by Henry James
“He doesn’t pity you,” Susie earnestly reasoned. “He just—the same as any one else—likes you.”
“He has no business then to like me. He’s not the same as any one else.”
“Why not, if he wants to work for you?”
Milly gave her another look, but this time a wonderful smile. “Ah there you are!” Mrs. Stringham coloured, for there indeed she was again. But Milly let her off. “Work for me, all the same—work for me! It’s of course what I want.” Then as usual she embraced her friend. “I’m not going to be as nasty as this to HIM.”
“I’m sure I hope not!”—and Mrs. Stringham laughed for the kiss. “I’ve no doubt, however, he’d take it from you! It’s YOU, my dear, who are not the same as any one else.”
Milly’s assent to which, after an instant, gave her the last word. “No, so that people can take anything from me.” And what Mrs. Stringham did indeed resignedly take after this was the absence on her part of any account of the visit then paid. It was the beginning in fact between them of an odd independence—an independence positively of action and custom—on the subject of Milly’s future. They went their separate ways with the girl’s intense assent; this being really nothing but what she had so wonderfully put in her plea for after Mrs. Stringham’s first encounter with Sir Luke. She fairly favoured the idea that Susie had or was to have other encounters—private pointed personal; she favoured every idea, but most of all the idea that she herself was to go on as if nothing were the matter. Since she was to be worked for that would be her way; and though her companions [Norton emendation: companion] learned from herself nothing of it this was in the event her way with her medical adviser. She put her visit to him on the simplest ground; she had come just to tell him how touched she had been by his good nature. That required little explaining, for, as Mrs. Stringham had said, he quite understood he could but reply that it was all right.
“I had a charming quarter of an hour with that clever lady. You’ve got good friends.”
“So each one of them thinks of all the others. But so I also think,” Milly went on, “of all of them together. You’re excellent for each other. And it’s in that way, I dare say, that you’re best for me.”
There came to her on this occasion one of the strangest of her impressions, which was at the same time one of the finest of her alarms—the glimmer of a vision that if she should go, as it were, too far, she might perhaps deprive their relation of facility if not of value. Going too far was failing to try at least to remain simple. He would be quite ready to hate her if she did, by heading him off at every point, embarrass his exercise of a kindness that, no doubt, rather constituted for him a high method. Susie wouldn’t hate her, since Susie positively wanted to suffer for her; Susie had a noble idea that she might somehow so do her good. Such, however, was not the way in which the greatest of London doctors was to be expected to wish to do it. He wouldn’t have time even should he wish; whereby, in a word, Milly felt herself intimately warned. Face to face there with her smooth strong director, she enjoyed at a given moment quite such another lift of feeling as she had known in her crucial talk with Susie. It came round to the same thing; him too she would help to help her if that could possibly be; but if it couldn’t possibly be she would assist also to make this right. It wouldn’t have taken many minutes more, on the basis in question, almost to reverse for her their characters of patient and physician. What WAS he in fact but patient, what was she but physician, from the moment she embraced once for all the necessity, adopted once for all the policy, of saving him alarms about her subtlety? She would leave the subtlety to him: he would enjoy his use of it, and she herself, no doubt, would in time enjoy his enjoyment. She went so far as to imagine that the inward success of these reflexions flushed her for the minute, to his eyes, with a certain bloom, a comparative appearance of health; and what verily next occurred was that he gave colour to the presumption. “Every little helps, no doubt!”—he noticed good-humouredly her harmless sally. “But, help or no help, you’re looking, you know, remarkably well.”
“Oh I thought I was,” she answered; and it was as if already she saw his line. Only she wondered what he would have guessed. If he had guessed anything at all it would be rather remarkable of him. As for what there WAS to guess, he couldn’t—if this was present to him—have arrived at it save by his own acuteness. That acuteness was therefore immense; and if it supplied the subtlety she thought of leaving him to, his portion would be none so bad. Neither, for that matter, would hers be—which she was even actually enjoying. She wondered if really then there mightn’t be something for her. She hadn’t been sure in coming to him that she was “better,” and he hadn’t used, he would be awfully careful not to use, that compromising term about her; in spite of all of which she would have been ready to say, for the amiable sympathy of it, “Yes, I MUST be,” for he had this unaided sense of something that had happened to her. It was a sense unaided, because who could have told him of anything? Susie, she was certain, hadn’t yet seen him again, and there were things it was impossible she could have told him the first time. Since such was his penetration, therefore, why shouldn’t she gracefully, in recognition of it, accept the new circumstance, the one he was clearly wanting to congratulate her on, as a sufficient cause? If one nursed a cause tenderly enough it might produce an effect; and this, to begin with, would be a way of nursing. “You gave me the other day,” she went on, “plenty to think over, and I’ve been doing that—thinking it over—quite as you’ll have probably wished me. I think I must be pretty easy to treat,” she smiled, “since you’ve already done me so much good.”
The only obstacle to reciprocity with him was that he looked in advance so closely related to all one’s possibilities that one missed the pleasure of really improving it. “Oh no, you’re extremely difficult to treat. I’ve need with you, I assure you, of all my wit.”
“Well, I mean I do come up.” She hadn’t meanwhile a bit believed in his answer, convinced as she was that if she HAD been difficult it would be the last thing he would have told her. “I’m doing,” she said, “as I like.”
“Then it’s as i like. But you must really, though we’re having such a decent month, get straight away.” In pursuance of which, when she had replied with promptitude that her departure—for the Tyrol and then for Venice—was quite fixed for the fourteenth, he took her up with alacrity. “For Venice? That’s perfect, for we shall meet there. I’ve a dream of it for October, when I’m hoping for three weeks off; three weeks during which, if I can get them clear, my niece, a young person who has quite the whip hand of me, is to take me where she prefers. I heard from her only yesterday that she expects to prefer Venice.”
“That’s lovely then. I shall expect you there. And anything that, in advance or in any way, I can do for you—!”
“Oh thank you. My niece, I seem to feel, does for me. But it will be capital to find you there.”
“I think it ought to make you feel,” she said after a moment, “that I AM easy to treat.”
But he shook his head again; he wouldn’t have it. “You’ve not come to that YET.”
“One has to be so bad for it?”
“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever come to it—to ‘ease’ of treatment. I doubt if it’s possible. I’ve not, if it is, found any one bad enough. The ease, you see, is for YOU.”
“I see—I see.”
They had an odd friendly, but perhaps the least bit awkward pause on it; after which Sir Luke asked: “And that clever lady—she goes with you?”
“Mrs. Stringham? Oh dear, yes. She’ll stay with me, I hope, to the end.”
He had a cheerful blankness. “To the end of what?”
“Well—of everything.”
“Ah then,” he laughed, “you’re in luck. The end of everything is far off. This, you know, I’m hoping,” said Sir Luke, “is only the beginning.” And the next question he risked might have been a part of his hope. “Just you and she together?”
> “No, two other friends; two ladies of whom we’ve seen more here than of any one and who are just the right people for us.”
He thought a moment. “You’ll be four women together then?”
“Ah,” said Milly, “we’re widows and orphans. But I think,” she added as if to say what she saw would reassure him, “that we shall not be unattractive, as we move, to gentlemen. When you talk of ‘life’ I suppose you mean mainly gentlemen.”
“When I talk of ‘life,’ ” he made answer after a moment during which he might have been appreciating her raciness—”when I talk of life I think I mean more than anything else the beautiful show of it, in its freshness, made by young persons of your age. So go on as you are. I see more and more HOW you are. You can’t,” he went so far as to say for pleasantness, “better it.”
She took it from him with a great show of peace. “One of our companions will be Miss Croy, who came with me here first. It’s in HER that life is splendid; and a part of that is even that she’s devoted to me. But she’s above all magnificent in herself. So that if you’d like,” she freely threw out, “to see HER—”
“Oh I shall like to see any one who’s devoted to you, for clearly it will be jolly to be ‘in’ it. So that if she’s to be at Venice I SHALL see her?”
“We must arrange it—I shan’t fail. She moreover has a friend who may also be there”—Milly found herself going on to this. “He’s likely to come, I believe, for he always follows her.”
Sir Luke wondered. “You mean they’re lovers?”
“HE is,” Milly smiled; “but not she. She doesn’t care for him.”
Sir Luke took an interest. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Nothing but that she doesn’t like him.”
Sir Luke kept it up. “Is he all right?”
“Oh he’s very nice. Indeed he’s remarkably so.”
“And he’s to be in Venice?”
“So she tells me she fears. For if he is there he’ll be constantly about with her.”
“And she’ll be constantly about with you?”
“As we’re great friends—yes.”
“Well then,” said Sir Luke, “you won’t be four women alone.”
“Oh no; I quite recognise the chance of gentlemen. But he won’t,” Milly pursued in the same wondrous way, “have come, you see, for ME.”
“No—I see. But can’t you help him?”
“Can’t YOU?” Milly after a moment quaintly asked. Then for the joke of it she explained. “I’m putting you, you see, in relation with my entourage.”
It might have been for the joke of it too, by this time, that her eminent friend fell in. “But if this gentleman ISN’T of your ‘entourage’? I mean if he’s of—what do you call her?—Miss Croy’s. Unless indeed you also take an interest in him.”
“Oh certainly I take an interest in him!”
“You think there may be then some chance for him?”
“I like him,” said Milly, “enough to hope so.”
“Then that’s all right. But what, pray,” Sir Luke next asked, “have I to do with him?”
“Nothing,” said Milly, “except that if you’re to be there, so may he be. And also that we shan’t in that case be simply four dreary women.”
He considered her as if at this point she a little tried his patience. “YOU’RE the least ‘dreary’ woman I’ve ever, ever seen. Ever, do you know? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a really splendid life.”
“So every one tells me,” she promptly returned.
“The conviction—strong already when I had seen you once—is strengthened in me by having seen your friend. There’s no doubt about it. The world’s before you.”
“What did my friend tell you?” Milly asked.
“Nothing that wouldn’t have given you pleasure. We talked about you—and freely. I don’t deny that. But it shows me I don’t require of you the impossible.”
She was now on her feet. “I think I know what you require of me.”
“Nothing, for you,” he went on, “IS impossible. So go on.” He repeated it again—wanting her so to feel that to-day he saw it. “You’re all right.”
“Well,” she smiled—”keep me so.”
“Oh you’ll get away from me.”
“Keep me, keep me,” she simply continued with her gentle eyes on him.
She had given him her hand for good-bye, and he thus for a moment did keep her. Something then, while he seemed to think if there were anything more, came back to him; though something of which there wasn’t too much to be made. “Of course if there’s anything I CAN do for your friend: I mean the gentleman you speak of—?” He gave out in short that he was ready.
“Oh Mr. Densher?” It was as if she had forgotten.
“Mr. Densher—is that his name?”
“Yes—but his case isn’t so dreadful.” She had within a minute got away from that.
“No doubt—if YOU take an interest.” She had got away, but it was as if he made out in her eyes—though they also had rather got away—a reason for calling her back. “Still, if there’s anything one can do—?”
She looked at him while she thought, while she smiled. “I’m afraid there’s really nothing one can do.”
Book Seventh, Chapter 3
Not yet so much as this morning had she felt herself sink into possession; gratefully glad that the warmth of the Southern summer was still in the high florid rooms, palatial chambers where hard cool pavements took reflexions in their lifelong polish, and where the sun on the stirred sea-water, flickering up through open windows, played over the painted “subjects” in the splendid ceilings—medallions of purple and brown, of brave old melancholy colour, medals as of old reddened gold, embossed and beribboned, all toned with time and all flourished and scolloped and gilded about, set in their great moulded and figured concavity (a nest of white cherubs, friendly creatures of the air) and appreciated by the aid of that second tier of smaller lights, straight openings to the front, which did everything, even with the Baedekers and photographs of Milly’s party dreadfully meeting the eye, to make of the place an apartment of state. This at last only, though she had enjoyed the palace for three weeks, seemed to count as effective occupation; perhaps because it was the first time she had been alone—really to call alone—since she had left London, it ministered to her first full and unembarrassed sense of what the great Eugenio had done for her. The great Eugenio, recommended by grand-dukes and Americans, had entered her service during the last hours of all—had crossed from Paris, after multiplied pourparlers with Mrs. Stringham, to whom she had allowed more than ever a free hand, on purpose to escort her to the Continent and encompass her there, and had dedicated to her, from the moment of their meeting, all the treasures of his experience. She had judged him in advance—polyglot and universal, very dear and very deep—as probably but a swindler finished to the finger-tips; for he was for ever carrying one well-kept Italian hand to his heart and plunging the other straight into her pocket, which, as she had instantly observed him to recognise, fitted it like a glove. The remarkable thing was that these elements of their common consciousness had rapidly gathered into an indestructible link, formed the ground of a happy relation; being by this time, strangely, grotesquely, delightfully, what most kept up confidence between them and what most expressed it.
She had seen quickly enough what was happening—the usual thing again, yet once again. Eugenio had, in an interview of five minutes, understood her, had got hold, like all the world, of the idea not so much of the care with which she must be taken up as of the care with which she must be let down. All the world understood her, all the world had got hold; but for nobody yet, she felt, would the idea have been so close a tie or won from herself so patient a surrender. Gracefully, respectfully, consummately enough—always with hands in position and the look, in his thick neat white hair, smooth fat face and black professional, almost theatrical eyes, as of some famous tenor grown too old to make lo
ve, but with an art still to make money—did he on occasion convey to her that she was, of all the clients of his glorious career, the one in whom his interest was most personal and paternal. The others had come in the way of business, but for her his sentiment was special. Confidence rested thus on her completely believing that: there was nothing of which she felt more sure. It passed between them every time they conversed; he was abysmal, but this intimacy lived on the surface. He had taken his place already for her among those who were to see her through, and meditation ranked him, in the constant perspective, for the final function, side by side with poor Susie—whom she was now pitying more than ever for having to be herself so sorry and to say so little about it. Eugenio had the general tact of a residuary legatee—which was a character that could be definitely worn; whereas she could see Susie, in the event of her death, in no character at all, Susie being insistently, exclusively concerned in her mere makeshift duration. This principle, for that matter, Milly at present, with a renewed flare of fancy, felt she should herself have liked to believe in. Eugenio had really done for her more than he probably knew—he didn’t after all know everything—in having, for the wind-up of the autumn, on a weak word from her, so admirably, so perfectly established her. Her weak word, as a general hint, had been: “At Venice, please, if possible, no dreadful, no vulgar hotel; but, if it can be at all managed—you know what I mean—some fine old rooms, wholly independent, for a series of months. Plenty of them too, and the more interesting the better: part of a palace, historic and picturesque, but strictly inodorous, where we shall be to ourselves, with a cook, don’t you know?—with servants, frescoes, tapestries, antiquities, the thorough make-believe of a settlement.”