The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER L

  As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monumentsIsabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relicsand to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, whoprofessed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never madean objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as ifthey had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense,though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herselfthe apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she onlydesired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hourevery day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been acondition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, wasnot a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because theyoffered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairsof the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never wearyof offering information. It must be added that during these visits theCountess forbade herself every form of active research; her preferencewas to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was mostinteresting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined theColiseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respectthat she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from thevehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramblethat her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may bedivined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents' guestmight be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day whenthe Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mildafternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasionalpuffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together,but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had oftenascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used tobellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed)bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposedto sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for theCountess often asked more from one's attention than she gave in return;and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let thedust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She soremained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating auntto the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocksthe tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; thewestern sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks oftravertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in theimmense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, lookingup at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude ofswallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became awarethat one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, hadturned his attention to her own person and was looking at her witha certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks beforeperceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose.Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; andthis gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question ofspeaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompaniedhe drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his lettersshe would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. Shereplied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could onlygive him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upona broken block.

  "It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all my bibelots!"Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he hadtold her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I've sold them by auction atthe Hotel Drouot," he went on. "The sale took place three days ago, andthey've telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent."

  "I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things."

  "I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond thinkme rich enough now?"

  "Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently.

  "For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I thinkof. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop for thesale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would have killedme. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. Ishould tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in mypocket, and he can't say I'm poor!" the young man exclaimed defiantly.

  "He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmondhad never said this before.

  Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without my bibelots I'mnothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That's what theytold me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn't seenHER!"

  "My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel very kindly.

  "You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't."And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He hadthe air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week andis full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painfulsuspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two personsstill have the perversity to think him diminutive. "I know what happenedhere while I was away," he went on "What does Mr. Osmond expect aftershe has refused Lord Warburton?"

  Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman."

  "What other nobleman?"

  "One that he'll pick out."

  Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket."You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at me."

  "I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom. Now you hadbetter go away."

  "I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. This might be; butit evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rathera loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes andlooking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience.Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audiencethan he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companionshad returned from their excursion. "You must really go away," she saidquickly. "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier murmured in a voicestrangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And thenhe added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized bya happy thought: "Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desireto be presented to her."

  Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence with her brother."

  "Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier faced the Countess,who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhapsto the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged inconversation with a very pretty young man.

  "I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she left him. Shewent straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short,with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to the carriage," she said gently.

  "Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. And shewent on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel,however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting hadimmediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He hadremoved his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introducedhimself, while the Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eyea gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lostto sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage.Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on herlap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's. There shone outof each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion whichtouched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed overher soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite idealof the child with her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" sheaffectionately said.

  "Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And thenthere was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. "Did you showyour aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?" Isabel asked at last.

  "Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased."

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p; "And you're not tired, I hope."

  "Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired."

  The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footmanto go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presentlyreturned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them notto wait--she would come home in a cab!

  About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted themselveswith Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, foundPansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her;she got up from her low chair. "Pardon my taking the liberty," she saidin a small voice. "It will be the last--for some time."

  Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited,frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabel exclaimed.

  "I'm going to the convent."

  "To the convent?"

  Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms roundIsabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment,perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiverof her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabelnevertheless pressed her. "Why are you going to the convent?"

  "Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every nowand then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always theworld, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a littleseclusion--a little reflexion." Pansy spoke in short detached sentences,as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumphof self-control: "I think papa's right; I've been so much in the worldthis winter."

  Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry alarger meaning than the girl herself knew. "When was this decided?" sheasked. "I've heard nothing of it."

  "Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't betoo much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at aquarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a fewweeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies whoused to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are beingeducated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effectof diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. Ishall be very quiet and think a great deal."

  Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck."Think of ME sometimes."

  "Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very differentfrom the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.

  Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt howlittle she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long,tender kiss.

  Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine hadarrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going tothe drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, andthis lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderfultoss of the head, "En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was anaffectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. Shecould only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to himthat, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes afterhe had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: shespoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbiddenherself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make adeclaration, and there was one that came very naturally. "I shall missPansy very much."

  He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket offlowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I hadthought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. Idare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if Ican make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself aboutit. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enterinto it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a partof the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh andfair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the presenttime she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a littledusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. Thisbustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take herout of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, verysalutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, underthe arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them aregentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her booksand her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made the most liberalarrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there's just to be acertain little sense of sequestration. She'll have time to think, andthere's something I want her to think about." Osmond spoke deliberately,reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking atthe basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not somuch offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost intopictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while thepicture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then hewent on: "The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a greatinstitution we can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential needin families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a schoolof repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world," headded; "I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. Thisone's very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as muchas she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way."

  Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she foundit indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far herhusband's desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point ofplaying theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. Shecould not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood itbetter than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convincedthat the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed toherself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to dosomething sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; tomark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show thatif he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was naturalhe should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If hewished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chillinto Isabel's heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood andhad found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who werevery fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definitehardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; theimpression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough.The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination,and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example ofher husband's genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket offlowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmondwished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found ithard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently,in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countesstoo, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at adifferent conclusion from Isabel.

  "It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent so many prettyreasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at once that youwant to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered that I think verywell of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He hasmade me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you'vemade up your mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company forPansy."

  Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured."My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a pieceof gallantry, "I don't know anything about your convictions, but ifI suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler tobanish YOU."