as well as his active, was + large and hard, and he might always be trusted to dress his wounds, so far + as they required it, himself. She came back, even for her measure of + possible pangs and aches in him, to her old sense that he was naturally + plated and steeled, armed essentially for aggression. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t reconcile myself to that,” he simply said. There was a dangerous + liberality about it; for she felt how open it was to him to make the point + that he had not always disgusted her. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t reconcile myself to it either, and it’s not the state of things + that ought to exist between us. If you’d only try to banish me from your + mind for a few months we should be on good terms again.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. If I should cease to think of you at all for a prescribed time, I + should find I could keep it up indefinitely.” + </p> + <p> + “Indefinitely is more than I ask. It’s more even than I should like.” + </p> + <p> + “You know that what you ask is impossible,” said the young man, taking his + adjective for granted in a manner she found irritating. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you capable of making a calculated effort?” she demanded. “You’re + strong for everything else; why shouldn’t you be strong for that?” + </p> + <p> + “An effort calculated for what?” And then as she hung fire, “I’m capable + of nothing with regard to you,” he went on, “but just of being infernally + in love with you. If one’s strong one loves only the more strongly.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a good deal in that;” and indeed our young lady felt the force of + it—felt it thrown off, into the vast of truth and poetry, as + practically a bait to her imagination. But she promptly came round. “Think + of me or not, as you find most possible; only leave me alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Until when?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for a year or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Which do you mean? Between one year and two there’s all the difference in + the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Call it two then,” said Isabel with a studied effect of eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “And what shall I gain by that?” her friend asked with no sign of wincing. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have obliged me greatly.” + </p> + <p> + “And what will be my reward?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you need a reward for an act of generosity?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when it involves a great sacrifice.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no generosity without some sacrifice. Men don’t understand such + things. If you make the sacrifice you’ll have all my admiration.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care a cent for your admiration—not one straw, with nothing + to show for it. When will you marry me? That’s the only question.” + </p> + <p> + “Never—if you go on making me feel only as I feel at present.” + </p> + <p> + “What do I gain then by not trying to make you feel otherwise?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll gain quite as much as by worrying me to death!” Caspar Goodwood + bent his eyes again and gazed a while into the crown of his hat. A deep + flush overspread his face; she could see her sharpness had at last + penetrated. This immediately had a value—classic, romantic, + redeeming, what did she know? for her; “the strong man in pain” was one of + the categories of the human appeal, little charm as he might exert in the + given case. “Why do you make me say such things to you?” she cried in a + trembling voice. “I only want to be gentle—to be thoroughly kind. + It’s not delightful to me to feel people care for me and yet to have to + try and reason them out of it. I think others also ought to be + considerate; we have each to judge for ourselves. I know you’re + considerate, as much as you can be; you’ve good reasons for what you do. + But I really don’t want to marry, or to talk about it at all now. I shall + probably never do it—no, never. I’ve a perfect right to feel that + way, and it’s no kindness to a woman to press her so hard, to urge her + against her will. If I give you pain I can only say I’m very sorry. It’s + not my fault; I can’t marry you simply to please you. I won’t say that I + shall always remain your friend, because when women say that, in these + situations, it passes, I believe, for a sort of mockery. But try me some + day.” + </p> + <p> + Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed upon the name + of his hatter, and it was not until some time after she had ceased + speaking that he raised them. When he did so the sight of a rosy, lovely + eagerness in Isabel’s face threw some confusion into his attempt to + analyse her words. “I’ll go home—I’ll go to-morrow—I’ll leave + you alone,” he brought out at last. “Only,” he heavily said, “I hate to + lose sight of you!” + </p> + <p> + “Never fear. I shall do no harm.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll marry some one else, as sure as I sit here,” Caspar Goodwood + declared. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that a generous charge?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Plenty of men will try to make you.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you just now that I don’t wish to marry and that I almost + certainly never shall.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you did, and I like your ‘almost certainly’! I put no faith in + what you say.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. Do you accuse me of lying to shake you off? You say + very delicate things.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I not say that? You’ve given me no pledge of anything at all.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that’s all that would be wanting!” + </p> + <p> + “You may perhaps even believe you’re safe—from wishing to be. But + you’re not,” the young man went on as if preparing himself for the worst. + </p> + <p> + “Very well then. We’ll put it that I’m not safe. Have it as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, however,” said Caspar Goodwood, “that my keeping you in + sight would prevent it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you indeed? I’m after all very much afraid of you. Do you think I’m + so very easily pleased?” she asked suddenly, changing her tone. + </p> + <p> + “No—I don’t; I shall try to console myself with that. But there are + a certain number of very dazzling men in the world, no doubt; and if there + were only one it would be enough. The most dazzling of all will make + straight for you. You’ll be sure to take no one who isn’t dazzling.” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean by dazzling brilliantly clever,” Isabel said—“and I + can’t imagine what else you mean—I don’t need the aid of a clever + man to teach me how to live. I can find it out for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Find out how to live alone? I wish that, when you have, you’d teach me!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him a moment; then with a quick smile, “Oh, you ought to + marry!” she said. + </p> + <p> + He might be pardoned if for an instant this exclamation seemed to him to + sound the infernal note, and it is not on record that her motive for + discharging such a shaft had been of the clearest. He oughtn’t to stride + about lean and hungry, however—she certainly felt <i>that</i> for + him. “God forgive you!” he murmured between his teeth as he turned away. + </p> + <p> + Her accent had put her slightly in the wrong, and after a moment she felt + the need to right herself. The easiest way to do it was to place him where + she had been. “You do me great injustice—you say what you don’t + know!” she broke out. “I shouldn’t be an easy victim—I’ve proved + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, to me, perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve proved it to others as well.” And she paused a moment. “I refused a + proposal of marriage last week; what they call—no doubt—a + dazzling one.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad to hear it,” said the young man gravely. + </p> + <p> + “It was a proposal many girls would have accepted; it had everything to + recommend it.” Isabel had not proposed to herself to tell this story, but, + now she had begun, the satisfaction of speaking it out and doing herself + justice took possession of her. “I was offered a great position and a + great fortune—by a person whom I like extremely.” + </p> + <p> + Caspar watched her with intense interest. “Is he an Englishman?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s an English nobleman,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + Her visitor received this announcement at first in silence, but at last + said: “I’m glad he’s disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the best of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t call him a companion,” said Casper grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Why not—since I declined his offer absolutely?” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t make him my companion. Besides, he’s an Englishman.” + </p> + <p> + “And pray isn’t an Englishman a human being?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, those people? They’re not of my humanity, and I don’t care what + becomes of them.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very angry,” said the girl. “We’ve discussed this matter quite + enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I’m very angry. I plead guilty to that!” + </p> + <p> + She turned away from him, walked to the open window and stood a moment + looking into the dusky void of the street, where a turbid gaslight alone + represented social animation. For some time neither of these young persons + spoke; Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece with eyes gloomily attached. + She had virtually requested him to go—he knew that; but at the risk + of making himself odious he kept his ground. She was far too dear to him + to be easily renounced, and he had crossed the sea all to wring from her + some scrap of a vow. Presently she left the window and stood again before + him. “You do me very little justice—after my telling you what I told + you just now. I’m sorry I told you—since it matters so little to + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried the young man, “if you were thinking of <i>me</i> when you did + it!” And then he paused with the fear that she might contradict so happy a + thought. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of you a little,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “A little? I don’t understand. If the knowledge of what I feel for you had + any weight with you at all, calling it a ‘little’ is a poor account of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head as if to carry off a blunder. “I’ve refused a most + kind, noble gentleman. Make the most of that.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you then,” said Caspar Goodwood gravely. “I thank you immensely.” + </p> + <p> + “And now you had better go home.” + </p> + <p> + “May I not see you again?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s better not. You’ll be sure to talk of this, and you see it + leads to nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel reflected and then answered: “I return in a day or two to my + uncle’s, and I can’t propose to you to come there. It would be too + inconsistent.” + </p> + <p> + Caspar Goodwood, on his side, considered. “You must do me justice too. I + received an invitation to your uncle’s more than a week ago, and I + declined it.” + </p> + <p> + She betrayed surprise. “From whom was your invitation?” + </p> + <p> + “From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cousin. I declined it + because I had not your authorisation to accept it. The suggestion that Mr. + Touchett should invite me appeared to have come from Miss Stackpole.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly never did from me. Henrietta really goes very far,” Isabel + added. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be too hard on her—that touches <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “No; if you declined you did quite right, and I thank you for it.” And she + gave a little shudder of dismay at the thought that Lord Warburton and Mr. + Goodwood might have met at Gardencourt: it would have been so awkward for + Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “When you leave your uncle where do you go?” her companion asked. + </p> + <p> + “I go abroad with my aunt—to Florence and other places.” + </p> + <p> + The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young man’s heart; + he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from which he was + inexorably excluded. Nevertheless he went on quickly with his questions. + “And when shall you come back to America?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not for a long time. I’m very happy here.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to give up your country?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be an infant!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ll be out of my sight indeed!” said Caspar Goodwood. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she answered rather grandly. “The world—with all + these places so arranged and so touching each other—comes to strike + one as rather small.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sight too big for <i>me</i>!” Caspar exclaimed with a simplicity + our young lady might have found touching if her face had not been set + against concessions. + </p> + <p> + This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had lately + embraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment: “Don’t think me + unkind if I say it’s just <i>that</i>—being out of your sight—that + I like. If you were in the same place I should feel you were watching me, + and I don’t like that—I like my liberty too much. If there’s a thing + in the world I’m fond of,” she went on with a slight recurrence of + grandeur, “it’s my personal independence.” + </p> + <p> + But whatever there might be of the too superior in this speech moved + Caspar Goodwood’s admiration; there was nothing he winced at in the large + air of it. He had never supposed she hadn’t wings and the need of + beautiful free movements—he wasn’t, with his own long arms and + strides, afraid of any force in her. Isabel’s words, if they had been + meant to shock him, failed of the mark and only made him smile with the + sense that here was common ground. “Who would wish less to curtail your + liberty than I? What can give me greater pleasure than to see you + perfectly independent—doing whatever you like? It’s to make you + independent that I want to marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a beautiful sophism,” said the girl with a smile more beautiful + still. + </p> + <p> + “An unmarried woman—a girl of your age—isn’t independent. + There are all sorts of things she can’t do. She’s hampered at every step.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s as she looks at the question,” Isabel answered with much spirit. + “I’m not in my first youth—I can do what I choose—I belong + quite to the independent class. I’ve neither father nor mother; I’m poor + and of a serious disposition; I’m not pretty. I therefore am not bound to + be timid and conventional; indeed I can’t afford such luxuries. Besides, I + try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, I think, is more + honourable than not to judge at all. I don’t wish to be a mere sheep in + the flock; I wish to choose my fate and know something of human affairs + beyond what other people think it compatible with propriety to tell me.” + She paused a moment, but not long enough for her companion to reply. He + was apparently on the point of doing so when she went on: “Let me say this + to you, Mr. Goodwood. You’re so kind as to speak of being afraid of my + marrying. If you should hear a rumour that I’m on the point of doing so—girls + are liable to have such things said about them—remember what I have + told you about my love of liberty and venture to doubt it.” + </p> + <p> + There was something passionately positive in the tone in which she gave + him this advice, and he saw a shining candour in her eyes that helped him + to believe her. On the whole he felt reassured, and you might have + perceived it by the manner in which he said, quite eagerly: “You want + simply to travel for two years? I’m quite willing to wait two years, and + you may do what you like in the interval. If that’s all you want, pray say + so. I don’t want you to be conventional; do I strike you as conventional + myself? Do you want to improve your mind? Your mind’s quite good enough + for me; but if it interests you to wander about a while and see different + countries I shall be delighted to help you in any way in my power.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very generous; that’s nothing new to me. The best way to help me + will be to put as many hundred miles of sea between us as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “One would think you were going to commit some atrocity!” said Caspar + Goodwood. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that if the fancy takes me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then,” he said slowly, “I’ll go home.” And he put out his hand, + trying to look contented and confident. + </p> + <p> + Isabel’s confidence in him, however, was greater than any he could feel in + her. Not that he thought her capable of committing an atrocity; but, turn + it over as he would, there was something ominous in the way she reserved + her option. As she took his hand she felt a great respect for him; she + knew how much he cared for her and she thought him magnanimous. They stood + so for a moment, looking at each other, united by a hand-clasp which was + not merely passive on her side. “That’s right,” she said very kindly, + almost tenderly. “You’ll lose nothing by being a reasonable man.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ll come back, wherever you are, two years hence,” he returned with + characteristic grimness. + </p> + <p> + We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at this she + suddenly changed her note. “Ah, remember, I promise nothing—absolutely + nothing!” Then more softly, as if to help him to leave her: “And remember + too that I shall not be an easy victim!” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get very sick of your independence.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I shall; it’s even very probable. When that day comes I shall be + very glad to see you.” + </p> + <p> + She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into her room, and + she waited a moment to see whether her visitor would not take his + departure. But he appeared unable to move; there was still an immense + unwillingness in his attitude and a sore remonstrance in his eyes. “I must + leave you now,” said Isabel; and she opened the door and passed into the + other room. + </p> + <p> + This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by a vague radiance + sent up through the window from the court of the hotel, and Isabel could + make out the masses of the furniture, the dim shining of the mirror and + the looming of the big four-posted bed. She stood still a moment, + listening, and at last she heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of the + sitting-room and close the door behind him. She stood still a little + longer, and then, by an irresistible impulse, dropped on her knees before + her bed and hid her face in her arms. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + She was not praying; she was trembling—trembling all over. Vibration + was easy to her, was in fact too constant with her, and she found herself + now humming like a smitten harp. She only asked, however, to put on the + cover, to case herself again in brown holland, but she wished to resist + her excitement, and the attitude of devotion, which she kept for some + time, seemed to help her to be still. She intensely rejoiced that Caspar + Goodwood was gone; there was something in having thus got rid of him that + was like the payment, for a stamped receipt, of some debt too long on her + mind. As she felt the glad relief she bowed her head a little lower; the + sense was there, throbbing in her heart; it was part of her emotion, but + it was a thing to be ashamed of—it was profane and out of place. It + was not for some ten minutes that she rose from her knees, and even when + she came back to the sitting-room her tremor had not quite subsided. It + had had, verily, two causes: part of it was to be accounted for by her + long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but it might be feared that the rest + was simply the enjoyment she found in the exercise of her power. She sat + down in the same chair again and took up her book, but without going + through the form of opening the volume. She leaned back, with that low, + soft, aspiring murmur with which she often uttered her response to + accidents of which the brighter side was not superficially obvious, and + yielded to the satisfaction of having refused two ardent suitors in a + fortnight. That love of liberty of which she had given Caspar Goodwood so + bold a sketch was as yet almost exclusively theoretic; she had not been + able to indulge it on a large scale. But it appeared to her she had done + something; she had tasted of the delight, if not of battle, at least of + victory; she had done what was truest to her plan. In the glow of this + consciousness the image of Mr. Goodwood taking his sad walk homeward + through the dingy town presented itself with a certain reproachful force; + so that, as at the same moment the door of the room was opened, she rose + with an apprehension that he had come back. But it was only Henrietta + Stackpole returning from her dinner. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stackpole immediately saw that our young lady had been “through” + something, and indeed the discovery demanded no great penetration. She + went straight up to her friend, who received her without a greeting. + Isabel’s elation in having sent Caspar Goodwood back to America + presupposed her being in a manner glad he had come to see her; but at the + same time she perfectly remembered Henrietta had had no right to set a + trap for her. “Has he been here, dear?” the latter yearningly asked. + </p> + <p> + Isabel turned away and for some moments answered nothing. “You acted very + wrongly,” she declared at last. + </p> + <p> + “I acted for the best. I only hope you acted as well.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not the judge. I can’t trust you,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + This declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much too unselfish to + heed the charge it conveyed; she cared only for what it intimated with + regard to her friend. “Isabel Archer,” she observed with equal abruptness + and solemnity, “if you marry one of these people I’ll never speak to you + again!” + </p> + <p> + “Before making so terrible a threat you had better wait till I’m asked,” + Isabel replied. Never having said a word to Miss Stackpole about Lord + Warburton’s overtures, she had now no impulse whatever to justify herself + to Henrietta by telling her that she had refused that nobleman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’ll be asked quick enough, once you get off on the Continent. + Annie Climber was asked three times in Italy—poor plain little + Annie.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if Annie Climber wasn’t captured why should I be?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe Annie was pressed; but you’ll be.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a flattering conviction,” said Isabel without alarm. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t flatter you, Isabel, I tell you the truth!” cried her friend. “I + hope you don’t mean to tell me that you didn’t give Mr. Goodwood some + hope.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why I should tell you anything; as I said to you just now, I + can’t trust you. But since you’re so much interested in Mr. Goodwood I + won’t conceal from you that he returns immediately to America.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you’ve sent him off?” Henrietta almost shrieked. + </p> + <p> + “I asked him to leave me alone; and I ask you the same, Henrietta.” Miss + Stackpole glittered for an instant with dismay, and then passed to the + mirror over the chimney-piece and took off her bonnet. “I hope you’ve + enjoyed your dinner,” Isabel went on. + </p> + <p> + But her companion was not to be diverted by frivolous propositions. “Do + you know where you’re going, Isabel Archer?” + </p> + <p> + “Just now I’m going to bed,” said Isabel with persistent frivolity. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where you’re drifting?” Henrietta pursued, holding out her + bonnet delicately. + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t the least idea, and I find it very pleasant not to know. A + swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that + one can’t see—that’s my idea of happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Goodwood certainly didn’t teach you to say such things as that—like + the heroine of an immoral novel,” said Miss Stackpole. “You’re drifting to + some great mistake.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel was irritated by her friend’s interference, yet she still tried to + think what truth this declaration could represent. She could think of + nothing that diverted her from saying: “You must be very fond of me, + Henrietta, to be willing to be so aggressive.” + </p> + <p> + “I love you intensely, Isabel,” said Miss Stackpole with feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you love me intensely let me as intensely alone. I asked that of + Mr. Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Take care you’re not let alone too much.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him I must take the risks.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a creature of risks—you make me shudder!” cried Henrietta. + “When does Mr. Goodwood return to America?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—he didn’t tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you didn’t enquire,” said Henrietta with the note of righteous + irony. + </p> + <p> + “I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask questions of + him.” + </p> + <p> + This assertion seemed to Miss Stackpole for a moment to bid defiance to + comment; but at last she exclaimed: “Well, Isabel, if I didn’t know you I + might think you were heartless!” + </p> + <p> + “Take care,” said Isabel; “you’re spoiling me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’ve done that already. I hope, at least,” Miss Stackpole + added, “that he may cross with Annie Climber!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel learned from her the next morning that she had determined not to + return to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchett had promised her a renewed + welcome), but to await in London the arrival of the invitation that Mr. + Bantling had promised her from his sister Lady Pensil. Miss Stackpole + related very freely her conversation with Ralph Touchett’s sociable friend + and declared to Isabel that she really believed she had now got hold of + something that would lead to something. On the receipt of Lady Pensil’s + letter—Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed the arrival of this + document—she would immediately depart for Bedfordshire, and if + Isabel cared to look out for her impressions in the <i>Interviewer</i> she + would certainly find them. Henrietta was evidently going to see something + of the inner life this time. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where you’re drifting, Henrietta Stackpole?” Isabel asked, + imitating the tone in which her friend had spoken the night before. + </p> + <p> + “I’m drifting to a big position—that of the Queen of American + Journalism. If my next letter isn’t copied all over the West I’ll swallow + my penwiper!” + </p> + <p> + She had arranged with her friend Miss Annie Climber, the young lady of the + continental offers, that they should go together to make those purchases + which were to constitute Miss Climber’s farewell to a hemisphere in which + she at least had been appreciated; and she presently repaired to Jermyn + Street to pick up her companion. Shortly after her departure Ralph + Touchett was announced, and as soon as he came in Isabel saw he had + something on his mind. He very soon took his cousin into his confidence. + He had received from his mother a telegram to the effect that his father + had had a sharp attack of his old malady, that she was much alarmed and + that she begged he would instantly return to Gardencourt. On this occasion + at least Mrs. Touchett’s devotion to the electric wire was not open to + criticism. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir Matthew Hope, first,” + Ralph said; “by great good luck he’s in town. He’s to see me at half-past + twelve, and I shall make sure of his coming down to Gardencourt—which + he will do the more readily as he has already seen my father several + times, both there and in London. There’s an express at two-forty-five, + which I shall take; and you’ll come back with me or remain here a few days + longer, exactly as you prefer.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly go with you,” Isabel returned. “I don’t suppose I can + be of any use to my uncle, but if he’s ill I shall like to be near him.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you’re fond of him,” said Ralph with a certain shy pleasure in + his face. “You appreciate him, which all the world hasn’t done. The + quality’s too fine.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite adore him,” Isabel after a moment said. + </p> + <p> + “That’s very well. After his son he’s your greatest admirer.” She welcomed + this assurance, but she gave secretly a small sigh of relief at the + thought that Mr. Touchett was one of those admirers who couldn’t propose + to marry her. This, however, was not what she spoke; she went on to inform + Ralph that there were other reasons for her not remaining in London. She + was tired of it and wished to leave it; and then Henrietta was going away—going + to stay in Bedfordshire. + </p> + <p> + “In Bedfordshire?” + </p> + <p> + “With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has answered for an + invitation.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh. Suddenly, + none the less, his gravity returned. “Bantling’s a man of courage. But if + the invitation should get lost on the way?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought the British post-office was impeccable.” + </p> + <p> + “The good Homer sometimes nods,” said Ralph. “However,” he went on more + brightly, “the good Bantling never does, and, whatever happens, he’ll take + care of Henrietta.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope, and Isabel made + her arrangements for quitting Pratt’s Hotel. Her uncle’s danger touched + her nearly, and while she stood before her open trunk, looking about her + vaguely for what she should put into it, the tears suddenly rose to her + eyes. It was perhaps for this reason that when Ralph came back at two + o’clock to take her to the station she was not yet ready. He found Miss + Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where she had just risen from her + luncheon, and this lady immediately expressed her regret at his father’s + illness. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a grand old man,” she said; “he’s faithful to the last. If it’s + really to be the last—pardon my alluding to it, but you must often + have thought of the possibility—I’m sorry that I shall not be at + Gardencourt.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time,” said Henrietta with + much propriety. But she immediately added: “I should like so to + commemorate the closing scene.” + </p> + <p> + “My father may live a long time,” said Ralph simply. Then, adverting to + topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss Stackpole as to her own future. + </p> + <p> + Now that Ralph was in trouble she addressed him in a tone of larger + allowance and told him that she was much indebted to him for having made + her acquainted with Mr. Bantling. “He has told me just the things I want + to know,” she said; “all the society items and all about the royal family. + I can’t make out that what he tells me about the royal family is much to + their credit; but he says that’s only my peculiar way of looking at it. + Well, all I want is that he should give me the facts; I can put them + together quick enough, once I’ve got them.” And she added that Mr. + Bantling had been so good as to promise to come and take her out that + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “To take you where?” Ralph ventured to enquire. + </p> + <p> + “To Buckingham Palace. He’s going to show me over it, so that I may get + some idea how they live.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Ralph, “we leave you in good hands. The first thing we shall + hear is that you’re invited to Windsor Castle.” + </p> + <p> + “If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I’m not afraid. + But for all that,” Henrietta added in a moment, “I’m not satisfied; I’m + not at peace about Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “What is her last misdemeanour?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve told you before, and I suppose there’s no harm in my going on. + I always finish a subject that I take up. Mr. Goodwood was here last + night.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph opened his eyes; he even blushed a little—his blush being the + sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered that Isabel, in + separating from him in Winchester Square, had repudiated his suggestion + that her motive in doing so was the expectation of a visitor at Pratt’s + Hotel, and it was a new pang to him to have to suspect her of duplicity. + On the other hand, he quickly said to himself, what concern was it of his + that she should have made an appointment with a lover? Had it not been + thought graceful in every age that young ladies should make a mystery of + such appointments? Ralph gave Miss Stackpole a diplomatic answer. “I + should have thought that, with the views you expressed to me the other + day, this would satisfy you perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “That he should come to see her? That was very well, as far as it went. It + was a little plot of mine; I let him know that we were in London, and when + it had been arranged that I should spend the evening out I sent him a word—the + word we just utter to the ‘wise.’ I hoped he would find her alone; I won’t + pretend I didn’t hope that you’d be out of the way. He came to see her, + but he might as well have stayed away.” + </p> + <p> + “Isabel was cruel?”—and Ralph’s face lighted with the relief of his + cousin’s not having shown duplicity. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t exactly know what passed between them. But she gave him no + satisfaction—she sent him back to America.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Mr. Goodwood!” Ralph sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him,” Henrietta went on. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Mr. Goodwood!” Ralph repeated. The exclamation, it must be + confessed, was automatic; it failed exactly to express his thoughts, which + were taking another line. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say that as if you felt it. I don’t believe you care.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Ralph, “you must remember that I don’t know this interesting + young man—that I’ve never seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up. If I didn’t + believe Isabel would come round,” Miss Stackpole added—“well, I’d + give up myself. I mean I’d give <i>her</i> up!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + It had occurred to Ralph that, in the conditions, Isabel’s parting with + her friend might be of a slightly embarrassed nature, and he went down to + the door of the hotel in advance of his cousin, who, after a slight delay, + followed with the traces of an unaccepted remonstrance, as he thought, in + her eyes. The two made the journey to Gardencourt in almost unbroken + silence, and the servant who met them at the station had no better news to + give them of Mr. Touchett—a fact which caused Ralph to congratulate + himself afresh on Sir Matthew Hope’s having promised to come down in the + five o’clock train and spend the night. Mrs. Touchett, he learned, on + reaching home, had been constantly with the old man and was with him at + that moment; and this fact made Ralph say to himself that, after all, what + his mother wanted was just easy occasion. The finer natures were those + that shone at the larger times. Isabel went to her own room, noting + throughout the house that perceptible hush which precedes a crisis. At the + end of an hour, however, she came downstairs in search of her aunt, whom + she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. She went into the library, but Mrs. + Touchett was not there, and as the weather, which had been damp and chill, + was now altogether spoiled, it was not probable she had gone for her usual + walk in the grounds. Isabel was on the point of ringing to send a question + to her room, when this purpose quickly yielded to an unexpected sound—the + sound of low music proceeding apparently from the saloon. She knew her + aunt never touched the piano, and the musician was therefore probably + Ralph, who played for his own amusement. That he should have resorted to + this recreation at the present time indicated apparently that his anxiety + about his father had been relieved; so that the girl took her way, almost + with restored cheer, toward the source of the harmony. The drawing-room at + Gardencourt was an apartment of great distances, and, as the piano was + placed at the end of it furthest removed from the door at which she + entered, her arrival was not noticed by the person seated before the + instrument. This person was neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady + whom Isabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, though her back + was presented to the door. This back—an ample and well-dressed one—Isabel + viewed for some moments with surprise. The lady was of course a visitor + who had arrived during her absence and who had not been mentioned by + either of the servants—one of them her aunt’s maid—of whom she + had had speech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however, with + what treasures of reserve the function of receiving orders may be + accompanied, and she was particularly conscious of having been treated + with dryness by her aunt’s maid, through whose hands she had slipped + perhaps a little too mistrustfully and with an effect of plumage but the + more lustrous. The advent of a guest was in itself far from disconcerting; + she had not yet divested herself of a young faith that each new + acquaintance would exert some momentous influence on her life. By the time + she had made these reflexions she became aware that the lady at the piano + played remarkably well. She was playing something of Schubert’s—Isabel + knew not what, but recognised Schubert—and she touched the piano + with a discretion of her own. It showed skill, it showed feeling; Isabel + sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and waited till the end of the + piece. When it was finished she felt a strong desire to thank the player, + and rose from her seat to do so, while at the same time the stranger + turned quickly round, as if but just aware of her presence. + </p> + <p> + “That’s very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful still,” + said Isabel with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered a + truthful rapture. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?” the musician answered as + sweetly as this compliment deserved. “The house is so large and his room + so far away that I thought I might venture, especially as I played just—just + <i>du bout des doigts</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a Frenchwoman,” Isabel said to herself; “she says that as if she + were French.” And this supposition made the visitor more interesting to + our speculative heroine. “I hope my uncle’s doing well,” Isabel added. “I + should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really make him + feel better.” + </p> + <p> + The lady smiled and discriminated. “I’m afraid there are moments in life + when even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however, that + they are our worst.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not in that state now then,” said Isabel. “On the contrary I should + be so glad if you would play something more.” + </p> + <p> + “If it will give you pleasure—delighted.” And this obliging person + took her place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel sat down nearer + the instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped with her hands on the keys, + half-turning and looking over her shoulder. She was forty years old and + not pretty, though her expression charmed. “Pardon me,” she said; “but are + you the niece—the young American?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m my aunt’s niece,” Isabel replied with simplicity. + </p> + <p> + The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air of + interest over her shoulder. “That’s very well; we’re compatriots.” And + then she began to play. + </p> + <p> + “Ah then she’s not French,” Isabel murmured; and as the opposite + supposition had made her romantic it might have seemed that this + revelation would have marked a drop. But such was not the fact; rarer even + than to be French seemed it to be American on such interesting terms. + </p> + <p> + The lady played in the same manner as before, softly and solemnly, and + while she played the shadows deepened in the room. The autumn twilight + gathered in, and from her place Isabel could see the rain, which had now + begun in earnest, washing the cold-looking lawn and the wind shaking the + great trees. At last, when the music had ceased, her companion got up and, + coming nearer with a smile, before Isabel had time to thank her again, + said: “I’m very glad you’ve come back; I’ve heard a great deal about you.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel thought her a very attractive person, but nevertheless spoke with a + certain abruptness in reply to this speech. “From whom have you heard + about me?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger hesitated a single moment and then, “From your uncle,” she + answered. “I’ve been here three days, and the first day he let me come and + pay him a visit in his room. Then he talked constantly of you.” + </p> + <p> + “As you didn’t know me that must rather have bored you.” + </p> + <p> + “It made me want to know you. All the more that since then—your aunt + being so much with Mr. Touchett—I’ve been quite alone and have got + rather tired of my own society. I’ve not chosen a good moment for my + visit.” + </p> + <p> + A servant had come in with lamps and was presently followed by another + bearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this repast Mrs. Touchett had + apparently been notified, for she now arrived and addressed herself to the + tea-pot. Her greeting to her niece did not differ materially from her + manner of raising the lid of this receptacle in order to glance at the + contents: in neither act was it becoming to make a show of avidity. + Questioned about her husband she was unable to say he was better; but the + local doctor was with him, and much light was expected from this + gentleman’s consultation with Sir Matthew Hope. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance,” she pursued. “If you + haven’t I recommend you to do so; for so long as we continue—Ralph + and I—to cluster about Mr. Touchett’s bed you’re not likely to have + much society but each other.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing about you but that you’re a great musician,” Isabel said + to the visitor. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a good deal more than that to know,” Mrs. Touchett affirmed in + her little dry tone. + </p> + <p> + “A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer!” the lady + exclaimed with a light laugh. “I’m an old friend of your aunt’s. I’ve + lived much in Florence. I’m Madame Merle.” She made this last announcement + as if she were referring to a person of tolerably distinct identity. For + Isabel, however, it represented little; she could only continue to feel + that Madame Merle had as charming a manner as any she had ever + encountered. + </p> + <p> + “She’s not a foreigner in spite of her name,” said Mrs. Touchett. + </p> + <p> + “She was born—I always forget where you were born.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s hardly worth while then I should tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary,” said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a logical point; + “if I remembered your telling me would be quite superfluous.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a sort of world-wide smile, a thing + that over-reached frontiers. “I was born under the shadow of the national + banner.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s too fond of mystery,” said Mrs. Touchett; “that’s her great fault.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” exclaimed Madame Merle, “I’ve great faults, but I don’t think that’s + one of then; it certainly isn’t the greatest. I came into the world in the + Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a high officer in the United States + Navy, and had a post—a post of responsibility—in that + establishment at the time. I suppose I ought to love the sea, but I hate + it. That’s why I don’t return to America. I love the land; the great thing + is to love something.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with the force of + Mrs. Touchett’s characterisation of her visitor, who had an expressive, + communicative, responsive face, by no means of the sort which, to Isabel’s + mind, suggested a secretive disposition. It was a face that told of an + amplitude of nature and of quick and free motions and, though it had no + regular beauty, was in the highest degree engaging and attaching. Madame + Merle was a tall, fair, smooth woman; everything in her person was round + and replete, though without those accumulations which suggest heaviness. + Her features were thick but in perfect proportion and harmony, and her + complexion had a healthy clearness. Her grey eyes were small but full of + light and incapable of stupidity—incapable, according to some + people, even of tears; she had a liberal, full-rimmed mouth which when she + smiled drew itself upward to the left side in a manner that most people + thought very odd, some very affected and a few very graceful. Isabel + inclined to range herself in the last category. Madame Merle had thick, + fair hair, arranged somehow “classically” and as if she were a Bust, + Isabel judged—a Juno or a Niobe; and large white hands, of a perfect + shape, a shape so perfect that their possessor, preferring to leave them + unadorned, wore no jewelled rings. Isabel had taken her at first, as we + have seen, for a Frenchwoman; but extended observation might have ranked + her as a German—a German of high degree, perhaps an Austrian, a + baroness, a countess, a princess. It would never have been supposed she + had come into the world in Brooklyn—though one could doubtless not + have carried through any argument that the air of distinction marking her + in so eminent a degree was inconsistent with such a birth. It was true + that the national banner had floated immediately over her cradle, and the + breezy freedom of the stars and stripes might have shed an influence upon + the attitude she there took towards life. And yet she had evidently + nothing of the fluttered, flapping quality of a morsel of bunting in the + wind; her manner expressed the repose and confidence which come from a + large experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth; it had + simply made her sympathetic and supple. She was in a word a woman of + strong impulses kept in admirable order. This commended itself to Isabel + as an ideal combination. + </p> + <p> + The girl made these reflexions while the three ladies sat at their tea, + but that ceremony was interrupted before long by the arrival of the great + doctor from London, who had been immediately ushered into the + drawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to the library for a private + talk; and then Madame Merle and Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner. + The idea of seeing more of this interesting woman did much to mitigate + Isabel’s sense of the sadness now settling on Gardencourt. + </p> + <p> + When she came into the drawing-room before dinner she found the place + empty; but in the course of a moment Ralph arrived. His anxiety about his + father had been lightened; Sir Matthew Hope’s view of his condition was + less depressed than his own had been. The doctor recommended that the + nurse alone should remain with the old man for the next three or four + hours; so that Ralph, his mother and the great physician himself were free + to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthew appeared; Madame Merle was + the last. + </p> + <p> + Before she came Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was standing before the + fireplace. “Pray who is this Madame Merle?” + </p> + <p> + “The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “I thought she seemed very pleasant.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sure you’d think her very pleasant.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that why you invited her?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t invite her, and when we came back from London I didn’t know she + was here. No one invited her. She’s a friend of my mother’s, and just + after you and I went to town my mother got a note from her. She had + arrived in England (she usually lives abroad, though she has first and + last spent a good deal of time here), and asked leave to come down for a + few days. She’s a woman who can make such proposals with perfect + confidence; she’s so welcome wherever she goes. And with my mother there + could be no question of hesitating; she’s the one person in the world whom + my mother very much admires. If she were not herself (which she after all + much prefers), she would like to be Madame Merle. It would indeed be a + great change.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she’s very charming,” said Isabel. “And she plays beautifully.” + </p> + <p> + “She does everything beautifully. She’s complete.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. “You don’t like her.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, I was once in love with her.” + </p> + <p> + “And she didn’t care for you, and that’s why you don’t like her.” + </p> + <p> + “How can we have discussed such things? Monsieur Merle was then living.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead now?” + </p> + <p> + “So she says.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you believe her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities. The husband of + Madame Merle would be likely to pass away.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel gazed at her cousin again. “I don’t know what you mean. You mean + something—that you don’t mean. What was Monsieur Merle?” + </p> + <p> + “The husband of Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very odious. Has she any children?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least little child—fortunately.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean fortunately for the child. She’d be sure to spoil it.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the third + time that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by the arrival + of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling in quickly, + apologising for being late, fastening a bracelet, dressed in dark blue + satin, which exposed a white bosom that was ineffectually covered by a + curious silver necklace. Ralph offered her his arm with the exaggerated + alertness of a man who was no longer a lover. + </p> + <p> + Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had other things + to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourt and, + returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation with Mr. + Touchett’s own medical adviser, concurred in Ralph’s desire that he should + see the patient again on the day following. On the day following Sir + Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and now took a less encouraging + view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-four hours. His + feebleness was extreme, and to his son, who constantly sat by his bedside, + it often seemed that his end must be at hand. The local doctor, a very + sagacious man, in whom Ralph had secretly more confidence than in his + distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and Sir Matthew + Hope came back several times. Mr. Touchett was much of the time + unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a great + desire to be useful to him and was allowed to watch with him at hours when + his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the least regular) + went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she always said to + herself “Suppose he should die while I’m sitting here;” an idea which + excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for a while and + fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she went to him, hoping he + would recognise her, he closed them and relapsed into stupor. The day + after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on this occasion + Ralph only was with him. The old man began to talk, much to his son’s + satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have him sitting + up. + </p> + <p> + “No, my boy,” said Mr. Touchett, “not unless you bury me in a sitting + posture, as some of the ancients—was it the ancients?—used to + do.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, daddy, don’t talk about that,” Ralph murmured. “You mustn’t deny that + you’re getting better.” + </p> + <p> + “There will be no need of my denying it if you don’t say it,” the old man + answered. “Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We never + prevaricated before. I’ve got to die some time, and it’s better to die + when one’s sick than when one’s well. I’m very sick—as sick as I + shall ever be. I hope you don’t want to prove that I shall ever be worse + than this? That would be too bad. You don’t? Well then.” + </p> + <p> + Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time that + Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The nurse + had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone in charge, having just relieved + Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted + only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary, and + Ralph’s tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with an outline + constantly varying but always grotesque. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that with me—is it my son?” the old man asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s your son, daddy.” + </p> + <p> + “And is there no one else?” + </p> + <p> + “No one else.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, “I want to talk a + little,” he went on. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it tire you?” Ralph demurred. + </p> + <p> + “It won’t matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talk + about <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward with his hand on + his father’s. “You had better select a brighter topic.” + </p> + <p> + “You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I should + like so much to think you’d do something.” + </p> + <p> + “If you leave us,” said Ralph, “I shall do nothing but miss you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I don’t want; it’s what I want to talk about. You must + get a new interest.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I know what + to do with.” + </p> + <p> + The old man lay there looking at his son; his face was the face of the + dying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to be + reckoning over Ralph’s interests. “Of course you have your mother,” he + said at last. “You’ll take care of her.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother will always take care of herself,” Ralph returned. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said his father, “perhaps as she grows older she’ll need a little + help.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not see that. She’ll outlive me.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely she will; but that’s no reason—!” Mr. Touchett let his + phrase die away in a helpless but not quite querulous sigh and remained + silent again. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t trouble yourself about us,” said his son, “My mother and I get on + very well together, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “You get on by always being apart; that’s not natural.” + </p> + <p> + “If you leave us we shall probably see more of each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” the old man observed with wandering irrelevance, “it can’t be said + that my death will make much difference in your mother’s life.” + </p> + <p> + “It will probably make more than you think.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she’ll have more money,” said Mr. Touchett. “I’ve left her a good + wife’s portion, just as if she had been a good wife.” + </p> + <p> + “She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has never + troubled you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, some troubles are pleasant,” Mr. Touchett murmured. “Those you’ve + given me for instance. But your mother has been less—less—what + shall I call it? less out of the way since I’ve been ill. I presume she + knows I’ve noticed it.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly tell her so; I’m so glad you mention it.” + </p> + <p> + “It won’t make any difference to her; she doesn’t do it to please me. She + does it to please—to please—” And he lay a while trying to + think why she did it. “She does it because it suits her. But that’s not + what I want to talk about,” he added. “It’s about you. You’ll be very well + off.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Ralph, “I know that. But I hope you’ve not forgotten the talk + we had a year ago—when I told you exactly what money I should need + and begged you to make some good use of the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will—in a few days. I suppose it + was the first time such a thing had happened—a young man trying to + get a will made against him.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not against me,” said Ralph. “It would be against me to have a + large property to take care of. It’s impossible for a man in my state of + health to spend much money, and enough is as good as a feast.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ll have enough—and something over. There will be more + than enough for one—there will be enough for two.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s too much,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t say that. The best thing you can do; when I’m gone, will be to + marry.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this suggestion was + by no means fresh. It had long been Mr. Touchett’s most ingenious way of + taking the cheerful view of his son’s possible duration. Ralph had usually + treated it facetiously; but present circumstances proscribed the + facetious. He simply fell back in his chair and returned his father’s + appealing gaze. + </p> + <p> + “If I, with a wife who hasn’t been very fond of me, have had a very happy + life,” said the old man, carrying his ingenuity further still, “what a + life mightn’t you have if you should marry a person different from Mrs. + Touchett. There are more different from her than there are like her.” + Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his father resumed softly: + “What do you think of your cousin?” + </p> + <p> + At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a strained smile. “Do I + understand you to propose that I should marry Isabel?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s what it comes to in the end. Don’t you like Isabel?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very much.” And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered over to the + fire. He stood before it an instant and then he stooped and stirred it + mechanically. “I like Isabel very much,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said his father, “I know she likes you. She has told me how much + she likes you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she remark that she would like to marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but she can’t have anything against you. And she’s the most charming + young lady I’ve ever seen. And she would be good to you. I have thought a + great deal about it.” + </p> + <p> + “So have I,” said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. “I don’t mind + telling you that.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>are</i> in love with her then? I should think you would be. It’s + as if she came over on purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not in love with her; but I should be if—if certain things + were different.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, things are always different from what they might be,” said the old + man. “If you wait for them to change you’ll never do anything. I don’t + know whether you know,” he went on; “but I suppose there’s no harm in my + alluding to it at such an hour as this: there was some one wanted to marry + Isabel the other day, and she wouldn’t have him.” + </p> + <p> + “I know she refused Warburton: he told me himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that proves there’s a chance for somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody else took his chance the other day in London—and got + nothing by it.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it you?” Mr. Touchett eagerly asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over from America + to see about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m sorry for him, whoever he was. But it only proves what I say—that + the way’s open to you.” + </p> + <p> + “If it is, dear father, it’s all the greater pity that I’m unable to tread + it. I haven’t many convictions; but I have three or four that I hold + strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not marry their + cousins. Another is that people in an advanced stage of pulmonary disorder + had better not marry at all.” + </p> + <p> + The old man raised his weak hand and moved it to and fro before his face. + “What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way that would make + everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin that you had never + seen for more than twenty years of her life? We’re all each other’s + cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die out. It’s just + the same with your bad lung. You’re a great deal better than you used to + be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a great deal more + natural to marry a pretty young lady that you’re in love with than it is + to remain single on false principles.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not in love with Isabel,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “You said just now that you would be if you didn’t think it wrong. I want + to prove to you that it isn’t wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “It will only tire you, dear daddy,” said Ralph, who marvelled at his + father’s tenacity and at his finding strength to insist. “Then where shall + we all be?” + </p> + <p> + “Where shall you be if I don’t provide for you? You won’t have anything to + do with the bank, and you won’t have me to take care of. You say you’ve so + many interests; but I can’t make them out.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph leaned back in his chair with folded arms; his eyes were fixed for + some time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly mustering + courage, “I take a great interest in my cousin,” he said, “but not the + sort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years; but I hope I + shall live long enough to see what she does with herself. She’s entirely + independent of me; I can exercise very little influence upon her life. But + I should like to do something for her.” + </p> + <p> + “What should you like to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to put a little wind in her sails.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to put it into her power to do some of the things she + wants. She wants to see the world for instance. I should like to put money + in her purse.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I’m glad you’ve thought of that,” said the old man. “But I’ve thought + of it too. I’ve left her a legacy—five thousand pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s capital; it’s very kind of you. But I should like to do a little + more.” + </p> + <p> + Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been on Daniel + Touchett’s part the habit of a lifetime to listen to a financial + proposition still lingered in the face in which the invalid had not + obliterated the man of business. “I shall be happy to consider it,” he + said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Isabel’s poor then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundred + dollars a year. I should like to make her rich.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by rich?” + </p> + <p> + “I call people rich when they’re able to meet the requirements of their + imagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “So have you, my son,” said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively but a + little confusedly. + </p> + <p> + “You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that you + should kindly relieve me of my superfluity and make it over to Isabel. + Divide my inheritance into two equal halves and give her the second.” + </p> + <p> + “To do what she likes with?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely what she likes.” + </p> + <p> + “And without an equivalent?” + </p> + <p> + “What equivalent could there be?” + </p> + <p> + “The one I’ve already mentioned.” + </p> + <p> + “Her marrying—some one or other? It’s just to do away with anything + of that sort that I make my suggestion. If she has an easy income she’ll + never have to marry for a support. That’s what I want cannily to prevent. + She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make her free.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you seem to have thought it out,” said Mr. Touchett. “But I don’t + see why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can easily give + it to her yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph openly stared. “Ah, dear father, I can’t offer Isabel money!” + </p> + <p> + The old man gave a groan. “Don’t tell me you’re not in love with her! Do + you want me to have the credit of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will, without + the slightest reference to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to make a new will then?” + </p> + <p> + “A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you feel a + little lively.” + </p> + <p> + “You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary then. I’ll do nothing without my + solicitor.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll think we’ve quarrelled, you and I,” said the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Very probably; I shall like him to think it,” said Ralph, smiling; “and, + to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I shall be very sharp, quite + horrid and strange, with you.” + </p> + <p> + The humour of this appeared to touch his father, who lay a little while + taking it in. “I’ll do anything you like,” Mr. Touchett said at last; “but + I’m not sure it’s right. You say you want to put wind in her sails; but + aren’t you afraid of putting too much?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see her going before the breeze!” Ralph answered. + </p> + <p> + “You speak as if it were for your mere amusement.” + </p> + <p> + “So it is, a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t think I understand,” said Mr. Touchett with a sigh. “Young + men are very different from what I was. When I cared for a girl—when + I was young—I wanted to do more than look at her.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve scruples that I shouldn’t have had, and you’ve ideas that I + shouldn’t have had either. You say Isabel wants to be free, and that her + being rich will keep her from marrying for money. Do you think that she’s + a girl to do that?” + </p> + <p> + “By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before. Her + father then gave her everything, because he used to spend his capital. She + has nothing but the crumbs of that feast to live on, and she doesn’t + really know how meagre they are—she has yet to learn it. My mother + has told me all about it. Isabel will learn it when she’s really thrown + upon the world, and it would be very painful to me to think of her coming + to the consciousness of a lot of wants she should be unable to satisfy.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a good many wants + with that.” + </p> + <p> + “She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two or three years.” + </p> + <p> + “You think she’d be extravagant then?” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly,” said Ralph, smiling serenely. + </p> + <p> + Poor Mr. Touchett’s acuteness was rapidly giving place to pure confusion. + “It would merely be a question of time then, her spending the larger sum?” + </p> + <p> + “No—though at first I think she’d plunge into that pretty freely: + she’d probably make over a part of it to each of her sisters. But after + that she’d come to her senses, remember she has still a lifetime before + her, and live within her means.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you <i>have</i> worked it out,” said the old man helplessly. “You + do take an interest in her, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t consistently say I go too far. You wished me to go further.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know,” Mr. Touchett answered. “I don’t think I enter into + your spirit. It seems to me immoral.” + </p> + <p> + “Immoral, dear daddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know that it’s right to make everything so easy for a + person.” + </p> + <p> + “It surely depends upon the person. When the person’s good, your making + things easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilitate the execution of + good impulses, what can be a nobler act?” + </p> + <p> + This was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett considered it for + a while. At last he said: “Isabel’s a sweet young thing; but do you think + she’s so good as that?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s as good as her best opportunities,” Ralph returned. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Mr. Touchett declared, “she ought to get a great many + opportunities for sixty thousand pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no doubt she will.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I’ll do what you want,” said the old man. “I only want to + understand it a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear daddy, don’t you understand it now?” his son caressingly + asked. “If you don’t we won’t take any more trouble about it. We’ll leave + it alone.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had given up the + attempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly, he began again. “Tell me + this first. Doesn’t it occur to you that a young lady with sixty thousand + pounds may fall a victim to the fortune-hunters?” + </p> + <p> + “She’ll hardly fall a victim to more than one.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, one’s too many.” + </p> + <p> + “Decidedly. That’s a risk, and it has entered into my calculation. I think + it’s appreciable, but I think it’s small, and I’m prepared to take it.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Mr. Touchett’s acuteness had passed into perplexity, and his + perplexity now passed into admiration. “Well, you have gone into it!” he + repeated. “But I don’t see what good you’re to get of it.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph leaned over his father’s pillows and gently smoothed them; he was + aware their talk had been unduly prolonged. “I shall get just the good I + said a few moments ago I wished to put into Isabel’s reach—that of + having met the requirements of my imagination. But it’s scandalous, the + way I’ve taken advantage of you!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + As Mrs. Touchett had foretold, Isabel and Madame Merle were thrown much + together during the illness of their host, so that if they had not become + intimate it would have been almost a breach of good manners. Their manners + were of the best, but in addition to this they happened to please each + other. It is perhaps too much to say that they swore an eternal + friendship, but tacitly at least they called the future to witness. Isabel + did so with a perfectly good conscience, though she would have hesitated + to admit she was intimate with her new friend in the high sense she + privately attached to this term. She often wondered indeed if she ever had + been, or ever could be, intimate with any one. She had an ideal of + friendship as well as of several other sentiments, which it failed to seem + to her in this case—it had not seemed to her in other cases—that + the actual completely expressed it. But she often reminded herself that + there were essential reasons why one’s ideal could never become concrete. + It was a thing to believe in, not to see—a matter of faith, not of + experience. Experience, however, might supply us with very creditable + imitations of it, and the part of wisdom was to make the best of these. + Certainly, on the whole, Isabel had never encountered a more agreeable and + interesting figure than Madame Merle; she had never met a person having + less of that fault which is the principal obstacle to friendship—the + air of reproducing the more tiresome, the stale, the too-familiar parts of + one’s own character. The gates of the girl’s confidence were opened wider + than they had ever been; she said things to this amiable auditress that + she had not yet said to any one. Sometimes she took alarm at her candour: + it was as if she had given to a comparative stranger the key to her + cabinet of jewels. These spiritual gems were the only ones of any + magnitude that Isabel possessed, but there was all the greater reason for + their being carefully guarded. Afterwards, however, she always remembered + that one should never regret a generous error and that if Madame Merle had + not the merits she attributed to her, so much the worse for Madame Merle. + There was no doubt she had great merits—she was charming, + sympathetic, intelligent, cultivated. More than this (for it had not been + Isabel’s ill-fortune to go through life without meeting in her own sex + several persons of whom no less could fairly be said), she was rare, + superior and preeminent. There are many amiable people in the world, and + Madame Merle was far from being vulgarly good-natured and restlessly + witty. She knew how to think—an accomplishment rare in women; and + she had thought to very good purpose. Of course, too, she knew how to + feel; Isabel couldn’t have spent a week with her without being sure of + that. This was indeed Madame Merle’s great talent, her most perfect gift. + Life had told upon her; she had felt it strongly, and it was part of the + satisfaction to be taken in her society that when the girl talked of what + she was pleased to call serious matters this lady understood her so easily + and quickly. Emotion, it is true, had become with her rather historic; she + made no secret of the fact that the fount of passion, thanks to having + been rather violently tapped at one period, didn’t flow quite so freely as + of yore. She proposed moreover, as well as expected, to cease feeling; she + freely admitted that of old she had been a little mad, and now she + pretended to be perfectly sane. + </p> + <p> + “I judge more than I used to,” she said to Isabel, “but it seems to me one + has earned the right. One can’t judge till one’s forty; before that we’re + too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much too ignorant. I’m + sorry for you; it will be a long time before you’re forty. But every + gain’s a loss of some kind; I often think that after forty one can’t + really feel. The freshness, the quickness have certainly gone. You’ll keep + them longer than most people; it will be a great satisfaction to me to see + you some years hence. I want to see what life makes of you. One thing’s + certain—it can’t spoil you. It may pull you about horribly, but I + defy it to break you up.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still panting from a + slight skirmish in which he has come off with honour, might receive a pat + on the shoulder from his colonel. Like such a recognition of merit it + seemed to come with authority. How could the lightest word do less on the + part of a person who was prepared to say, of almost everything Isabel told + her, “Oh, I’ve been in that, my dear; it passes, like everything else.” On + many of her interlocutors Madame Merle might have produced an irritating + effect; it was disconcertingly difficult to surprise her. But Isabel, + though by no means incapable of desiring to be effective, had not at + present this impulse. She was too sincere, too interested in her judicious + companion. And then moreover Madame Merle never said such things in the + tone of triumph or of boastfulness; they dropped from her like cold + confessions. + </p> + <p> + A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; the days grew + shorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the lawn. But + our young woman had long indoor conversations with her fellow visitor, and + in spite of the rain the two ladies often sallied forth for a walk, + equipped with the defensive apparatus which the English climate and the + English genius have between them brought to such perfection. Madame Merle + liked almost everything, including the English rain. “There’s always a + little of it and never too much at once,” she said; “and it never wets you + and it always smells good.” She declared that in England the pleasures of + smell were great—that in this inimitable island there was a certain + mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd it might sound, was + the national aroma, and was most agreeable to the nostril; and she used to + lift the sleeve of her British overcoat and bury her nose in it, inhaling + the clear, fine scent of the wool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as soon as the + autumn had begun to define itself, became almost a prisoner; in bad + weather he was unable to step out of the house, and he used sometimes to + stand at one of the windows with his hands in his pockets and, from a + countenance half-rueful, half-critical, watch Isabel and Madame Merle as + they walked down the avenue under a pair of umbrellas. The roads about + Gardencourt were so firm, even in the worst weather, that the two ladies + always came back with a healthy glow in their cheeks, looking at the soles + of their neat, stout boots and declaring that their walk had done them + inexpressible good. Before luncheon, always, Madame Merle was engaged; + Isabel admired and envied her rigid possession of her morning. Our heroine + had always passed for a person of resources and had taken a certain pride + in being one; but she wandered, as by the wrong side of the wall of a + private garden, round the enclosed talents, accomplishments, aptitudes of + Madame Merle. She found herself desiring to emulate them, and in twenty + such ways this lady presented herself as a model. “I should like awfully + to be so!” Isabel secretly exclaimed, more than once, as one after another + of her friend’s fine aspects caught the light, and before long she knew + that she had learned a lesson from a high authority. It took no great time + indeed for her to feel herself, as the phrase is, under an influence. + “What’s the harm,” she wondered, “so long as it’s a good one? The more + one’s under a good influence the better. The only thing is to see our + steps as we take them—to understand them as we go. That, no doubt, I + shall always do. I needn’t be afraid of becoming too pliable; isn’t it my + fault that I’m not pliable enough?” It is said that imitation is the + sincerest flattery; and if Isabel was sometimes moved to gape at her + friend aspiringly and despairingly it was not so much because she desired + herself to shine as because she wished to hold up the lamp for Madame + Merle. She liked her extremely, but was even more dazzled than attracted. + She sometimes asked herself what Henrietta Stackpole would say to her + thinking so much of this perverted product of their common soil, and had a + conviction that it would be severely judged. Henrietta would not at all + subscribe to Madame Merle; for reasons she could not have defined this + truth came home to the girl. On the other hand she was equally sure that, + should the occasion offer, her new friend would strike off some happy view + of her old: Madame Merle was too humorous, too observant, not to do + justice to Henrietta, and on becoming acquainted with her would probably + give the measure of a tact which Miss Stackpole couldn’t hope to emulate. + She appeared to have in her experience a touchstone for everything, and + somewhere in the capacious pocket of her genial memory she would find the + key to Henrietta’s value. “That’s the great thing,” Isabel solemnly + pondered; “that’s the supreme good fortune: to be in a better position for + appreciating people than they are for appreciating you.” And she added + that such, when one considered it, was simply the essence of the + aristocratic situation. In this light, if in none other, one should aim at + the aristocratic situation. + </p> + <p> + I may not count over all the links in the chain which led Isabel to think + of Madame Merle’s situation as aristocratic—a view of it never + expressed in any reference made to it by that lady herself. She had known + great things and great people, but she had never played a great part. She + was one of the small ones of the earth; she had not been born to honours; + she knew the world too well to nourish fatuous illusions on the article of + her own place in it. She had encountered many of the fortunate few and was + perfectly aware of those points at which their fortune differed from hers. + But if by her informed measure she was no figure for a high scene, she had + yet to Isabel’s imagination a sort of greatness. To be so cultivated and + civilised, so wise and so easy, and still make so light of it—that + was really to be a great lady, especially when one so carried and + presented one’s self. It was as if somehow she had all society under + contribution, and all the arts and graces it practised—or was the + effect rather that of charming uses found for her, even from a distance, + subtle service rendered by her to a clamorous world wherever she might be? + After breakfast she wrote a succession of letters, as those arriving for + her appeared innumerable: her correspondence was a source of surprise to + Isabel when they sometimes walked together to the village post-office to + deposit Madame Merle’s offering to the mail. She knew more people, as she + told Isabel, than she knew what to do with, and something was always + turning up to be written about. Of painting she was devotedly fond, and + made no more of brushing in a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At + Gardencourt she was perpetually taking advantage of an hour’s sunshine to + go out with a camp-stool and a box of water-colours. That she was a brave + musician we have already perceived, and it was evidence of the fact that + when she seated herself at the piano, as she always did in the evening, + her listeners resigned themselves without a murmur to losing the grace of + her talk. Isabel, since she had known her, felt ashamed of her own + facility, which she now looked upon as basely inferior; and indeed, though + she had been thought rather a prodigy at home, the loss to society when, + in taking her place upon the music-stool, she turned her back to the room, + was usually deemed greater than the gain. When Madame Merle was neither + writing, nor painting, nor touching the piano, she was usually employed + upon wonderful tasks of rich embroidery, cushions, curtains, decorations + for the chimneypiece; an art in which her bold, free invention was as + noted as the agility of her needle. She was never idle, for when engaged + in none of the ways I have mentioned she was either reading (she appeared + to Isabel to read “everything important”), or walking out, or playing + patience with the cards, or talking with her fellow inmates. And with all + this she had always the social quality, was never rudely absent and yet + never too seated. She laid down her pastimes as easily as she took them + up; she worked and talked at the same time, and appeared to impute scant + worth to anything she did. She gave away her sketches and tapestries; she + rose from the piano or remained there, according to the convenience of her + auditors, which she always unerringly divined. She was in short the most + comfortable, profitable, amenable person to live with. If for Isabel she + had a fault it was that she was not natural; by which the girl meant, not + that she was either affected or pretentious, since from these vulgar vices + no woman could have been more exempt, but that her nature had been too + much overlaid by custom and her angles too much rubbed away. She had + become too flexible, too useful, was too ripe and too final. She was in a + word too perfectly the social animal that man and woman are supposed to + have been intended to be; and she had rid herself of every remnant of that + tonic wildness which we may assume to have belonged even to the most + amiable persons in the ages before country-house life was the fashion. + Isabel found it difficult to think of her in any detachment or privacy, + she existed only in her relations, direct or indirect, with her fellow + mortals. One might wonder what commerce she could possibly hold with her + own spirit. One always ended, however, by feeling that a charming surface + doesn’t necessarily prove one superficial; this was an illusion in which, + in one’s youth, one had but just escaped being nourished. Madame Merle was + not superficial—not she. She was deep, and her nature spoke none the + less in her behaviour because it spoke a conventional tongue. “What’s + language at all but a convention?” said Isabel. “She has the good taste + not to pretend, like some people I’ve met, to express herself by original + signs.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you’ve suffered much,” she once found occasion to say to her + friend in response to some allusion that had appeared to reach far. + </p> + <p> + “What makes you think that?” Madame Merle asked with the amused smile of a + person seated at a game of guesses. “I hope I haven’t too much the droop + of the misunderstood.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but you sometimes say things that I think people who have always been + happy wouldn’t have found out.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t always been happy,” said Madame Merle, smiling still, but with + a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child a secret. “Such a wonderful + thing!” + </p> + <p> + But Isabel rose to the irony. “A great many people give me the impression + of never having for a moment felt anything.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very true; there are many more iron pots certainly than porcelain. + But you may depend on it that every one bears some mark; even the hardest + iron pots have a little bruise, a little hole somewhere. I flatter myself + that I’m rather stout, but if I must tell you the truth I’ve been + shockingly chipped and cracked. I do very well for service yet, because + I’ve been cleverly mended; and I try to remain in the cupboard—the + quiet, dusky cupboard where there’s an odour of stale spices—as much + as I can. But when I’ve to come out and into a strong light—then, my + dear, I’m a horror!” + </p> + <p> + I know not whether it was on this occasion or on some other that the + conversation had taken the turn I have just indicated she said to Isabel + that she would some day a tale unfold. Isabel assured her she should + delight to listen to one, and reminded her more than once of this + engagement. Madame Merle, however, begged repeatedly for a respite, and at + last frankly told her young companion that they must wait till they knew + each other better. This would be sure to happen, a long friendship so + visibly lay before them. Isabel assented, but at the same time enquired if + she mightn’t be trusted—if she appeared capable of a betrayal of + confidence. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not that I’m afraid of your repeating what I say,” her fellow + visitor answered; “I’m afraid, on the contrary, of your taking it too much + to yourself. You’d judge me too harshly; you’re of the cruel age.” She + preferred for the present to talk to Isabel of Isabel, and exhibited the + greatest interest in our heroine’s history, sentiments, opinions, + prospects. She made her chatter and listened to her chatter with infinite + good nature. This flattered and quickened the girl, who was struck with + all the distinguished people her friend had known and with her having + lived, as Mrs. Touchett said, in the best company in Europe. Isabel + thought the better of herself for enjoying the favour of a person who had + so large a field of comparison; and it was perhaps partly to gratify the + sense of profiting by comparison that she often appealed to these stores + of reminiscence. Madame Merle had been a dweller in many lands and had + social ties in a dozen different countries. “I don’t pretend to be + educated,” she would say, “but I think I know my Europe;” and she spoke + one day of going to Sweden to stay with an old friend, and another of + proceeding to Malta to follow up a new acquaintance. With England, where + she had often dwelt, she was thoroughly familiar, and for Isabel’s benefit + threw a great deal of light upon the customs of the country and the + character of the people, who “after all,” as she was fond of saying, were + the most convenient in the world to live with. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t think it strange her remaining here at such a time as this, + when Mr. Touchett’s passing away,” that gentleman’s wife remarked to her + niece. “She is incapable of a mistake; she’s the most tactful woman I + know. It’s a favour to me that she stays; she’s putting off a lot of + visits at great houses,” said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that when + she herself was in England her social value sank two or three degrees in + the scale. “She has her pick of places; she’s not in want of a shelter. + But I’ve asked her to put in this time because I wish you to know her. I + think it will be a good thing for you. Serena Merle hasn’t a fault.” + </p> + <p> + “If I didn’t already like her very much that description might alarm me,” + Isabel returned. + </p> + <p> + “She’s never the least little bit ‘off.’ I’ve brought you out here and I + wish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told me she hoped I would + give you plenty of opportunities. I give you one in putting you in + relation with Madame Merle. She’s one of the most brilliant women in + Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “I like her better than I like your description of her,” Isabel persisted + in saying. + </p> + <p> + “Do you flatter yourself that you’ll ever feel her open to criticism? I + hope you’ll let me know when you do.” + </p> + <p> + “That will be cruel—to you,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t mind me. You won’t discover a fault in her.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. But I dare say I shan’t miss it.” + </p> + <p> + “She knows absolutely everything on earth there is to know,” said Mrs. + Touchett. + </p> + <p> + Isabel after this observed to their companion that she hoped she knew Mrs. + Touchett considered she hadn’t a speck on her perfection. On which “I’m + obliged to you,” Madame Merle replied, “but I’m afraid your aunt imagines, + or at least alludes to, no aberrations that the clock-face doesn’t + register.” + </p> + <p> + “So that you mean you’ve a wild side that’s unknown to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no, I fear my darkest sides are my tamest. I mean that having no + faults, for your aunt, means that one’s never late for dinner—that + is for her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other day, when you + came back from London; the clock was just at eight when I came into the + drawing-room: it was the rest of you that were before the time. It means + that one answers a letter the day one gets it and that when one comes to + stay with her one doesn’t bring too much luggage and is careful not to be + taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things constitute virtue; it’s a + blessing to be able to reduce it to its elements.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle’s own conversation, it will be perceived, was enriched with + bold, free touches of criticism, which, even when they had a restrictive + effect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured. It couldn’t occur to the girl + for instance that Mrs. Touchett’s accomplished guest was abusing her; and + this for very good reasons. In the first place Isabel rose eagerly to the + sense of her shades; in the second Madame Merle implied that there was a + great deal more to say; and it was clear in the third that for a person to + speak to one without ceremony of one’s near relations was an agreeable + sign of that person’s intimacy with one’s self. These signs of deep + communion multiplied as the days elapsed, and there was none of which + Isabel was more sensible than of her companion’s preference for making + Miss Archer herself a topic. Though she referred frequently to the + incidents of her own career she never lingered upon them; she was as + little of a gross egotist as she was of a flat gossip. + </p> + <p> + “I’m old and stale and faded,” she said more than once; “I’m of no more + interest than last week’s newspaper. You’re young and fresh and of to-day; + you’ve the great thing—you’ve actuality. I once had it—we all + have it for an hour. You, however, will have it for longer. Let us talk + about you then; you can say nothing I shall not care to hear. It’s a sign + that I’m growing old—that I like to talk with younger people. I + think it’s a very pretty compensation. If we can’t have youth within us we + can have it outside, and I really think we see it and feel it better that + way. Of course we must be in sympathy with it—that I shall always + be. I don’t know that I shall ever be ill-natured with old people—I + hope not; there are certainly some old people I adore. But I shall never + be anything but abject with the young; they touch me and appeal to me too + much. I give you <i>carte blanche</i> then; you can even be impertinent if + you like; I shall let it pass and horribly spoil you. I speak as if I were + a hundred years old, you say? Well, I am, if you please; I was born before + the French Revolution. Ah, my dear, <i>je viens de loin</i>; I belong to + the old, old world. But it’s not of that I want to talk; I want to talk + about the new. You must tell me more about America; you never tell me + enough. Here I’ve been since I was brought here as a helpless child, and + it’s ridiculous, or rather it’s scandalous, how little I know about that + splendid, dreadful, funny country—surely the greatest and drollest + of them all. There are a great many of us like that in these parts, and I + must say I think we’re a wretched set of people. You should live in your + own land; whatever it may be you have your natural place there. If we’re + not good Americans we’re certainly poor Europeans; we’ve no natural place + here. We’re mere parasites, crawling over the surface; we haven’t our feet + in the soil. At least one can know it and not have illusions. A woman + perhaps can get on; a woman, it seems to me, has no natural place + anywhere; wherever she finds herself she has to remain on the surface and, + more or less, to crawl. You protest, my dear? you’re horrified? you + declare you’ll never crawl? It’s very true that I don’t see you crawling; + you stand more upright than a good many poor creatures. Very good; on the + whole, I don’t think you’ll crawl. But the men, the Americans; <i>je vous + demande un peu</i>, what do they make of it over here? I don’t envy them + trying to arrange themselves. Look at poor Ralph Touchett: what sort of a + figure do you call that? Fortunately he has a consumption; I say + fortunately, because it gives him something to do. His consumption’s his + <i>carriere</i> it’s a kind of position. You can say: ‘Oh, Mr. Touchett, + he takes care of his lungs, he knows a great deal about climates.’ But + without that who would he be, what would he represent? ‘Mr. Ralph + Touchett: an American who lives in Europe.’ That signifies absolutely + nothing—it’s impossible anything should signify less. ‘He’s very + cultivated,’ they say: ‘he has a very pretty collection of old + snuff-boxes.’ The collection is all that’s wanted to make it pitiful. I’m + tired of the sound of the word; I think it’s grotesque. With the poor old + father it’s different; he has his identity, and it’s rather a massive one. + He represents a great financial house, and that, in our day, is as good as + anything else. For an American, at any rate, that will do very well. But I + persist in thinking your cousin very lucky to have a chronic malady so + long as he doesn’t die of it. It’s much better than the snuffboxes. If he + weren’t ill, you say, he’d do something?—he’d take his father’s + place in the house. My poor child, I doubt it; I don’t think he’s at all + fond of the house. However, you know him better than I, though I used to + know him rather well, and he may have the benefit of the doubt. The worst + case, I think, is a friend of mine, a countryman of ours, who lives in + Italy (where he also was brought before he knew better), and who is one of + the most delightful men I know. Some day you must know him. I’ll bring you + together and then you’ll see what I mean. He’s Gilbert Osmond—he + lives in Italy; that’s all one can say about him or make of him. He’s + exceedingly clever, a man made to be distinguished; but, as I tell you, + you exhaust the description when you say he’s Mr. Osmond who lives <i>tout + bêtement</i> in Italy. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no + past, no future, no anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please—paints + in water-colours; like me, only better than I. His painting’s pretty bad; + on the whole I’m rather glad of that. Fortunately he’s very indolent, so + indolent that it amounts to a sort of position. He can say, ‘Oh, I do + nothing; I’m too deadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up + at five o’clock in the morning.’ In that way he becomes a sort of + exception; you feel he might do something if he’d only rise early. He + never speaks of his painting to people at large; he’s too clever for that. + But he has a little girl—a dear little girl; he does speak of her. + He’s devoted to her, and if it were a career to be an excellent father + he’d be very distinguished. But I’m afraid that’s no better than the + snuff-boxes; perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do in America,” + pursued Madame Merle, who, it must be observed parenthetically, did not + deliver herself all at once of these reflexions, which are presented in a + cluster for the convenience of the reader. She talked of Florence, where + Mr. Osmond lived and where Mrs. Touchett occupied a medieval palace; she + talked of Rome, where she herself had a little <i>pied-à-terre</i> with + some rather good old damask. She talked of places, of people and even, as + the phrase is, of “subjects”; and from time to time she talked of their + kind old host and of the prospect of his recovery. From the first she had + thought this prospect small, and Isabel had been struck with the positive, + discriminating, competent way in which she took the measure of his + remainder of life. One evening she announced definitely that he wouldn’t + live. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Matthew Hope told me so as plainly as was proper,” she said; + “standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makes himself very + agreeable, the great doctor. I don’t mean his saying that has anything to + do with it. But he says such things with great tact. I had told him I felt + ill at my ease, staying here at such a time; it seemed to me so indiscreet—it + wasn’t as if I could nurse. ‘You must remain, you must remain,’ he + answered; ‘your office will come later.’ Wasn’t that a very delicate way + of saying both that poor Mr. Touchett would go and that I might be of some + use as a consoler? In fact, however, I shall not be of the slightest use. + Your aunt will console herself; she, and she alone, knows just how much + consolation she’ll require. It would be a very delicate matter for another + person to undertake to administer the dose. With your cousin it will be + different; he’ll miss his father immensely. But I should never presume to + condole with Mr. Ralph; we’re not on those terms.” Madame Merle had + alluded more than once to some undefined incongruity in her relations with + Ralph Touchett; so Isabel took this occasion of asking her if they were + not good friends. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly, but he doesn’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you done to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for that.” + </p> + <p> + “For not liking you? I think one has need of a very good reason.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the day you begin.” + </p> + <p> + “Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not; because if you do you’ll never end. That’s the way with your + cousin; he doesn’t get over it. It’s an antipathy of nature—if I can + call it that when it’s all on his side. I’ve nothing whatever against him + and don’t bear him the least little grudge for not doing me justice. + Justice is all I want. However, one feels that he’s a gentleman and would + never say anything underhand about one. <i>Cartes sur table</i>,” Madame + Merle subjoined in a moment, “I’m not afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not indeed,” said Isabel, who added something about his being the + kindest creature living. She remembered, however, that on her first asking + him about Madame Merle he had answered her in a manner which this lady + might have thought injurious without being explicit. There was something + between them, Isabel said to herself, but she said nothing more than this. + If it were something of importance it should inspire respect; if it were + not it was not worth her curiosity. With all her love of knowledge she had + a natural shrinking from raising curtains and looking into unlighted + corners. The love of knowledge coexisted in her mind with the finest + capacity for ignorance. + </p> + <p> + But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, made her raise + her clear eyebrows at the time and think of the words afterwards. “I’d + give a great deal to be your age again,” she broke out once with a + bitterness which, though diluted in her customary amplitude of ease, was + imperfectly disguised by it. “If I could only begin again—if I could + have my life before me!” + </p> + <p> + “Your life’s before you yet,” Isabel answered gently, for she was vaguely + awe-struck. + </p> + <p> + “No; the best part’s gone, and gone for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely not for nothing,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Why not—what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor fortune, + nor position, nor the traces of a beauty that I never had.” + </p> + <p> + “You have many friends, dear lady.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so sure!” cried Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’re wrong. You have memories, graces, talents—” + </p> + <p> + But Madame Merle interrupted her. “What have my talents brought me? + Nothing but the need of using them still, to get through the hours, the + years, to cheat myself with some pretence of movement, of unconsciousness. + As for my graces and memories the less said about them the better. You’ll + be my friend till you find a better use for your friendship.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be for you to see that I don’t then,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I would make an effort to keep you.” And her companion looked at her + gravely. “When I say I should like to be your age I mean with your + qualities—frank, generous, sincere like you. In that case I should + have made something better of my life.” + </p> + <p> + “What should you have liked to do that you’ve not done?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle took a sheet of music—she was seated at the piano and + had abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she first spoke—and + mechanically turned the leaves. “I’m very ambitious!” she at last replied. + </p> + <p> + “And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must have been great.” + </p> + <p> + “They <i>were</i> great. I should make myself ridiculous by talking of + them.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel wondered what they could have been—whether Madame Merle had + aspired to wear a crown. “I don’t know what your idea of success may be, + but you seem to me to have been successful. To me indeed you’re a vivid + image of success.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile. “What’s <i>your</i> idea + of success?” + </p> + <p> + “You evidently think it must be a very tame one. It’s to see some dream of + one’s youth come true.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” Madame Merle exclaimed, “that I’ve never seen! But my dreams were so + great—so preposterous. Heaven forgive me, I’m dreaming now!” And she + turned back to the piano and began grandly to play. On the morrow she said + to Isabel that her definition of success had been very pretty, yet + frightfully sad. Measured in that way, who had ever succeeded? The dreams + of one’s youth, why they were enchanting, they were divine! Who had ever + seen such things come to pass? + </p> + <p> + “I myself—a few of them,” Isabel ventured to answer. + </p> + <p> + “Already? They must have been dreams of yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “I began to dream very young,” Isabel smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood—that of having a + pink sash and a doll that could close her eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t mean that.” + </p> + <p> + “Or a young man with a fine moustache going down on his knees to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, nor that either,” Isabel declared with still more emphasis. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle appeared to note this eagerness. “I suspect that’s what you + do mean. We’ve all had the young man with the moustache. He’s the + inevitable young man; he doesn’t count.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel was silent a little but then spoke with extreme and characteristic + inconsequence. “Why shouldn’t he count? There are young men and young + men.” + </p> + <p> + “And yours was a paragon—is that what you mean?” asked her friend + with a laugh. “If you’ve had the identical young man you dreamed of, then + that was success, and I congratulate you with all my heart. Only in that + case why didn’t you fly with him to his castle in the Apennines?” + </p> + <p> + “He has no castle in the Apennines.” + </p> + <p> + “What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street? Don’t tell me that; + I refuse to recognise that as an ideal.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care anything about his house,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “That’s very crude of you. When you’ve lived as long as I you’ll see that + every human being has his shell and that you must take the shell into + account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circumstances. There’s + no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we’re each of us made up of + some cluster of appurtenances. What shall we call our ‘self’? Where does + it begin? where does it end? It overflows into everything that belongs to + us—and then it flows back again. I know a large part of myself is in + the clothes I choose to wear. I’ve a great respect for <i>things</i>! + One’s self—for other people—is one’s expression of one’s self; + and one’s house, one’s furniture, one’s garments, the books one reads, the + company one keeps—these things are all expressive.” + </p> + <p> + This was very metaphysical; not more so, however, than several + observations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel was fond of + metaphysics, but was unable to accompany her friend into this bold + analysis of the human personality. “I don’t agree with you. I think just + the other way. I don’t know whether I succeed in expressing myself, but I + know that nothing else expresses me. Nothing that belongs to me is any + measure of me; everything’s on the contrary a limit, a barrier, and a + perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly the clothes which, as you say, I choose + to wear, don’t express me; and heaven forbid they should!” + </p> + <p> + “You dress very well,” Madame Merle lightly interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly; but I don’t care to be judged by that. My clothes may express + the dressmaker, but they don’t express me. To begin with it’s not my own + choice that I wear them; they’re imposed upon me by society.” + </p> + <p> + “Should you prefer to go without them?” Madame Merle enquired in a tone + which virtually terminated the discussion. + </p> + <p> + I am bound to confess, though it may cast some discredit on the sketch I + have given of the youthful loyalty practised by our heroine toward this + accomplished woman, that Isabel had said nothing whatever to her about + Lord Warburton and had been equally reticent on the subject of Caspar + Goodwood. She had not, however, concealed the fact that she had had + opportunities of marrying and had even let her friend know of how + advantageous a kind they had been. Lord Warburton had left Lockleigh and + was gone to Scotland, taking his sisters with him; and though he had + written to Ralph more than once to ask about Mr. Touchett’s health the + girl was not liable to the embarrassment of such enquiries as, had he + still been in the neighbourhood, he would probably have felt bound to make + in person. He had excellent ways, but she felt sure that if he had come to + Gardencourt he would have seen Madame Merle, and that if he had seen her + he would have liked her and betrayed to her that he was in love with her + young friend. It so happened that during this lady’s previous visits to + Gardencourt—each of them much shorter than the present—he had + either not been at Lockleigh or had not called at Mr. Touchett’s. + Therefore, though she knew him by name as the great man of that county, + she had no cause to suspect him as a suitor of Mrs. Touchett’s + freshly-imported niece. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve plenty of time,” she had said to Isabel in return for the + mutilated confidences which our young woman made her and which didn’t + pretend to be perfect, though we have seen that at moments the girl had + compunctions at having said so much. “I’m glad you’ve done nothing yet—that + you have it still to do. It’s a very good thing for a girl to have refused + a few good offers—so long of course as they are not the best she’s + likely to have. Pardon me if my tone seems horribly corrupt; one must take + the worldly view sometimes. Only don’t keep on refusing for the sake of + refusing. It’s a pleasant exercise of power; but accepting’s after all an + exercise of power as well. There’s always the danger of refusing once too + often. It was not the one I fell into—I didn’t refuse often enough. + You’re an exquisite creature, and I should like to see you married to a + prime minister. But speaking strictly, you know, you’re not what is + technically called a <i>parti</i>. You’re extremely good-looking and + extremely clever; in yourself you’re quite exceptional. You appear to have + the vaguest ideas about your earthly possessions; but from what I can make + out you’re not embarrassed with an income. I wish you had a little money.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had!” said Isabel, simply, apparently forgetting for the moment + that her poverty had been a venial fault for two gallant gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + In spite of Sir Matthew Hope’s benevolent recommendation Madame Merle did + not remain to the end, as the issue of poor Mr. Touchett’s malady had now + come frankly to be designated. She was under pledges to other people which + had at last to be redeemed, and she left Gardencourt with the + understanding that she should in any event see Mrs. Touchett there again, + or else in town, before quitting England. Her parting with Isabel was even + more like the beginning of a friendship than their meeting had been. “I’m + going to six places in succession, but I shall see no one I like so well + as you. They’ll all be old friends, however; one doesn’t make new friends + at my age. I’ve made a great exception for you. You must remember that and + must think as well of me as possible. You must reward me by believing in + me.” + </p> + <p> + By way of answer Isabel kissed her, and, though some women kiss with + facility, there are kisses and kisses, and this embrace was satisfactory + to Madame Merle. Our young lady, after this, was much alone; she saw her + aunt and cousin only at meals, and discovered that of the hours during + which Mrs. Touchett was invisible only a minor portion was now devoted to + nursing her husband. She spent the rest in her own apartments, to which + access was not allowed even to her niece, apparently occupied there with + mysterious and inscrutable exercises. At table she was grave and silent; + but her solemnity was not an attitude—Isabel could see it was a + conviction. She wondered if her aunt repented of having taken her own way + so much; but there was no visible evidence of this—no tears, no + sighs, no exaggeration of a zeal always to its own sense adequate. Mrs. + Touchett seemed simply to feel the need of thinking things over and + summing them up; she had a little moral account-book—with columns + unerringly ruled and a sharp steel clasp—which she kept with + exemplary neatness. Uttered reflection had with her ever, at any rate, a + practical ring. “If I had foreseen this I’d not have proposed your coming + abroad now,” she said to Isabel after Madame Merle had left the house. + “I’d have waited and sent for you next year.” + </p> + <p> + “So that perhaps I should never have known my uncle? It’s a great + happiness to me to have come now.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very well. But it was not that you might know your uncle that I + brought you to Europe.” A perfectly veracious speech; but, as Isabel + thought, not as perfectly timed. She had leisure to think of this and + other matters. She took a solitary walk every day and spent vague hours in + turning over books in the library. Among the subjects that engaged her + attention were the adventures of her friend Miss Stackpole, with whom she + was in regular correspondence. Isabel liked her friend’s private + epistolary style better than her public; that is she felt her public + letters would have been excellent if they had not been printed. + Henrietta’s career, however, was not so successful as might have been + wished even in the interest of her private felicity; that view of the + inner life of Great Britain which she was so eager to take appeared to + dance before her like an <i>ignis fatuus</i>. The invitation from Lady + Pensil, for mysterious reasons, had never arrived; and poor Mr. Bantling + himself, with all his friendly ingenuity, had been unable to explain so + grave a dereliction on the part of a missive that had obviously been sent. + He had evidently taken Henrietta’s affairs much to heart, and believed + that he owed her a set-off to this illusory visit to Bedfordshire. “He + says he should think I would go to the Continent,” Henrietta wrote; “and + as he thinks of going there himself I suppose his advice is sincere. He + wants to know why I don’t take a view of French life; and it’s a fact that + I want very much to see the new Republic. Mr. Bantling doesn’t care much + about the Republic, but he thinks of going over to Paris anyway. I must + say he’s quite as attentive as I could wish, and at least I shall have + seen one polite Englishman. I keep telling Mr. Bantling that he ought to + have been an American, and you should see how that pleases him. Whenever I + say so he always breaks out with the same exclamation—‘Ah, but + really, come now!” A few days later she wrote that she had decided to go + to Paris at the end of the week and that Mr. Bantling had promised to see + her off—perhaps even would go as far as Dover with her. She would + wait in Paris till Isabel should arrive, Henrietta added; speaking quite + as if Isabel were to start on her continental journey alone and making no + allusion to Mrs. Touchett. Bearing in mind his interest in their late + companion, our heroine communicated several passages from this + correspondence to Ralph, who followed with an emotion akin to suspense the + career of the representative of the <i>Interviewer</i>. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me she’s doing very well,” he said, “going over to Paris with + an ex-Lancer! If she wants something to write about she has only to + describe that episode.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not conventional, certainly,” Isabel answered; “but if you mean that—as + far as Henrietta is concerned—it’s not perfectly innocent, you’re + very much mistaken. You’ll never understand Henrietta.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, I understand her perfectly. I didn’t at all at first, but now + I’ve the point of view. I’m afraid, however, that Bantling hasn’t; he may + have some surprises. Oh, I understand Henrietta as well as if I had made + her!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel was by no means sure of this, but she abstained from expressing + further doubt, for she was disposed in these days to extend a great + charity to her cousin. One afternoon less than a week after Madame Merle’s + departure she was seated in the library with a volume to which her + attention was not fastened. She had placed herself in a deep window-bench, + from which she looked out into the dull, damp park; and as the library + stood at right angles to the entrance-front of the house she could see the + doctor’s brougham, which had been waiting for the last two hours before + the door. She was struck with his remaining so long, but at last she saw + him appear in the portico, stand a moment slowly drawing on his gloves and + looking at the knees of his horse, and then get into the vehicle and roll + away. Isabel kept her place for half an hour; there was a great stillness + in the house. It was so great that when she at last heard a soft, slow + step on the deep carpet of the room she was almost startled by the sound. + She turned quickly away from the window and saw Ralph Touchett standing + there with his hands still in his pockets, but with a face absolutely void + of its usual latent smile. She got up and her movement and glance were a + question. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all over,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that my uncle...?” And Isabel stopped. + </p> + <p> + “My dear father died an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my poor Ralph!” she gently wailed, putting out her two hands to him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + Some fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansom cab to the + house in Winchester Square. As she descended from her vehicle she + observed, suspended between the dining-room windows, a large, neat, wooden + tablet, on whose fresh black ground were inscribed in white paint the + words—“This noble freehold mansion to be sold”; with the name of the + agent to whom application should be made. “They certainly lose no time,” + said the visitor as, after sounding the big brass knocker, she waited to + be admitted; “it’s a practical country!” And within the house, as she + ascended to the drawing-room, she perceived numerous signs of abdication; + pictures removed from the walls and placed upon sofas, windows undraped + and floors laid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received her and intimated + in a few words that condolences might be taken for granted. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you’re going to say—he was a very good man. But I know + it better than any one, because I gave him more chance to show it. In that + I think I was a good wife.” Mrs. Touchett added that at the end her + husband apparently recognised this fact. “He has treated me most + liberally,” she said; “I won’t say more liberally than I expected, because + I didn’t expect. You know that as a general thing I don’t expect. But he + chose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though I lived much abroad + and mingled—you may say freely—in foreign life, I never + exhibited the smallest preference for any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “For any one but yourself,” Madame Merle mentally observed; but the + reflexion was perfectly inaudible. + </p> + <p> + “I never sacrificed my husband to another,” Mrs. Touchett continued with + her stout curtness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no,” thought Madame Merle; “you never did anything for another!” + </p> + <p> + There was a certain cynicism in these mute comments which demands an + explanation; the more so as they are not in accord either with the view—somewhat + superficial perhaps—that we have hitherto enjoyed of Madame Merle’s + character or with the literal facts of Mrs. Touchett’s history; the more + so, too, as Madame Merle had a well-founded conviction that her friend’s + last remark was not in the least to be construed as a side-thrust at + herself. The truth is that the moment she had crossed the threshold she + received an impression that Mr. Touchett’s death had had subtle + consequences and that these consequences had been profitable to a little + circle of persons among whom she was not numbered. Of course it was an + event which would naturally have consequences; her imagination had more + than once rested upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt. But it had + been one thing to foresee such a matter mentally and another to stand + among its massive records. The idea of a distribution of property—she + would almost have said of spoils—just now pressed upon her senses + and irritated her with a sense of exclusion. I am far from wishing to + picture her as one of the hungry mouths or envious hearts of the general + herd, but we have already learned of her having desires that had never + been satisfied. If she had been questioned, she would of course have + admitted—with a fine proud smile—that she had not the faintest + claim to a share in Mr. Touchett’s relics. “There was never anything in + the world between us,” she would have said. “There was never that, poor + man!”—with a fillip of her thumb and her third finger. I hasten to + add, moreover, that if she couldn’t at the present moment keep from quite + perversely yearning she was careful not to betray herself. She had after + all as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett’s gains as for her losses. + </p> + <p> + “He has left me this house,” the newly-made widow said; “but of course I + shall not live in it; I’ve a much better one in Florence. The will was + opened only three days since, but I’ve already offered the house for sale. + I’ve also a share in the bank; but I don’t yet understand if I’m obliged + to leave it there. If not I shall certainly take it out. Ralph, of course, + has Gardencourt; but I’m not sure that he’ll have means to keep up the + place. He’s naturally left very well off, but his father has given away an + immense deal of money; there are bequests to a string of third cousins in + Vermont. Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourt and would be quite + capable of living there—in summer—with a maid-of-all-work and + a gardener’s boy. There’s one remarkable clause in my husband’s will,” + Mrs. Touchett added. “He has left my niece a fortune.” + </p> + <p> + “A fortune!” Madame Merle softly repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds.” Madame Merle’s + hands were clasped in her lap; at this she raised them, still clasped, and + held them a moment against her bosom while her eyes, a little dilated, + fixed themselves on those of her friend. “Ah,” she cried, “the clever + creature!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. “What do you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + For an instant Madame Merle’s colour rose and she dropped her eyes. “It + certainly is clever to achieve such results—without an effort!” + </p> + <p> + “There assuredly was no effort. Don’t call it an achievement.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle was seldom guilty of the awkwardness of retracting what she + had said; her wisdom was shown rather in maintaining it and placing it in + a favourable light. “My dear friend, Isabel would certainly not have had + seventy thousand pounds left her if she had not been the most charming + girl in the world. Her charm includes great cleverness.” + </p> + <p> + “She never dreamed, I’m sure, of my husband’s doing anything for her; and + I never dreamed of it either, for he never spoke to me of his intention,” + Mrs. Touchett said. “She had no claim upon him whatever; it was no great + recommendation to him that she was my niece. Whatever she achieved she + achieved unconsciously.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” rejoined Madame Merle, “those are the greatest strokes!” Mrs. + Touchett reserved her opinion. “The girl’s fortunate; I don’t deny that. + But for the present she’s simply stupefied.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that she doesn’t know what to do with the money?” + </p> + <p> + “That, I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn’t know what to think + about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gun were suddenly fired + off behind her; she’s feeling herself to see if she be hurt. It’s but + three days since she received a visit from the principal executor, who + came in person, very gallantly, to notify her. He told me afterwards that + when he had made his little speech she suddenly burst into tears. The + money’s to remain in the affairs of the bank, and she’s to draw the + interest.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle shook her head with a wise and now quite benignant smile. + “How very delicious! After she has done that two or three times she’ll get + used to it.” Then after a silence, “What does your son think of it?” she + abruptly asked. + </p> + <p> + “He left England before the will was read—used up by his fatigue and + anxiety and hurrying off to the south. He’s on his way to the Riviera and + I’ve not yet heard from him. But it’s not likely he’ll ever object to + anything done by his father.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you say his own share had been cut down?” + </p> + <p> + “Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do something for the + people in America. He’s not in the least addicted to looking after number + one.” + </p> + <p> + “It depends upon whom he regards as number one!” said Madame Merle. And + she remained thoughtful a moment, her eyes bent on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Am I not to see your happy niece?” she asked at last as she raised them. + </p> + <p> + “You may see her; but you’ll not be struck with her being happy. She has + looked as solemn, these three days, as a Cimabue Madonna!” And Mrs. + Touchett rang for a servant. + </p> + <p> + Isabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to call her; and + Madame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs. Touchett’s comparison had + its force. The girl was pale and grave—an effect not mitigated by + her deeper mourning; but the smile of her brightest moments came into her + face as she saw Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on our + heroine’s shoulder and, after looking at her a moment, kissed her as if + she were returning the kiss she had received from her at Gardencourt. This + was the only allusion the visitor, in her great good taste, made for the + present to her young friend’s inheritance. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the sale of her house. + After selecting from among its furniture the objects she wished to + transport to her other abode, she left the rest of its contents to be + disposed of by the auctioneer and took her departure for the Continent. + She was of course accompanied on this journey by her niece, who now had + plenty of leisure to measure and weigh and otherwise handle the windfall + on which Madame Merle had covertly congratulated her. Isabel thought very + often of the fact of her accession of means, looking at it in a dozen + different lights; but we shall not now attempt to follow her train of + thought or to explain exactly why her new consciousness was at first + oppressive. This failure to rise to immediate joy was indeed but brief; + the girl presently made up her mind that to be rich was a virtue because + it was to be able to do, and that to do could only be sweet. It was the + graceful contrary of the stupid side of weakness—especially the + feminine variety. To be weak was, for a delicate young person, rather + graceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself, there was a larger + grace than that. Just now, it is true, there was not much to do—once + she had sent off a cheque to Lily and another to poor Edith; but she was + thankful for the quiet months which her mourning robes and her aunt’s + fresh widowhood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition of power + made her serious; she scrutinised her power with a kind of tender + ferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She began to do so during a + stay of some weeks which she eventually made with her aunt in Paris, + though in ways that will inevitably present themselves as trivial. They + were the ways most naturally imposed in a city in which the shops are the + admiration of the world, and that were prescribed unreservedly by the + guidance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly practical view of the + transformation of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one. “Now that + you’re a young woman of fortune you must know how to play the part—I + mean to play it well,” she said to Isabel once for all; and she added that + the girl’s first duty was to have everything handsome. “You don’t know how + to take care of your things, but you must learn,” she went on; this was + Isabel’s second duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present her + imagination was not kindled; she longed for opportunities, but these were + not the opportunities she meant. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having intended before her + husband’s death to spend a part of the winter in Paris, saw no reason to + deprive herself—still less to deprive her companion—of this + advantage. Though they would live in great retirement she might still + present her niece, informally, to the little circle of her fellow + countrymen dwelling upon the skirts of the Champs Elysées. With many of + these amiable colonists Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared their + expatriation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui. Isabel saw + them arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt’s hotel, and + pronounced on them with a trenchancy doubtless to be accounted for by the + temporary exaltation of her sense of human duty. She made up her mind that + their lives were, though luxurious, inane, and incurred some disfavour by + expressing this view on bright Sunday afternoons, when the American + absentees were engaged in calling on each other. Though her listeners + passed for people kept exemplarily genial by their cooks and dressmakers, + two or three of them thought her cleverness, which was generally admitted, + inferior to that of the new theatrical pieces. “You all live here this + way, but what does it lead to?” she was pleased to ask. “It doesn’t seem + to lead to anything, and I should think you’d get very tired of it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of Henrietta Stackpole. The two + ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and Isabel constantly saw her; so + that Mrs. Touchett had some reason for saying to herself that if her niece + were not clever enough to originate almost anything, she might be + suspected of having borrowed that style of remark from her journalistic + friend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was that of a visit + paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend of Mrs. Touchett’s and + the only person in Paris she now went to see. Mrs. Luce had been living in + Paris since the days of Louis Philippe; she used to say jocosely that she + was one of the generation of 1830—a joke of which the point was not + always taken. When it failed, Mrs. Luce used to explain—“Oh yes, I’m + one of the romantics;” her French had never become quite perfect. She was + always at home on Sunday afternoons and surrounded by sympathetic + compatriots, usually the same. In fact she was at home at all times, and + reproduced with wondrous truth in her well-cushioned little corner of the + brilliant city, the domestic tone of her native Baltimore. This reduced + Mr. Luce, her worthy husband, a tall, lean, grizzled, well-brushed + gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass and carried his hat a little too much + on the back of his head, to mere platonic praise of the “distractions” of + Paris—they were his great word—since you would never have + guessed from what cares he escaped to them. One of them was that he went + every day to the American banker’s, where he found a post-office that was + almost as sociable and colloquial an institution as in an American country + town. He passed an hour (in fine weather) in a chair in the Champs + Elysées, and he dined uncommonly well at his own table, seated above a + waxed floor which it was Mrs. Luce’s happiness to believe had a finer + polish than any other in the French capital. Occasionally he dined with a + friend or two at the Café Anglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner + was a source of felicity to his companions and an object of admiration + even to the headwaiter of the establishment. These were his only known + pastimes, but they had beguiled his hours for upwards of half a century, + and they doubtless justified his frequent declaration that there was no + place like Paris. In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce + flatter himself that he was enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris, + but it must be confessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of this scene + of his dissipations than in earlier days. In the list of his resources his + political reflections should not be omitted, for they were doubtless the + animating principle of many hours that superficially seemed vacant. Like + many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce was a high—or rather a deep—conservative, + and gave no countenance to the government lately established in France. He + had no faith in its duration and would assure you from year to year that + its end was close at hand. “They want to be kept down, sir, to be kept + down; nothing but the strong hand—the iron heel—will do for + them,” he would frequently say of the French people; and his ideal of a + fine showy clever rule was that of the superseded Empire. “Paris is much + less attractive than in the days of the Emperor; <i>he</i> knew how to + make a city pleasant,” Mr. Luce had often remarked to Mrs. Touchett, who + was quite of his own way of thinking and wished to know what one had + crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from republics. + </p> + <p> + “Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysées, opposite to the Palace of + Industry, I’ve seen the court-carriages from the Tuileries pass up and + down as many as seven times a day. I remember one occasion when they went + as high as nine. What do you see now? It’s no use talking, the style’s all + gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, and there’ll be a dark + cloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the Empire back again.” + </p> + <p> + Among Mrs. Luce’s visitors on Sunday afternoons was a young man with whom + Isabel had had a good deal of conversation and whom she found full of + valuable knowledge. Mr. Edward Rosier—Ned Rosier as he was called—was + native to New York and had been brought up in Paris, living there under + the eye of his father who, as it happened, had been an early and intimate + friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier remembered Isabel as a little + girl; it had been his father who came to the rescue of the small Archers + at the inn at Neufchatel (he was travelling that way with the boy and had + stopped at the hotel by chance), after their <i>bonne</i> had gone off + with the Russian prince and when Mr. Archer’s whereabouts remained for + some days a mystery. Isabel remembered perfectly the neat little male + child whose hair smelt of a delicious cosmetic and who had a <i>bonne</i> + all his own, warranted to lose sight of him under no provocation. Isabel + took a walk with the pair beside the lake and thought little Edward as + pretty as an angel—a comparison by no means conventional in her + mind, for she had a very definite conception of a type of features which + she supposed to be angelic and which her new friend perfectly illustrated. + A small pink face surmounted by a blue velvet bonnet and set off by a + stiff embroidered collar had become the countenance of her childish + dreams; and she had firmly believed for some time afterwards that the + heavenly hosts conversed among themselves in a queer little dialect of + French-English, expressing the properest sentiments, as when Edward told + her that he was “defended” by his <i>bonne</i> to go near the edge of the + lake, and that one must always obey to one’s <i>bonne</i>. Ned Rosier’s + English had improved; at least it exhibited in a less degree the French + variation. His father was dead and his <i>bonne</i> dismissed, but the + young man still conformed to the spirit of their teaching—he never + went to the edge of the lake. There was still something agreeable to the + nostrils about him and something not offensive to nobler organs. He was a + very gentle and gracious youth, with what are called cultivated tastes—an + acquaintance with old china, with good wine, with the bindings of books, + with the <i>Almanach de Gotha</i>, with the best shops, the best hotels, + the hours of railway-trains. He could order a dinner almost as well as Mr. + Luce, and it was probable that as his experience accumulated he would be a + worthy successor to that gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also + advocated in a soft and innocent voice. He had some charming rooms in + Paris, decorated with old Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his female + friends, who declared that his chimney-piece was better draped than the + high shoulders of many a duchess. He usually, however, spent a part of + every winter at Pau, and had once passed a couple of months in the United + States. + </p> + <p> + He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk at + Neufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He seemed to + recognise this same tendency in the subversive enquiry that I quoted a + moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine’s question with greater + urbanity than it perhaps deserved. “What does it lead to, Miss Archer? Why + Paris leads everywhere. You can’t go anywhere unless you come here first. + Every one that comes to Europe has got to pass through. You don’t mean it + in that sense so much? You mean what good it does you? Well, how can you + penetrate futurity? How can you tell what lies ahead? If it’s a pleasant + road I don’t care where it leads. I like the road, Miss Archer; I like the + dear old asphalte. You can’t get tired of it—you can’t if you try. + You think you would, but you wouldn’t; there’s always something new and + fresh. Take the Hôtel Drouot, now; they sometimes have three and four + sales a week. Where can you get such things as you can here? In spite of + all they say I maintain they’re cheaper too, if you know the right places. + I know plenty of places, but I keep them to myself. I’ll tell you, if you + like, as a particular favour; only you mustn’t tell any one else. Don’t + you go anywhere without asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As + a general thing avoid the Boulevards; there’s very little to be done on + the Boulevards. Speaking conscientiously—<i>sans blague</i>—I + don’t believe any one knows Paris better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett + must come and breakfast with me some day, and I’ll show you my things; <i>je + ne vous dis que ça</i>! There has been a great deal of talk about London + of late; it’s the fashion to cry up London. But there’s nothing in it—you + can’t do anything in London. No Louis Quinze—nothing of the First + Empire; nothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It’s good for one’s + bed-room, Queen Anne—for one’s washing-room; but it isn’t proper for + a salon. Do I spend my life at the auctioneer’s?” Mr. Rosier pursued in + answer to another question of Isabel’s. “Oh no; I haven’t the means. I + wish I had. You think I’m a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of + your face—you’ve got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don’t + mind my saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to + do something, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when you + come to the point you see you have to stop. I can’t go home and be a + shopkeeper. You think I’m very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you overrate + me. I can buy very well, but I can’t sell; you should see when I sometimes + try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability to make other + people buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever they must be, the + people who make <i>me</i> buy! Ah no; I couldn’t be a shopkeeper. I can’t + be a doctor; it’s a repulsive business. I can’t be a clergyman; I haven’t + got convictions. And then I can’t pronounce the names right in the Bible. + They’re very difficult, in the Old Testament particularly. I can’t be a + lawyer; I don’t understand—how do you call it?—the American + procedure. Is there anything else? There’s nothing for a gentleman in + America. I should like to be a diplomatist; but American diplomacy—that’s + not for gentlemen either. I’m sure if you had seen the last min—” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr. Rosier, coming + to pay his compliments late in the afternoon, expressed himself after the + fashion I have sketched, usually interrupted the young man at this point + and read him a lecture on the duties of the American citizen. She thought + him most unnatural; he was worse than poor Ralph Touchett. Henrietta, + however, was at this time more than ever addicted to fine criticism, for + her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regards Isabel. She had not + congratulated this young lady on her augmentations and begged to be + excused from doing so. + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the money,” she + frankly asserted, “I’d have said to him ‘Never!” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” Isabel had answered. “You think it will prove a curse in + disguise. Perhaps it will.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave it to some one you care less for—that’s what I should have + said.” + </p> + <p> + “To yourself for instance?” Isabel suggested jocosely. And then, “Do you + really believe it will ruin me?” she asked in quite another tone. + </p> + <p> + “I hope it won’t ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your dangerous + tendencies.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean the love of luxury—of extravagance?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Henrietta; “I mean your exposure on the moral side. I + approve of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Look at + the luxury of our western cities; I’ve seen nothing over here to compare + with it. I hope you’ll never become grossly sensual; but I’m not afraid of + that. The peril for you is that you live too much in the world of your own + dreams. You’re not enough in contact with reality—with the toiling, + striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world that surrounds you. + You’re too fastidious; you’ve too many graceful illusions. Your + newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more and more to the society of + a few selfish and heartless people who will be interested in keeping them + up.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel’s eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene. “What are my + illusions?” she asked. “I try so hard not to have any.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Henrietta, “you think you can lead a romantic life, that you + can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You’ll find you’re + mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it—to + make any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that it ceases + to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And you can’t always + please yourself; you must sometimes please other people. That, I admit, + you’re very ready to do; but there’s another thing that’s still more + important—you must often displease others. You must always be ready + for that—you must never shrink from it. That doesn’t suit you at all—you’re + too fond of admiration, you like to be thought well of. You think we can + escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic views—that’s your + great illusion, my dear. But we can’t. You must be prepared on many + occasions in life to please no one at all—not even yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled and frightened. “This, + for you, Henrietta,” she said, “must be one of those occasions!” + </p> + <p> + It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to Paris, + which had been professionally more remunerative than her English sojourn, + had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr. Bantling, who had now + returned to England, was her companion for the first four weeks of her + stay; and about Mr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabel learned from + her friend that the two had led a life of great personal intimacy and that + this had been a peculiar advantage to Henrietta, owing to the gentleman’s + remarkable knowledge of Paris. He had explained everything, shown her + everything, been her constant guide and interpreter. They had breakfasted + together, dined together, gone to the theatre together, supped together, + really in a manner quite lived together. He was a true friend, Henrietta + more than once assured our heroine; and she had never supposed that she + could like any Englishman so well. Isabel could not have told you why, but + she found something that ministered to mirth in the alliance the + correspondent of the <i>Interviewer</i> had struck with Lady Pensil’s + brother; her amusement moreover subsisted in face of the fact that she + thought it a credit to each of them. Isabel couldn’t rid herself of a + suspicion that they were playing somehow at cross-purposes—that the + simplicity of each had been entrapped. But this simplicity was on either + side none the less honourable. It was as graceful on Henrietta’s part to + believe that Mr. Bantling took an interest in the diffusion of lively + journalism and in consolidating the position of lady-correspondents as it + was on the part of his companion to suppose that the cause of the <i>Interviewer</i>—a + periodical of which he never formed a very definite conception—was, + if subtly analysed (a task to which Mr. Bantling felt himself quite + equal), but the cause of Miss Stackpole’s need of demonstrative affection. + Each of these groping celibates supplied at any rate a want of which the + other was impatiently conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slow + and a discursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, who + charmed him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye and a kind of + bandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a mind to + which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta, on the other + hand, enjoyed the society of a gentleman who appeared somehow, in his way, + made, by expensive, roundabout, almost “quaint” processes, for her use, + and whose leisured state, though generally indefensible, was a decided + boon to a breathless mate, and who was furnished with an easy, + traditional, though by no means exhaustive, answer to almost any social or + practical question that could come up. She often found Mr. Bantling’s + answers very convenient, and in the press of catching the American post + would largely and showily address them to publicity. It was to be feared + that she was indeed drifting toward those abysses of sophistication as to + which Isabel, wishing for a good-humoured retort, had warned her. There + might be danger in store for Isabel; but it was scarcely to be hoped that + Miss Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent rest in any adoption of + the views of a class pledged to all the old abuses. Isabel continued to + warn her good-humouredly; Lady Pensil’s obliging brother was sometimes, on + our heroine’s lips, an object of irreverent and facetious allusion. + Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta’s amiability on this point; she + used to abound in the sense of Isabel’s irony and to enumerate with + elation the hours she had spent with this perfect man of the world—a + term that had ceased to make with her, as previously, for opprobrium. + Then, a few moments later, she would forget that they had been talking + jocosely and would mention with impulsive earnestness some expedition she + had enjoyed in his company. She would say: “Oh, I know all about + Versailles; I went there with Mr. Bantling. I was bound to see it + thoroughly—I warned him when we went out there that I was thorough: + so we spent three days at the hotel and wandered all over the place. It + was lovely weather—a kind of Indian summer, only not so good. We + just lived in that park. Oh yes; you can’t tell me anything about + Versailles.” Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements to meet her + gallant friend during the spring in Italy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett, before arriving in Paris, had fixed the day for her + departure and by the middle of February had begun to travel southward. She + interrupted her journey to pay a visit to her son, who at San Remo, on the + Italian shore of the Mediterranean, had been spending a dull, bright + winter beneath a slow-moving white umbrella. Isabel went with her aunt as + a matter of course, though Mrs. Touchett, with homely, customary logic, + had laid before her a pair of alternatives. + </p> + <p> + “Now, of course, you’re completely your own mistress and are as free as + the bird on the bough. I don’t mean you were not so before, but you’re at + present on a different footing—property erects a kind of barrier. + You can do a great many things if you’re rich which would be severely + criticised if you were poor. You can go and come, you can travel alone, + you can have your own establishment: I mean of course if you’ll take a + companion—some decayed gentlewoman, with a darned cashmere and dyed + hair, who paints on velvet. You don’t think you’d like that? Of course you + can do as you please; I only want you to understand how much you’re at + liberty. You might take Miss Stackpole as your <i>dame de compagnie</i>; + she’d keep people off very well. I think, however, that it’s a great deal + better you should remain with me, in spite of there being no obligation. + It’s better for several reasons, quite apart from your liking it. I + shouldn’t think you’d like it, but I recommend you to make the sacrifice. + Of course whatever novelty there may have been at first in my society has + quite passed away, and you see me as I am—a dull, obstinate, + narrow-minded old woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you’re at all dull,” Isabel had replied to this. + </p> + <p> + “But you do think I’m obstinate and narrow-minded? I told you so!” said + Mrs. Touchett with much elation at being justified. + </p> + <p> + Isabel remained for the present with her aunt, because, in spite of + eccentric impulses, she had a great regard for what was usually deemed + decent, and a young gentlewoman without visible relations had always + struck her as a flower without foliage. It was true that Mrs. Touchett’s + conversation had never again appeared so brilliant as that first afternoon + in Albany, when she sat in her damp waterproof and sketched the + opportunities that Europe would offer to a young person of taste. This, + however, was in a great measure the girl’s own fault; she had got a + glimpse of her aunt’s experience, and her imagination constantly + anticipated the judgements and emotions of a woman who had very little of + the same faculty. Apart from this, Mrs. Touchett had a great merit; she + was as honest as a pair of compasses. There was a comfort in her stiffness + and firmness; you knew exactly where to find her and were never liable to + chance encounters and concussions. On her own ground she was perfectly + present, but was never over-inquisitive as regards the territory of her + neighbour. Isabel came at last to have a kind of undemonstrable pity for + her; there seemed something so dreary in the condition of a person whose + nature had, as it were, so little surface—offered so limited a face + to the accretions of human contact. Nothing tender, nothing sympathetic, + had ever had a chance to fasten upon it—no wind-sown blossom, no + familiar softening moss. Her offered, her passive extent, in other words, + was about that of a knife-edge. Isabel had reason to believe none the less + that as she advanced in life she made more of those concessions to the + sense of something obscurely distinct from convenience—more of them + than she independently exacted. She was learning to sacrifice consistency + to considerations of that inferior order for which the excuse must be + found in the particular case. It was not to the credit of her absolute + rectitude that she should have gone the longest way round to Florence in + order to spend a few weeks with her invalid son; since in former years it + had been one of her most definite convictions that when Ralph wished to + see her he was at liberty to remember that Palazzo Crescentini contained a + large apartment known as the quarter of the <i>signorino</i>. + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you something,” Isabel said to this young man the day after + her arrival at San Remo—“something I’ve thought more than once of + asking you by letter, but that I’ve hesitated on the whole to write about. + Face to face, nevertheless, my question seems easy enough. Did you know + your father intended to leave me so much money?” + </p> + <p> + Ralph stretched his legs a little further than usual and gazed a little + more fixedly at the Mediterranean. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter, my dear Isabel, whether I knew? My father was very + obstinate.” + </p> + <p> + “So,” said the girl, “you did know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he told me. We even talked it over a little.” “What did he do it + for?” asked Isabel abruptly. “Why, as a kind of compliment.” + </p> + <p> + “A compliment on what?” + </p> + <p> + “On your so beautifully existing.” + </p> + <p> + “He liked me too much,” she presently declared. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a way we all have.” + </p> + <p> + “If I believed that I should be very unhappy. Fortunately I don’t believe + it. I want to be treated with justice; I want nothing but that.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. But you must remember that justice to a lovely being is after + all a florid sort of sentiment.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a lovely being. How can you say that, at the very moment when I’m + asking such odious questions? I must seem to you delicate!” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to me troubled,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “I am troubled.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment she answered nothing; then she broke out: “Do you think it + good for me suddenly to be made so rich? Henrietta doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang Henrietta!” said Ralph coarsely, “If you ask me I’m delighted at + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that why your father did it—for your amusement?” + </p> + <p> + “I differ with Miss Stackpole,” Ralph went on more gravely. “I think it + very good for you to have means.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at him with serious eyes. “I wonder whether you know what’s + good for me—or whether you care.” + </p> + <p> + “If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is? Not to + torment yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to torment you, I suppose you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t do that; I’m proof. Take things more easily. Don’t ask yourself + so much whether this or that is good for you. Don’t question your + conscience so much—it will get out of tune like a strummed piano. + Keep it for great occasions. Don’t try so much to form your character—it’s + like trying to pull open a tight, tender young rose. Live as you like + best, and your character will take care of itself. Most things are good + for you; the exceptions are very rare, and a comfortable income’s not one + of them.” Ralph paused, smiling; Isabel had listened quickly. “You’ve too + much power of thought—above all too much conscience,” Ralph added. + “It’s out of all reason, the number of things you think wrong. Put back + your watch. Diet your fever. Spread your wings; rise above the ground. + It’s never wrong to do that.” + </p> + <p> + She had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature to understand + quickly. “I wonder if you appreciate what you say. If you do, you take a + great responsibility.” + </p> + <p> + “You frighten me a little, but I think I’m right,” said Ralph, persisting + in cheer. + </p> + <p> + “All the same what you say is very true,” Isabel pursued. “You could say + nothing more true. I’m absorbed in myself—I look at life too much as + a doctor’s prescription. Why indeed should we perpetually be thinking + whether things are good for us, as if we were patients lying in a + hospital? Why should I be so afraid of not doing right? As if it mattered + to the world whether I do right or wrong!” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a capital person to advise,” said Ralph; “you take the wind out of + my sails!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him as if she had not heard him—though she was + following out the train of reflexion which he himself had kindled. “I try + to care more about the world than about myself—but I always come + back to myself. It’s because I’m afraid.” She stopped; her voice had + trembled a little. “Yes, I’m afraid; I can’t tell you. A large fortune + means freedom, and I’m afraid of that. It’s such a fine thing, and one + should make such a good use of it. If one shouldn’t one would be ashamed. + And one must keep thinking; it’s a constant effort. I’m not sure it’s not + a greater happiness to be powerless.” + </p> + <p> + “For weak people I’ve no doubt it’s a greater happiness. For weak people + the effort not to be contemptible must be great.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you know I’m not weak?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, “if you are I’m + awfully sold!” + </p> + <p> + The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our heroine on + acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, the gate of admirations. + Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt, stretched before her as a land of + promise, a land in which a love of the beautiful might be comforted by + endless knowledge. Whenever she strolled upon the shore with her cousin—and + she was the companion of his daily walk—she looked across the sea, + with longing eyes, to where she knew that Genoa lay. She was glad to + pause, however, on the edge of this larger adventure; there was such a + thrill even in the preliminary hovering. It affected her moreover as a + peaceful interlude, as a hush of the drum and fife in a career which she + had little warrant as yet for regarding as agitated, but which + nevertheless she was constantly picturing to herself by the light of her + hopes, her fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and which + reflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficiently dramatic. + Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs. Touchett that after their young friend + had put her hand into her pocket half a dozen times she would be + reconciled to the idea that it had been filled by a munificent uncle; and + the event justified, as it had so often justified before, that lady’s + perspicacity. Ralph Touchett had praised his cousin for being morally + inflammable, that is for being quick to take a hint that was meant as good + advice. His advice had perhaps helped the matter; she had at any rate + before leaving San Remo grown used to feeling rich. The consciousness in + question found a proper place in rather a dense little group of ideas that + she had about herself, and often it was by no means the least agreeable. + It took perpetually for granted a thousand good intentions. She lost + herself in a maze of visions; the fine things to be done by a rich, + independent, generous girl who took a large human view of occasions and + obligations were sublime in the mass. Her fortune therefore became to her + mind a part of her better self; it gave her importance, gave her even, to + her own imagination, a certain ideal beauty. What it did for her in the + imagination of others is another affair, and on this point we must also + touch in time. The visions I have just spoken of were mixed with other + debates. Isabel liked better to think of the future than of the past; but + at times, as she listened to the murmur of the Mediterranean waves, her + glance took a backward flight. It rested upon two figures which, in spite + of increasing distance, were still sufficiently salient; they were + recognisable without difficulty as those of Caspar Goodwood and Lord + Warburton. It was strange how quickly these images of energy had fallen + into the background of our young lady’s life. It was in her disposition at + all times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she could summon + back her faith, in case of need, with an effort, but the effort was often + painful even when the reality had been pleasant. The past was apt to look + dead and its revival rather to show the livid light of a judgement-day. + The girl moreover was not prone to take for granted that she herself lived + in the mind of others—she had not the fatuity to believe she left + indelible traces. She was capable of being wounded by the discovery that + she had been forgotten; but of all liberties the one she herself found + sweetest was the liberty to forget. She had not given her last shilling, + sentimentally speaking, either to Caspar Goodwood or to Lord Warburton, + and yet couldn’t but feel them appreciably in debt to her. She had of + course reminded herself that she was to hear from Mr. Goodwood again; but + this was not to be for another year and a half, and in that time a great + many things might happen. She had indeed failed to say to herself that her + American suitor might find some other girl more comfortable to woo; + because, though it was certain many other girls would prove so, she had + not the smallest belief that this merit would attract him. But she + reflected that she herself might know the humiliation of change, might + really, for that matter, come to the end of the things that were not + Caspar (even though there appeared so many of them), and find rest in + those very elements of his presence which struck her now as impediments to + the finer respiration. It was conceivable that these impediments should + some day prove a sort of blessing in disguise—a clear and quiet + harbour enclosed by a brave granite breakwater. But that day could only + come in its order, and she couldn’t wait for it with folded hands. That + Lord Warburton should continue to cherish her image seemed to her more + than a noble humility or an enlightened pride ought to wish to reckon + with. She had so definitely undertaken to preserve no record of what had + passed between them that a corresponding effort on his own part would be + eminently just. This was not, as it may seem, merely a theory tinged with + sarcasm. Isabel candidly believed that his lordship would, in the usual + phrase, get over his disappointment. He had been deeply affected—this + she believed, and she was still capable of deriving pleasure from the + belief; but it was absurd that a man both so intelligent and so honourably + dealt with should cultivate a scar out of proportion to any wound. + Englishmen liked moreover to be comfortable, said Isabel, and there could + be little comfort for Lord Warburton, in the long run, in brooding over a + self-sufficient American girl who had been but a casual acquaintance. She + flattered herself that, should she hear from one day to another that he + had married some young woman of his own country who had done more to + deserve him, she should receive the news without a pang even of surprise. + It would have proved that he believed she was firm—which was what + she wished to seem to him. That alone was grateful to her pride. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr. Touchett’s + death, a small group that might have been described by a painter as + composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of an ancient villa + crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gate of Florence. The + villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, with the far-projecting + roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that encircle Florence, + when considered from a distance, makes so harmonious a rectangle with the + straight, dark, definite cypresses that usually rise in groups of three or + four beside it. The house had a front upon a little grassy, empty, rural + piazza which occupied a part of the hill-top; and this front, pierced with + a few windows in irregular relations and furnished with a stone bench + lengthily adjusted to the base of the structure and useful as a + lounging-place to one or two persons wearing more or less of that air of + undervalued merit which in Italy, for some reason or other, always + gracefully invests any one who confidently assumes a perfectly passive + attitude—this antique, solid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a + somewhat incommunicative character. It was the mask, not the face of the + house. It had heavy lids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another + way—looked off behind, into splendid openness and the range of the + afternoon light. In that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill + and the long valley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow + garden, in the manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild + roses and other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of + the terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the ground + declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not, + however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on this + bright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer the + shady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you saw them + from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremely + architectural; but their function seemed less to offer communication with + the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massively + cross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on tiptoe, + expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by a row of three + of these jealous apertures—one of the several distinct apartments + into which the villa was divided and which were mainly occupied by + foreigners of random race long resident in Florence—a gentleman was + seated in company with a young girl and two good sisters from a religious + house. The room was, however, less sombre than our indications may have + represented, for it had a wide, high door, which now stood open into the + tangled garden behind; and the tall iron lattices admitted on occasion + more than enough of the Italian sunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, + indeed of luxury, telling of arrangements subtly studied and refinements + frankly proclaimed, and containing a variety of those faded hangings of + damask and tapestry, those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished + oak, those angular specimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically + primitive, those perverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of + which Italy has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things + kept terms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had + been made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the + chairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a + writing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London + and the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines + and newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in + water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel + before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young + girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture + in silence. + </p> + <p> + Silence—absolute silence—had not fallen upon her companions; + but their talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good + sisters had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their + attitude expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of + prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of + business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened + linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an + advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a + fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner than + her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which + apparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her hat—an + ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her plain muslin + gown, too short for her years, though it must already have been “let out.” + The gentleman who might have been supposed to be entertaining the two nuns + was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of his function, it being in its + way as arduous to converse with the very meek as with the very mighty. At + the same time he was clearly much occupied with their quiet charge, and + while she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely on her slim, + small figure. He was a man of forty, with a high but well-shaped head, on + which the hair, still dense, but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped + close. He had a fine, narrow, extremely modelled and composed face, of + which the only fault was just this effect of its running a trifle too much + to points; an appearance to which the shape of the beard contributed not a + little. This beard, cut in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth + century and surmounted by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a + romantic upward flourish, gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and + suggested that he was a gentleman who studied style. His conscious, + curious eyes, however, eyes at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and + hard, expressive of the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have + assured you that he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in + so far as he sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to + determine his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial + signs that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy + one. If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some + French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he was, + no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general + circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a special + occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure, and was + apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man dresses who + takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar things. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, what do you think of it?” he asked of the young girl. He + used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would not + have convinced you he was Italian. + </p> + <p> + The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. “It’s very + pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I made it. Don’t you think I’m clever?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures.” And she + turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and + intensely sweet smile. + </p> + <p> + “You should have brought me a specimen of your powers.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve brought a great many; they’re in my trunk.” + </p> + <p> + “She draws very—very carefully,” the elder of the nuns remarked, + speaking in French. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?” + </p> + <p> + “Happily no,” said the good sister, blushing a little. “<i>Ce n’est pas ma + partie.</i> I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We’ve an + excellent drawing-master, Mr.—Mr.—what is his name?” she asked + of her companion. + </p> + <p> + Her companion looked about at the carpet. “It’s a German name,” she said + in Italian, as if it needed to be translated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the other went on, “he’s a German, and we’ve had him many years.” + </p> + <p> + The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away to + the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden. “And + you, my sister, are French,” said the gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” the visitor gently replied. “I speak to the pupils in my own + tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other countries—English, + German, Irish. They all speak their proper language.” + </p> + <p> + The gentleman gave a smile. “Has my daughter been under the care of one of + the Irish ladies?” And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected a joke, + though failing to understand it, “You’re very complete,” he instantly + added. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, we’re complete. We’ve everything, and everything’s of the best.” + </p> + <p> + “We have gymnastics,” the Italian sister ventured to remark. “But not + dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. Is that <i>your</i> branch?” A question which provoked much + candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which + their entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I think she has finished. She’ll remain—not big,” said the + French sister. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sorry. I prefer women like books—very good and not too + long. But I know,” the gentleman said, “no particular reason why my child + should be short.” + </p> + <p> + The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might + be beyond our knowledge. “She’s in very good health; that’s the best + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she looks sound.” And the young girl’s father watched her a moment. + “What do you see in the garden?” he asked in French. + </p> + <p> + “I see many flowers,” she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an + accent as good as his own. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and gather + some for <i>ces dames</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. “May I, + truly?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, when I tell you,” said her father. + </p> + <p> + The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. “May I, truly, <i>ma mère</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Obey <i>monsieur</i> your father, my child,” said the sister, blushing + again. + </p> + <p> + The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the threshold + and was presently lost to sight. “You don’t spoil them,” said her father + gaily. + </p> + <p> + “For everything they must ask leave. That’s our system. Leave is freely + granted, but they must ask it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t quarrel with your system; I’ve no doubt it’s excellent. I + sent you my daughter to see what you’d make of her. I had faith.” + </p> + <p> + “One must have faith,” the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her + spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?” + </p> + <p> + The sister dropped her eyes a moment. “A good Christian, <i>monsieur</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement + had in each case a different spring. “Yes, and what else?” + </p> + <p> + He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say that + a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she was not so + crude as that. “A charming young lady—a real little woman—a + daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment.” + </p> + <p> + “She seems to me very <i>gentille</i>,” said the father. “She’s really + pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s perfect. She has no faults.” + </p> + <p> + “She never had any as a child, and I’m glad you have given her none.” + </p> + <p> + “We love her too much,” said the spectacled sister with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? <i>Le couvent n’est + pas comme le monde, monsieur</i>. She’s our daughter, as you may say. + We’ve had her since she was so small.” + </p> + <p> + “Of all those we shall lose this year she’s the one we shall miss most,” + the younger woman murmured deferentially. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her,” said the other. “We shall hold her + up to the new ones.” And at this the good sister appeared to find her + spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently + drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not certain you’ll lose her; nothing’s settled yet,” their host + rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone of + a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. “We should be very happy + to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used, “it + is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her always!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, <i>monsieur</i>,” said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, + “good as she is, she’s made for the world. <i>Le monde y gagnera</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world + get on?” her companion softly enquired, rising also. + </p> + <p> + This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently + supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying + comfortably: “Fortunately there are good people everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re going there will be two less here,” her host remarked + gallantly. + </p> + <p> + For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they + simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion was + speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large bunches of + roses—one of them all white, the other red. + </p> + <p> + “I give you your choice, <i>mamman</i> Catherine,” said the child. “It’s + only the colour that’s different, <i>mamman</i> Justine; there are just as + many roses in one bunch as in the other.” + </p> + <p> + The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with “Which + will you take?” and “No, it’s for you to choose.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take the red, thank you,” said Catherine in the spectacles. “I’m so + red myself. They’ll comfort us on our way back to Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, they won’t last,” cried the young girl. “I wish I could give you + something that would last!” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will last!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,” + the child went on. + </p> + <p> + “And do you go back to Rome to-night?” her father enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we take the train again. We’ve so much to do là-bas.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you not tired?” + </p> + <p> + “We are never tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my sister, sometimes,” murmured the junior votaress. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. <i>Que Dieu vous + garde, ma fille.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward to + open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he gave a + slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened into a + vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red tiles; and + into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad in + shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apartment in which our + friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door, after dropping his + exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady advanced. He gave + her no further audible greeting and offered her no hand, but stood aside + to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold she hesitated. “Is there + any one?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Some one you may see.” + </p> + <p> + She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their + pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of + each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who + had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little soft + cry: “Ah, Madame Merle!” + </p> + <p> + The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant + was none the less gracious. “Yes, it’s Madame Merle, come to welcome you + home.” And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up to + her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this + portion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two + nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted + themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who + seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer world. + “These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return to the + convent,” the gentleman explained. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you go back to Rome? I’ve lately come from there. It’s very lovely + now,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves, + accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked + his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. “She came to see + me at the convent,” said the young girl before the lady addressed had time + to reply. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been more than once, Pansy,” Madame Merle declared. “Am I not your + great friend in Rome?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember the last time best,” said Pansy, “because you told me I should + come away.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell her that?” the child’s father asked. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I’ve been + in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn’t know + such things by inspiration—though I suppose one ought. You had + better sit down.” + </p> + <p> + These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice—a tone + half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any + definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. “You’re + going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the + ceremony. <i>Je vous salue, mesdames</i>,” she added, in French, to the + nuns, as if to dismiss them. + </p> + <p> + “This lady’s a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the + convent,” said their entertainer. “We’ve much faith in her judgement, and + she’ll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the + end of the holidays.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ll decide in our favour, madame,” the sister in spectacles + ventured to remark. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Mr. Osmond’s pleasantry; I decide nothing,” said Madame Merle, but + also as in pleasantry. “I believe you’ve a very good school, but Miss + Osmond’s friends must remember that she’s very naturally meant for the + world.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I’ve told <i>monsieur</i>,” sister Catherine answered. “It’s + precisely to fit her for the world,” she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who + stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle’s elegant apparel. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear that, Pansy? You’re very naturally meant for the world,” said + Pansy’s father. + </p> + <p> + The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. “Am I not meant + for you, papa?” + </p> + <p> + Papa gave a quick, light laugh. “That doesn’t prevent it! I’m of the + world, Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Kindly permit us to retire,” said sister Catherine. “Be good and wise and + happy in any case, my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly come back and see you,” Pansy returned, recommencing + her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Stay with me, dear child,” she said, “while your father takes the good + ladies to the door.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently + impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who took + the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the operation of + her fate. “May I not see <i>mamman</i> Catherine get into the carriage?” + she nevertheless asked very gently. + </p> + <p> + “It would please me better if you’d remain with me,” said Madame Merle, + while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the other + visitor, passed into the ante-chamber. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I’ll stay,” Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle, + surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of the + window; her eyes had filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad they’ve taught you to obey,” said Madame Merle. “That’s what + good little girls should do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I obey very well,” cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with + boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then + she gave a faint, just audible sigh. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and + looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate; + the child’s small hand was delicate and fair. “I hope they always see that + you wear gloves,” she said in a moment. “Little girls usually dislike + them.” + </p> + <p> + “I used to dislike them, but I like them now,” the child made answer. + </p> + <p> + “Very good, I’ll make you a present of a dozen.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you very much. What colours will they be?” Pansy demanded with + interest. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle meditated. “Useful colours.” + </p> + <p> + “But very pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you very fond of pretty things?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but—but not too fond,” said Pansy with a trace of asceticism. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they won’t be too pretty,” Madame Merle returned with a laugh. She + took the child’s other hand and drew her nearer; after which, looking at + her a moment, “Shall you miss mother Catherine?” she went on. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—when I think of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day,” added Madame Merle, + “you’ll have another mother.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Pansy said, repeating her little soft + conciliatory sigh. “I had more than thirty mothers at the convent.” + </p> + <p> + Her father’s step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got + up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then, + without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into + their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him + as he moved about. Then at last she said: “I hoped you’d have come to + Rome. I thought it possible you’d have wished yourself to fetch Pansy + away.” + </p> + <p> + “That was a natural supposition; but I’m afraid it’s not the first time + I’ve acted in defiance of your calculations.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Madame Merle, “I think you very perverse.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room—there was plenty + of space in it to move about—in the fashion of a man mechanically + seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. + Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left + for him—unless he took up a book—but to stand with his hands + behind him looking at Pansy. “Why didn’t you come and see the last of <i>mamman</i> + Catherine?” he asked of her abruptly in French. + </p> + <p> + Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. “I asked her to stay + with me,” said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that was better,” Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a chair + and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows on the + edge of the arms and his hands interlocked. + </p> + <p> + “She’s going to give me some gloves,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t tell that to every one, my dear,” Madame Merle observed. + </p> + <p> + “You’re very kind to her,” said Osmond. “She’s supposed to have everything + she needs.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think she had had enough of the nuns.” + </p> + <p> + “If we’re going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the room.” + </p> + <p> + “Let her stay,” said Madame Merle. “We’ll talk of something else.” + </p> + <p> + “If you like I won’t listen,” Pansy suggested with an appearance of + candour which imposed conviction. + </p> + <p> + “You may listen, charming child, because you won’t understand,” her father + replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door, within + sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent, wistful eyes; + and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other + companion. “You’re looking particularly well.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I always look the same,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “You always <i>are</i> the same. You don’t vary. You’re a wonderful + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think I am.” + </p> + <p> + “You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from + England that you wouldn’t leave Rome again for the present.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. + But I’ve come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived and + as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain.” + </p> + <p> + “That reason’s characteristic. You’re always doing something for your + friends.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. “It’s less characteristic than + your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don’t, however, make + a crime of that,” she added, “because if you don’t believe what you say + there’s no reason why you should. I don’t ruin myself for my friends; I + don’t deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves—so much of + every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched + so many other lives.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you call one’s life?” asked Madame Merle. “One’s appearance, + one’s movements, one’s engagements, one’s society?” + </p> + <p> + “I call <i>your</i> life your ambitions,” said Osmond. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. “I wonder if she understands that,” + she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “You see she can’t stay with us!” And Pansy’s father gave rather a joyless + smile. “Go into the garden, <i>mignonne</i>, and pluck a flower or two for + Madame Merle,” he went on in French. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I wanted to do,” Pansy exclaimed, rising with promptness + and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the open door, stood + a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained standing, or + rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which + in another attitude might be wanting. + </p> + <p> + “My ambitions are principally for you,” said Madame Merle, looking up at + him with a certain courage. + </p> + <p> + “That comes back to what I say. I’m part of your life—I and a + thousand others. You’re not selfish—I can’t admit that. If you were + selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re indolent. For me that’s your worst fault.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid it’s really my best.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t care,” said Madame Merle gravely. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that? My + indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn’t go to Rome. But it + was only one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not of importance—to me at least—that you didn’t go; + though I should have been glad to see you. I’m glad you’re not in Rome now—which + you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. + There’s something I should like you to do at present in Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “Please remember my indolence,” said Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you’ll have + both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it may + prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new acquaintance?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I’ve made any since I made yours.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s time then you should make another. There’s a friend of mine I want + you to know.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and was + looking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine. “What + good will it do me?” he asked with a sort of genial crudity. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle waited. “It will amuse you.” There was nothing crude in this + rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered. + </p> + <p> + “If you say that, you know, I believe it,” said Osmond, coming toward her. + “There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete. I’m + perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Society is all bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. That isn’t—the knowledge I impute to you—a common + sort of wisdom. You’ve gained it in the right way—experimentally; + you’ve compared an immense number of more or less impossible people with + each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induce you + to make an effort!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in the + world—that’s likely to turn up here—is worth an effort?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. “Don’t be foolish, + Osmond. No one knows better than you what <i>is</i> worth an effort. + Haven’t I seen you in old days?” + </p> + <p> + “I recognise some things. But they’re none of them probable in this poor + life.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the effort that makes them probable,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “There’s something in that. Who then is your friend?” + </p> + <p> + “The person I came to Florence to see. She’s a niece of Mrs. Touchett, + whom you’ll not have forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you’re + coming to.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she’s young—twenty-three years old. She’s a great friend of + mine. I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we + struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don’t do + every day—I admire her. You’ll do the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I can help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. But you won’t be able to help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and + unprecedentedly virtuous? It’s only on those conditions that I care to + make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak + to me of a creature who shouldn’t correspond to that description. I know + plenty of dingy people; I don’t want to know any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Archer isn’t dingy; she’s as bright as the morning. She corresponds + to your description; it’s for that I wish you to know her. She fills all + your requirements.” + </p> + <p> + “More or less, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “No; quite literally. She’s beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for an + American, well-born. She’s also very clever and very amiable, and she has + a handsome fortune.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his + mind with his eyes on his informant. “What do you want to do with her?” he + asked at last. + </p> + <p> + “What you see. Put her in your way.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t she meant for something better than that?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t pretend to know what people are meant for,” said Madame Merle. “I + only know what I can do with them.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for Miss Archer!” Osmond declared. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle got up. “If that’s a beginning of interest in her I take note + of it.” + </p> + <p> + The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking down + at it as she did so. “You’re looking very well,” Osmond repeated still + less relevantly than before. “You have some idea. You’re never so well as + when you’ve got an idea; they’re always becoming to you.” + </p> + <p> + In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any + juncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, was + something indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each other + obliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of each + appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the + self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off any + embarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not on + this occasion the form she would have liked to have—the perfect + self-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point to + be made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them, + whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closely face to + face than either ever was with any one else. This was what had happened + now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on the whole + willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensation for the + inconvenience—whatever it might be—of being known. “I wish + very much you were not so heartless,” Madame Merle quietly said. “It has + always been against you, and it will be against you now.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touches + me—as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are for + me. I don’t understand it; I don’t see how or why they should be. But it + touches me, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are some + things you’ll never understand. There’s no particular need you should.” + </p> + <p> + “You, after all, are the most remarkable of women,” said Osmond. “You have + more in you than almost any one. I don’t see why you think Mrs. Touchett’s + niece should matter very much to me, when—when—” But he paused + a moment. + </p> + <p> + “When I myself have mattered so little?” + </p> + <p> + “That of course is not what I meant to say. When I’ve known and + appreciated such a woman as you.” + </p> + <p> + “Isabel Archer’s better than I,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + Her companion gave a laugh. “How little you must think of her to say + that!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose I’m capable of jealousy? Please answer me that.” + </p> + <p> + “With regard to me? No; on the whole I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Come and see me then, two days hence. I’m staying at Mrs. Touchett’s—Palazzo + Crescentini—and the girl will be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the + girl?” said Osmond. “You could have had her there at any rate.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he + could ever put would find unprepared. “Do you wish to know why? Because + I’ve spoken of you to her.” + </p> + <p> + Osmond frowned and turned away. “I’d rather not know that.” Then in a + moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour + drawing. “Have you seen what’s there—my last?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle drew near and considered. “Is it the Venetian Alps—one + of your last year’s sketches?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but how you guess everything!” + </p> + <p> + She looked a moment longer, then turned away. “You know I don’t care for + your drawings.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, yet I’m always surprised at it. They’re really so much better + than most people’s.” + </p> + <p> + “That may very well be. But as the only thing you do—well, it’s so + little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were my + ambitions.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you’ve told me many times—things that were impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Things that were impossible,” said Madame Merle. And then in quite a + different tone: “In itself your little picture’s very good.” She looked + about the room—at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces + of faded silk. “Your rooms at least are perfect. I’m struck with that + afresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand + this sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You’ve such adorable taste.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sick of my adorable taste,” said Gilbert Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I’ve told her + about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t object to showing my things—when people are not idiots.” + </p> + <p> + “You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to + particular advantage.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder + and more attentive. “Did you say she was rich?” + </p> + <p> + “She has seventy thousand pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>En ecus bien comptes</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no doubt whatever about her fortune. I’ve seen it, as I may say.” + </p> + <p> + “Satisfactory woman!—I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see + the mother?” + </p> + <p> + “The mother? She has none—nor father either.” + </p> + <p> + “The aunt then—whom did you say?—Mrs. Touchett. I can easily + keep her out of the way.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t object to her,” said Osmond; “I rather like Mrs. Touchett. She + has a sort of old-fashioned character that’s passing away—a vivid + identity. But that long jackanapes the son—is he about the place?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s there, but he won’t trouble you.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a good deal of a donkey.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you’re mistaken. He’s a very clever man. But he’s not fond of + being about when I’m there, because he doesn’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + “What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?” + Osmond went on. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I won’t say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them. + Come and make a beginning; that’s all I ask of you.” + </p> + <p> + “A beginning of what?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle was silent a little. “I want you of course to marry her.” + </p> + <p> + “The beginning of the end? Well, I’ll see for myself. Have you told her + that?” + </p> + <p> + “For what do you take me? She’s not so coarse a piece of machinery—nor + am I.” + </p> + <p> + “Really,” said Osmond after some meditation, “I don’t understand your + ambitions.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you’ll understand this one after you’ve seen Miss Archer. Suspend + your judgement.” Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the open door + of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. “Pansy has really + grown pretty,” she presently added. + </p> + <p> + “So it seemed to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But she has had enough of the convent.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Osmond. “I like what they’ve made of her. It’s very + charming.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not the convent. It’s the child’s nature.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the combination, I think. She’s as pure as a pearl.” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t she come back with my flowers then?” Madame Merle asked. + “She’s not in a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll go and get them.” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t like me,” the visitor murmured as she raised her parasol and + they passed into the garden. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett’s arrival at the + invitation of this lady—Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the + hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini—the judicious Madame Merle spoke + to Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might + know him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her + do in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond’s attention. The reason + of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame + Merle’s proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of + friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous + visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would + find it well to “meet”—of course, she said, Isabel could know + whomever in the wide world she would—and had placed Mr. Osmond near + the top of the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him + these dozen years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men—well, + in Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite + another affair. He wasn’t a professional charmer—far from it, and + the effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and + his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one, + saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince + in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged—just + exactly rightly it had to be—then one felt his cleverness and his + distinction. Those qualities didn’t depend, in him, as in so many people, + on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his perversities—which + indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the men really worth + knowing—and didn’t cause his light to shine equally for all persons. + Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that for Isabel he + would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and dull people + always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like Isabel would give + him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At any rate he was a + person not to miss. One shouldn’t attempt to live in Italy without making + a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the country than any one + except two or three German professors. And if they had more knowledge than + he it was he who had most perception and taste—being artistic + through and through. Isabel remembered that her friend had spoken of him + during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the deeps of talk, and wondered + a little what was the nature of the tie binding these superior spirits. + She felt that Madame Merle’s ties always somehow had histories, and such + an impression was part of the interest created by this inordinate woman. + As regards her relations with Mr. Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing + but a long-established calm friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to + know a person who had enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. “You + ought to see a great many men,” Madame Merle remarked; “you ought to see + as many as possible, so as to get used to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Used to them?” Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes + seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. “Why, I’m not + afraid of them—I’m as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys.” + </p> + <p> + “Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That’s what one comes to + with most of them. You’ll pick out, for your society, the few whom you + don’t despise.” + </p> + <p> + This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn’t often allow herself + to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that as + one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the most active + of one’s emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the beautiful city of + Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle had promised; and + if her unassisted perception had not been able to gauge its charms she had + clever companions as priests to the mystery. She was—in no want + indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it a joy that renewed his + own early passion to act as cicerone to his eager young kinswoman. Madame + Merle remained at home; she had seen the treasures of Florence again and + again and had always something else to do. But she talked of all things + with remarkable vividness of memory—she recalled the right-hand + corner of the large Perugino and the position of the hands of the Saint + Elizabeth in the picture next to it. She had her opinions as to the + character of many famous works of art, differing often from Ralph with + great sharpness and defending her interpretations with as much ingenuity + as good-humour. Isabel listened to the discussions taking place between + the two with a sense that she might derive much benefit from them and that + they were among the advantages she couldn’t have enjoyed for instance in + Albany. In the clear May mornings before the formal breakfast—this + repast at Mrs. Touchett’s was served at twelve o’clock—she wandered + with her cousin through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting + a while in the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted + chambers of some dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and + palaces; she looked at the pictures and statues that had hitherto been + great names to her, and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a + limitation a presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She + performed all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit + to Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat + in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising tears + in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But the + return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the return + into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs. Touchett, + many years before, had established herself, and into the high, cool rooms + where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the sixteenth century + looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of advertisement. Mrs. + Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow street whose very name + recalled the strife of medieval factions; and found compensation for the + darkness of her frontage in the modicity of her rent and the brightness of + a garden where nature itself looked as archaic as the rugged architecture + of the palace and which cleared and scented the rooms in regular use. To + live in such a place was, for Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell + of the sea of the past. This vague eternal rumour kept her imagination + awake. + </p> + <p> + Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young + lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion + little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned + to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had + paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and + these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They + talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might have + been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had the rich + readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle appealed to + her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore any learnt cue + without spoiling the scene—though of course she thus put dreadfully + in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be depended on. + This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved she could have + made no attempt to shine. There was something in the visitor that checked + her and held her in suspense—made it more important she should get + an impression of him than that she should produce one herself. Besides, + she had little skill in producing an impression which she knew to be + expected: nothing could be happier, in general, than to seem dazzling, but + she had a perverse unwillingness to glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to + do him justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease + that covered everything, even the first show of his own wit. This was the + more grateful as his face, his head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, + but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings in the long gallery above + the bridge of the Uffizi. And his very voice was fine—the more + strangely that, with its clearness, it yet somehow wasn’t sweet. This had + had really to do with making her abstain from interference. His utterance + was the vibration of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might + have changed the pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had + to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Madame Merle,” he said, “consents to come up to my hill-top some day next + week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if you + would come with her. It’s thought rather pretty—there’s what they + call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad—or rather, for + she’s too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad—so very + glad.” And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving + his sentence unfinished. “I should be so happy if you could know my + daughter,” he went on a moment afterwards. + </p> + <p> + Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that if + Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be very + grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after which + Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been so + stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the mere + matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments, + </p> + <p> + “You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you. + You’re never disappointing.” + </p> + <p> + A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more + probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange to + say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first + feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. “That’s more + than I intended,” she answered coldly. “I’m under no obligation that I + know of to charm Mr. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to + retract. “My dear child, I didn’t speak for him, poor man; I spoke for + yourself. It’s not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters + little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Isabel honestly. “But I don’t see what that matters either.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything that concerns you matters to me,” Madame Merle returned with + her weary nobleness; “especially when at the same time another old + friend’s concerned.” + </p> + <p> + Whatever Isabel’s obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be + admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph sundry + questions about him. She thought Ralph’s judgements distorted by his + trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance for + that. + </p> + <p> + “Do I know him?” said her cousin. “Oh, yes, I ‘know’ him; not well, but on + the whole enough. I’ve never cultivated his society, and he apparently has + never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is he, what is he? + He’s a vague, unexplained American who has been living these thirty years, + or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained? Only as a cover for my + ignorance; I don’t know his antecedents, his family, his origin. For all I + do know he may be a prince in disguise; he rather looks like one, by the + way—like a prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and + has been in a state of disgust ever since. He used to live in Rome; but of + late years he has taken up his abode here; I remember hearing him say that + Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great dread of vulgarity; that’s his + special line; he hasn’t any other that I know of. He lives on his income, + which I suspect of not being vulgarly large. He’s a poor but honest + gentleman that’s what he calls himself. He married young and lost his + wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He also has a sister, who’s married + to some small Count or other, of these parts; I remember meeting her of + old. She’s nicer than he, I should think, but rather impossible. I + remember there used to be some stories about her. I don’t think I + recommend you to know her. But why don’t you ask Madame Merle about these + people? She knows them all much better than I.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you + care for that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more + information one has about one’s dangers the better.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree to that—it may make them dangers. We know too much + about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our + mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don’t mind anything any one tells + you about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I try to do,” said Isabel “but when you do that people call + you conceited.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not to mind them—that’s precisely my argument; not to mind + what they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend + or your enemy.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel considered. “I think you’re right; but there are some things I + can’t help minding: for instance when my friend’s attacked or when I + myself am praised.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you’re always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as + critics, however,” Ralph added, “and you’ll condemn them all!” + </p> + <p> + “I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself,” said Isabel. “I’ve promised to pay + him a visit.” + </p> + <p> + “To pay him a visit?” + </p> + <p> + “To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter—I don’t know + exactly what. Madame Merle’s to take me; she tells me a great many ladies + call on him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, <i>de confiance</i>,” said + Ralph. “She knows none but the best people.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her + cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. “It + seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don’t know what you mean, + but if you’ve any grounds for disliking her I think you should either + mention them frankly or else say nothing at all.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than + he commonly used. “I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her: with + an even exaggerated respect.” + </p> + <p> + “Exaggerated, precisely. That’s what I complain of.” + </p> + <p> + “I do so because Madame Merle’s merits are exaggerated.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; by herself.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I protest!” Isabel earnestly cried. “If ever there was a woman who + made small claims—!” + </p> + <p> + “You put your finger on it,” Ralph interrupted. “Her modesty’s + exaggerated. She has no business with small claims—she has a perfect + right to make large ones.” + </p> + <p> + “Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Her merits are immense,” said Ralph. “She’s indescribably blameless; a + pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a + chance.” + </p> + <p> + “A chance for what?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, say to call her a fool! She’s the only woman I know who has but + that one little fault.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel turned away with impatience. “I don’t understand you; you’re too + paradoxical for my plain mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don’t mean it in the vulgar + sense—that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of + herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too + far—that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She’s too good, + too kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She’s + too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and + that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt + about Aristides the Just.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked in + his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. “Do you wish + Madame Merle to be banished?” + </p> + <p> + “By no means. She’s much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,” + said Ralph Touchett simply. + </p> + <p> + “You’re very odious, sir!” Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if he + knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing whatever. Don’t you see that’s just what I mean? On the character + of every one else you may find some little black speck; if I were to take + half an hour to it, some day, I’ve no doubt I should be able to find one + on yours. For my own, of course, I’m spotted like a leopard. But on Madame + Merle’s nothing, nothing, nothing!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I think!” said Isabel with a toss of her head. “That is + why I like her so much.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world + you couldn’t have a better guide.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean by that that she’s worldly?” + </p> + <p> + “Worldly? No,” said Ralph, “she’s the great round world itself!” + </p> + <p> + It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to + believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in + Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find + it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly + unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying + sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the + administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his + mother’s house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph Touchett + had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could have been + nothing so “sustained” to attend to as the general performance of Madame + Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an opportuneness she + herself could not have surpassed. There were moments when he felt almost + sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the moments when his kindness + was least demonstrative. He was sure she had been yearningly ambitious and + that what she had visibly accomplished was far below her secret measure. + She had got herself into perfect training, but had won none of the prizes. + She was always plain Madame Merle, the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a + small income and a large acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal + and was almost as universally “liked” as some new volume of smooth + twaddle. The contrast between this position and any one of some half-dozen + others that he supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an + element of the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with + their genial guest; to Mrs. Touchett’s sense two persons who dealt so + largely in too-ingenious theories of conduct—that is of their own—would + have much in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel’s intimacy + with her eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could + not, without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best + of it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of + itself; it wouldn’t last forever. Neither of these two superior persons + knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an + important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least a + relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the conversation + of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had a great deal to + learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame Merle than from some + other instructors of the young. It was not probable that Isabel would be + injured. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to her + from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond’s hill-top. Nothing could + have been more charming than this occasion—a soft afternoon in the + full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the Roman + Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the fine + clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and wound + between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming orchards + over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the small + superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of the + villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least a + very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high + court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched + galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their + slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There + was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as if, once + you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For Isabel, + however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out, but only of + advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber—it was cold + even in the month of May—and ushered her, with her conductress, into + the apartment to which we have already been introduced. Madame Merle was + in front, and while Isabel lingered a little, talking with him, she went + forward familiarly and greeted two persons who were seated in the saloon. + One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was + a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister, the Countess + Gemini. “And that’s my little girl,” he said, “who has just come out of + her convent.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged in + a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles. She + made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed. The + Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see she was + a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at all pretty, + having features that suggested some tropical bird—a long beak-like + nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin that receded + extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various intensities of + emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman, and, as regards + her appearance, it was plain she understood herself and made the most of + her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate, bristling with elegance, + had the look of shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were as light and + sudden as those of a creature who perched upon twigs. She had a great deal + of manner; Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner, + immediately classed her as the most affected of women. She remembered that + Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance; but she was ready to + acknowledge that to a casual view the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. + Her demonstrations suggested the violent waving of some flag of general + truce—white silk with fluttering streamers. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll believe I’m glad to see you when I tell you it’s only because I + knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don’t come and see my + brother—I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible—I + don’t see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you’ll be the ruin of my + horses some day, and if it hurts them you’ll have to give me another pair. + I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It’s very disagreeable + to hear one’s horses wheezing when one’s sitting in the carriage; it + sounds too as if they weren’t what they should be. But I’ve always had + good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I’ve always managed that. My + husband doesn’t know much, but I think he knows a horse. In general + Italians don’t, but my husband goes in, according to his poor light, for + everything English. My horses are English—so it’s all the greater + pity they should be ruined. I must tell you,” she went on, directly + addressing Isabel, “that Osmond doesn’t often invite me; I don’t think he + likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see + new people, and I’m sure you’re very new. But don’t sit there; that + chair’s not what it looks. There are some very good seats here, but there + are also some horrors.” + </p> + <p> + These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of + roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of + good English, or rather of good American, in adversity. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like to have you, my dear?” said her brother. “I’m sure you’re + invaluable.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see any horrors anywhere,” Isabel returned, looking about her. + “Everything seems to me beautiful and precious.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve a few good things,” Mr. Osmond allowed; “indeed I’ve nothing very + bad. But I’ve not what I should have liked.” + </p> + <p> + He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his manner + was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to hint + that nothing but the right “values” was of any consequence. Isabel made a + rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his family. Even + the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her + small submissive face and her hands locked before her, stood there as if + she were about to partake of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond’s + diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not entirely artless. + </p> + <p> + “You’d have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti—that’s + what you’d have liked,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!” the Countess Gemini + exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her + ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made it + and looked at her from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could say + to Isabel. “Won’t you have some tea?—you must be very tired,” he at + last bethought himself of remarking. + </p> + <p> + “No indeed, I’m not tired; what have I done to tire me?” Isabel felt a + certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was + something in the air, in her general impression of things—she could + hardly have said what it was—that deprived her of all disposition to + put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people, + signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand—she + would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless not + aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to cover the + working of their observation. It must be confessed that her pride was a + trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms that excited + interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had + invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours, to come to his house. + Now that she had done so the burden of the entertainment rested naturally + on his wit. Isabel was not rendered less observant, and for the moment, we + judge, she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond + carried his burden less complacently than might have been expected. “What + a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in—!” she could fancy + his exclaiming to himself. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and + gives you a lecture on each,” said the Countess Gemini. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not afraid of that; but if I’m tired I shall at least have learned + something.” + </p> + <p> + “Very little, I suspect. But my sister’s dreadfully afraid of learning + anything,” said Mr. Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I confess to that; I don’t want to know anything more—I know + too much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are.” + </p> + <p> + “You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished + her education,” Madame Merle interposed with a smile. “Pansy will never + know any harm,” said the child’s father. “Pansy’s a little + convent-flower.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the convents, the convents!” cried the Countess with a flutter of her + ruffles. “Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there; I’m a + convent-flower myself. I don’t pretend to be good, but the nuns do. Don’t + you see what I mean?” she went on, appealing to Isabel. + </p> + <p> + Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad at + following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself detested + arguments, but that this was her brother’s taste—he would always + discuss. “For me,” she said, “one should like a thing or one shouldn’t; + one can’t like everything, of course. But one shouldn’t attempt to reason + it out—you never know where it may lead you. There are some very + good feelings that may have bad reasons, don’t you know? And then there + are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons. Don’t you see + what I mean? I don’t care anything about reasons, but I know what I like.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s the great thing,” said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that her + acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to + intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this + moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy with + a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that would + admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather + hopeless view of his sister’s tone; he turned the conversation to another + topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had + shyly brushed Isabel’s fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her + out of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against + him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed her eyes + on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of an + intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many + things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he chose, and + to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen but to have + determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a little apart, + conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew each other well + enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel heard the + Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the latter’s + lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Madame + Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of + Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the abatements to + the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks + were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. + It met the case soothingly for the human, for the social failure—by + which he meant the people who couldn’t “realise,” as they said, on their + sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty, + without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient + entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages in + living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain + impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable to life, you + never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time to time you + got one of a quality that made up for everything. Italy, all the same, had + spoiled a great many people; he was even fatuous enough to believe at + times that he himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of + his life there. It made one idle and dilettantish and second-rate; it had + no discipline for the character, didn’t cultivate in you, otherwise + expressed, the successful social and other “cheek” that flourished in + Paris and London. “We’re sweetly provincial,” said Mr. Osmond, “and I’m + perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit + it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you—not that I venture + to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect your intellect + of being! But you’ll be going away before I’ve seen you three times, and I + shall perhaps never see you after that. That’s what it is to live in a + country that people come to. When they’re disagreeable here it’s bad + enough; when they’re agreeable it’s still worse. As soon as you like them + they’re off again! I’ve been deceived too often; I’ve ceased to form + attachments, to permit myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay—to + settle? That would be really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt’s a sort of + guarantee; I believe she may be depended on. Oh, she’s an old Florentine; + I mean literally an old one; not a modern outsider. She’s a contemporary + of the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola, + and I’m not sure she didn’t throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her + face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, + definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression, but almost + always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of + Ghirlandaio’s. I hope you don’t object to my speaking that way of your + aunt, eh? I’ve an idea you don’t. Perhaps you think that’s even worse. I + assure you there’s no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know + I’m a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett.” + </p> + <p> + While Isabel’s host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat + confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met her + eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there was no + infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame + Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into + the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out her feathers, began + to rustle toward the door. “Poor Miss Archer!” she exclaimed, surveying + the other group with expressive compassion. “She has been brought quite + into the family.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to which + you belong,” Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it had + something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean by that! I’m sure she’ll see no harm in me but + what you tell her. I’m better than he says, Miss Archer,” the Countess + went on. “I’m only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he has said? Ah + then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite + subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats <i>à + fond</i>. In that case you had better take off your bonnet.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I know what Mr. Osmond’s favourite subjects are,” said + Isabel, who had risen to her feet. + </p> + <p> + The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation, + pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to her + forehead. “I’ll tell you in a moment. One’s Machiavelli; the other’s + Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, with me,” said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess + Gemini’s as if to guide her course to the garden, “Mr. Osmond’s never so + historical.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh you,” the Countess answered as they moved away, “you yourself are + Machiavelli—you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!” + </p> + <p> + “We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!” Gilbert Osmond + resignedly sighed. + </p> + <p> + Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the + garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave the + room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who had now + locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while + her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel’s. Isabel waited, with a + certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed; she liked + Mr. Osmond’s talk, his company: she had what always gave her a very + private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through the open + doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll + across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes + wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding had been + that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets + all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the + pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he said to her + abruptly: “Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?” + </p> + <p> + She faced him with some surprise. “Ah, don’t ask me that—I’ve seen + your sister too little.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’ve seen her very little; but you must have observed that there + is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family tone?” + he went on with his cool smile. “I should like to know how it strikes a + fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you’re going to say—you’ve had + almost no observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just + take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I sometimes think we’ve got + into a rather bad way, living off here among things and people not our + own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothing to hold us + together or keep us up; marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, + playing tricks with our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say + that much more for myself than for my sister. She’s a very honest lady—more + so than she seems. She’s rather unhappy, and as she’s not of a serious + turn she doesn’t tend to show it tragically: she shows it comically + instead. She has got a horrid husband, though I’m not sure she makes the + best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband’s an awkward thing. + Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it’s a good deal like giving + a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look out the words, + but he can’t put them together. My sister needs a grammar, but + unfortunately she’s not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these + details; my sister was very right in saying you’ve been taken into the + family. Let me take down that picture; you want more light.” + </p> + <p> + He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some + curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he gave + her such further information as might appear most acceptable to a young + lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his medallions and + tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel felt the owner much + more so, and independently of them, thickly as they seemed to overhang + him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most of the people she knew + might be divided into groups of half a dozen specimens. There were one or + two exceptions to this; she could think for instance of no group that + would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other people who were, relatively + speaking, original—original, as one might say, by courtesy such as + Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord + Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when one came to look at + them, these individuals belonged to types already present to her mind. Her + mind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr. Osmond—he + was a specimen apart. It was not that she recognised all these truths at + the hour, but they were falling into order before her. For the moment she + only said to herself that this “new relation” would perhaps prove her very + most distinguished. Madame Merle had had that note of rarity, but what + quite other power it immediately gained when sounded by a man! It was not + so much what he said and did, but rather what he withheld, that marked him + for her as by one of those signs of the highly curious that he was showing + her on the underside of old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century + drawings: he indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, he was + an original without being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so + fine a grain. The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended + to impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouched + features, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very + evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness of + structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers produce + the effect of an expressive gesture—these personal points struck our + sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity, somehow as + promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and critical; he was + probably irritable. His sensibility had governed him—possibly + governed him too much; it had made him impatient of vulgar troubles and + had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted, arranged world, + thinking about art and beauty and history. He had consulted his taste in + everything—his taste alone perhaps, as a sick man consciously + incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was what made him so + different from every one else. Ralph had something of this same quality, + this appearance of thinking that life was a matter of connoisseurship; but + in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr. + Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it. She was + certainly far from understanding him completely; his meaning was not at + all times obvious. It was hard to see what he meant for instance by + speaking of his provincial side—which was exactly the side she would + have taken him most to lack. Was it a harmless paradox, intended to puzzle + her? or was it the last refinement of high culture? She trusted she should + learn in time; it would be very interesting to learn. If it was provincial + to have that harmony, what then was the finish of the capital? And she + could put this question in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; + since such shyness as his—the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine + perceptions—was perfectly consistent with the best breeding. Indeed + it was almost a proof of standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: + he must be so sure the vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn’t a + man of easy assurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a + superficial nature; he was critical of himself as well as of others, and, + exacting a good deal of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a + rather ironical view of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain + that he was not grossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn’t have + effected that gradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she + owed both what pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had + suddenly asked her what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was + doubtless a proof that he was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a + help to knowledge of his own sister. That he should be so interested + showed an enquiring mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice + his fraternal feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing + he had done. + </p> + <p> + There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been received, + equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments Isabel spent a + quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree curious and + precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of ciceroni as he led + her from one fine piece to another and still held his little girl by the + hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend, who wondered why he + should take so much trouble for her; and she was oppressed at last with + the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which she found herself + introduced. There was enough for the present; she had ceased to attend to + what he said; she listened to him with attentive eyes, but was not + thinking of what he told her. He probably thought her quicker, cleverer in + every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame Merle would have pleasantly + exaggerated; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure to find + out, and then perhaps even her real intelligence wouldn’t reconcile him to + his mistake. A part of Isabel’s fatigue came from the effort to appear as + intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had described her, and from the + fear (very unusual with her) of exposing—not her ignorance; for that + she cared comparatively little—but her possible grossness of + perception. It would have annoyed her to express a liking for something + he, in his superior enlightenment, would think she oughtn’t to like; or to + pass by something at which the truly initiated mind would arrest itself. + She had no wish to fall into that grotesqueness—in which she had + seen women (and it was a warning) serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was + very careful therefore as to what she said, as to what she noticed or + failed to notice; more careful than she had ever been before. + </p> + <p> + They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been served; + but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as Isabel had + not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount distinction of + the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden without more + delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, and as + the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should take their tea + in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the servant bring out the + preparations. The sun had got low, the golden light took a deeper tone, + and on the mountains and the plain that stretched beneath them the masses + of purple shadow glowed as richly as the places that were still exposed. + The scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly still, + and the large expanse of the landscape, with its garden-like culture and + nobleness of outline, its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its + peculiarly human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid + harmony and classic grace. “You seem so well pleased that I think you can + be trusted to come back,” Osmond said as he led his companion to one of + the angles of the terrace. + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly come back,” she returned, “in spite of what you say + about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one’s + natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I were + to settle in Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman’s natural mission is to be where she’s most appreciated.” + </p> + <p> + “The point’s to find out where that is.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true—she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. + People ought to make it very plain to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me,” smiled Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had + given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought + she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why you should be ashamed; it’s the greatest of pleasures.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems frivolous, I think,” said Isabel. “One ought to choose something + very deliberately, and be faithful to that.” + </p> + <p> + “By that rule then, I’ve not been frivolous.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you never made plans?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I made one years ago, and I’m acting on it to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “It must have been a very pleasant one,” Isabel permitted herself to + observe. + </p> + <p> + “It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “As quiet?” the girl repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Not to worry—not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be + content with little.” He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses + between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor’s with the + conscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something. + </p> + <p> + “Do you call that simple?” she asked with mild irony. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because it’s negative.” + </p> + <p> + “Has your life been negative?” + </p> + <p> + “Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference. + Mind you, not my natural indifference—I <i>had</i> none. But my + studied, my wilful renunciation.” + </p> + <p> + She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were joking + or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund of reserve + suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his affair, + however, and his confidences were interesting. “I don’t see why you should + have renounced,” she said in a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was not + a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in life. I + was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There were two or + three people in the world I envied—the Emperor of Russia, for + instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I envied + the Pope of Rome—for the consideration he enjoys. I should have been + delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn’t be I + didn’t care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for + honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself, and + fortunately I <i>was</i>, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in + Italy—I couldn’t even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should + have had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, + to say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it + then was, to wish it altered. So I’ve passed a great many years here on + that quiet plan I spoke of. I’ve not been at all unhappy. I don’t mean to + say I’ve cared for nothing; but the things I’ve cared for have been + definite—limited. The events of my life have been absolutely + unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a + bargain (I’ve never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering, as I + once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some inspired + idiot.” + </p> + <p> + This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond’s career if Isabel + had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human element + which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been mingled with + other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn’t expect him to + enter into this. For the present she abstained from provoking further + revelations; to intimate that he had not told her everything would be more + familiar and less considerate than she now desired to be—would in + fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly told her quite enough. It + was her present inclination, however, to express a measured sympathy for + the success with which he had preserved his independence. “That’s a very + pleasant life,” she said, “to renounce everything but Correggio!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve made in my way a good thing of it. Don’t imagine I’m whining + about it. It’s one’s own fault if one isn’t happy.” + </p> + <p> + This was large; she kept down to something smaller. “Have you lived here + always?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in Rome. + But I’ve been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change, however; + to do something else. I’ve no longer myself to think of. My daughter’s + growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the Correggios and + crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what’s best for Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do that,” said Isabel. “She’s such a dear little girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, “she’s a little saint of heaven! + She is my great happiness!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after + we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion, + breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks. They + were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude + especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a more + nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success the art + of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for would not + have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their own minds. + Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend from her <i>tête-à-tête</i>, + and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess, moreover, + by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her pretty perversities. She + might have desired for some minutes to place it. Her brother wandered with + Isabel to the end of the garden, to which point her eyes followed them. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she then observed to her companion, “you’ll excuse me if I + don’t congratulate you!” + </p> + <p> + “Very willingly, for I don’t in the least know why you should.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you a little plan that you think rather well of?” And the + Countess nodded at the sequestered couple. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle’s eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at + her neighbour. “You know I never understand you very well,” she smiled. + </p> + <p> + “No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just now + you <i>don’t</i> wish.” + </p> + <p> + “You say things to me that no one else does,” said Madame Merle gravely, + yet without bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “You mean things you don’t like? Doesn’t Osmond sometimes say such + things?” + </p> + <p> + “What your brother says has a point.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I’m not so clever as he + you mustn’t think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But it + will be much better that you should understand me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” asked Madame Merle. “To what will it conduce?” + </p> + <p> + “If I don’t approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to + appreciate the danger of my interfering with it.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be + something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: “You think me more + calculating than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not your calculating I think ill of; it’s your calculating wrong. + You’ve done so in this case.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’ve not had time. I’ve seen the girl but this once,” said the + Countess, “and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very + much.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” Madame Merle mentioned. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve a strange way of showing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely I’ve given her the advantage of making your acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “That indeed,” piped the Countess, “is perhaps the best thing that could + happen to her!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess’s manner was odious, + was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon the violet + slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. “My dear lady,” + she finally resumed, “I advise you not to agitate yourself. The matter you + allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose than yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very + strong of purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite as much so as we.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah then,” said the Countess radiantly, “if I convince her it’s her + interest to resist you she’ll do so successfully!” + </p> + <p> + “Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She’s not exposed to + compulsion or deception.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure of that. You’re capable of anything, you and Osmond. I don’t + mean Osmond by himself, and I don’t mean you by yourself. But together + you’re dangerous—like some chemical combination.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better leave us alone then,” smiled Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean to touch you—but I shall talk to that girl.” + </p> + <p> + “My poor Amy,” Madame Merle murmured, “I don’t see what has got into your + head.” + </p> + <p> + “I take an interest in her—that’s what has got into my head. I like + her.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle hesitated a moment. “I don’t think she likes you.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess’s bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a + grimace. “Ah, you <i>are</i> dangerous—even by yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “If you want her to like you don’t abuse your brother to her,” said Madame + Merle. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two + interviews.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house. He + was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and she at + present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view, persistently + as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered her eyes; she + was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment, while she pressed + the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle rose from her chair. + “Yes, I think so!” she pronounced. + </p> + <p> + The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy—he might, tarnished as to + livery and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of + old-time manners, been “put in” by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya—had + come out with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone + back and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to + return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with + the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together upon + the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer + assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently + approached her aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?” + </p> + <p> + The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without + answering her question. “My poor niece,” she said, “is that your best + frock?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no,” Pansy answered, “it’s just a little toilette for common + occasions.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?—to say + nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons + mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile. “I + have a pretty dress, but even that one’s very simple. Why should I expose + it beside your beautiful things?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the + prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don’t dress + you so well as they might.” + </p> + <p> + The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. “It’s a good little + dress to make tea—don’t you think? Don’t you believe papa would + allow me?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible for me to say, my child,” said the Countess. “For me, your + father’s ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better. Ask + <i>her</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. “It’s a weighty question—let + me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful + little daughter making his tea. It’s the proper duty of the daughter of + the house—when she grows up.” + </p> + <p> + “So it seems to me, Madame Merle!” Pansy cried. “You shall see how well + I’ll make it. A spoonful for each.” And she began to busy herself at the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Two spoonfuls for me,” said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle, + remained for some moments watching her. “Listen to me, Pansy,” the + Countess resumed at last. “I should like to know what you think of your + visitor.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, she’s not mine—she’s papa’s,” Pansy objected. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Archer came to see you as well,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like her then?” the Countess asked. + </p> + <p> + “She’s charming—charming,” Pansy repeated in her little neat + conversational tone. “She pleases me thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you think she pleases your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah really, Countess!” murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. “Go and call + them to tea,” she went on to the child. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see if they don’t like it!” Pansy declared; and departed to summon + the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace. + </p> + <p> + “If Miss Archer’s to become her mother it’s surely interesting to know if + the child likes her,” said the Countess. + </p> + <p> + “If your brother marries again it won’t be for Pansy’s sake,” Madame Merle + replied. “She’ll soon be sixteen, and after that she’ll begin to need a + husband rather than a stepmother.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you provide the husband as well?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I imagine + you’ll do the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I shan’t!” cried the Countess. “Why should I, of all women, set + such a price on a husband?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t marry fortunately; that’s what I’m speaking of. When I say a + husband I mean a good one.” + </p> + <p> + “There are no good ones. Osmond won’t be a good one.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. “You’re irritated just now; I don’t + know why,” she presently said. “I don’t think you’ll really object either + to your brother’s or to your niece’s marrying, when the time comes for + them to do so; and as regards Pansy I’m confident that we shall some day + have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her together. Your large + acquaintance will be a great help.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m irritated,” the Countess answered. “You often irritate me. Your + own coolness is fabulous. You’re a strange woman.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s much better that we should always act together,” Madame Merle went + on. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that as a threat?” asked the Countess rising. Madame Merle + shook her head as for quiet amusement. “No indeed, you’ve not my + coolness!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel had + taken Pansy by the hand. “Do you pretend to believe he’d make her happy?” + the Countess demanded. + </p> + <p> + “If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he’d behave like a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. “Do you mean + as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of course + Osmond’s a gentleman; his own sister needn’t be reminded of that. But does + he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond’s a + gentleman, of course; but I must say I’ve <i>never</i>, no, no, never, + seen any one of Osmond’s pretensions! What they’re all founded on is more + than I can say. I’m his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who is + he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything + particularly grand in his origin—if he were made of some superior + clay—I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had + been any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have + made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But there’s + nothing, nothing, nothing. One’s parents were charming people of course; + but so were yours, I’ve no doubt. Every one’s a charming person nowadays. + Even I’m a charming person; don’t laugh, it has literally been said. As + for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he’s descended from the + gods.” + </p> + <p> + “You may say what you please,” said Madame Merle, who had listened to this + quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because her eye + wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves with + adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. “You Osmonds are a fine race—your + blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother, like an + intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not had the + proofs. You’re modest about it, but you yourself are extremely + distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child’s a little + princess. Nevertheless,” Madame Merle added, “it won’t be an easy matter + for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she’ll refuse him. It will take him down a little.” + </p> + <p> + “We mustn’t forget that he is one of the cleverest of men.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard you say that before, but I haven’t yet discovered what he has + done.” + </p> + <p> + “What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he + has known how to wait.” + </p> + <p> + “To wait for Miss Archer’s money? How much of it is there?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not what I mean,” said Madame Merle. “Miss Archer has seventy + thousand pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s a pity she’s so charming,” the Countess declared. “To be + sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn’t be superior.” + </p> + <p> + “If she weren’t superior your brother would never look at her. He must + have the best.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet the + others, “he’s very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her + happiness!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> + <p> + Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to Palazzo + Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchett and + Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former of these + ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight he called five + times, and compared it with another fact that she found no difficulty in + remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constituted his regular + tribute to Mrs. Touchett’s worth, and she had never observed him select + for such visits those moments, of almost periodical recurrence, when + Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Madame Merle that he came; + these two were old friends and he never put himself out for her. He was + not fond of Ralph—Ralph had told her so—and it was not + supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son. Ralph + was imperturbable—Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity that + wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he never + divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and was willing + at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But he didn’t + flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice was the motive + of their visitor’s calls; he read the situation more clearly. Isabel was + the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one. Osmond was a + critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he should be + curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed to him that + it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied that he was + quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back found a place on her + scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly by what art and what + process—so negative and so wise as they were—he had everywhere + effectively imposed himself. As he had never been an importunate visitor + he had had no chance to be offensive, and he was recommended to her by his + appearance of being as well able to do without her as she was to do + without him—a quality that always, oddly enough, affected her as + providing ground for a relation with her. It gave her no satisfaction, + however, to think that he had taken it into his head to marry her niece. + Such an alliance, on Isabel’s part, would have an air of almost morbid + perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the girl had refused an + English peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord Warburton had not + successfully wrestled should content herself with an obscure American + dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child and an ambiguous + income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett’s conception of success. + She took, it will be observed, not the sentimental, but the political, + view of matrimony—a view which has always had much to recommend it. + “I trust she won’t have the folly to listen to him,” she said to her son; + to which Ralph replied that Isabel’s listening was one thing and Isabel’s + answering quite another. He knew she had listened to several parties, as + his father would have said, but had made them listen in return; and he + found much entertainment in the idea that in these few months of his + knowing her he should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted + to see life, and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of + fine gentlemen going down on their knees to her would do as well as + anything else. Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth + besieger; he had no conviction she would stop at a third. She would keep + the gate ajar and open a parley; she would certainly not allow number + three to come in. He expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to + his mother, who looked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such + a fanciful, pictorial way of saying things that he might as well address + her in the deaf-mute’s alphabet. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I know what you mean,” she said; “you use too many figures + of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words in the + language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr. + Osmond she’ll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone to + find a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very little + about the young man in America; I don’t think she spends much of her time + in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for her. + There’s nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond if she only + looks at him in a certain way. That’s all very well; no one approves more + than I of one’s pleasing one’s self. But she takes her pleasure in such + odd things; she’s capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for the beauty of his + opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo. She wants to be + disinterested: as if she were the only person who’s in danger of not being + so! Will <i>he</i> be so disinterested when he has the spending of her + money? That was her idea before your father’s death, and it has acquired + new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one of whose + disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no such + proof of that as his having a fortune of his own.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear mother, I’m not afraid,” Ralph answered. “She’s making fools of + us all. She’ll please herself, of course; but she’ll do so by studying + human nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She has + started on an exploring expedition, and I don’t think she’ll change her + course, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have + slackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she’ll be steaming away + again. Excuse another metaphor.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as to + withhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. “You who know + everything,” she said, “you must know this: whether that curious + creature’s really making love to my niece.” + </p> + <p> + “Gilbert Osmond?” Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full + intelligence, “Heaven help us,” she exclaimed, “that’s an idea!” + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t it occurred to you?” + </p> + <p> + “You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn’t. I wonder,” she added, + “if it has occurred to Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall now ask her,” said Mrs. Touchett. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle reflected. “Don’t put it into her head. The thing would be to + ask Mr. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do that,” said Mrs. Touchett. “I won’t have him enquire of me—as + he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel’s situation—what + business it is of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ask him myself,” Madame Merle bravely declared. + </p> + <p> + “But what business—for <i>him</i>—is it of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It’s so much + less my business than any one’s else that he can put me off with anything + he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall know.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray let me hear then,” said Mrs. Touchett, “of the fruits of your + penetration. If I can’t speak to him, however, at least I can speak to + Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. “Don’t be too quick + with her. Don’t inflame her imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “I never did anything in life to any one’s imagination. But I’m always + sure of her doing something—well, not of <i>my</i> kind.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you wouldn’t like this,” Madame Merle observed without the point of + interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solid + to offer.” + </p> + <p> + Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her mouth + even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. “Let us + distinguish. Gilbert Osmond’s certainly not the first comer. He’s a man + who in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. He + has made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs; they’re + nothing to me!” Mrs. Touchett cried. “What you say’s precisely why I wish + he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that I know of but + a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pert little daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “The early masters are now worth a good deal of money,” said Madame Merle, + “and the daughter’s a very young and very innocent and very harmless + person.” + </p> + <p> + “In other words she’s an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean? + Having no fortune she can’t hope to marry as they marry here; so that + Isabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with a + dowry.” + </p> + <p> + “Isabel probably wouldn’t object to being kind to her. I think she likes + the poor child.” + </p> + <p> + “Another reason then for Mr. Osmond’s stopping at home! Otherwise, a week + hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her mission + in life’s to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself—and that, + to prove it, she must first become one.” + </p> + <p> + “She would make a charming stepmother,” smiled Madame Merle; “but I quite + agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission too + hastily. Changing the form of one’s mission’s almost as difficult as + changing the shape of one’s nose: there they are, each, in the middle of + one’s face and one’s character—one has to begin too far back. But + I’ll investigate and report to you.” + </p> + <p> + All this went on quite over Isabel’s head; she had no suspicions that her + relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle had said + nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly to him than + to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now arrived in + considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer’s aunt. Isabel + thought him interesting—she came back to that; she liked so to think + of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to his hill-top which + her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface and which put on for + her a particular harmony with other supposed and divined things, histories + within histories: the image of a quiet, clever, sensitive, distinguished + man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace above the sweet Val d’Arno and + holding by the hand a little girl whose bell-like clearness gave a new + grace to childhood. The picture had no flourishes, but she liked its + lowness of tone and the atmosphere of summer twilight that pervaded it. It + spoke of the kind of personal issue that touched her most nearly; of the + choice between objects, subjects, contacts—what might she call them?—of + a thin and those of a rich association; of a lonely, studious life in a + lovely land; of an old sorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of + pride that was perhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; + of a care for beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together + that the career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and + with the ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italian + garden—allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews + of a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini + Mr. Osmond’s manner remained the same; diffident at first—oh + self-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a + sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which usually + resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, rather + aggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond’s talk was not injured by + the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficulty in + believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs of strong + conviction—as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciation of + anything that might be said on his own side of the question, said perhaps + by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this young woman was + that while he talked so for amusement he didn’t talk, as she had heard + people, for “effect.” He uttered his ideas as if, odd as they often + appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; old polished knobs + and heads and handles, of precious substance, that could be fitted if + necessary to new walking-sticks—not switches plucked in destitution + from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One day he + brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew + acquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be + kissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue + in a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern; + American girls were very different—different too were the maidens of + England. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the world, + and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and infantine. She + sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine mantle and a pair of + the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given her—little grey gloves + with a single button. She was like a sheet of blank paper—the ideal + <i>jeune fille</i> of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that so fair and + smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text. + </p> + <p> + The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was quite + another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had been written + over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no means + honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeable blots + were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to some + discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor from Rome, in + which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritate people by + always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enough of that + large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freely as she + practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity that this + highly compromised character should have presented herself at such a time + of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so little as she + must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini. Isabel had been + made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under that roof: it + represented Mr. Osmond’s sister as a lady who had so mismanaged her + improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all—which was + at the least what one asked of such matters—and had become the mere + floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation. + She had been married by her mother—a more administrative person, + with an appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her + justice, had probably by this time thrown off—to an Italian nobleman + who had perhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the + consciousness of outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself + outrageously, and the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the + labyrinth of her adventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive + her, though the Countess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an + austere city; but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line + somewhere. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and wit. + She couldn’t see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of a woman who + had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong way. One must + certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one should draw it + straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would exclude the Countess + Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had better shut up her house; this + perhaps would be the best course so long as she remained in Florence. One + must be fair and not make arbitrary differences: the Countess had + doubtless been imprudent, she had not been so clever as other women. She + was a good creature, not clever at all; but since when had that been a + ground of exclusion from the best society? For ever so long now one had + heard nothing about her, and there could be no better proof of her having + renounced the error of her ways than her desire to become a member of Mrs. + Touchett’s circle. Isabel could contribute nothing to this interesting + dispute, not even a patient attention; she contented herself with having + given a friendly welcome to the unfortunate lady, who, whatever her + defects, had at least the merit of being Mr. Osmond’s sister. As she liked + the brother Isabel thought it proper to try and like the sister: in spite + of the growing complexity of things she was still capable of these + primitive sequences. She had not received the happiest impression of the + Countess on meeting her at the villa, but was thankful for an opportunity + to repair the accident. Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a + respectable person? To have proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude + proposition, but Madame Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. + She told Isabel more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and + related the history of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a + member of an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had + been glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which + had yet not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able + to offer—a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her + brother’s share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however, had + inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians went, + though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-lived brute; he + had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she had lost three + within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristled with + pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and + corresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her + mother had died three years after the Countess’s marriage, the father, + lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally + rich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in Gilbert + Osmond, Madame Merle held—see that he had been brought up by a + woman; though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more + sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be + called. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband’s death, + and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her + arrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity of + judgement on Mrs. Touchett’s part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond, approved of + political marriages. The Countess was very good company and not really the + featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was to observe the + simple condition of not believing a word she said. Madame Merle had always + made the best of her for her brother’s sake; he appreciated any kindness + shown to Amy, because (if it had to be confessed for him) he rather felt + she let down their common name. Naturally he couldn’t like her style, her + shrillness, her egotism, her violations of taste and above all of truth: + she acted badly on his nerves, she was not <i>his</i> sort of woman. What + was his sort of woman? Oh, the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to + whom the truth should be habitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate + the number of times her visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the + Countess indeed had given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She + had talked almost exclusively about herself; how much she should like to + know Miss Archer; how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base + the people in Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she + should like to live somewhere else—in Paris, in London, in + Washington; how impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy + except a little old lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what + a life of suffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with + interest to Isabel’s account of this passage, but she had not needed it to + feel exempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess, + and she could afford to do what was altogether best—not to appear + so. + </p> + <p> + Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her + back, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had left + Paris after Mrs. Touchett’s departure for San Remo and had worked her way + down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the banks of + the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her with a single + glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang of despair + determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delight in her. She + mightn’t be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as a nettle. + Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and Isabel felt + that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to her friend’s + intelligence. Henrietta’s arrival had been announced by Mr. Bantling, who, + coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and expecting to find her + in Florence, which she had not yet reached, called at Palazzo Crescentini + to express his disappointment. Henrietta’s own advent occurred two days + later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion amply accounted for by the + fact that he had not seen her since the termination of the episode at + Versailles. The humorous view of his situation was generally taken, but it + was uttered only by Ralph Touchett, who, in the privacy of his own + apartment, when Bantling smoked a cigar there, indulged in goodness knew + what strong comedy on the subject of the all-judging one and her British + backer. This gentleman took the joke in perfectly good part and candidly + confessed that he regarded the affair as a positive intellectual + adventure. He liked Miss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a + wonderful head on her shoulders, and found great comfort in the society of + a woman who was not perpetually thinking about what would be said and how + what she did, how what they did—and they had done things!—would + look. Miss Stackpole never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn’t + care, pray why should he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted + awfully to see if she ever <i>would</i> care. He was prepared to go as far + as she—he didn’t see why he should break down first. + </p> + <p> + Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightened + on her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of her + copious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes with + regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent, bristled + with difficulties even more numerous than those she had encountered in + England. But on the Continent there was the outer life, which was palpable + and visible at every turn, and more easily convertible to literary uses + than the customs of those opaque islanders. Out of doors in foreign lands, + as she ingeniously remarked, one seemed to see the right side of the + tapestry; out of doors in England one seemed to see the wrong side, which + gave one no notion of the figure. The admission costs her historian a + pang, but Henrietta, despairing of more occult things, was now paying much + attention to the outer life. She had been studying it for two months at + Venice, from which city she sent to the <i>Interviewer</i> a conscientious + account of the gondolas, the Piazza, the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and + the young boatman who chanted Tasso. The <i>Interviewer</i> was perhaps + disappointed, but Henrietta was at least seeing Europe. Her present + purpose was to get down to Rome before the malaria should come on—she + apparently supposed that it began on a fixed day; and with this design she + was to spend at present but few days in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go + with her to Rome, and she pointed out to Isabel that as he had been there + before, as he was a military man and as he had had a classical education—he + had been bred at Eton, where they study nothing but Latin and + Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole—he would be a most useful + companion in the city of the Caesars. At this juncture Ralph had the happy + idea of proposing to Isabel that she also, under his own escort, should + make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected to pass a portion of the next + winter there—that was very well; but meantime there was no harm in + surveying the field. There were ten days left of the beautiful month of + May—the most precious month of all to the true Rome-lover. Isabel + would become a Rome-lover; that was a foregone conclusion. She was + provided with a trusty companion of her own sex, whose society, thanks to + the fact of other calls on this lady’s attention, would probably not be + oppressive. Madame Merle would remain with Mrs. Touchett; she had left + Rome for the summer and wouldn’t care to return. She professed herself + delighted to be left at peace in Florence; she had locked up her apartment + and sent her cook home to Palestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent + to Ralph’s proposal, and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was + not a thing to be despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the + party of four arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this + occasion, had resigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen + that she now inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One + of Isabel’s preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before she + started and mentioning her intention to him. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to be in Rome with you,” he commented. “I should like to + see you on that wonderful ground.” + </p> + <p> + She scarcely faltered. “You might come then.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’ll have a lot of people with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” Isabel admitted, “of course I shall not be alone.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment he said nothing more. “You’ll like it,” he went on at last. + “They’ve spoiled it, but you’ll rave about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear—the Niobe of Nations, + you know—it has been spoiled?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often,” he smiled. “If I were to + go, what should I do with my little girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you leave her at the villa?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that I like that—though there’s a very good old woman + who looks after her. I can’t afford a governess.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring her with you then,” said Isabel promptly. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Osmond looked grave. “She has been in Rome all winter, at her convent; + and she’s too young to make journeys of pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t like bringing her forward?” Isabel enquired. + </p> + <p> + “No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I was brought up on a different system.” + </p> + <p> + “You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you—you were exceptional.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why,” said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was not + some truth in the speech. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Osmond didn’t explain; he simply went on: “If I thought it would make + her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I’d take her there + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t make her resemble me,” said Isabel. “Keep her like herself.” + </p> + <p> + “I might send her to my sister,” Mr. Osmond observed. He had almost the + air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his domestic matters + with Miss Archer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she concurred; “I think that wouldn’t do much towards making her + resemble me!” + </p> + <p> + After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the + Countess Gemini’s. There were other people present; the Countess’s + drawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general, but + after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman + half-behind, half-beside Madame Merle’s chair. “She wants me to go to Rome + with her,” he remarked in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “To go with her?” + </p> + <p> + “To be there while she’s there. She proposed it. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I gave her a chance. But she’s encouraging—she’s very + encouraging.” + </p> + <p> + “I rejoice to hear it—but don’t cry victory too soon. Of course + you’ll go to Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Osmond, “it makes one work, this idea of yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it—you’re very ungrateful. You’ve not + been so well occupied these many years.” + </p> + <p> + “The way you take it’s beautiful,” said Osmond. “I ought to be grateful + for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Not too much so, however,” Madame Merle answered. She talked with her + usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room. “You’ve + made a very good impression, and I’ve seen for myself that you’ve received + one. You’ve not come to Mrs. Touchett’s seven times to oblige me.” + </p> + <p> + “The girl’s not disagreeable,” Osmond quietly conceded. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips closed + with a certain firmness. “Is that all you can find to say about that fine + creature?” + </p> + <p> + “All? Isn’t it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to the + room. “You’re unfathomable,” she murmured at last. “I’m frightened at the + abyss into which I shall have cast her.” + </p> + <p> + He took it almost gaily. “You can’t draw back—you’ve gone too far.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good; but you must do the rest yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall do it,” said Gilbert Osmond. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but when she + rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett’s victoria was awaiting her + guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it he stood + there detaining her. “You’re very indiscreet,” she said rather wearily; + “you shouldn’t have moved when I did.” + </p> + <p> + He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. “I always + forget; I’m out of the habit.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re quite unfathomable,” she repeated, glancing up at the windows of + the house, a modern structure in the new part of the town. + </p> + <p> + He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. “She’s really + very charming. I’ve scarcely known any one more graceful.” + </p> + <p> + “It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the better + for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I like her very much. She’s all you described her, and into the bargain + capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Too many ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “I warned you she was clever.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately they’re very bad ones,” said Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “Why is that fortunate?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Dame</i>, if they must be sacrificed!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke to + the coachman. But her friend again detained her. “If I go to Rome what + shall I do with Pansy?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and see her,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> + <p> + I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman’s response to + the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the pavement + of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the threshold of + Saint Peter’s. It is enough to say that her impression was such as might + have been expected of a person of her freshness and her eagerness. She had + always been fond of history, and here was history in the stones of the + street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an imagination that kindled + at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she turned some great deed had + been acted. These things strongly moved her, but moved her all inwardly. + It seemed to her companions that she talked less than usual, and Ralph + Touchett, when he appeared to be looking listlessly and awkwardly over her + head, was really dropping on her an intensity of observation. By her own + measure she was very happy; she would even have been willing to take these + hours for the happiest she was ever to know. The sense of the terrible + human past was heavy to her, but that of something altogether contemporary + would suddenly give it wings that it could wave in the blue. Her + consciousness was so mixed that she scarcely knew where the different + parts of it would lead her, and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of + contemplation, seeing often in the things she looked at a great deal more + than was there, and yet not seeing many of the items enumerated in her + Murray. Rome, as Ralph said, confessed to the psychological moment. The + herd of reechoing tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had + relapsed into solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the + fountains in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. + On the corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of + flowers. Our friends had gone one afternoon—it was the third of + their stay—to look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these + labours having been for some time previous largely extended. They had + descended from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along + which they wandered with a reverence of step which was not the same on the + part of each. Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient + Rome had been paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy + between the deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the + overjangled iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The + sun had begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of + broken column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. + Henrietta wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently + delightful to her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a “cheeky old boy,” + and Ralph addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the + attentive ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover + about the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated + his lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing + to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the + Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the _signori_ to + go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The + proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much + wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity + while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much + to her taste—she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly + went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column + near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but she + was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged relics of + the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the corrosion of + centuries had still left so much of individual life, her thoughts, after + resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a concatenation of + stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to regions and objects + charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman past to Isabel Archer’s + future was a long stride, but her imagination had taken it in a single + flight and now hovered in slow circles over the nearer and richer field. + She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she bent her eyes upon a row of + cracked but not dislocated slabs covering the ground at her feet, that she + had not heard the sound of approaching footsteps before a shadow was + thrown across the line of her vision. She looked up and saw a gentleman—a + gentleman who was not Ralph come back to say that the excavations were a + bore. This personage was startled as she was startled; he stood there + baring his head to her perceptibly pale surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Warburton!” Isabel exclaimed as she rose. + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked about her to explain. “I’m alone, but my companions have just + left me. My cousin’s gone to look at the work over there.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes; I see.” And Lord Warburton’s eyes wandered vaguely in the + direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had + recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly. + “Don’t let me disturb you,” he went on, looking at her dejected pillar. + “I’m afraid you’re tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m rather tired.” She hesitated a moment, but sat down again. + “Don’t let me interrupt you,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, I’m quite alone, I’ve nothing on earth to do. I had no idea you + were in Rome. I’ve just come from the East. I’m only passing through.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been making a long journey,” said Isabel, who had learned from + Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I came abroad for six months—soon after I saw you last. I’ve + been in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens.” He + managed not to be awkward, but he wasn’t easy, and after a longer look at + the girl he came down to nature. “Do you wish me to leave you, or will you + let me stay a little?” + </p> + <p> + She took it all humanely. “I don’t wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton; + I’m very glad to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?” + </p> + <p> + The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a + resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for a + highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class seated + himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he had + asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as he + put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching the + answer; had given her too some information about himself which was not + wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once that he + had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the encounter + touched him in a way that would have made preparation advisable. He began + abruptly to pass from the impunity of things to their solemnity, and from + their being delightful to their being impossible. He was splendidly + sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had been burnished by the fire of + Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting, heterogeneous garments in which + the English traveller in foreign lands is wont to consult his comfort and + affirm his nationality; and with his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed + complexion, fresh beneath its seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising + manner and his general air of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was + such a representative of the British race as need not in any clime have + been disavowed by those who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these + things and was glad she had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in + spite of shocks, every one of his merits—properties these partaking + of the essence of great decent houses, as one might put it; resembling + their innermost fixtures and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and + removable only by some whole break-up. They talked of the matters + naturally in order; her uncle’s death, Ralph’s state of health, the way + she had passed her winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her + plans for the summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord + Warburton’s own adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present + domicile. At last there was a silence, and it said so much more than + either had said that it scarce needed his final words. “I’ve written to + you several times.” + </p> + <p> + “Written to me? I’ve never had your letters.” + </p> + <p> + “I never sent them. I burned them up.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” laughed Isabel, “it was better that you should do that than I!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you wouldn’t care for them,” he went on with a simplicity that + touched her. “It seemed to me that after all I had no right to trouble you + with letters.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped + that—that—” But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in + the utterance of her thought. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you’re going to say. You hoped we should always remain good + friends.” This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat + enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so. + </p> + <p> + She found herself reduced simply to “Please don’t talk of all that”; a + speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a small consolation to allow me!” her companion exclaimed with + force. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t pretend to console you,” said the girl, who, all still as she sat + there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on the answer that + had satisfied him so little six months before. He was pleasant, he was + powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than he. But her answer + remained. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very well you don’t try to console me; it wouldn’t be in your + power,” she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation. + </p> + <p> + “I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt to + make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that—the pain’s + greater than the pleasure.” And she got up with a small conscious majesty, + looking for her companions. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to make you feel that; of course I can’t say that. I only + just want you to know one or two things—in fairness to myself, as it + were. I won’t return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I + expressed to you last year; I couldn’t think of anything else. I tried to + forget—energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in + somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty. I + didn’t succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad—as far + away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn’t + distract mine. I’ve thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw you. + I’m exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I said to + you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you shows me + again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably charm me. + There—I can’t say less. I don’t mean, however, to insist; it’s only + for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few minutes since, + without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon my honour, in the + very act of wishing I knew where you were.” He had recovered his + self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He might have been + addressing a small committee—making all quietly and clearly a + statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a paper of notes + concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And the committee, + assuredly, would have felt the point proved. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve often thought of you, Lord Warburton,” Isabel answered. “You may be + sure I shall always do that.” And she added in a tone of which she tried + to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: “There’s no harm in + that on either side.” + </p> + <p> + They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters + and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment + no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into + shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave + Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad it + was still so distant. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?” she + enquired with some anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn’t mean that one would treat + Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to stop a + week or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!” + </p> + <p> + His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. “You won’t like + that. You’re afraid you’ll see too much of me.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter what I like. I certainly can’t expect you to leave this + delightful place on my account. But I confess I’m afraid of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid I’ll begin again? I promise to be very careful.” + </p> + <p> + They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. “Poor + Lord Warburton!” she said with a compassion intended to be good for both + of them. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I’ll be careful.” + </p> + <p> + “You may be unhappy, but you shall not make <i>me</i> so. That I can’t + allow.” + </p> + <p> + “If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it.” At this + she walked in advance and he also proceeded. “I’ll never say a word to + displease you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. If you do, our friendship’s at an end.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps some day—after a while—you’ll give me leave.” + </p> + <p> + “Give you leave to make me unhappy?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. “To tell you again—” But he checked himself. “I’ll + keep it down. I’ll keep it down always.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss + Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the + mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into sight + of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy + qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice “Gracious, + there’s that lord!” Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the + austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet, + and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt + traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. “I don’t + suppose you remember me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do remember you,” said Lord Warburton. “I asked you to come and + see me, and you never came.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go everywhere I’m asked,” Miss Stackpole answered coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, I won’t ask you again,” laughed the master of Lockleigh. + </p> + <p> + “If you do I’ll go; so be sure!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling had + stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion to nod + to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly “Oh, you here, + Bantling?” and a hand-shake. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Henrietta, “I didn’t know you knew him!” + </p> + <p> + “I guess you don’t know every one I know,” Mr. Bantling rejoined + facetiously. + </p> + <p> + “I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I’m afraid Bantling was ashamed of me,” Lord Warburton laughed again. + Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of relief as they + kept their course homeward. + </p> + <p> + The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long letters—one + to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in neither of these + epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected suitor had threatened + her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon all good Romans (and the + best Romans are often the northern barbarians) follow the custom of going + to vespers at Saint Peter’s; and it had been agreed among our friends that + they would drive together to the great church. After lunch, an hour before + the carriage came, Lord Warburton presented himself at the Hôtel de Paris + and paid a visit to the two ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having + gone out together. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a + proof of his intention to keep the promise made her the evening before; he + was both discreet and frank—not even dumbly importunate or remotely + intense. He thus left her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He + talked about his travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss + Stackpole asked him whether it would “pay” for her to visit those + countries assured her they offered a great field to female enterprise. + Isabel did him justice, but she wondered what his purpose was and what he + expected to gain even by proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If + he expected to melt her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might + spare himself the trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything + about him, and nothing he could now do was required to light the view. + Moreover his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the + wrong sort—she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, + when, on bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint + Peter’s and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to + reply that he must follow his convenience. + </p> + <p> + In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the first + person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior tourists who + are “disappointed” in Saint Peter’s and find it smaller than its fame; the + first time she passed beneath the huge leathern curtain that strains and + bangs at the entrance, the first time she found herself beneath the + far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down through the air thickened + with incense and with the reflections of marble and gilt, of mosaic and + bronze, her conception of greatness rose and dizzily rose. After this it + never lacked space to soar. She gazed and wondered like a child or a + peasant, she paid her silent tribute to the seated sublime. Lord Warburton + walked beside her and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; she feared + for instance that he would end by calling attention to his exemplary + conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at Saint Peter’s there is much + to observe, and as there is something almost profane in the vastness of + the place, which seems meant as much for physical as for spiritual + exercise, the different figures and groups, the mingled worshippers and + spectators, may follow their various intentions without conflict or + scandal. In that splendid immensity individual indiscretion carries but a + short distance. Isabel and her companions, however, were guilty of none; + for though Henrietta was obliged in candour to declare that Michael + Angelo’s dome suffered by comparison with that of the Capitol at + Washington, she addressed her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling’s ear and + reserved it in its more accentuated form for the columns of the <i>Interviewer</i>. + Isabel made the circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew + near the choir on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope’s + singers were borne to them over the heads of the large number of persons + clustered outside the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this + crowd, composed in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive + strangers, and while they stood there the sacred concert went forward. + Ralph, with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where + Isabel, looking beyond the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon + light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the + splendid chant, slope through the embossed recesses of high windows. After + a while the singing stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to + move off with her. Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found + herself confronted with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing + at a short distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms—he + appeared to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place. + </p> + <p> + “So you decided to come?” she said as she put out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They told + me you had come here, and I looked about for you.” + </p> + <p> + “The others are inside,” she decided to say. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t come for the others,” he promptly returned. + </p> + <p> + She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard + this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the + morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond’s words + had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not the + effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to each + companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr. + Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour + and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, but + this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on perceiving the + gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take the case as not + committing him to joy. He didn’t hang back, however, from civility, and + presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence, that she would soon + have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had met Mr. Osmond in + Florence, but she had already found occasion to say to Isabel that she + liked him no better than her other admirers—than Mr. Touchett and + Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris. “I don’t know + what it’s in you,” she had been pleased to remark, “but for a nice girl + you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood’s the only one I’ve + any respect for, and he’s just the one you don’t appreciate.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s your opinion of Saint Peter’s?” Mr. Osmond was meanwhile enquiring + of our young lady. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very large and very bright,” she contented herself with replying. + </p> + <p> + “It’s too large; it makes one feel like an atom.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?” she + asked with rather a liking for her phrase. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it’s the right way to feel everywhere, when one <i>is</i> + nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought indeed to be a Pope!” Isabel exclaimed, remembering something + he had referred to in Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I should have enjoyed that!” said Gilbert Osmond. + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled + away together. “Who’s the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?” his lordship + demanded. + </p> + <p> + “His name’s Gilbert Osmond—he lives in Florence,” Ralph said. + </p> + <p> + “What is he besides?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all. Oh yes, he’s an American; but one forgets that—he’s + so little of one.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he known Miss Archer long?” + </p> + <p> + “Three or four weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she like him?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s trying to find out.” + </p> + <p> + “And will she?” + </p> + <p> + “Find out—?” Ralph asked. + </p> + <p> + “Will she like him?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean will she accept him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lord Warburton after an instant; “I suppose that’s what I + horribly mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it,” Ralph replied. + </p> + <p> + His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. “Then we must be perfectly + quiet?” + </p> + <p> + “As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!” Ralph added. + </p> + <p> + “The chance she may?” + </p> + <p> + “The chance she may not?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. “Is he + awfully clever?” + </p> + <p> + “Awfully,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + His companion thought. “And what else?” + </p> + <p> + “What more do you want?” Ralph groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean what more does <i>she</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others. “She + wants nothing that <i>we</i> can give her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, if she won’t have You—!” said his lordship handsomely as + they went. + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <table summary="" border="3" cellpadding="4"> + <tbody> + <tr> + <td> + <a + href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2834/2834-h/2834-h.htm">Next + Volume</a> + </td> + </tr> + </tbody> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portrait of a Lady, by Henry James + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 2833-h.htm or 2833-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/3/2833/ + +Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> |