The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow the slipping of a fine bolt—backward, forward, she couldn’t have said which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but, morally speaking, she retreated before them—facing him still—as she had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. “Oh don’t say that, please,” she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread—the sense of something within herself, deep down, that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there like a large sum stored in a bank—which there was a terror in having to begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.

“I haven’t the idea that it will matter much to you,” said Osmond. “I’ve too little to offer you. What I have—it’s enough for me; but it’s not enough for you. I’ve neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it can’t offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It gives me pleasure, I assure you,” he went on, standing there before her, considerately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken up, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of awkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm, refined, slightly ravaged face. “It gives me no pain, because it’s perfectly simple. For me you’ll always be the most important woman in the world.”

Isabel looked at herself in this character—looked intently, thinking she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an expression of any such complacency. “You don’t offend me; but you ought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded, troubled.” “Incommoded,” she heard herself saying that, and it struck her as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her.

“I remember perfectly. Of course you’re surprised and startled. But if it’s nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave something that I may not be ashamed of.”

“I don’t know what it may leave. You see at all events that I’m not overwhelmed,” said Isabel with rather a pale smile. “I’m not too troubled to think. And I think that I’m glad I leave Rome to-morrow.”

“Of course I don’t agree with you there.”

“I don’t at all know you,” she added abruptly; and then she coloured as she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord Warburton.

“If you were not going away you’d know me better.”

“I shall do that some other time.”

“I hope so. I’m very easy to know.”

“No, no,” she emphatically answered—“there you’re not sincere. You’re not easy to know; no one could be less so.”

“Well,” he laughed, “I said that because I know myself. It may be a boast, but I do.”

“Very likely; but you’re very wise.”

“So are you, Miss Archer!” Osmond exclaimed.

“I don’t feel so just now. Still, I’m wise enough to think you had better go. Good-night.”

“God bless you!” said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed to surrender. After which he added: “If we meet again you’ll find me as you leave me. If we don’t I shall be so all the same.”

“Thank you very much. Good-bye.”

There was something quietly firm about Isabel’s visitor; he might go of his own movement, but wouldn’t be dismissed. “There’s one thing more. I haven’t asked anything of you—not even a thought in the future; you must do me that justice. But there’s a little service I should like to ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome’s delightful, and it’s a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you’re sorry to leave it; but you’re right to do what your aunt wishes.”

“She doesn’t even wish it!” Isabel broke out strangely.

Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: “Ah well, it’s proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that’s proper; I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don’t know me, but when you do you’ll discover what a worship I have for propriety.”

“You’re not conventional?” Isabel gravely asked.

“I like the way you utter that word! No, I’m not conventional: I’m convention itself. You don’t understand that?” And he paused a moment, smiling. “I should like to explain it.” Then with a sudden, quick, bright naturalness, “Do come back again,” he pleaded. “There are so many things we might talk about.”

She stood there with lowered eyes. “What service did you speak of just now?”

“Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She’s alone at the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn’t at all my ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much,” said Gilbert Osmond gently.

“It will be a great pleasure to me to go,” Isabel answered. “I’ll tell her what you say. Once more good-bye.”

On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation—for it had not diminished—was very still, very deep. What had happened was something that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but here, when it came, she stopped—that sublime principle somehow broke down. The working of this young lady’s spirit was strange, and I can only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last vague space it couldn’t cross—a dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.

CHAPTER XXX

She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin’s escort, and Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond’s preference—hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling’s aid. Isabel was to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs. Touchett’s departure, and she determined to devote the last of these to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame Merle’s. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, “forever”) seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn’t mention that he had also made her a declaration of love.

“Ah, comme cela se trouve!” Madame Merle exclaimed. “I myself have been thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I go off.”

“We can go together then,” Isabel reasonably said: “reasonably” because the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic sentiment to her great consideration for her friend.

That personage finely meditated. “After all, why should we both go; having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?”

“Very good; I can easily go alone.”

“I don’t know about your going alone—to the house of a handsome bachelor. He has been married—but so long ago!”

Isabel stared. “When Mr. Osmond’s away what does it matter?”

“They don’t know he’s away, you see.”

“They? Whom do you mean?”

“Every one. But perhaps it doesn’t signify.”

“If you were going why shouldn’t I?” Isabel asked.

“Because I’m an old frump and you’re a beautiful young woman.”

“Granting all that, you’ve not promised.”

“How much you think of your promises!” said the elder woman in mild mockery.

“I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?”

“You’re right,” Madame Merle audibly reflected. “I really think you wish to be kind to the child.”

“I wish very much to be kind to her.”

“Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I’d have come if you hadn’t. Or rather,” Madame Merle added, “Don’t tell her. She won’t care.”

As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding way which led to Mr. Osmond’s hill-top, she wondered what her friend had meant by no one’s being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals, this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly done? Of course not: she must have meant something else—something which in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr. Osmond’s drawing-room; the little girl was “practising,” and Isabel was pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father’s house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire—not chattering, but conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel’s affairs that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her; she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding, as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father’s visitor, or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond’s beautiful empty, dusky rooms—the windows had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there, through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom—her interview with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface, successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor talent—only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified, easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her father’s intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally expect.

“Please tell me,” she said, “did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time. Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education; it isn’t finished yet, you know. I don’t know what they can do with me more; but it appears it’s far from finished. Papa told me one day he thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa’s not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for me, because I don’t think I’m worth it. I don’t learn quickly enough, and I have no memory. For what I’m told, yes—especially when it’s pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she was fourteen, to make—how do you say it in English?—to make a dot. You don’t say it in English? I hope it isn’t wrong; I only mean they wished to keep the money to marry her. I don’t know whether it is for that that papa wishes to keep the money—to marry me. It costs so much to marry!” Pansy went on with a sigh; “I think papa might make that economy. At any rate I’m too young to think about it yet, and I don’t care for any gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of—of some strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might think, for I’ve been so much away from him. Papa has always been principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I’m very sorry, and he’ll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best. That’s not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was very kind of you to come to-day—so far from your house; for I’m really as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I’ve only the occupations of a child. When did you give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know how old you are, but I don’t know whether it’s right to ask. At the convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don’t like to do anything that’s not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly taught. I myself—I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful. In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I practise three hours. I don’t play very well. You play yourself? I wish very much you’d play something for me; papa has the idea that I should hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that’s what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall never have facility. And I’ve no voice—just a small sound like the squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes.”

Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. “Be very good,” she said; “give pleasure to your father.”

“I think that’s what I live for,” Pansy answered. “He has not much pleasure; he’s rather a sad man.”

Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl—it was of this she would have accused herself—and of exhaling into that air where he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed state. She had come—she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child’s sweet slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged to confess it to herself—she would have taken a passionate pleasure in talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather wistfully beyond. “I may go no further. I’ve promised papa not to pass this door.”