The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER LII

  There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after theCountess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference withher maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond hadgiven her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at fiveo'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the PiazzaNavona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial andobsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she hadcome with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and thatthe well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But shedisliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not forthe world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day morethan before the impression of a well-appointed prison for it was notpossible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creaturehad been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondaryeffect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.

  The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while shewent to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; alarge clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of waxflowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictureson the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Romethan like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartmentonly seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returnedat the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel gotup, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to herextreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effectwas strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her visionthat her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of herfalsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and thesedark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered theroom. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, ofhandwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. Itmade Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spotshe would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct toher; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say toMadame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there werenever any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried offnot only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she wasdifferent from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, andIsabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon herhabitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and shehad undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her apeculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel sawthat she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on thewhole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at heryoung friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with acold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to theirlast meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She hadbeen irritated then, she was reconciled now.

  "You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutesthis lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, afternoting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had lether eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wishednever to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here,and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't seewhy I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I'vebeen rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." Therewas none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simplyand mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, couldnot have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've notbeen sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been longwith Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoonthat she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; Ican't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on thechance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well;still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The goodwoman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. Istayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, notin the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arrangedit delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of mybusiness, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have amaid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wearsa little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to seeMother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don'tfind the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a mostcoquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonlylike a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; saysit's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint ofheaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving MadameCatherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for thesignorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let mego and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell youthat--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it wasof such high importance that you should be treated with respect. Irequested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how shesupposed I would treat you!"

  So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who hadlong been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phasesand gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel'sear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had notproceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapsein her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtlemodulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirelynew attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed inthe space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and inthe space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The personwho stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was avery different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery wastremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished ofwomen faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then theconscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowedon as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she hadthe end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched witha point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of herwill to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betrayingherself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voicerefused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself sayshe hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was ableonly just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.

  Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a largeclear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it mighthave been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck andsaw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for amoment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, withher back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other sideof the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what shesaw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already becomea part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel inwhich it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the drystaring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All thebitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as ifshe felt on her lips th
e taste of dishonour. There was a moment duringwhich, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something thatwould hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideousvision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the worldstanding there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what tothink as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--toleave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her therefor a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at lastseated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession ofhelplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. MadameMerle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might seewhat she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuseher, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her theopportunity to defend herself.

  "I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go toEngland to-night."

  "Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there andlooking up at her.

  "I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."

  "Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chanceto express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"

  "Yes; without my husband."

  Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of thegeneral sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorryhe's dying. Shall you see his mother?"

  "Yes; she has returned from America."

  "She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too havechanged," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused amoment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"

  "I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.

  "Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses Iknow, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. Idon't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "butI should like to give my love to the place."

  Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."

  While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened andadmitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreetsmile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plumpwhite hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance shehad already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see MissOsmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandlyand said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to hermyself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.

  "Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to behere."

  "You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowinglaugh.

  She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a longstaircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherinegently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor;then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met andembraced.

  "She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And sheplaced the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movementto seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear childlook?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.

  "She looks pale," Isabel answered.

  "That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire lamaison," said the good sister.

  Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it wasperhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--theythink of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness toaccommodate.

  "We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherineremarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit andwhose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell witha leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrenderof a personality, the authority of the Church.

  When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hidher head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, whileIsabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face andlooking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I'veeverything I have at home."

  "It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew whatshe could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she hadcome to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretendto rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come tobid you good-bye. I'm going to England."

  Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?"

  "I don't know when I shall come back."

  "Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she hadno right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.

  "My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to seehim," Isabel said.

  "Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papago?"

  "No; I shall go alone."

  For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what shethought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but neverby a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemedthem deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabelwas sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbandsand wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreeteven in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentlestepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may havestood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of thesaints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their paintedheads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would(for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than herown. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on.

  "Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabelexplained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you."

  "Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often."

  "I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothingwith me. I can't amuse you."

  "I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."

  "Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."

  "You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.

  "Not very. But it doesn't matter."

  "That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like tocome out."

  "I wish indeed you might."

  "Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.

  Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you comeaway with me now?" she asked.

  Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?"

  "No; it's my own proposal."

  "I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?"

  "I don't think he knew I was coming."

  "He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies arevery kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are somevery little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see foryourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wishedme to think a little--and I've thought a great deal."

  "What have you thought?"

  "Well, that I must never displease papa."

  "You knew that before."

  "Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," saidPansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came intoher face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had beenvanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treatedeasily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that herlook conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl'smomentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed onlyher tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume
to judge others,but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had novocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity ofsequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed herpretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!

  Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leaveRome to-night."

  Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child'sface. "You look strange, you frighten me."

  "Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel.

  "Perhaps you won't come back?"

  "Perhaps not. I can't tell."

  "Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"

  Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I dofor you?" she asked.

  "I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you."

  "You can always think of me."

  "Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy.

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me."

  "You must not say that," Isabel observed.

  "Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do itmore easily."

  Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, mychild."

  Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like twosisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitorto the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarkedas they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "Idon't like Madame Merle!"

  Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don'tlike Madame Merle."

  Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been areason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisitegentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as itappeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under whichPansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when shereached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" shecalled out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.

  "Yes--I'll come back."

  Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door ofthe parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won'tgo in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you."

  At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of askingif there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexionassured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun herdesire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her armvery gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, saidin French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'enpensez-vous?"

  "About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."

  "We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And shepushed open the door of the parlour.

  Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman soabsorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As MadameCatherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had beenthinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in fullpossession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," shesaid urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy."

  Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of MadameMerle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine saysit's enough."

  "Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word aboutpoor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe thathe's really at his last?"

  "I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms aprobability."

  "I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Areyou very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as herutterance.

  "Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."

  She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurredto me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefitof my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you neverguessed it?"

  "He has done me many services."

  "Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."

  "HE made me--?"

  Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on moretriumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was requiredto make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." Shestopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.

  "I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."

  "Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. Hebrought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!"

  Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined bylurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know whatyou know."

  "I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that."

  Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a momentwith her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "Ibelieved it was you I had to thank!"

  Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proudpenance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so."

  "Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again."

  Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietlyremarked while Isabel passed out.