by Henry James
Muniment’s face showed that he had been annoyed, but he answered, quietly enough, ‘No writing – no writing.’
‘You are terribly careful,’ said the Princess.
‘Careful of you – yes.’
She sank down upon her sofa again, asking her companion to ring for tea; they would do much better to have some before going out. When the order had been given, she remarked, ‘I see I shall have much less keen emotion than when I acted by myself.’
‘Is that what you go in for – keen emotion?’
‘Surely, Mr Muniment. Don’t you?’
‘God forbid! I hope to have as little of it as possible.’
‘Of course one doesn’t want any vague rodomontade; one wants to do something. But it would be hard if one couldn’t have a little pleasure by the way.’
‘My pleasure is in quietness,’ said Paul Muniment, smiling.
‘So is mine. But it depends on how you understand it. Quietness, I mean, in the midst of a tumult.’
‘You have rare ideas about tumults. They are not good in themselves.’
The Princess considered this a moment; then she remarked, ‘I wonder if you are too prudent. I shouldn’t like that. If it is made an accusation against you that you have been – where we are going – shall you deny it?’
‘With that prospect it would be simpler not to go at all, wouldn’t it?’ Muniment inquired.
‘Which prospect do you mean? That of being found out, or that of having to lie?’
‘I suppose that if you lie you are not found out,’ Muniment replied, humorously.
‘You won’t take me seriously,’ said the Princess. She spoke without irritation, without resentment, with a kind of resigned sadness. But there was a certain fineness of reproach in the tone in which she added, ‘I don’t believe you want to go at all.’
‘Why else should I have come, especially if I don’t take you seriously?’
‘That has never been a reason for a man’s not going to see a woman,’ said the Princess. ‘It’s usually a reason in favour of it.’
Muniment turned his smiling eyes over the room, looking from one article of furniture to another: this was a way he had when he was engaged in a discussion, and it suggested not so much that he was reflecting on what his interlocutor said as that his thoughts were pursuing a cheerfully independent course. Presently he observed, ‘I don’t know that I quite understand what you mean by that question of taking a woman seriously.’
‘Ah, you are very perfect,’ murmured the Princess. ‘Don’t you consider that the changes you look for will be also for our benefit?’
‘I don’t think they will alter your position.’
‘If I didn’t hope for that, I wouldn’t do anything,’ said the Princess.
‘Oh, I have no doubt you’ll do a great deal.’
The young man’s companion was silent for some minutes, during which he also was content to say nothing. ‘I wonder you can find it in your conscience to work with me,’ she observed at last.
‘It isn’t in my conscience I find it,’ said Muniment, laughing.
The maid-servant brought in the tea, and while the Princess was making a place for it on a little table beside her she exclaimed, ‘Well, I don’t care, for I think I have you in my power!’
‘You have every one in your power,’ returned Muniment.
‘Every one is no one,’ the Princess replied, rather dryly; and a moment later she said to him, ‘That extraordinary little sister of yours – surely you take her seriously?’
‘I’m wonderful fond of her, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t think her position will ever be altered.’
‘Are you alluding to her position in bed? If you consider that she will never recover her health,’ the Princess said, ‘I am very sorry to hear it.’
‘Oh, her health will do. I mean that she will continue to be, like all the most amiable women, just a kind of ornament to life.’
The Princess had already perceived that he pronounced amiable ‘emiable’; but she had accepted this peculiarity of her visitor in the spirit of imaginative transfigurement in which she had accepted several others. ‘To your life, of course. She can hardly be said to be an ornament to her own.’
‘Her life and mine are all one.’
‘She is certainly magnificent,’ said the Princess. While he was drinking his tea she remarked to him that for a revolutionist he was certainly most extraordinary; and he inquired, in answer, whether it were not rather in keeping for revolutionists to be extraordinary. He drank three cups, declaring that his hostess’s decoction was fine; it was better, even, than Lady Aurora’s. This led him to observe, as he put down his third cup, looking round the room again, lovingly, almost covetously, ‘You’ve got everything so handy, I don’t see what interest you can have.’
‘How do you mean, what interest?’
‘In getting in so uncommon deep.’
On the instant the Princess’s expression flashed into pure passion. ‘Do you consider that I am in – really far?’
‘Up to your neck, ma’am.’
‘And do you think that il y va of my neck – I mean that it’s in danger?’ she translated, eagerly.
‘Oh, I understand your French. Well, I’ll look after you,’ Muniment said.
‘Remember, then, definitely, that I expect not to lie.’
‘Not even for me?’ Then Muniment added, in the same familiar tone, which was not rough nor wanting in respect, but only homely and direct, suggestive of growing acquaintance, ‘If I was your husband I would come and take you away.’
‘Please don’t speak of my husband,’ said the Princess, gravely. ‘You have no qualification for doing so; you know nothing whatever about him.’
‘I know what Hyacinth has told me.’
‘Oh, Hyacinth!’ the Princess murmured, impatiently. There was another silence of some minutes, not disconnected, apparently, from this reference to the little bookbinder; but when Muniment spoke, after the interval, it was not to carry on the allusion.
‘Of course you think me very plain, very rude.’
‘Certainly, you have not such a nice address as Hyacinth,’ the Princess rejoined, not desiring, on her side, to evade the topic. ‘But that is given to very few,’ she added; ‘and I don’t know that pretty manners are exactly what we are working for.’
‘Ay, it won’t be very endearing when we cut down a few allowances,’ said Muniment. ‘But I want to please you; I want to be as much as possible like Hyacinth,’ he went on.
‘That is not the way to please me. I don’t forgive him; he’s very silly.’
‘Ah, don’t say that; he’s a little brick!’ Muniment exclaimed.
‘He’s a dear fellow, with extraordinary qualities, but so deplorably conventional.’
‘Yes, talking about taking things seriously – he takes them seriously,’ remarked Muniment.
‘Has he ever told you his life?’ asked the Princess.
‘He hasn’t required to tell me. I’ve seen a good bit of it.’
‘Yes, but I mean before you knew him.’
Muniment reflected a moment. ‘His birth, and his poor mother? I think it was Rosy told me about that.’
‘And pray, how did she know?’
‘Ah, when you come to the way Rosy knows!’ said Muniment, laughing. ‘She doesn’t like people in that predicament. She thinks we ought all to be finely born.’
‘Then they agree, for so does poor Hyacinth.’ The Princess hesitated an instant; then she said, as if with a quick effort, ‘I want to ask you something. Have you had a visit from Mr Vetch?’
‘The old gentleman who fiddles? No, he has never done me that honour.’
‘It was because I prevented him, then. I told him to leave it to me.’
‘To leave what, now?’ Muniment looked at her in placid perplexity.
‘He is in great distress about Hyacinth – about the danger he runs. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know what
you mean,’ Muniment replied, slowly. ‘But what does he know about it? I thought it was supposed to be a deadly secret.’
‘So it is. He doesn’t know anything; he only suspects.’
‘How do you know, then?’
The Princess hesitated again. ‘Oh, I’m like Rosy – I find out. Mr Vetch, as I suppose you are aware, has known Hyacinth all his life; he takes a most affectionate interest in him. He believes there is something hanging over him, and he wants it to be turned off, to be stopped.’ The Princess paused at this, but her visitor made no response, and she continued: ‘He was going to see you, to beg you to do something, to interfere; he seemed to think that your power, in such a matter, would be very great; but, as I tell you, I requested him, as a particular favour to me, to let you alone.’
‘What favour would it be to you?’ Muniment asked.
‘It would give me the satisfaction of feeling that you were not worried.’
Muniment appeared struck with the curious inadequacy of this explanation, considering what was at stake; he broke into a laugh and remarked, ‘That was considerate of you, beyond everything.’
‘It was not meant as consideration for you; it was a piece of calculation.’ The Princess, having made this announcement, gathered up her gloves and turned away, walking to the chimney-piece, where she stood a moment arranging her bonnet-ribbons in the mirror with which it was decorated. Muniment watched her with evident curiosity; in spite both of his inaccessibility to nervous agitation and of the sceptical theories he entertained about her, he was not proof against her general faculty of creating a feeling of suspense, a tension of interest, on the part of those who associated with her. He followed her movements, but plainly he didn’t follow her calculations, so that he could only listen more attentively when she inquired suddenly, ‘Do you know why I asked you to come and see me? Do you know why I went to see your sister? It was all a plan,’ said the Princess.
‘We hoped it was just an ordinary humane, social impulse,’ the young man returned.
‘It was humane, it was even social, but it was not ordinary. I wanted to save Hyacinth.’
‘To save him?’
‘I wanted to be able to talk with you just as I am talking now.’
‘That was a fine idea!’ Muniment exclaimed, ingenuously.
‘I have an exceeding, a quite inexpressible, regard for him. I have no patience with some of his opinions, and that is why I permitted myself to say just now that he is silly. But, after all, the opinions of our friends are not what we love them for, and therefore I don’t see why they should be what we hate them for. Hyacinth Robinson’s nature is singularly generous and his intelligence very fine, though there are some things that he muddles up. You just now expressed strongly your own regard for him; therefore we ought to be perfectly agreed. Agreed, I mean, about getting him out of his scrape.’
Muniment had the air of a man who felt that he must consider a little before he assented to these successive propositions; it being a limitation of his intellect that he could not respond without understanding. After a moment he answered, referring to the Princess’s last remark, in which the others appeared to culminate, and at the same time shaking his head a little and smiling, ‘His scrape isn’t important.’
‘You thought it was when you got him into it.’
‘I thought it would give him pleasure,’ said Muniment.
‘That’s not a reason for letting people do what isn’t good for them.’
‘I wasn’t thinking so much about what would be good for him as about what would be bad for some others. He can do as he likes.’
‘That’s easy to say. They must be persuaded not to call upon him.’
‘Persuade them, then, dear madam.’
‘How can I persuade them? If I could, I wouldn’t have approached you. I have no influence, and even if I had my motives would be suspected. You are the one to interpose.’
‘Shall I tell them he funks it?’ Muniment asked.
‘He doesn’t – he doesn’t!’ exclaimed the Princess.
‘On what ground, then, shall I put it?’
‘Tell them he has changed his opinions.’
‘Wouldn’t that be rather like denouncing him as a traitor, and doing it hypocritically?’
‘Tell them then it’s simply my wish.’
‘That won’t do you much good,’ Muniment said, with his natural laugh.
‘Will it put me in danger? That’s exactly what I want.’
‘Yes; but as I understand you, you want to suffer for the people, not by them. You are very fond of Robinson; it couldn’t be otherwise,’ the young man went on. ‘But you ought to remember that, in the line you have chosen, our affections, our natural ties, our timidities, our shrinkings –’ His voice had become low and grave, and he paused a little, while the Princess’s deep and lovely eyes, attaching themselves to his face, showed that in an instant she was affected by this unwonted adjuration. He spoke now as if he were taking her seriously. ‘All those things are as nothing, and must never weigh a feather beside our service.’
The Princess began to draw on her gloves. ‘You’re a most extraordinary man.’
‘That’s what Rosy tells me.’
‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’
‘Do Hyacinth’s job? Because it’s better to do my own.’
‘And pray, what is your own?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Paul Muniment, with perfect serenity and good-nature. ‘I expect to be instructed.’
‘Have you taken an oath, like Hyacinth?’
‘Ah, madam, the oaths I take I don’t tell,’ said the young man, gravely.
‘Oh, you…!’ the Princess murmured, with an ambiguous cadence. She appeared to dismiss the question, but to suggest at the same time that he was very abnormal. This imputation was further conveyed by the next words she uttered: ‘And can you see a dear friend whirled away like that?’
At this, for the first time, Paul Muniment exhibited a certain irritation. ‘You had better leave my dear friend to me.’
The Princess, with her eyes still fixed upon him, gave a long, soft sigh. ‘Well, then, shall we go?’
Muniment took up his hat again, but he made no movement toward the door. ‘If you did me the honour to seek my acquaintance, to ask me to come and see you, only in order to say what you have just said about Hyacinth, perhaps we needn’t carry out the form of going to the place you proposed. Wasn’t this only your pretext?’
‘I believe you are afraid!’ the Princess exclaimed; but in spite of her exclamation the pair presently went out of the house. They quitted the door together, after having stood on the step for a moment, looking up and down, apparently for a cab. So far as the darkness, which was now complete, permitted the prospect to be scanned, there was no such vehicle within hail. They turned to the left, and after a walk of several minutes, during which they were engaged in small, dull by-streets, emerged upon a more populous way, where there were lighted shops and omnibuses and the evident chance of a hansom. Here they paused again, and very soon an empty hansom passed, and, at a sign, pulled up near them. Meanwhile, it should be recorded, they had been followed, at an interval, by a cautious figure, a person who, in Madeira Crescent, when they came out of the house, was stationed on the other side of the street, at a considerable distance. When they appeared he retreated a little, still however keeping them in sight. When they moved away he moved in the same direction, watching them but maintaining his distance. He drew nearer, seemingly because he could not control his eagerness, as they turned into Westbourne Grove, and during the minute they stood there he was exposed to recognition by the Princess if she had happened to turn her head. In the event of her having felt such an impulse she would have discovered, in the lamplight, that her noble husband was hovering in her rear. But the Princess was otherwise occupied; she failed to see that at one moment he came so close as to suggest that he had an intention of addressing himself to the couple. The reader scarcely needs to be inf
ormed that his real intention was to satisfy himself as to the kind of person his wife was walking with. The time allowed him for this research was brief, especially as he had perceived more rapidly than he sometimes perceived things, that they were looking for a vehicle and that with its assistance they would pass out of his range – a reflection which caused him to give half his attention to the business of hailing any second cab which should come that way. There are parts of London in which you may never see a cab at all, but there are none in which you may see only one; in accordance with which fortunate truth Prince Casamassima was able to wave his stick to good purpose as soon as the two objects of his pursuit had rattled away. Behind them now, in the gloom, he had no fear of being seen. In little more than an instant he had jumped into another hansom, the driver of which accompanied the usual exclamation of ‘All right, sir!’ with a small, amused grunt, which the Prince thought eminently British, after he had hissed at him, over the hood, expressively, and in a manner by no means indicative of that nationality, the injunction, ‘Follow, follow, follow!’
40
An hour after the Princess had left the house with Paul Muniment, Madame Grandoni came down to supper, a meal of which she partook, in gloomy solitude, in the little back parlour. She had pushed away her plate, and sat motionless, staring at the crumpled cloth, with her hands folded on the edge of the table, when she became aware that a gentleman had been ushered into the drawing-room and was standing before the fire in an attitude of discreet expectancy. At the same moment the maid-servant approached the old lady, remarking with bated breath, ‘The Prince, the Prince, mum! It’s you he ’ave asked for, mum!’ Upon this, Madame Grandoni called out to the visitor from her place, addressed him as her poor illustrious friend and bade him come and give her his arm. He obeyed with solemn alacrity, and conducted her into the front room, near the fire. He helped her to arrange herself in her arm-chair and to gather her shawl about her; then he seated himself near her and remained with his dismal eyes bent upon her. After a moment she said, ‘Tell me something about Rome. The grass in Villa Borghese must already be thick with flowers.’