by Henry James
It was what he had been all the while coming to. “No; we met once—so far as it could be called a meeting. I had stayed—I didn’t come away.”
“That,” said Kate, “was no more than decent.”
“Precisely”—he felt himself wonderful; “and I wanted to be no less. She sent for me, I went to her, and that night I left Venice.”
His companion waited. “Wouldn’t THAT then have been your chance?”
“To refute Lord Mark’s story? No, not even if before her there I had wanted to. What did it signify either? She was dying.”
“Well,” Kate in a manner persisted, “why not just BECAUSE she was dying?” She had however all her discretion. “But of course I know that seeing her you could judge.”
“Of course seeing her I could judge. And I did see her! If I had denied you moreover,” Densher said with his eyes on her, “I’d have stuck to it.”
She took for a moment the intention of his face. “You mean that to convince her you’d have insisted or somehow proved—?”
“I mean that to convince YOU I’d have insisted or somehow proved—!”
Kate looked for her moment at a loss. “To convince ‘me’?”
“I wouldn’t have made my denial, in such conditions, only to take it back afterwards.”
With this quickly light came for her, and with it also her colour flamed. “Oh you’d have broken with me to make your denial a truth? You’d have ‘chucked’ me”—she embraced it perfectly—”to save your conscience?”
“I couldn’t have done anything else,” said Merton Densher. “So you see how right I was not to commit myself, and how little I could dream of it. If it ever again appears to you that I MIGHT have done so, remember what I say.”
Kate again considered, but not with the effect at once to which he pointed. “You’ve fallen in love with her.”
“Well then say so—with a dying woman. Why need you mind and what does it matter?”
It came from him, the question, straight out of the intensity of relation and the face-to-face necessity into which, from the first, from his entering the room, they had found themselves thrown; but it gave them their most extraordinary moment. “Wait till she IS dead! Mrs. Stringham,” Kate added, “is to telegraph.” After which, in a tone still different, “For what then,” she asked, “did Milly send for you?”
“It was what I tried to make out before I went. I must tell you moreover that I had no doubt of its really being to give me, as you say, a chance. She believed, I suppose, that I MIGHT deny; and what, to my own mind, was before me in going to her was the certainty that she’d put me to my test. She wanted from my own lips—so I saw it—the truth. But I was with her for twenty minutes, and she never asked me for it.”
“She never wanted the truth”—Kate had a high headshake. “She wanted YOU. She would have taken from you what you could give her and been glad of it, even if she had known it false. You might have lied to her from pity, and she have seen you and felt you lie, and yet—since it was all for tenderness—she would have thanked you and blessed you and clung to you but the more. For that was your strength, my dear man—that she loves you with passion.”
“Oh my ‘strength’!” Densher coldly murmured.
“Otherwise, since she had sent for you, what was it to ask of you?” And then—quite without irony—as he waited a moment to say: “Was it just once more to look at you?”
“She had nothing to ask of me—nothing, that is, but not to stay any longer. She did to that extent want to see me. She had supposed at first—after he had been with her—that I had seen the propriety of taking myself off. Then since I hadn’t—seeing my propriety as I did in another way—she found, days later, that I was still there. This,” said Densher, “affected her.”
“Of course it affected her.”
Again she struck him, for all her dignity, as glib. “If it was somehow for HER I was still staying, she wished that to end, she wished me to know how little there was need of it. And as a manner of farewell she wished herself to tell me so.”
“And she did tell you so?”
“Face-to-face, yes. Personally, as she desired.”
“And as YOU of course did.”
“No, Kate,” he returned with all their mutual consideration; “not as I did. I hadn’t desired it in the least.”
“You only went to oblige her?”
“To oblige her. And of course also to oblige you.”
“Oh for myself certainly I’m glad.”
” ‘Glad’?”—he echoed vaguely the way it rang out.
“I mean you did quite the right thing. You did it especially in having stayed. But that was all?” Kate went on. “That you mustn’t wait?”
“That was really all—and in perfect kindness.”
“Ah kindness naturally: from the moment she asked of you such a—well, such an effort. That you mustn’t wait—that was the point,” Kate added—”to see her die.”
“That was the point, my dear,” Densher said.
“And it took twenty minutes to make it?”
He thought a little. “I didn’t time it to a second. I paid her the visit—just like another.”
“Like another person?”
“Like another visit.”
“Oh!” said Kate. Which had apparently the effect of slightly arresting his speech—an arrest she took advantage of to continue; making with it indeed her nearest approach to an enquiry of the kind against which he had braced himself. “Did she receive you—in her condition—in her room?”
“Not she,” said Merton Densher. “She received me just as usual: in that glorious great salone, in the dress she always wears, from her inveterate corner of her sofa.” And his face for the moment conveyed the scene, just as hers equally embraced it. “Do you remember what you originally said to me of her?”
“Ah I’ve said so many things.”
“That she wouldn’t smell of drugs, that she wouldn’t taste of medicine. Well, she didn’t.”
“So that it was really almost happy?”
It took him a long time to answer, occupied as he partly was in feeling how nobody but Kate could have invested such a question with the tone that was perfectly right. She meanwhile, however, patiently waited. “I don’t think I can attempt to say now what it was. Some day—perhaps. For it would be worth it for us.”
“Some day—certainly.” She seemed to record the promise. Yet she spoke again abruptly. “She’ll recover.”
“Well,” said Densher, “you’ll see.”
She had the air an instant of trying to. “Did she show anything of her feeling? I mean,” Kate explained, “of her feeling of having been misled.”
She didn’t press hard, surely; but he had just mentioned that he would have rather to glide. “She showed nothing but her beauty and her strength.”
“Then,” his companion asked, “what’s the use of her strength?”
He seemed to look about for a use he could name; but he had soon given it up. “She must die, my dear, in her own extraordinary way.”
“Naturally. But I don’t see then what proof you have that she was ever alienated.”
“I have the proof that she refused for days and days to see me.”
“But she was ill.”
“That hadn’t prevented her—as you yourself a moment ago said—during the previous time. If it had been only illness it would have made no difference with her.”
“She would still have received you?”
“She would still have received me.”
“Oh well,” said Kate, “if you know—!”
“Of course I know. I know moreover as well from Mrs. Stringham.”
“And what does Mrs. Stringham know?”
“Everything.”
She looked at him longer. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Because you’ve told her?”
“Because she has seen for herself. I’ve told her nothing. She’s a person who
does see.”
Kate thought. “That’s by her liking you too. She as well is prodigious. You see what interest in a man does. It does it all round. So you needn’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Densher.
Kate moved from her place then, looking at the clock, which marked five. She gave her attention to the tea-table, where Aunt Maud’s huge silver kettle, which had been exposed to its lamp and which she had not soon enough noticed, was hissing too hard. “Well, it’s all most wonderful!” she exclaimed as she rather too profusely—a sign her friend noticed—ladled tea into the pot. He watched her a moment at this occupation, coming nearer the table while she put in the steaming water. “You’ll have some?”
He hesitated. “Hadn’t we better wait—?”
“For Aunt Maud?” She saw what he meant— the deprecation, by their old law, of betrayals of the intimate note. “Oh you needn’t mind now. We’ve done it!”
“Humbugged her?”
“Squared her. You’ve pleased her.”
Densher mechanically accepted his tea. He was thinking of something else, and his thought in a moment came out. “What a brute then I must be!”
“A brute—?”
“To have pleased so many people.”
“Ah,” said Kate with a gleam of gaiety, “you’ve done it to please ME.” But she was already, with her gleam, reverting a little. “What I don’t understand is—won’t you have any sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
“What I don’t understand,” she went on when she had helped him, “is what it was that had occurred to bring her round again. If she gave you up for days and days, what brought her back to you?”
She asked the question with her own cup in her hand, but it found him ready enough in spite of his sense of the ironic oddity of their going into it over the tea-table. “It was Sir Luke Strett who brought her back. His visit, his presence there did it.”
“He brought her back then to life.”
“Well, to what I saw.”
“And by interceding for you?”
“I don’t think he interceded. I don’t indeed know what he did.”
Kate wondered. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“I didn’t ask him. I met him again, but we practically didn’t speak of her.”
Kate stared. “Then how do you know?”
“I see. I feel. I was with him again as I had been before—”
“Oh and you pleased him too? That was it?”
“He understood,” said Densher.
“But understood what?”
He waited a moment. “That I had meant awfully well.”
“Ah, and made HER understand? I see,” she went on as he said nothing. “But how did he convince her?”
Densher put down his cup and turned away. “You must ask Sir Luke.”
He stood looking at the fire and there was a time without sound. “The great thing,” Kate then resumed, “is that she’s satisfied. Which,” she continued, looking across at him, “is what I’ve worked for.”
“Satisfied to die in the flower of her youth?”
“Well, at peace with you.”
“Oh ‘peace’!” he murmured with his eyes on the fire.
“The peace of having loved.”
He raised his eyes to her. “Is THAT peace?”
“Of having BEEN loved,” she went on. “That is. Of having,” she wound up, “realised her passion. She wanted nothing more. She has had ALL she wanted.”
Lucid and always grave, she gave this out with a beautiful authority that he could for the time meet with no words. He could only again look at her, though with the sense in so doing that he made her more than he intended take his silence for assent. Quite indeed as if she did so take it she quitted the table and came to the fire. “You may think it hideous that I should now, that I should YET”—she made a point of the word—”pretend to draw conclusions. But we’ve not failed.”
“Oh!” he only again murmured.
She was once more close to him, close as she had been the day she came to him in Venice, the quickly returning memory of which intensified and enriched the fact. He could practically deny in such conditions nothing that she said, and what she said was, with it, visibly, a fruit of that knowledge. “We’ve succeeded.” She spoke with her eyes deep in his own. “She won’t have loved you for nothing.” It made him wince, but she insisted. “And you won’t have loved ME.”
Book Tenth, Chapter 2
He was to remain for several days under the deep impression of this inclusive passage, so luckily prolonged from moment to moment, but interrupted at its climax, as may be said, by the entrance of Aunt Maud, who found them standing together near the fire. The bearings of the colloquy, however, sharp as they were, were less sharp to his intelligence, strangely enough, than those of a talk with Mrs. Lowder alone for which she soon gave him—or for which perhaps rather Kate gave him—full occasion. What had happened on her at last joining them was to conduce, he could immediately see, to her desiring to have him to herself. Kate and he, no doubt, at the opening of the door, had fallen apart with a certain suddenness, so that she had turned her hard fine eyes from one to the other; but the effect of this lost itself, to his mind, the next minute, in the effect of his companion’s rare alertness. She instantly spoke to her aunt of what had first been uppermost for herself, inviting her thereby intimately to join them, and doing it the more happily also, no doubt, because the fact she resentfully named gave her ample support. “Had you quite understood, my dear, that it’s full three weeks—?” And she effaced herself as if to leave Mrs. Lowder to deal from her own point of view with this extravagance. Densher of course straightway noted that his cue for the protection of Kate was to make, no less, all of it he could; and their tracks, as he might have said, were fairly covered by the time their hostess had taken afresh, on his renewed admission, the measure of his scant eagerness. Kate had moved away as if no great showing were needed for her personal situation to be seen as delicate. She had been entertaining their visitor on her aunt’s behalf—a visitor she had been at one time suspected of favouring too much and who had now come back to them as the stricken suitor of another person. It wasn’t that the fate of the other person, her exquisite friend, didn’t, in its tragic turn, also concern herself: it was only that her acceptance of Mr. Densher as a source of information could scarcely help having an awkwardness. She invented the awkwardness under Densher’s eyes, and he marvelled on his side at the instant creation. It served her as the fine cloud that hangs about a goddess in an epic, and the young man was but vaguely to know at what point of the rest of his visit she had, for consideration, melted into it and out of sight.
He was taken up promptly with another matter—the truth of the remarkable difference, neither more nor less, that the events of Venice had introduced into his relation with Aunt Maud and that these weeks of their separation had caused quite richly to ripen for him. She had not sat down to her tea-table before he felt himself on terms with her that were absolutely new, nor could she press on him a second cup without her seeming herself, and quite wittingly, so to define and establish them. She regretted, but she quite understood, that what was taking place had obliged him to hang off; they had—after hearing of him from poor Susan as gone—been hoping for an early sight of him; they would have been interested, naturally, in his arriving straight from the scene. Yet she needed no reminder that the scene precisely—by which she meant the tragedy that had so detained and absorbed him, the memory, the shadow, the sorrow of it—was what marked him for unsociability. She thus presented him to himself, as it were, in the guise in which she had now adopted him, and it was the element of truth in the character that he found himself, for his own part, adopting. She treated him as blighted and ravaged, as frustrate and already bereft; and for him to feel that this opened for him a new chapter of frankness with her he scarce had also to perceive how it smoothed his approaches to Kate. It made the latter accessible as she hadn’t y
et begun to be; it set up for him at Lancaster Gate an association positively hostile to any other legend. It was quickly vivid to him that, were he minded, he could “work” this association: he had but to use the house freely for his prescribed attitude and he need hardly ever be out of it. Stranger than anything moreover was to be the way that by the end of a week he stood convicted to his own sense of a surrender to Mrs. Lowder’s view. He had somehow met it at a point that had brought him on—brought him on a distance that he couldn’t again retrace. He had private hours of wondering what had become of his sincerity; he had others of simply reflecting that he had it all in use. His only want of candour was Aunt Maud’s wealth of sentiment. She was hugely sentimental, and the worst he did was to take it from her. He wasn’t so himself—everything was too real; but it was none the less not false that he HAD been through a mill.