by Henry James
Maisie, at this, rejoiced in the attention that, for their evening out, Mrs. Beale, even to the extent of personally “doing up” her old hat, had given her appearance. Meanwhile her father went on: “You’ll like her awfully.”
“Oh I’m sure I shall!” After which, either from the effect of having said so much or from that of a sudden glimpse of the impossibility of saying more, she felt an embarrassment and sought refuge in a minor branch of the subject. “I thought she was Mrs. Cuddon.”
Beale’s gaiety rather increased than diminished. “You mean my wife did? My dear child, my wife’s a damned fool!” He had the oddest air of speaking of his wife as of a person whom she might scarcely have known, so that the refuge of her scruple didn’t prove particularly happy. Beale on the other hand appeared after an instant himself to feel a scruple. “What I mean is, to speak seriously, that she doesn’t really know anything about anything.” He paused, following the child’s charmed eyes and tentative step or two as they brought her nearer to the pretty things on one of the tables. “She thinks she has good things, don’t you know!” He quite jeered at Mrs. Beale’s delusion.
Maisie felt she must confess that it WAS one; everything she had missed at the side-shows was made up to her by the Countess’s luxuries. “Yes,” she considered; “she does think that.”
There was again a dryness in the way Beale replied that it didn’t matter what she thought; but there was an increasing sweetness for his daughter in being with him so long without his doing anything worse. The whole hour of course was to remain with her, for days and weeks, ineffaceably illumined and confirmed; by the end of which she was able to read into it a hundred things that had been at the moment mere miraculous pleasantness. What they at the moment came to was simply that her companion was still in a good deal of a flutter, yet wished not to show it, and that just in proportion as he succeeded in this attempt he was able to encourage her to regard him as kind. He moved about the room after a little, showed her things, spoke to her as a person of taste, told her the name, which she remembered, of the famous French lady represented in one of the miniatures, and remarked, as if he had caught her wistful over a trinket or a trailing stuff, that he made no doubt the Countess, on coming in, would give her something jolly. He spied a pink satin box with a looking-glass let into the cover, which he raised, with a quick facetious flourish, to offer her the privilege of six rows of chocolate bonbons, cutting out thereby Sir Claude, who had never gone beyond four rows. “I can do what I like with these,” he said, “for I don’t mind telling you I gave ‘em to her myself.” The Countess had evidently appreciated the gift; there were numerous gaps, a ravage now quite unchecked, in the array. Even while they waited together Maisie had her sense, which was the mark of what their separation had become, of her having grown for him, since the last time he had, as it were, noticed her, and by increase of years and of inches if by nothing else, much more of a little person to reckon with. Yes, this was a part of the positive awkwardness that he carried off by being almost foolishly tender. There was a passage during which, on a yellow silk sofa under one of the palms, he had her on his knee, stroking her hair, playfully holding her off while he showed his shining fangs and let her, with a vague affectionate helpless pointless “Dear old girl, dear little daughter,” inhale the fragrance of his cherished beard. She must have been sorry for him, she afterwards knew, so well could she privately follow his difficulty in being specific to her about anything. She had such possibilities of vibration, of response, that it needed nothing more than this to make up to her in fact for omissions. The tears came into her eyes again as they had done when in the Park that day the Captain told her so “splendidly” that her mother was good. What was this but splendid too—this still directer goodness of her father and this unexampled shining solitude with him, out of which everything had dropped but that he was papa and that he was magnificent? It didn’t spoil it that she finally felt he must have, as he became restless, some purpose he didn’t quite see his way to bring out, for in the freshness of their recovered fellowship she would have lent herself gleefully to his suggesting, or even to his pretending, that their relations were easy and graceful. There was something in him that seemed, and quite touchingly, to ask her to help him to pretend—pretend he knew enough about her life and her education, her means of subsistence and her view of himself, to give the questions he couldn’t put her a natural domestic tone. She would have pretended with ecstasy if he could only have given her the cue. She waited for it while, between his big teeth, he breathed the sighs she didn’t know to be stupid. And as if, though he was so stupid all through, he had let the friendly suffusion of her eyes yet tell him she was ready for anything, he floundered about, wondering what the devil he could lay hold of.
19
When he had lighted a cigarette and begun to smoke in her face it was as if he had struck with the match the note of some queer clumsy ferment of old professions, old scandals, old duties, a dim perception of what he possessed in her and what, if everything had only—damn it!—been totally different, she might still be able to give him. What she was able to give him, however, as his blinking eyes seemed to make out through the smoke, would be simply what he should be able to get from her. To give something, to give here on the spot, was all her own desire. Among the old things that came back was her little instinct of keeping the peace; it made her wonder more sharply what particular thing she could do or not do, what particular word she could speak or not speak, what particular line she could take or not take, that might for every one, even for the Countess, give a better turn to the crisis. She was ready, in this interest, for an immense surrender, a surrender of everything but Sir Claude, of everything but Mrs. Beale. The immensity didn’t include THEM; but if he had an idea at the back of his head she had also one in a recess as deep, and for a time, while they sat together, there was an extraordinary mute passage between her vision of this vision of his, his vision of her vision, and her vision of his vision of her vision. What there was no effective record of indeed was the small strange pathos on the child’s part of an innocence so saturated with knowledge and so directed to diplomacy. What, further, Beale finally laid hold of while he masked again with his fine presence half the flounces of the fireplace was: “Do you know, my dear, I shall soon be off to America?” It struck his daughter both as a short cut and as the way he wouldn’t have said it to his wife. But his wife figured with a bright superficial assurance in her response.
“Do you mean with Mrs. Beale?”
Her father looked at her hard. “Don’t be a little ass!”
Her silence appeared to represent a concentrated effort not to be. “Then with the Countess?”
“With her or without her, my dear; that concerns only your poor daddy. She has big interests over there, and she wants me to take a look at them.”
Maisie threw herself into them. “Will that take very long?”
“Yes; they’re in such a muddle—it may take months. Now what I want to hear, you know, is whether you’d like to come along?”
Planted once more before him in the middle of the room she felt herself turning white. “I?” she gasped, yet feeling as soon as she had spoken that such a note of dismay was not altogether pretty. She felt it still more while her father replied, with a shake of his legs, a toss of his cigarette-ash and a fidgety look —he was for ever taking one—all the length of his waistcoat and trousers, that she needn’t be quite so disgusted. It helped her in a few seconds to appear more as he would like her that she saw, in the lovely light of the Countess’s splendour, exactly, however she appeared, the right answer to make. “Dear papa, I’ll go with you anywhere.”
He turned his back to her and stood with his nose at the glass of the chimneypiece while he brushed specks of ash out of his beard. Then he abruptly said: “Do you know anything about your brute of a mother?”
It was just of her brute of a mother that the manner of the question in a remarkable degree reminded her: it had th
e free flight of one of Ida’s fine bridgings of space. With the sense of this was kindled for Maisie at the same time an inspiration. “Oh yes, I know everything!” and she became so radiant that her father, seeing it in the mirror, turned back to her and presently, on the sofa, had her at his knee again and was again particularly affecting. Maisie’s inspiration instructed her, pressingly, that the more she should be able to say about mamma the less she would be called upon to speak of her step-parents. She kept hoping the Countess would come in before her power to protect them was exhausted; and it was now, in closer quarters with her companion, that the idea at the back of her head shifted its place to her lips. She told him she had met her mother in the Park with a gentleman who, while Sir Claude had strolled with her ladyship, had been kind and had sat and talked to her; narrating the scene with a remembrance of her pledge of secrecy to the Captain quite brushed away by the joy of seeing Beale listen without profane interruption. It was almost an amazement, but it was indeed all a joy, thus to be able to guess that papa was at last quite tired of his anger—of his anger at any rate about mamma. He was only bored with her now. That made it, however, the more imperative that his spent displeasure shouldn’t be blown out again. It charmed the child to see how much she could interest him; and the charm remained even when, after asking her a dozen questions, he observed musingly and a little obscurely: “Yes, damned if she won’t!” For in this too there was a detachment, a wise weariness that made her feel safe. She had had to mention Sir Claude, though she mentioned him as little as possible and Beale only appeared to look quite over his head. It pieced itself together for her that this was the mildness of general indifference, a source of profit so great for herself personally that if the Countess was the author of it she was prepared literally to hug the Countess. She betrayed that eagerness by a restless question about her, to which her father replied: “Oh she has a head on her shoulders. I’ll back her to get out of anything!” He looked at Maisie quite as if he could trace the connexion between her enquiry and the impatience of her gratitude. “Do you mean to say you’d really come with me?” She felt as if he were now looking at her very hard indeed, and also as if she had grown ever so much older. “I’ll do anything in the world you ask me, papa.”
He gave again, with a laugh and with his legs apart, his proprietary glance at his waistcoat and trousers. “That’s a way, my dear, of saying ‘No, thank you!’ You know you don’t want to go the least little mite. You can’t humbug ME!” Beale Farange laid down. “I don’t want to bully you—I never bullied you in my life; but I make you the offer, and it’s to take or to leave. Your mother will never again have any more to do with you than if you were a kitchenmaid she had turned out for going wrong. Therefore of course I’m your natural protector and you’ve a right to get everything out of me you can. Now’s your chance, you know—you won’t be half-clever if you don’t. You can’t say I don’t put it before you—you can’t say I ain’t kind to you or that I don’t play fair. Mind you never say that, you know—it WOULD bring me down on you. I know what’s proper. I’ll take you again, just as I HAVE taken you again and again. And I’m much obliged to you for making up such a face.”
She was conscious enough that her face indeed couldn’t please him if it showed any sign—just as she hoped it didn’t—of her sharp impression of what he now really wanted to do. Wasn’t he trying to turn the tables on her, embarrass her somehow into admitting that what would really suit her little book would be, after doing so much for good manners, to leave her wholly at liberty to arrange for herself? She began to be nervous again: it rolled over her that this was their parting, their parting for ever, and that he had brought her there for so many caresses only because it was important such an occasion should look better for him than any other. For her to spoil it by the note of discord would certainly give him ground for complaint; and the child was momentarily bewildered between her alternatives of agreeing with him about her wanting to get rid of him and displeasing him by pretending to stick to him. So she found for the moment no solution but to murmur very helplessly: “Oh papa—oh papa!”
“I know what you’re up to—don’t tell ME!” After which he came straight over and, in the most inconsequent way in the world, clasped her in his arms a moment and rubbed his beard against her cheek. Then she understood as well as if he had spoken it that what he wanted, hang it, was that she should let him off with all the honours—with all the appearance of virtue and sacrifice on his side. It was exactly as if he had broken out to her: “I say, you little booby, help me to be irreproachable, to be noble, and yet to have none of the beastly bore of it. There’s only impropriety enough for one of us; so YOU must take it all. REPUDIATE your dear old daddy—in the face, mind you, of his tender supplications. He can’t be rough with you—it isn’t in his nature: therefore you’ll have successfully chucked him because he was too generous to be as firm with you, poor man, as was, after all, his duty.” This was what he communicated in a series of tremendous pats on the back; that portion of her person had never been so thumped since Moddle thumped her when she choked. After a moment he gave her the further impression of having become sure enough of her to be able very gracefully to say out: “You know your mother loathes you, loathes you simply. And I’ve been thinking over your precious man—the fellow you told me about.”
“Well,” Maisie replied with competence, “I’m sure of HIM.”
Her father was vague for an instant. “Do you mean sure of his liking you?”
“Oh no; of his liking HER!”
Beale had a return of gaiety. “There’s no accounting for tastes! It’s what they all say, you know.”
“I don’t care—I’m sure of him!” Maisie repeated.
“Sure, you mean, that she’ll bolt?”
Maisie knew all about bolting, but, decidedly, she WAS older, and there was something in her that could wince at the way her father made the ugly word—ugly enough at best—sound flat and low. It prompted her to amend his allusion, which she did by saying: “I don’t know what she’ll do. But she’ll be happy.”
“Let us hope so,” said Beale—almost as for edification. “The more happy she is at any rate the less she’ll want you about. That’s why I press you,” he agreeably pursued, “to consider this handsome offer—I mean seriously, you know—of your sole surviving parent.” Their eyes, at this, met again in a long and extraordinary communion which terminated in his ejaculating: “Ah you little scoundrel!” She took it from him in the manner it seemed to her he would like best and with a success that encouraged him to go on: “You ARE a deep little devil!” Her silence, ticking like a watch, acknowledged even this, in confirmation of which he finally brought out: “You’ve settled it with the other pair!”
“Well, what if I have?” She sounded to herself most bold.
Her father, quite as in the old days, broke into a peal. “Why, don’t you know they’re awful?”
She grew bolder still. “I don’t care—not a bit!”
“But they’re probably the worst people in the world and the very greatest criminals,” Beale pleasantly urged. “I’m not the man, my dear, not to let you know it.”
“Well, it doesn’t prevent them from loving me. They love me tremendously.” Maisie turned crimson to hear herself.
Her companion fumbled; almost any one—et alone a daughter— would have seen how conscientious he wanted to be. “I dare say. But do you know why?” She braved his eyes and he added: “You’re a jolly good pretext.”
“For what?” Maisie asked.
“Why, for their game. I needn’t tell you what that is.”
The child reflected. “Well then that’s all the more reason.”
“Reason for what, pray?”
“For their being kind to me.”
“And for your keeping in with them?” Beale roared again; it was as if his spirits rose and rose. “Do you realise, pray, that in saying that you’re a monster?”
She turned it over. “A monster?�
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“They’ve MADE one of you. Upon my honour it’s quite awful. It shows the kind of people they are. Don’t you understand,” Beale pursued, “that when they’ve made you as horrid as they can—as horrid as themselves—they’ll just simply chuck you?”
She had at this a flicker of passion. “They WON’T chuck me!”
“I beg your pardon,” her father courteously insisted; “it’s my duty to put it before you. I shouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t point out to you that they’ll cease to require you.” He spoke as if with an appeal to her intelligence that she must be ashamed not adequately to meet, and this gave a real distinction to his superior delicacy.
It cleared the case as he had wished. “Cease to require me because they won’t care?” She paused with that sketch of her idea.
“OF COURSE Sir Claude won’t care if his wife bolts. That’s his game. It will suit him down to the ground.”
This was a proposition Maisie could perfectly embrace, but it still left a loophole for triumph. She turned it well over. “You mean if mamma doesn’t come back ever at all?” The composure with which her face was presented to that prospect would have shown a spectator the long road she had travelled. “Well, but that won’t put Mrs. Beale—”