The Golden Bowl — Complete

“Ah then—so much the better! From the moment I HAD received it I knew I must sooner or later speak of it—for that, you see, is, systematically, my way. And now,” Charlotte added, “you make me glad I’ve spoken. I thank you very much.”

It was strange how for Maggie too, with this, the difficulty seemed to sink. Her companion’s acceptance of her denial was like a general pledge not to keep things any worse for her than they essentially had to be; it positively helped her to build up her falsehood—to which, accordingly, she contributed another block. “I’ve affected you evidently—quite accidentally—in some way of which I’ve been all unaware. I’ve NOT felt at any time that you’ve wronged me.”

“How could I come within a mile,” Charlotte inquired, “of such a possibility?”

Maggie, with her eyes on her more easily now, made no attempt to say; she said, after a little, something more to the present point. “I accuse you—I accuse you of nothing.”

“Ah, that’s lucky!”

Charlotte had brought this out with the richness, almost, of gaiety; and Maggie, to go on, had to think, with her own intensity, of Amerigo—to think how he, on his side, had had to go through with his lie to her, how it was for his wife he had done so, and how his doing so had given her the clue and set her the example. He must have had his own difficulty about it, and she was not, after all, falling below him. It was in fact as if, thanks to her hovering image of him confronted with this admirable creature even as she was confronted, there glowed upon her from afar, yet straight and strong, a deep explanatory light which covered the last inch of the ground. He had given her something to conform to, and she hadn’t unintelligently turned on him, “gone back on” him, as he would have said, by not conforming. They were together thus, he and she, close, close together—whereas Charlotte, though rising there radiantly before her, was really off in some darkness of space that would steep her in solitude and harass her with care. The heart of the Princess swelled, accordingly, even in her abasement; she had kept in tune with the right, and something, certainly, something that might be like a rare flower snatched from an impossible ledge, would, and possibly soon, come of it for her. The right, the right—yes, it took this extraordinary form of her humbugging, as she had called it, to the end. It was only a question of not, by a hair’s breadth, deflecting into the truth. So, supremely, was she braced. “You must take it from me that your anxiety rests quite on a misconception. You must take it from me that I’ve never at any moment fancied I could suffer by you.” And, marvellously, she kept it up—not only kept it up, but improved on it. “You must take it from me that I’ve never thought of you but as beautiful, wonderful and good. Which is all, I think, that you can possibly ask.”

Charlotte held her a moment longer: she needed—not then to have appeared only tactless—the last word. “It’s much more, my dear, than I dreamed of asking. I only wanted your denial.”

“Well then, you have it.”

“Upon your honour?”

“Upon my honour:”

And she made a point even, our young woman, of not turning away. Her grip of her shawl had loosened—she had let it fall behind her; but she stood there for anything more and till the weight should be lifted. With which she saw soon enough what more was to come. She saw it in Charlotte’s face, and felt it make between them, in the air, a chill that completed the coldness of their conscious perjury. “Will you kiss me on it then?”

She couldn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no; what availed her still, however, was to measure, in her passivity, how much too far Charlotte had come to retreat. But there was something different also, something for which, while her cheek received the prodigious kiss, she had her opportunity—the sight of the others, who, having risen from their cards to join the absent members of their party, had reached the open door at the end of the room and stopped short, evidently, in presence of the demonstration that awaited them. Her husband and her father were in front, and Charlotte’s embrace of her—which wasn’t to be distinguished, for them, either, she felt, from her embrace of Charlotte—took on with their arrival a high publicity.

XXXVII

Her father had asked her, three days later, in an interval of calm, how she was affected, in the light of their reappearance and of their now perhaps richer fruition, by Dotty and Kitty, and by the once formidable Mrs. Rance; and the consequence of this inquiry had been, for the pair, just such another stroll together, away from the rest of the party and off into the park, as had asserted its need to them on the occasion of the previous visit of these anciently more agitating friends—that of their long talk, on a sequestered bench beneath one of the great trees, when the particular question had come up for them the then purblind discussion of which, at their enjoyed leisure, Maggie had formed the habit of regarding as the “first beginning” of their present situation. The whirligig of time had thus brought round for them again, on their finding themselves face to face while the others were gathering for tea on the terrace, the same odd impulse quietly to “slope”—so Adam Verver himself, as they went, familiarly expressed it—that had acted, in its way, of old; acted for the distant autumn afternoon and for the sharpness of their since so outlived crisis. It might have been funny to them now that the presence of Mrs. Rance and the Lutches—and with symptoms, too, at that time less developed—had once, for their anxiety and their prudence, constituted a crisis; it might have been funny that these ladies could ever have figured, to their imagination, as a symbol of dangers vivid enough to precipitate the need of a remedy. This amount of entertainment and assistance they were indeed disposed to extract from their actual impressions; they had been finding it, for months past, by Maggie’s view, a resource and a relief to talk, with an approach to intensity, when they met, of all the people they weren’t really thinking of and didn’t really care about, the people with whom their existence had begun almost to swarm; and they closed in at present round the spectres of their past, as they permitted themselves to describe the three ladies, with a better imitation of enjoying their theme than they had been able to achieve, certainly, during the stay, for instance, of the Castledeans. The Castledeans were a new joke, comparatively, and they had had—always to Maggie’s view—to teach themselves the way of it; whereas the Detroit, the Providence party, rebounding so from Providence, from Detroit, was an old and ample one, of which the most could be made and as to which a humorous insistence could be guarded.

Sharp and sudden, moreover, this afternoon, had been their well-nigh confessed desire just to rest together, a little, as from some strain long felt but never named; to rest, as who should say, shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand, each pair of eyes so yearningly—and indeed what could it be but so wearily?—closed as to render the collapse safe from detection by the other pair. It was positively as if, in short, the inward felicity of their being once more, perhaps only for half-an-hour, simply daughter and father had glimmered out for them, and they had picked up the pretext that would make it easiest. They were husband and wife—oh, so immensely!—as regards other persons; but after they had dropped again on their old bench, conscious that the party on the terrace, augmented, as in the past, by neighbours, would do beautifully without them, it was wonderfully like their having got together into some boat and paddled off from the shore where husbands and wives, luxuriant complications, made the air too tropical. In the boat they were father and daughter, and poor Dotty and Kitty supplied abundantly, for their situation, the oars or the sail. Why, into the bargain, for that matter—this came to Maggie—couldn’t they always live, so far as they lived together, in a boat? She felt in her face, with the question, the breath of a possibility that soothed her; they needed only KNOW each other, henceforth, in the unmarried relation. That other sweet evening, in the same place, he had been as unmarried as possible—which had kept down, so to speak, the quantity of change in their state. Well then, that other sweet evening was what the present sweet evening would resemble; with the quite calculable effect of an exquisite inward refreshment. They HAD, after all, whatever happened, always and ever each other; each other—that was the hidden treasure and the saving truth—to do exactly what they would with: a provision full of possibilities. Who could tell, as yet, what, thanks to it, they wouldn’t have done before the end?

They had meanwhile been tracing together, in the golden air that, toward six o’clock of a July afternoon, hung about the massed Kentish woods, several features of the social evolution of her old playmates, still beckoned on, it would seem, by unattainable ideals, still falling back, beyond the sea, to their native seats, for renewals of the moral, financial, conversational—one scarce knew what to call it—outfit, and again and for ever reappearing like a tribe of Wandering Jewesses. Our couple had finally exhausted, however, the study of these annals, and Maggie was to take up, after a drop, a different matter, or one at least with which the immediate connection was not at first apparent. “Were you amused at me just now—when I wondered what other people could wish to struggle for? Did you think me,” she asked with some earnestness—“well, fatuous?”

“‘Fatuous’?”—he seemed at a loss.

“I mean sublime in OUR happiness—as if looking down from a height. Or, rather, sublime in our general position—that’s what I mean.” She spoke as from the habit of her anxious conscience something that disposed her frequently to assure herself, for her human commerce, of the state of the “books” of the spirit. “Because I don’t at all want,” she explained, “to be blinded, or made ‘sniffy,’ by any sense of a social situation.” Her father listened to this declaration as if the precautions of her general mercy could still, as they betrayed themselves, have surprises for him—to say nothing of a charm of delicacy and beauty; he might have been wishing to see how far she could go and where she would, all touchingly to him, arrive. But she waited a little—as if made nervous, precisely, by feeling him depend too much on what she said. They were avoiding the serious, standing off, anxiously, from the real, and they fell, again and again, as if to disguise their precaution itself, into the tone of the time that came back to them from their other talk, when they had shared together this same refuge. “Don’t you remember,” she went on, “how, when they were here before, I broke it to you that I wasn’t so very sure we, ourselves had the thing itself?”

He did his best to do so. “Had, you mean a social situation?”

“Yes—after Fanny Assingham had first broken it to me that, at the rate we were going, we should never have one.”

“Which was what put us on Charlotte?” Oh yes, they had had it over quite often enough for him easily to remember.

Maggie had another pause—taking it from him that he now could both affirm and admit without wincing that they had been, at their critical moment, “put on” Charlotte. It was as if this recognition had been threshed out between them as fundamental to the honest view of their success. “Well,” she continued, “I recall how I felt, about Kitty and Dotty, that even if we had already then been more ‘placed,’ or whatever you may call what we are now, it still wouldn’t have been an excuse for wondering why others couldn’t obligingly leave me more exalted by having, themselves, smaller ideas. For those,” she said, “were the feelings we used to have.”

“Oh yes,” he responded philosophically—“I remember the feelings we used to have.”

Maggie appeared to wish to plead for them a little, in tender retrospect—as if they had been also respectable. “It was bad enough, I thought, to have no sympathy in your heart when you HAD a position. But it was worse to be sublime about it—as I was so afraid, as I’m in fact still afraid of being—when it wasn’t even there to support one.” And she put forth again the earnestness she might have been taking herself as having outlived; became for it—which was doubtless too often even now her danger—almost sententious. “One must always, whether or no, have some imagination of the states of others—of what they may feel deprived of. However,” she added, “Kitty and Dotty couldn’t imagine we were deprived of anything. And now, and now—!” But she stopped as for indulgence to their wonder and envy.

“And now they see, still more, that we can have got everything, and kept everything, and yet not be proud.”

“No, we’re not proud,” she answered after a moment. “I’m not sure that we’re quite proud enough.” Yet she changed the next instant that subject too. She could only do so, however, by harking back—as if it had been a fascination. She might have been wishing, under this renewed, this still more suggestive visitation, to keep him with her for remounting the stream of time and dipping again, for the softness of the water, into the contracted basin of the past. “We talked about it—we talked about it; you don’t remember so well as I. You too didn’t know—and it was beautiful of you; like Kitty and Dotty you too thought we had a position, and were surprised when I thought we ought to have told them we weren’t doing for them what they supposed. In fact,” Maggie pursued, “we’re not doing it now. We’re not, you see, really introducing them. I mean not to the people they want.”

“Then what do you call the people with whom they’re now having tea?”

It made her quite spring round. “That’s just what you asked me the other time—one of the days there was somebody. And I told you I didn’t call anybody anything.”

“I remember—that such people, the people we made so welcome, didn’t ‘count’; that Fanny Assingham knew they didn’t.” She had awakened, his daughter, the echo; and on the bench there, as before, he nodded his head amusedly, he kept nervously shaking his foot. “Yes, they were only good enough—the people who came—for US. I remember,” he said again: “that was the way it all happened.”

“That was the way—that was the way. And you asked me,” Maggie added, “if I didn’t think we ought to tell them. Tell Mrs. Rance, in particular, I mean, that we had been entertaining her up to then under false pretences.”

“Precisely—but you said she wouldn’t have understood.”

“To which you replied that in that case you were like her. YOU didn’t understand.”

“No, no—but I remember how, about our having, in our benighted innocence, no position, you quite crushed me with your explanation.”

“Well then,” said Maggie with every appearance of delight, “I’ll crush you again. I told you that you by yourself had one—there was no doubt of that. You were different from me—you had the same one you always had.”

“And THEN I asked you,” her father concurred, “why in that case you hadn’t the same.”

“Then indeed you did.” He had brought her face round to him before, and this held it, covering him with its kindled brightness, the result of the attested truth of their being able thus, in talk, to live again together. “What I replied was that I had lost my position by my marriage. THAT one—I know how I saw it—would never come back. I had done something TO it—I didn’t quite know what; given it away, somehow, and yet not, as then appeared, really got my return. I had been assured—always by dear Fanny—that I COULD get it, only I must wake up. So I was trying, you see, to wake up—trying very hard.”

“Yes—and to a certain extent you succeeded; as also in waking me. But you made much,” he said, “of your difficulty.” To which he added: “It’s the only case I remember, Mag, of you ever making ANYTHING of a difficulty.”

She kept her eyes on him a moment. “That I was so happy as I was?”

“That you were so happy as you were.”

“Well, you admitted”—Maggie kept it up—“that that was a good difficulty. You confessed that our life did seem to be beautiful.”

He thought a moment. “Yes—I may very well have confessed it, for so it did seem to me.” But he guarded himself with his dim, his easier smile. “What do you want to put on me now?”

“Only that we used to wonder—that we were wondering then—if our life wasn’t perhaps a little selfish.” This also for a time, much at his leisure, Adam Verver retrospectively fixed. “Because Fanny Assingham thought so?”

“Oh no; she never thought, she couldn’t think, if she would, anything of that sort. She only thinks people are sometimes fools,” Maggie developed; “she doesn’t seem to think so much about their being wrong—wrong, that is, in the sense of being wicked. She doesn’t,” the Princess further adventured, “quite so much mind their being wicked.”

“I see—I see.” And yet it might have been for his daughter that he didn’t so very vividly see. “Then she only thought US fools?”

“Oh no—I don’t say that. I’m speaking of our being selfish.”

“And that comes under the head of the wickedness Fanny condones?”

“Oh, I don’t say she CONDONES—!” A scruple in Maggie raised its crest. “Besides, I’m speaking of what was.”

Her father showed, however, after a little, that he had not been reached by this discrimination; his thoughts were resting for the moment where they had settled. “Look here, Mag,” he said reflectively—“I ain’t selfish. I’ll be blowed if I’m selfish.”

Well, Maggie, if he WOULD talk of that, could also pronounce. “Then, father, I am.”

“Oh shucks!” said Adam Verver, to whom the vernacular, in moments of deepest sincerity, could thus come back. “I’ll believe it,” he presently added, “when Amerigo complains of you.”