by Henry James
Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the card of a visitor—a card with the simple superscription “Henrietta C. Stackpole.” The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she didn’t remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett’s; the only woman of letters she had ever encountered—that is the only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her mother—whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel’s friend; the Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received an impression of the improvements that were taking place—chiefly in distant countries—in the character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of her “Creole” ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations.
“Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked.
“Well, I like you better than I do her,” said Miss Stackpole. “I seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don’t know whether it was an accident or whether it’s your usual style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print.”
“Dear me!” cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; “I had no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.”
“It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.”
“The position of woman’s very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And you wrote it down and published it?” the Countess went on. “Ah, do let me see it!”
“I’ll write to them to send you the paper if you like,” Henrietta said. “I didn’t mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I quoted your views.”
The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped hands. “Do you know I’m rather sorry you didn’t mention my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not at all like my brother—I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he’d never forgive you.”
“He needn’t be afraid; I shall never refer to him,” said Miss Stackpole with bland dryness. “That’s another reason,” she added, “why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.”
“Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I knew about you.”
“I’m quite willing to be known by that,” Henrietta declared. “But that isn’t what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my relations with Isabel.”
“Don’t permit it,” said the Countess.
“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.”
“So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.”
“With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you by name as my companion.”
The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside her visitor. “Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won’t like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn’t know how to read.”
Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I put that into my letter?”
“Into your letter?”
“In the Interviewer. That’s my paper.”
“Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?”
Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess. “She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.”
The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she pregnantly remarked.
“Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has changed a great deal. I told her she would.”
“I’m sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn’t my brother like you?” the Countess ingenuously added.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s perfectly welcome not to like me; I don’t want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can’t hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated; that’s the way he knows how his work goes on. And it’s just the same for a lady. But I didn’t expect it of Isabel.”
“Do you mean that she hates you?” the Countess enquired.
“I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.”
“Dear me, what a tiresome errand!” the Countess exclaimed.
“She doesn’t write to me in the same way; it’s easy to see there’s a difference. If you know anything,” Miss Stackpole went on, “I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.”
The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. “I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn’t like me any better than he appears to like you.”
“Yet you’re not a lady correspondent,” said Henrietta pensively.
“Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they’ve invited me— I’m to stay in the house!” And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole’s disappointment.
This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. “I shouldn’t have gone if she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn’t; and I’m glad I hadn’t to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I shouldn’t have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn’t have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that’s not all.”
“Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?”
“Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?” Henrietta enquired.
“I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s making love to Isabel.”
“Making love to her?”
“So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But Isabel’s pretty safe.”
Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said nothing. “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly.
“Not for a week, I’m afraid.”
“I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.”
“Dear me, I’m sorry; I’m having some dresses made. I’m told Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you at your pension.” Henrietta sat still—she was lost in thought; and suddenly the Countess cried: “Ah, but if you don’t go with me you can’t describe our journey!”
Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking of something else and presently expressed it. “I’m not sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton.”
“Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.”
“Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta enquired with unprecedented distinctness.
The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: “It’s certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you’ll see!” she added.
“That idea would be enough to prevent me,” said Miss Stackpole. “I should want my own husband; I shouldn’t want any one else’s. Do you mean that Isabel’s guilty—guilty—?” And she paused a little, choosing her expression.
“Do I mean she’s guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that Osmond’s very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I’m afraid you’re scandalised.”
“No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said.
“Ah, you’re not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more confidence. I’ll tell you,” the Countess added quickly: “if it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw him off.”
Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her gaze. “You don’t understand me,” she said after a while. “I haven’t the idea you seem to suppose. I’m not afraid for Isabel—in that way. I’m only afraid she’s unhappy—that’s what I want to get at.”
The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and sarcastic. “That may very well be; for my part I should like to know whether Osmond is.” Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.
“If she’s really changed that must be at the bottom of it,” Henrietta went on.
“You’ll see; she’ll tell you,” said the Countess.
“Ah, she may NOT tell me—that’s what I’m afraid of!”
“Well, if Osmond isn’t amusing himself—in his own old way—I flatter myself I shall discover it,” the Countess rejoined.
“I don’t care for that,” said Henrietta.
“I do immensely! If Isabel’s unhappy I’m very sorry for her, but I can’t help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I can’t tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and marry him for? If she had listened to me she’d have got rid of him. I’ll forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don’t know that I shall even pity her. But I don’t think that’s very likely. I count upon finding that if she’s miserable she has at least made HIM so.”
Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a capacity for coarseness even there. “It will be better if they love each other,” she said for edification.
“They can’t. He can’t love any one.”
“I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow.”
“Isabel certainly has devotees,” said the Countess, smiling very vividly. “I declare I don’t pity her.”
“It may be I can’t assist her,” Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were well not to have illusions.
“You can have wanted to, at any rate; that’s something. I believe that’s what you came from America for,” the Countess suddenly added.
“Yes, I wanted to look after her,” Henrietta said serenely.
Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come. “Ah, that’s very pretty c’est bien gentil! Isn’t it what they call friendship?”
“I don’t know what they call it. I thought I had better come.”
“She’s very happy—she’s very fortunate,” the Countess went on. “She has others besides.” And then she broke out passionately. “She’s more fortunate than I! I’m as unhappy as she—I’ve a very bad husband; he’s a great deal worse than Osmond. And I’ve no friends. I thought I had, but they’re gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you’ve done for her.”
Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then: “Look here, Countess, I’ll do anything for you that you like. I’ll wait over and travel with you.”
“Never mind,” the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: “only describe me in the newspaper!”
Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung’ Arno, the sunny quay beside the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: “Could I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?” Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings. Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the little Correggio of the Tribune—the Virgin kneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this intimate scene—she thought it the most beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.