The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it hadvanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use thisexpression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased;Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. Shehad an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the factpublic before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say aboutit. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had asomewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more;she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before themid-day breakfast, and then she began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something totell you."

  Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. "Youneedn't tell me; I know what it is."

  "I don't know how you know."

  "The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught.You're going to marry that man."

  "What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity.

  "Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond."

  "I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that theprincipal thing he's known by?"

  "If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done forhim!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'mdisappointed."

  "If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagementyou're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared with a sort of ardentcoldness.

  "You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman'shaving had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, yourattractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if shehadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but hewas not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him."

  "He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with a voluntarylaugh.

  Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, to havemade you like him so much."

  "I thought he even pleased YOU."

  "He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him."

  "Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl.

  "Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for thisthat you refused Lord Warburton?"

  "Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, sinceothers have done so?"

  "Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There'snothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained.

  "Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel.

  "Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings,you should know."

  "I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?"

  "What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry asthey go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnershipyou'll bring everything."

  "Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?"Isabel asked.

  "He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value suchthings and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious.Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give someother reason."

  Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that's valuable.I care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have alittle."

  "Give it to him then; but marry some one else."

  "His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a very prettyname. Have I such a fine one myself?"

  "All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozenAmerican names. Do you marry him out of charity?"

  "It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my dutyto explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don'tremonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can'ttalk about it."

  "I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign ofintelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle."

  "You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been veryconsiderate."

  "It was not considerate--it was convenient," said Mrs. Touchett. "But Ishall talk to Madame Merle."

  "I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very goodfriend to me."

  "Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me."

  "What has she done to you?"

  "She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent yourengagement."

  "She couldn't have prevented it."

  "She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew shecould play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. Ididn't understand that she would play two at the same time."

  "I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel said;"that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind anddevoted."

  "Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told meshe was watching you only in order to interpose."

  "She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious, however, ofthe inadequacy of the explanation.

  "To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleasedto-day?"

  "I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obliged to reply."If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain byinsincerity?"

  "She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere youwere marching away, and she was really beating the drum."

  "That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, andeven if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me."

  "No, but some one else would."

  "Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs.Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustainedher gaze rather than returned it. "Would you have listened to Ralph?"

  "Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond."

  "Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very muchfor you."

  "I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it now,for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason."

  "He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it,and he argued the other way."

  "He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You don't accusehim of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?"

  "He never pretended he'd prevent it."

  "I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," shepresently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of myengagement."

  "Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall say nothingmore to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others."

  "That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better theannouncement should come from you than from me."

  "I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on this the auntand the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as herword, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence,however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit anhour before.

  "From an old friend--an American gentleman," Isabel said with a colourin her cheek.

  "An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman whocalls at ten o'clock in the morning."

  "It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away thisevening."

  "Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?"

  "He only arrived last night."

  "He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs. Touchett cried."He's an American gentleman truly."

  "He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of whatCaspar Goodwood had done for her.

  Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs.Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showedat first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally ofhis health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had beenshocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgottenhow ill he looked. In
spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and shewondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomedto living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach toconventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparentlycomplete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the naturaloddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive andstill ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paperand unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; theexorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he wasaltogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion ofrelaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; hishands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled andshuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It wasperhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more thanever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his owndisabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed withRalph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking hisview of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence waspast finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardnesshad become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association theystruck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to becharming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill hadhitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemednot a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved himfrom all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury ofbeing exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful;he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had toconsent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formallysick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when shehad pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good dealshe had allowed him a certain amount of compassion but she always hada dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to thegiver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibilityto feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it shouldbe. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illuminationof wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying.

  Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people,and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it nowpromised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph wasnot pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite ofher affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was noteven prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; forit would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to findfault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin alwayspretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; itwas a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph wasnothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other thingsbeing equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please anyone, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice shouldsquare with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretendedto believe she had better have married Lord Warburton but this wasonly because she had refused that excellent man. If she had acceptedhim Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took theopposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of amarriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she onlygive her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She hadother employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of thecare. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He musthave seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing.After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young womanwearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go throughthe form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easilybelieve that during the hours that followed his arrival at PalazzoCrescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother hadliterally greeted him with the great news, which had been even moresensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shockedand humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in theworld in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about thehouse like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the gardenof the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his headthrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about theheart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what couldhe say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it?To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt shouldsucceed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in theman to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet onlyin the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply havedamned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and todissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope.Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair weredaily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himselflittle at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere,as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. Shehad taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her auntfor the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved,and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness,during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady,joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a whilethrough the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.