by Henry James
CHAPTER XXVI
Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to PalazzoCrescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchettand Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former ofthese ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight hecalled five times, and compared it with another fact that she found nodifficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constitutedhis regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she had neverobserved him select for such visits those moments, of almost periodicalrecurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for MadameMerle that he came; these two were old friends and he never put himselfout for her. He was not fond of Ralph--Ralph had told her so--and it wasnot supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son.Ralph was imperturbable--Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanitythat wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which henever divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and waswilling at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But hedidn't flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice wasthe motive of their visitor's calls; he read the situation more clearly.Isabel was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one.Osmond was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural heshould be curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observedto him that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph repliedthat he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back founda place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly bywhat art and what process--so negative and so wise as they were--hehad everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never been animportunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive, and he wasrecommended to her by his appearance of being as well able to do withouther as she was to do without him--a quality that always, oddly enough,affected her as providing ground for a relation with her. It gave herno satisfaction, however, to think that he had taken it into his head tomarry her niece. Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an airof almost morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that thegirl had refused an English peer; and that a young lady with whom LordWarburton had not successfully wrestled should content herself with anobscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny childand an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett'sconception of success. She took, it will be observed, not thesentimental, but the political, view of matrimony--a view which hasalways had much to recommend it. "I trust she won't have the follyto listen to him," she said to her son to which Ralph replied thatIsabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another.He knew she had listened to several parties, as his father wouldhave said, but had made them listen in return; and he found muchentertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing her heshould observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to see life,and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of fine gentlemengoing down on their knees to her would do as well as anything else.Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth besieger; he had noconviction she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar andopen a parley; she would certainly not allow number three to come in.He expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother, wholooked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful,pictorial way of saying things that he might as well address her in thedeaf-mute's alphabet.
"I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use too manyfigures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words inthe language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr.Osmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone tofind a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very littleabout the young man in America; I don't think she spends much of hertime in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting forher. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond ifshe only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very well; no oneapproves more than I of one's pleasing one's self. But she takes herpleasure in such odd things; she's capable of marrying Mr. Osmond forthe beauty of his opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo.She wants to be disinterested: as if she were the only person who'sin danger of not being so! Will HE be so disinterested when he has thespending of her money? That was her idea before your father's death, andit has acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one ofwhose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be nosuch proof of that as his having a fortune of his own."
"My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She's making fools ofus all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by studyinghuman nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She hasstarted on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll change hercourse, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may haveslackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll be steamingaway again. Excuse another metaphor."
Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as towithhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. "You whoknow everything," she said, "you must know this: whether that curiouscreature's really making love to my niece."
"Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a fullintelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed, "that's an idea!"
"Hadn't it occurred to you?"
"You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder," sheadded, "if it has occurred to Isabel."
"Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett.
Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The thing would beto ask Mr. Osmond."
"I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him enquireof me--as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel'ssituation--what business it is of mine."
"I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared.
"But what business--for HIM--is it of yours?"
"It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's somuch less my business than any one's else that he can put me off withanything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shallknow."
"Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits of yourpenetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can speak toIsabel."
Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don't be too quickwith her. Don't inflame her imagination."
"I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'm alwayssure of her doing something--well, not of MY kind."
"No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed without the point ofinterrogation.
"Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solidto offer."
Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up hermouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. "Let usdistinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a manwho in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. Hehas made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once."
"Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs;they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What you say's preciselywhy I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world thatI know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pertlittle daughter."
"The early masters are now worth a good deal of money," said MadameMerle, "and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and veryharmless person."
"In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean?Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so thatIsabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with adowry."
"Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she likesthe poor child."
"Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, aweek hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that hermission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself--andthat, to prove it, she must first become one."
"She would make a charming
stepmother," smiled Madame Merle; "but Iquite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her missiontoo hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult aschanging the shape of one's nose: there they are, each, in the middle ofone's face and one's character--one has to begin too far back. But I'llinvestigate and report to you."
All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions thather relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle hadsaid nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly tohim than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who nowarrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer'saunt. Isabel thought him interesting--she came back to that; she likedso to think of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to hishill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to effaceand which put on for her a particular harmony with other supposedand divined things, histories within histories: the image of a quiet,clever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown terraceabove the sweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whosebell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picture had noflourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the atmosphere ofsummer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of the kind of personal issuethat touched her most nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects,contacts--what might she call them?--of a thin and those of a richassociation of a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an oldsorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that wasperhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a carefor beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that thecareer appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and withthe ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italiangarden--allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews ofa quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo CrescentiniMr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first--ohself-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to asympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort whichusually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, ratheraggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured bythe indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficultyin believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs ofstrong conviction--as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciationof anything that might be said on his own side of the question, saidperhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this youngwoman was that while he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as shehad heard people, for "effect." He uttered his ideas as if, odd asthey often appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; oldpolished knobs and heads and handles, of precious substance, that couldbe fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks--not switches plucked indestitution from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. Oneday he brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renewacquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to bekissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenuein a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern;American girls were very different--different too were the maidens ofEngland. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in theworld, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent andinfantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadinemantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had givenher--little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet ofblank paper--the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped thatso fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text.
The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess wasquite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had beenwritten over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by nomeans honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeableblots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed tosome discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor fromRome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritatepeople by always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enoughof that large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freelyas she practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacitythat this highly compromised character should have presented herself atsuch a time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed solittle as she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini.Isabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under thatroof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so mismanagedher improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all--whichwas at the least what one asked of such matters--and had become the merefloating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation.She had been married by her mother--a more administrative person, withan appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her justice,had probably by this time thrown off--to an Italian nobleman who hadperhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousnessof outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself outrageously,and the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of heradventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though theCountess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city;but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere.
Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal andwit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of awoman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrongway. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it oneshould draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that wouldexclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had bettershut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long asshe remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make arbitrarydifferences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not beenso clever as other women. She was a good creature, not clever atall; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the bestsociety? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and therecould be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her waysthan her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabelcould contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patientattention she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome tothe unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the meritof being Mr. Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought itproper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity ofthings she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had notreceived the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at thevilla, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident.Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To haveproceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but MadameMerle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabelmore about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related thehistory of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member ofan ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been gladto accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yetnot hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was ableto offer--a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed herbrother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however,had inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italianswent, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-livedbrute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she hadlost three within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristledwith pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems andcorresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, hermother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father,lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originallyrich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in GilbertOsmond, Madame Merle held--see that he had been brought up by a woman;though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a moresensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had lik
ed to becalled. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death,and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed herarrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularityof judgement on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond,approved of political marriages. The Countess was very good company andnot really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her wasto observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said.Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake;he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to beconfessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name.Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism,her violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on hisnerves, she was not HIS sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh,the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should behabitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times hervisitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed hadgiven her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almostexclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer;how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people inFlorence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she shouldlike to live somewhere else--in Paris, in London, in Washington howimpossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a littleold lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life ofsuffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interestto Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feelexempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess,and she could afford to do what was altogether best--not to appear so.
Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind herback, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had leftParis after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked herway down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached thebanks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed herwith a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pangof despair determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delightin her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped asa nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, andIsabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice toher friend's intelligence. Henrietta's arrival had been announced byMr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, andexpecting to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached, calledat Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment. Henrietta's ownadvent occurred two days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotionamply accounted for by the fact that he had not seen her since thetermination of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of hissituation was generally taken, but it was uttered only by RalphTouchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smokeda cigar there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on thesubject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentlemantook the joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that heregarded the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He likedMiss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on hershoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was notperpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she did, howwhat they did--and they had done things!--would look. Miss Stackpolenever cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care, pray whyshould he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted awfully to seeif she ever WOULD care. He was prepared to go as far as she--he didn'tsee why he should break down first.
Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightenedon her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of hercopious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopeswith regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent,bristled with difficulties even more numerous than those she hadencountered in England. But on the Continent there was the outerlife, which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easilyconvertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque islanders.Out of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously remarked, one seemedto see the right side of the tapestry; out of doors in England oneseemed to see the wrong side, which gave one no notion of the figure.The admission costs her historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing ofmore occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life. Shehad been studying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sentto the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza,the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chantedTasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was atleast seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome beforethe malaria should come on--she apparently supposed that it began on afixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present but few daysin Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and she pointedout to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he was a military manand as he had had a classical education--he had been bred at Eton, wherethey study nothing but Latin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole--hewould be a most useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At thisjuncture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also,under his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expectedto pass a portion of the next winter there--that was very well; butmeantime there was no harm in surveying the field. There were ten daysleft of the beautiful month of May--the most precious month of allto the true Rome-lover. Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was aforegone conclusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of herown sex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady'sattention, would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remainwith Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn'tcare to return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peacein Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home toPalestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal,and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing tobe despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of fourarranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, hadresigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen that shenow inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One ofIsabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before shestarted and mentioning her intention to him.
"I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "I should like tosee you on that wonderful ground."
She scarcely faltered. "You might come then."
"But you'll have a lot of people with you."
"Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone."
For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went on at last."They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it."
"Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear--the Niobe of Nations, youknow--it has been spoiled?" she asked.
"No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled. "If I wereto go, what should I do with my little girl?"
"Can't you leave her at the villa?"
"I don't know that I like that--though there's a very good old woman wholooks after her. I can't afford a governess."
"Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly.
Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter, at herconvent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure."
"You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired.
"No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world."
"I was brought up on a different system."
"You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you--you were exceptional."
"I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was notsome truth in the speech.
Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it wouldmake her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her thereto-morrow."
"Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her like herself."
"I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. He had almostthe air of asking advice; h
e seemed to like to talk over his domesticmatters with Miss Archer.
"Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towards making herresemble me!"
After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at theCountess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess'sdrawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general,but after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottomanhalf-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair. "She wants me to go toRome with her," he remarked in a low voice.
"To go with her?"
"To be there while she's there. She proposed it.
"I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented."
"Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging--she's veryencouraging."
"I rejoice to hear it--but don't cry victory too soon. Of course you'llgo to Rome."
"Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!"
"Don't pretend you don't enjoy it--you're very ungrateful. You've notbeen so well occupied these many years."
"The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to be gratefulfor that."
"Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She talked withher usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room."You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself thatyou've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times tooblige me."
"The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded.
Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lipsclosed with a certain firmness. "Is that all you can find to say aboutthat fine creature?"
"All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?"
She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace tothe room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. "I'm frightenedat the abyss into which I shall have cast her."
He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back--you've gone too far."
"Very good; but you must do the rest yourself."
"I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond.
Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but whenshe rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was awaitingher guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it hestood there detaining her. "You're very indiscreet," she said ratherwearily; "you shouldn't have moved when I did."
He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. "Ialways forget; I'm out of the habit."
"You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up at the windows ofthe house, a modern structure in the new part of the town.
He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. "She'sreally very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful."
"It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her thebetter for me."
"I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the bargaincapable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault."
"What's that?"
"Too many ideas."
"I warned you she was clever."
"Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond.
"Why is that fortunate?"
"Dame, if they must be sacrificed!"
Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke tothe coachman. But her friend again detained her. "If I go to Rome whatshall I do with Pansy?"
"I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.
CHAPTER XXVII
I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's responseto the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod thepavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed thethreshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression wassuch as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and hereagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was historyin the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had animagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever sheturned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her,but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talkedless than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be lookinglistlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her anintensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; shewould even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest shewas ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her,but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give itwings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixedthat she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her,and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing oftenin the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yetnot seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralphsaid, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoingtourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed intosolemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountainsin their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On thecorners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--tolook at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having beenfor some time previous largely extended. They had descended from themodern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wanderedwith a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had beenpaved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between thedeep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjanglediron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun hadbegun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of brokencolumn and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henriettawandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful toher to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralphaddressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentiveear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover aboutthe place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated hislesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothingto impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of theForum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signorito go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. Theproposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with muchwandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiositywhile she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were muchto her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordinglywent off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate columnnear the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, butshe was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the ruggedrelics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which thecorrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, herthoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by aconcatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, toregions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Romanpast to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imaginationhad taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles overthe nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as shebent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs coveringthe ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approachingfootsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. Shelooked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come backto say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled asshe was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly palesurprise.
"Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose.
"I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you."
She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions have justleft me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there."
"Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in thedir
ection she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he hadrecovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly."Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her dejected pillar."I'm afraid you're tired."
"Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again."Don't let me interrupt you," she added.
"Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had noidea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passingthrough."
"You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned fromRalph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.
"Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've beenin Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens." He managednot to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at thegirl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will youlet me stay a little?"
She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord WarburtonI'm very glad to see you."
"Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?"
The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded aresting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even fora highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great classseated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes hehad asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, ashe put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catchingthe answer; had given her too some information about himself which wasnot wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than oncethat he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that theencounter touched him in a way that would have made preparationadvisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of thingsto their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their beingimpossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard hadbeen burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting,heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign landsis wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and withhis pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath itsseasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general airof being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative ofthe British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by thosewho have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad shehad always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, everyone of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of greatdecent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixturesand ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only bysome whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order;her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed herwinter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for thesummer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's ownadventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. Atlast there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had saidthat it scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you severaltimes."
"Written to me? I've never had your letters."
"I never sent them. I burned them up."
"Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!"
"I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicitythat touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right totrouble you with letters."
"I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hopedthat--that--" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in theutterance of her thought.
"I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain goodfriends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flatenough; but then he was interested in making it appear so.
She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that"; aspeech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.
"It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed withforce.
"I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still asshe sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph onthe answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He waspleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man thanhe. But her answer remained.
"It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in yourpower," she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.
"I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attemptto make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain'sgreater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small consciousmajesty, looking for her companions.
"I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I onlyjust want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as itwere. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what Iexpressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I triedto forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest insomebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty.I didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as faraway as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn'tdistract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last sawyou. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything Isaid to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to youshows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperablycharm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist;it's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a fewminutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, uponmy honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were." He hadrecovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. Hemight have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly andclearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at apaper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. Andthe committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.
"I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You maybe sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of which shetried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: "There's noharm in that on either side."
They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sistersand request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the momentno further reference to their great question, but dipped again intoshallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leaveRome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was gladit was still so distant.
"Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?" sheenquired with some anxiety.
"Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one wouldtreat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is tostop a week or two."
"Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!"
His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't likethat. You're afraid you'll see too much of me."
"It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leavethis delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you."
"Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful."
They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. "PoorLord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be good for bothof them.
"Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful."
"You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow."
"If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." Atthis she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a wordto displease you."
"Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end."
"Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave."
"Give you leave to make me unhappy?"
He hesitated. "To tell you again--" But he checked himself. "I'll keepit down. I'll keep it down always."
Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by MissStackpole and her attendant, and these three now
emerged from among themounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came intosight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joyqualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious,there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with theausterity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet,and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnttraveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. "I don'tsuppose you remember me, sir."
"Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to comeand see me, and you never came."
"I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly.
"Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh.
"If you do I'll go; so be sure!"
Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantlinghad stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasionto nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly "Oh, you here,Bantling?" and a hand-shake.
"Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!"
"I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoinedfacetiously.
"I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you."
"Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton laughedagain. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh ofrelief as they kept their course homeward.
The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two longletters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but inneither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejectedsuitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoonall good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians)follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had beenagreed among our friends that they would drive together to the greatchurch. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburtonpresented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the twoladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. Thevisitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention tokeep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet andfrank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus lefther to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about histravels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked himwhether it would "pay" for her to visit those countries assured her theyoffered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, butshe wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even byproving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melther by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself thetrouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, andnothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreoverhis being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrongsort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, onbringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter'sand should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to replythat he must follow his convenience.
In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was thefirst person she encountered. She had not been one of the superiortourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smallerthan its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leatherncurtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she foundherself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle downthrough the air thickened with incense and with the reflections ofmarble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness roseand dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazedand wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute tothe seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of SaintSophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would endby calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yetbegun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there issomething almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meantas much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figuresand groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow theirvarious intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendidimmensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabeland her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henriettawas obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome sufferedby comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressedher protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its moreaccentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made thecircuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choiron the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borneto them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outsidethe doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composedin equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and whilethey stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henriettaand Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyondthe dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered byclouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slopethrough the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singingstopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her.Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confrontedwith Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a shortdistance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appearedto have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.
"So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand.
"Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. Theytold me you had come here, and I looked about for you."
"The others are inside," she decided to say.
"I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned.
She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heardthis. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her themorning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond'swords had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had notthe effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning toeach companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr.Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valourand followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately,but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since onperceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to takethe case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however,from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence,that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole hadmet Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to sayto Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr.Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris."I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased to remark, "butfor a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood'sthe only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don'tappreciate."
"What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhileenquiring of our young lady.
"It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with replying.
"It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom."
"Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?" sheasked with rather a liking for her phrase.
"I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody.But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else."
"You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering somethinghe had referred to in Florence.
"Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond.
Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolledaway together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?" his lordshipdemanded.
"His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence," Ralph said.
"What is he besides?"
"Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's solittle of
one."
"Has he known Miss Archer long?"
"Three or four weeks."
"Does she like him?"
"She's trying to find out."
"And will she?"
"Find out--?" Ralph asked.
"Will she like him?"
"Do you mean will she accept him?"
"Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's what Ihorribly mean."
"Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied.
His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must beperfectly quiet?"
"As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added.
"The chance she may?"
"The chance she may not?"
Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. "Is heawfully clever?"
"Awfully," said Ralph.
His companion thought. "And what else?"
"What more do you want?" Ralph groaned.
"Do you mean what more does SHE?"
Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others."She wants nothing that WE can give her."
"Ah well, if she won't have You--!" said his lordship handsomely as theywent.