by Henry James
That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him this evening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point even than usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at Palazzo Roccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if he and his wife had all things in sweet community and it were as natural to each of them to say “we” as to say “I”. In all this there was an air of intention that had puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who could only reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond’s relations with her husband were none of his business. He had no proof whatever that her husband misrepresented her, and if he judged her by the surface of things was bound to believe that she liked her life. She had never given him the faintest sign of discontent. Miss Stackpole had told him that she had lost her illusions, but writing for the papers had made Miss Stackpole sensational. She was too fond of early news. Moreover, since her arrival in Rome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty well ceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be said for her, would have been quite against her conscience. She had now seen the reality of Isabel’s situation, and it had inspired her with a just reserve. Whatever could be done to improve it the most useful form of assistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of her wrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the state of Mr. Goodwood’s feelings, but she showed it at present only by sending him choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals, of which she received several by every post and which she always perused with a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placed in an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her own hand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about Isabel: hadn’t he come five thousand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in the least authorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absence of authorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to the harsh- ness with which, in spite of his theory that he had ceased to care, he now recognised that, so far as she was concerned, the future had nothing more for him. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth; apparently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she WERE unhappy. He was hopeless, helpless, useless. To this last character she had called his attention by her ingenious plan for making him leave Rome. He had no objection whatever to doing what he could for her cousin, but it made him grind his teeth to think that of all the services she might have asked of him this was the one she had been eager to select. There had been no danger of her choosing one that would have kept him in Rome.
To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to leave her to-morrow and that he had gained nothing by coming but the knowledge that he was as little wanted as ever. About herself he had gained no knowledge; she was imperturbable, inscrutable, impenetrable. He felt the old bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow, rise again in his throat, and he knew there are disappointments that last as long as life. Osmond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely aware that he was touching again upon his perfect intimacy with his wife. It seemed to him for a moment that the man had a kind of demonic imagination; it was impossible that without malice he should have selected so unusual a topic. But what did it matter, after all, whether he were demonic or not, and whether she loved him or hated him? She might hate him to the death without one’s gaining a straw one’s self. “You travel, by the by, with Ralph Touchett,” Osmond said. “I suppose that means you’ll move slowly?”
“I don’t know. I shall do just as he likes.”
“You’re very accommodating. We’re immensely obliged to you; you must really let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what we feel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more than once as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it’s worse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel; it’s a kind of indelicacy. I wouldn’t for the world be under such an obligation to Touchett as he has been to—to my wife and me. Other people inevitably have to look after him, and every one isn’t so generous as you.”
“I’ve nothing else to do,” Caspar said dryly.
Osmond looked at him a moment askance. “You ought to marry, and then you’d have plenty to do! It’s true that in that case you wouldn’t be quite so available for deeds of mercy.”
“Do you find that as a married man you’re so much occupied?” the young man mechanically asked.
“Ah, you see, being married’s in itself an occupation. It isn’t always active; it’s often passive; but that takes even more attention. Then my wife and I do so many things together. We read, we study, we make music, we walk, we drive—we talk even, as when we first knew each other. I delight, to this hour, in my wife’s conversation. If you’re ever bored take my advice and get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in that case; but you’ll never bore yourself. You’ll always have something to say to yourself—always have a subject of reflection.”
“I’m not bored,” said Goodwood. “I’ve plenty to think about and to say to myself.”
“More than to say to others!” Osmond exclaimed with a light laugh. “Where shall you go next? I mean after you’ve consigned Touchett to his natural caretakers—I believe his mother’s at last coming back to look after him. That little lady’s superb; she neglects her duties with a finish—! Perhaps you’ll spend the summer in England?”
“I don’t know. I’ve no plans.”
“Happy man! That’s a little bleak, but it’s very free.”
“Oh yes, I’m very free.”
“Free to come back to Rome I hope,” said Osmond as he saw a group of new visitors enter the room. “Remember that when you do come we count on you!”
Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed without his having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of several associated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracy with which she avoided him; his unquenchable rancour discovered an intention where there was certainly no appearance of one. There was absolutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes with her clear hospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he would come and help her to entertain some of her visitors. To such suggestions, however, he opposed but a stiff impatience. He wandered about and waited; he talked to the few people he knew, who found him for the first time rather self-contradictory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though he often contradicted others. There was often music at Palazzo Roccanera, and it was usually very good. Under cover of the music he managed to contain himself; but toward the end, when he saw the people beginning to go, he drew near to Isabel and asked her in a low tone if he might not speak to her in one of the other rooms, which he had just assured himself was empty. She smiled as if she wished to oblige him but found her self absolutely prevented. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. People are saying good-night, and I must be where they can see me.”
“I shall wait till they are all gone then.”
She hesitated a moment. “Ah, that will be delightful!” she exclaimed.
And he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were several people, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The Countess Gemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed no consciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a little circle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and then broke into a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared—he never bade good-bye to people; and as the Countess was extending her range, according to her custom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy to bed. Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish her sister-in-law would sound a lower note and let the last loiterers depart in peace.
“May I not say a word to you now?” Goodwood presently asked her. She got up immediately, smiling. “Certainly, we’ll go somewhere else if you like.” They went together, leaving the Countess with her little circle, and for a moment after they had crossed the threshold neither of them spoke. Isabel would not sit down; she stood in the middle of the room slowly fanning hers
elf; she had for him the same familiar grace. She seemed to wait for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her all the passion he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his eyes and made things swim round him. The bright, empty room grew dim and blurred, and through the heaving veil he felt her hover before him with gleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would have perceived her smile was fixed and a trifle forced—that she was frightened at what she saw in his own face. “I suppose you wish to bid me goodbye?” she said.
“Yes—but I don’t like it. I don’t want to leave Rome,” he answered with almost plaintive honesty.
“I can well imagine. It’s wonderfully good of you. I can’t tell you how kind I think you.”
For a moment more he said nothing. “With a few words like that you make me go.”
“You must come back some day,” she brightly returned.
“Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible.”
“Oh no; I don’t mean all that.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand! But I said I’d go, and I’ll go,” Goodwood added.
“Come back whenever you like,” said Isabel with attempted lightness.
“I don’t care a straw for your cousin!” Caspar broke out.
“Is that what you wished to tell me?”
“No, no; I didn’t want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask you—” he paused a moment, and then—”what have you really made of your life?” he said, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; but she said nothing, and he went on: “I can’t understand, I can’t penetrate you! What am I to believe— what do you want me to think?” Still she said nothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending to ease. “I’m told you’re unhappy, and if you are I should like to know it. That would be something for me. But you yourself say you’re happy, and you’re somehow so still, so smooth, so hard. You’re completely changed. You conceal everything; I haven’t really come near you.”
“You come very near,” Isabel said gently, but in a tone of warning.
“And yet I don’t touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you done well?”
“You ask a great deal.”
“Yes—I’ve always asked a great deal. Of course you won’t tell me. I shall never know if you can help it. And then it’s none of my business.” He had spoken with a visible effort to control himself, to give a considerate form to an inconsiderate state of mind. But the sense that it was his last chance, that he loved her and had lost her, that she would think him a fool whatever he should say, suddenly gave him a lash and added a deep vibration to his low voice. “You’re perfectly inscrutable, and that’s what makes me think you’ve something to hide. I tell you I don’t care a straw for your cousin, but I don’t mean that I don’t like him. I mean that it isn’t because I like him that I go away with him. I’d go if he were an idiot and you should have asked me. If you should ask me I’d go to Siberia tomorrow. Why do you want me to leave the place? You must have some reason for that; if you were as contented as you pretend you are you wouldn’t care. I’d rather know the truth about you, even if it’s damnable, than have come here for nothing. That isn’t what I came for. I thought I shouldn’t care. I came because I wanted to assure myself that I needn’t think of you any more. I haven’t thought of anything else, and you’re quite right to wish me to go away. But if I must go, there’s no harm in my letting myself out for a single moment, is there? If you’re really hurt—if HE hurts you—nothing I say will hurt you. When I tell you I love you it’s simply what I came for. I thought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe I should never see you again. It’s the last time—let me pluck a single flower! I’ve no right to say that, I know; and you’ve no right to listen. But you don’t listen; you never listen, you’re always thinking of something else. After this I must go, of course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason, not a real one. I can’t judge by your husband,” he went on irrelevantly, almost incoherently; “I don’t understand him; he tells me you adore each other. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I say that to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you’ve something to hide. It’s none of my business —very true. But I love you,” said Caspar Goodwood.
As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by which they had entered and raised her fan as if in warning.
“You’ve behaved so well; don’t spoil it,” she uttered softly.
“No one hears me. It’s wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I love you as I’ve never loved you.”
“I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go.”
“You can’t help it—of course not. You would if you could, but you can’t, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I ask nothing —nothing, that is, I shouldn’t. But I do ask one sole satisfaction:—that you tell me—that you tell me—!”
“That I tell you what?”
“Whether I may pity you.”
“Should you like that?” Isabel asked, trying to smile again.
“To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something. I’d give my life to it.”
She raised her fan to her face, which it covered all except her eyes. They rested a moment on his. “Don’t give your life to it; but give a thought to it every now and then.” And with that she went back to the Countess Gemini.
CHAPTER 49
Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents, and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it. Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability, and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel (whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first utterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman, for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable.
“Please don’t talk of him,” said Isabel for answer; “we’ve heard so much of him of late.”
Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and smiled at the left corner of her mouth. “You’ve heard, yes. But you must remember that I’ve not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be able to congratulate Pansy.”
“You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton.”
“How you say that! Don’t you know I had set my heart on it?” Madame Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation of good-humour.
Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too. “You shouldn’t have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to watch the affair.”
“I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it’s too late?”
“You had better ask Pansy,” said Isabel.
“I shall ask her what you’ve said to her.”
These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused on Isabel’s part by her perceiving that her visitor’s attitude was a critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto; she had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling. But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation which even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel’s surprise—our heroine having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy’s marriage; and she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond’s alarm. More clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her destiny. She was nearer to her
than Isabel had yet discovered, and her nearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened to be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet taken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes, there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was it that brought home to her that Madame Merle’s intention had not been good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor’s challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge which had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless vitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend’s professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several years of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle’s interest was identical with Osmond’s: that was enough. “I think Pansy will tell you nothing that will make you more angry,” she said in answer to her companion’s last remark.