by Henry James
CHAPTER XXX
She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, andRalph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thoughtvery well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurriedhis companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond'spreference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger schemeof travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a littletrip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel wasto have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs.Touchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of theseto her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed fora moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of MadameMerle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on thepoint of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castlein the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of thatcountry, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, "forever")seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immensecrenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a preciousprivilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond hadasked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he hadalso made her a declaration of love.
"Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "I myself have beenthinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before Igo off."
"We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reasonably" becausethe proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She hadprefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should likeit better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mysticsentiment to her great consideration for her friend.
That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should we both go;having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?"
"Very good; I can easily go alone."
"I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsomebachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!"
Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?"
"They don't know he's away, you see."
"They? Whom do you mean?"
"Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify."
"If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked.
"Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman."
"Granting all that, you've not promised."
"How much you think of your promises!" said the elder woman in mildmockery.
"I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?"
"You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really think you wishto be kind to the child."
"I wish very much to be kind to her."
"Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd havecome if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added, "DON'T tell her. Shewon't care."
As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the windingway which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend hadmeant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals,this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather ofthe open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguousquality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer forthe vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle supposethat she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakinglydone? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something whichin the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not hadtime to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sortsof things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strummingat the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and Isabel waspleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediatelycame in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father'shouse with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half anhour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in thepantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, butconversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairsthat Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her;she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flowerof cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said ouradmiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned;and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabelwas fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding,as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her,up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were notreally all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfectionof self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor,or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour thatIsabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windowshad been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there,through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting agleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interviewwith the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled thisquestion. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface,successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nortalent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing afriend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a newfrock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she couldbe felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power toresist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where tocling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leaveto walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement onseveral works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, herfather's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the proprietyof supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturallyexpect.
"Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see MadameCatherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time.Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my educationit isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with memore; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day hethought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at theconvent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa'snot rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money forme, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough,and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it'spleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl whowas my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when shewas fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. Youdon't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wishedto keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that thatpapa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!"Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. Atany rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for anygentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should liketo marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of somestrange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you mightthink, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always beenprincipally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but youmust not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry,and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It wasvery kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm reallyas yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. Whendid YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to knowhow old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At theconvent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to doanything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properlytaught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa leftdirections for everyt
hing. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes offthat side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was notto get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. Ipractise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wishvery much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I shouldhear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that'swhat I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shallnever have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like thesqueak of a slate-pencil making flourishes."
Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat downto the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her whitehands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the childgood-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said;"give pleasure to your father."
"I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not muchpleasure; he's rather a sad man."
Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt italmost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obligedher, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things inher head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to sayto Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given herpleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no soonerbecame conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed withhorror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was ofthis she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air wherehe might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmedstate. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. Sherose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered amoment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweetslimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obligedto confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure intalking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature whowas so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy onceagain. They went together through the vestibule, to the door thatopened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking ratherwistfully beyond. "I may go no further. I've promised papa not to passthis door."
"You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable."
"I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?"
"Not for a long time, I'm afraid."
"As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy, "butI shall always expect you." And the small figure stood in the high, darkdoorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear intothe brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as itopened.