The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men—as sure as if she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men; the young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and she would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress.

  It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this difficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied in poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy’s tenacity, which might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her as rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under deprecation —since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in a very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes, she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier —especially as she seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel without a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation most interesting—he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy had been of the rightest and easiest—Isabel noticed that for herself, as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a patronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but quite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which she followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough for attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be kind—he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been as simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy, however, in spite of HER simplicity, really did understand, and was glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry, the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society. She looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with sweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded her, was better than Mr. Rosier’s. But Isabel contented herself at such moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken of her—the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.

  It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was trying as much as possible to take her husband’s view. She succeeded after a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all she couldn’t rise to it; something held her and made this impossible. It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience, and Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common genius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed—a sense that she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered if she had prevented something which would have happened if she had absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she pronounced—always mentally—that when their distinguished visitor should wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel studiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that she could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her transparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through.

  She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to Osmond’s face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert observation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts, to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever things she might have said. But she had learned caution—learned it in a measure from her husband’s very countenance. It was the same face she had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating, on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown slightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one as very distinguished.

  “Has Lord Warburton been here?” he presently asked.

  “Yes, he stayed half an hour.”

  “Did he see Pansy?”

  “Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her.”

  “Did he talk with her much?”

  “He talked almost only to her.”

  “It seems to me he’s attentive. Isn’t that what you call it?”

  “I don’t call it anything,” said Isabel; “I’ve waited for you to give it a name.”

  “That’s a consideration you don’t always show,” Osmond answered after a moment.

  “I’ve determined, this time, to try and act as you’d like. I’ve so often failed of that.”

  Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. “Are you trying to quarrel with me?”

  “No, I’m trying to live at peace.”

  “Nothing’s more easy; you know I don’t quarrel myself.”

  “What do you call it when you try to make me angry?” Isabel asked.

  “I don’t try; if I’ve done so it has been the most natural thing in the world. Moreover I’m not in the least trying now.”

  Isabel smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve determined never to be angry again.”

  “That’s an excellent resolve. Your temper isn’t good.”

  “No—it’s not good.” She pushed away the book she had been reading and took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table.

  “That’s partly why I’ve not spoken to you about this business of my daughter’s,” Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most frequent with him. “I was afraid I should encounter opposition—that you too would have views on the subject. I’ve sent little Rosier about his business.”

  “You were afraid I’d plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven’t you noticed that I’ve never spoken to you of him?”

  “I’ve never given you a chance. We’ve so little conversation in these days. I know he was an old friend of yours.”

  “Yes; he’s an old friend of mine.” Isabel cared little more for him than for the tapestry that she h
eld in her hand; but it was true that he was an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to extenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which fortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they were in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion of tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they belonged to her unmarried life. “But as regards Pansy,” she added in a moment, “I’ve given him no encouragement.”

  “That’s fortunate,” Osmond observed.

  “Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little.”

  “There’s no use talking of him,” Osmond said. “As I tell you, I’ve turned him out.”

  “Yes; but a lover outside’s always a lover. He’s sometimes even more of one. Mr. Rosier still has hope.”

  “He’s welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton.”

  “Should you like that?” Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her. The intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady Warburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But that was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should have put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert’s constant intimation that for him nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal with the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter had only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore a lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord Warburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might not be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary implications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his wife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she was face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost invented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating, would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of her question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was terribly capable of humiliating her—all the more so that he was also capable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an almost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a small opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great one.

  Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. “I should like it extremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has another advantage: he’s an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for him to come into the family. It’s very odd Pansy’s admirers should all be your old friends.”

  “It’s natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they see Pansy. Seeing her it’s natural they should fall in love with her.”

  “So I think. But you’re not bound to do so.”

  “If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad,” Isabel went on frankly. “He’s an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won’t sit perfectly still. If she loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!”

  Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire. “Pansy would like to be a great lady,” he remarked in a moment with a certain tenderness of tone. “She wishes above all to please,” he added.

  “To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps.”

  “No, to please me.”

  “Me too a little, I think,” said Isabel.

  “Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she’ll do what I like.”

  “If you’re sure of that, it’s very well,” she went on.

  “Meantime,” said Osmond, “I should like our distinguished visitor to speak.”

  “He has spoken—to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to him to believe she could care for him.”

  Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, “Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked sharply.

  “There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I’ve taken the first chance that has offered.”

  “Did you speak to him of Rosier?”

  “Oh yes, a little.”

  “That was hardly necessary.”

  “I thought it best he should know, so that, so that—” And Isabel paused.

  “So that what?”

  “So that he might act accordingly.”

  “So that he might back out, do you mean?”

  “No, so that he might advance while there’s yet time.”

  “That’s not the effect it seems to have had.”

  “You should have patience,” said Isabel. “You know Englishmen are shy.”

  “This one’s not. He was not when he made love to YOU.”

  She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to her. “I beg your pardon; he was extremely so,” she returned.

  He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy’s tapestry. “You must have a great deal of influence with him,” Osmond went on at last. “The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point.”

  This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said to herself. “Why should I have influence?” she asked. “What have I ever done to put him under an obligation to me?”

  “You refused to marry him,” said Osmond with his eyes on his book.

  “I must not presume too much on that,” she replied.

  He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire with his hands behind him. “Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think that over and remember how much I count on you.” He waited a little, to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently strolled out of the room.

  CHAPTER 42

  She had answered nothing because his words had put the situation before her and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them that suddenly made vibrations deep, so that she had been afraid to trust herself to speak. After he had gone she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes; and for a long time, far into the night and still further, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation. A servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had said; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion from another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton—this had given her the start that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it true that there was something still between them that might be a handle to make him declare himself to Pansy—a susceptibility, on his part, to approval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto not asked herself the question, because she had not been forced; but now that it was directly presented to her she saw the answer, and the answer frightened her. Yes, there was something—something on Lord Warburton’s part. When he had first come to Rome she believed the link that united them to be completely snapped; but little by little she had been reminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair, but there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself nothing was changed; what she once thought of him she always thought; it was needless this feeling should change; it seemed to her in fact a better feeling than ever. But he? had he still the idea that she might be more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory of the few moments of intimacy through which they had once passed? Isabel knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition. But what were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor Pansy? Was he in love with Gilbert Osmond’s wife, and if so what comfort did he expect to derive from it
? If he was in love with Pansy he was not in love with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother he was not in love with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she possessed in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he would do so for her sake and not for the small creature’s own—was this the service her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty with which she found herself confronted—from the moment she admitted to herself that her old friend had still an uneradicated predilection for her society. It was not an agreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive one. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were pretending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another satisfaction and what might be called other chances. Of this refinement of duplicity she presently acquitted him; she preferred to believe him in perfect good faith. But if his admiration for Pansy were a delusion this was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way; some of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then she broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her imagination surely did her little honour and that her husband’s did him even less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested as he need be, and she was no more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this till the contrary should be proved; proved more effectually than by a cynical intimation of Osmond’s.