The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with aconcave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was hereMrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary placeto-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered aboutthe fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; itcontained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers.Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, theresort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood beforethe chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot upand was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, weretalking together; but he was not in the conversation his eyes had anexpression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engagedwith objects more worth their while than the appearances actuallythrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract hisattention but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he waseven exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, hehad come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out hisleft hand, without changing his attitude.

  "How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about."

  "Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully.

  Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself soefficiently looked at. "Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't likeit," he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there,but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms orwould come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond,having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quicklyresentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need ofbeing quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all withouthelp, and then in a moment, "I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monteto-day," he said.

  Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed hisboot-sole, "I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!" he returned.

  "I hope you're not losing your interest?"

  "In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest."

  Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. "You're notthinking of parting with a--a piece or two?"

  "No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier," saidOsmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.

  "Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked brightly.

  "Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match."

  Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want ofassurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could murmur; and he knewhis murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to theadjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. Shewas dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he hadsaid, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thoughtof her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed hisadmiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter itwas based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct forauthenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for thatsecret of a "lustre" beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified himto recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified suchtastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of heryouth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lostsomething of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privatelytaken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at allevents, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as thepicture of a gracious lady. "You see I'm very regular," he said. "Butwho should be if I'm not?"

  "Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But we mustn't indulge intender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady."

  "Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obliging; but thiswas not what he had come for.

  "She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to." Rosierhesitated a moment. "Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He's within six feetof her."

  Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. "She's not very lively, and he doesn't likedull people."

  "But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!"

  "I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so obliging."

  "No, he's not--to me." And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled.

  "That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women.

  "So I tell him," she said, still smiling.

  "You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond.

  "That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady."

  "Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The simpletruth is I'm dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond."

  "Ah," said Isabel, turning away, "I can't help you there!"

  Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink,whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, inmaking to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had brokenthe spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capableof occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last,however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared littlewhat promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened toabandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for PansyOsmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fondas ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mildcolloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching hissmall sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall atfirst not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, atFlorence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in theCascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matterssacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if atnineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out thepart; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degreethe quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style;and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smartattire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if itwere lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would havebeen just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there wasnot a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted.Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeedwere happy enough. "No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique," he usedto say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would hehave admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she hadthe style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye.It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impressionin Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, onlylooked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier,who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, hercharming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childishprayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she likedhim--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made himfeel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; hehad never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, andone couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwinglight on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamedof--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt thatthis nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy hadnever looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if shehad read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeunefille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, andyet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men,nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosiercould not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach ofhospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; buthe was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality werethe most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that heentertained for Miss Osmond of
infinitely greater importance? Of greaterimportance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house.There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on hisguard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy;it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that aprepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in lovewith her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions ofcircumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meantby giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surelyhe himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girlin so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of hermother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, thatshe must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughterdeparted together, and now it depended only upon him that he should bevirtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before;he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poorRosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyondthe one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open andlighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained emptyall the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow;there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the verytemple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture;he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable ofstretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the othermaiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors onthe far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she wasfrightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assuredhim she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeedfor that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go andlook at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. Hehad been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which wasof the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which hedidn't really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. Hetherefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.

  "Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like I'll show you."She was not in the least frightened.

  "That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind," Rosiermurmured.

  They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and itseemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. "It's not forwinter evenings; it's more for summer," she said. "It's papa's taste; hehas so much."

  He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. Helooked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation."Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?" heasked.

  "Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said Pansy--"andfor conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knowseverything."

  Rosier was silent a little. "There's one thing I'm sure he knows!" hebroke out presently. "He knows that when I come here it's, with allrespect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who's so charming--it'sreally," said the young man, "to see you!"

  "To see me?" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes.

  "To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated, feeling theintoxication of a rupture with authority.

  Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was notneeded to make her face more modest. "I thought it was for that."

  "And it was not disagreeable to you?"

  "I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said Pansy.

  "I was afraid of offending you."

  "You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angelhad kissed her.

  "You like me then, Pansy?" Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy.

  "Yes--I like you."

  They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clockwas perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation fromwithout. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to himthe very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take herhand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted,still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was somethingineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; nowanything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waitingfor him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever;but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree.Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to hisheart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without aquestion. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellowEmpire salottino. She had known it was for her he came, and yet likewhat a perfect little lady she had carried it off!

  "You're very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe that there wasafter all such a thing as hospitality.

  She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. "Did you saypapa knows?"

  "You told me just now he knows everything."

  "I think you must make sure," said Pansy.

  "Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!" Rosier murmured in her ear;whereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air ofconsistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate.

  The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of MadameMerle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered.How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, forshe neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nordressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to theaudience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her verytranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it wasbecause of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietestthing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was morestriking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the masterof the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between thesetwo--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to thecommonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, askedif little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.

  "He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared," Osmond said.

  "And where's Pansy?"

  "In the other room. There are several people there."

  "He's probably among them," said Madame Merle.

  "Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone.

  Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to theeighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say to him that I've told youwhat he wants, and that it interests you but feebly."

  "Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more--which is exactlywhat I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal."

  "But you don't hate it."

  "It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, thisevening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing's a greatbore. There's no hurry."

  "I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over."

  "No, don't do that. He'll hang on."

  "If I discourage him he'll do the same."

  "Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain--which would beexceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably hold his tongue and goin for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with adonkey."

  "Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?"

  "Oh, he's a nuisance--with his eternal majolica."

  Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. "He's a gentleman,he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousandfrancs!"

  "It's misery--'genteel' misery," Osmond broke in. "It's not what I'vedreamed of for Pansy."

  "Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her."

  "Do you believe him?" Osmond asked absentmindedly.

  "Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don'tsuppose you consider that that matters."

  "I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she hasthought of him."

  "That opinion's more co
nvenient," said Madame Merle quietly.

  "Has she told you she's in love with him?"

  "For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?" Madame Merleadded in a moment.

  Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the otherknee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fineforefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a whilebefore him. "This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what Ieducated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should comeup she should do what I prefer."

  "I'm not afraid that she'll not do it."

  "Well then, where's the hitch?"

  "I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid ofMr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful."

  "I can't keep him. Keep him yourself."

  "Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day."Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancingabout her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habitto interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed thelast words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come outof the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced afew steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at herfather.

  "He has spoken to her," Madame Merle went on to Osmond.

  Her companion never turned his head. "So much for your belief in hispromises. He ought to be horsewhipped."

  "He intends to confess, poor little man!"

  Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. "Itdoesn't matter," he murmured, turning away.

  Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little mannerof unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not moreintimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendlysmile.

  "You're very late," the young creature gently said.

  "My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be."

  Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved towardEdward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get itoff his mind, "I've spoken to her!" he whispered.

  "I know it, Mr. Rosier."

  "Did she tell you?"

  "Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and comeand see me to-morrow at a quarter past five." She was severe, and inthe manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree ofcontempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.

  He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time northe place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talkingwith an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old ladywas Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. "Yousaid just now you wouldn't help me," he began to Mrs. Osmond. "Perhapsyou'll feel differently when you know--when you know--!"

  Isabel met his hesitation. "When I know what?"

  "That she's all right."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Well, that we've come to an understanding."

  "She's all wrong," said Isabel. "It won't do."

  Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flushtestified to his sense of injury. "I've never been treated so," he said."What is there against me, after all? That's not the way I'm usuallyconsidered. I could have married twenty times."

  "It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once,comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not rich enough forPansy."

  "She doesn't care a straw for one's money."

  "No, but her father does."

  "Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man.

  Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady withoutceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretendingto look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatlyarranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked withoutseeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It wascertain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not usedto being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if sucha fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. Hesearched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desirewas now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more toIsabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said arude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view ofhim.

  "I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago," hebegan. "But you must remember my situation."

  "I don't remember what you said," she answered coldly.

  "Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me."

  She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: "It's notthat I won't; I simply can't!" Her manner was almost passionate.

  "If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of your husband saveas an angel."

  "The inducement's great," said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as heafterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in theeyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehowthat he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked,and he took himself off.