The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  “Good faith?”—he echoed the words, which had in fact something of an odd ring, critically.

  “Their false position. It comes to the same thing.” And she bore down, with her decision, the superficial lack of sequence. “They may very possibly, for a demonstration—as I see them—not have come back.”

  He wondered, visibly, at this, how she did see them. “May have bolted somewhere together?”

  “May have stayed over at Matcham itself till tomorrow. May have wired home, each of them, since Maggie left me. May have done,” Fanny Assingham continued, “God knows what!” She went on, suddenly, with more emotion—which, at the pressure of some spring of her inner vision, broke out in a wail of distress, imperfectly smothered. “Whatever they’ve done I shall never know. Never, never—because I don’t want to, and because nothing will induce me. So they may do as they like. But I’ve worked for them ALL” She uttered this last with another irrepressible quaver, and the next moment her tears had come, though she had, with the explosion, quitted her husband as if to hide it from him. She passed into the dusky drawing-room, where, during his own prowl, shortly previous, he had drawn up a blind, so that the light of the street-lamps came in a little at the window. She made for this window, against which she leaned her head, while the Colonel, with his lengthened face, looked after her for a minute and hesitated. He might have been wondering what she had really done, to what extent, beyond his knowledge or his conception, in the affairs of these people, she COULD have committed herself. But to hear her cry, and yet try not to, was, quickly enough, too much for him; he had known her at other times quite not try not to, and that had not been so bad. He went to her and put his arm round her; he drew her head to his breast, where, while she gasped, she let it stay a little—all with a patience that presently stilled her. Yet the effect of this small crisis, oddly enough, was not to close their colloquy, with the natural result of sending them to bed: what was between them had opened out further, had somehow, through the sharp show of her feeling, taken a positive stride, had entered, as it were, without more words, the region of the understood, shutting the door after it and bringing them so still more nearly face to face. They remained for some minutes looking at it through the dim window which opened upon the world of human trouble in general and which let the vague light play here and there upon gilt and crystal and colour, the florid features, looming dimly, of Fanny’s drawing-room. And the beauty of what thus passed between them, passed with her cry of pain, with her burst of tears, with his wonderment and his kindness and his comfort, with the moments of their silence, above all, which might have represented their sinking together, hand in hand, for a time, into the mystic lake where he had begun, as we have hinted, by seeing her paddle alone—the beauty of it was that they now could really talk better than before, because the basis had at last, once for all, defined itself. What was the basis, which Fanny absolutely exacted, but that Charlotte and the Prince must be saved—so far as consistently speaking of them as still safe might save them? It did save them, somehow, for Fanny’s troubled mind—for that was the nature of the mind of women. He conveyed to her now, at all events, by refusing her no gentleness, that he had sufficiently got the tip, and that the tip was all he had wanted. This remained quite clear even when he presently reverted to what she had told him of her recent passage with Maggie. “I don’t altogether see, you know, what you infer from it, or why you infer anything.” When he so expressed himself it was quite as if in possession of what they had brought up from the depths.

  XXIV

  “I can’t say more,” this made his companion reply, “than that something in her face, her voice and her whole manner acted upon me as nothing in her had ever acted before; and just for the reason, above all, that I felt her trying her very best—and her very best, poor duck, is very good—to be quiet and natural. It’s when one sees people who always ARE natural making little pale, pathetic, blinking efforts for it—then it is that one knows something’s the matter. I can’t describe my impression—you would have had it for yourself. And the only thing that ever CAN be the matter with Maggie is that. By ‘that’ I mean her beginning to doubt. To doubt, for the first time,” Mrs. Assingham wound up, “of her wonderful little judgment of her wonderful little world.”

  It was impressive, Fanny’s vision, and the Colonel, as if himself agitated by it, took another turn of prowling. “To doubt of fidelity—to doubt of friendship! Poor duck indeed! It will go hard with her. But she’ll put it all,” he concluded, “on Charlotte.”

  Mrs. Assingham, still darkly contemplative, denied this with a headshake. “She won’t ‘put’ it anywhere. She won’t do with it anything anyone else would. She’ll take it all herself.”

  “You mean she’ll make it out her own fault?”

  “Yes—she’ll find means, somehow, to arrive at that.”

  “Ah then,” the Colonel dutifully declared, “she’s indeed a little brick!”

  “Oh,” his wife returned, “you’ll see, in one way or another, to what tune!” And she spoke, of a sudden, with an approach to elation—so that, as if immediately feeling his surprise, she turned round to him. “She’ll see me somehow through!”

  “See YOU—?”

  “Yes, me. I’m the worst. For,” said Fanny Assingham, now with a harder exaltation, “I did it all. I recognise that—I accept it. She won’t cast it up at me—she won’t cast up anything. So I throw myself upon her—she’ll bear me up.” She spoke almost volubly—she held him with her sudden sharpness. “She’ll carry the whole weight of us.”

  There was still, nevertheless, wonder in it. “You mean she won’t mind? I SAY, love—!” And he not unkindly stared. “Then where’s the difficulty?”

  “There isn’t any!” Fanny declared with the same rich emphasis. It kept him indeed, as by the loss of the thread, looking at her longer. “Ah, you mean there isn’t any for US!”

  She met his look for a minute as if it perhaps a little too much imputed a selfishness, a concern, at any cost, for their own surface. Then she might have been deciding that their own surface was, after all, what they had most to consider. “Not,” she said with dignity, “if we properly keep our heads.” She appeared even to signify that they would begin by keeping them now. This was what it was to have at last a constituted basis. “Do you remember what you said to me that night of my first REAL anxiety—after the Foreign Office party?”

  “In the carriage—as we came home?” Yes—he could recall it. “Leave them to pull through?”

  “Precisely. ‘Trust their own wit,’ you practically said, ‘to save all appearances.’ Well, I’ve trusted it. I HAVE left them to pull through.”

  He hesitated. “And your point is that they’re not doing so?”

  “I’ve left them,” she went on, “but now I see how and where. I’ve been leaving them all the while, without knowing it, to HER.”

  “To the Princess?”

  “And that’s what I mean,” Mrs. Assingham pensively pursued. “That’s what happened to me with her to-day,” she continued to explain. “It came home to me that that’s what I’ve really been doing.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I needn’t torment myself. She has taken them over.”

  The Colonel declared that he “saw”; yet it was as if, at this, he a little sightlessly stared. “But what then has happened, from one day to the other, to HER? What has opened her eyes?”

  “They were never really shut. She misses him.”

  “Then why hasn’t she missed him before?”

  Well, facing him there, among their domestic glooms and glints, Fanny worked it out. “She did—but she wouldn’t let herself know it. She had her reason—she wore her blind. Now, at last, her situation has come to a head. To-day she does know it. And that’s illuminating. It has been,” Mrs. Assingham wound up, “illuminating to ME.”

  Her husband attended, but the momentary effect of his attention was vagueness again, and the refuge of his vagueness was a
gasp. “Poor dear little girl!”

  “Ah no—don’t pity her!”

  This did, however, pull him up. “We mayn’t even be sorry for her?”

  “Not now—or at least not yet. It’s too soon—that is if it isn’t very much too late. This will depend,” Mrs. Assingham went on; “at any rate we shall see. We might have pitied her before—for all the good it would then have done her; we might have begun some time ago. Now, however, she has begun to live. And the way it comes to me, the way it comes to me—” But again she projected her vision.

  “The way it comes to you can scarcely be that she’ll like it!”

  “The way it comes to me is that she will live. The way it comes to me is that she’ll triumph.”

  She said this with so sudden a prophetic flare that it fairly cheered her husband. “Ah then, we must back her!”

  “No—we mustn’t touch her. We mayn’t touch any of them. We must keep our hands off; we must go on tiptoe. We must simply watch and wait. And meanwhile,” said Mrs. Assingham, “we must bear it as we can. That’s where we are—and serves us right. We’re in presence.”

  And so, moving about the room as in communion with shadowy portents, she left it till he questioned again. “In presence of what?”

  “Well, of something possibly beautiful. Beautiful as it MAY come off.”

  She had paused there before him while he wondered. “You mean she’ll get the Prince back?”

  She raised her hand in quick impatience: the suggestion might have been almost abject. “It isn’t a question of recovery. It won’t be a question of any vulgar struggle. To ‘get him back’ she must have lost him, and to have lost him she must have had him. “With which Fanny shook her head. “What I take her to be waking up to is the truth that, all the while, she really HASN’T had him. Never.”

  “Ah, my dear—!” the poor Colonel panted.

  “Never!” his wife repeated. And she went on without pity. “Do you remember what I said to you long ago—that evening, just before their marriage, when Charlotte had so suddenly turned up?”

  The smile with which he met this appeal was not, it was to be feared, robust. “What haven’t you, love, said in your time?”

  “So many things, no doubt, that they make a chance for my having once or twice spoken the truth. I never spoke it more, at all events, than when I put it to you, that evening, that Maggie was the person in the world to whom a wrong thing could least be communicated. It was as if her imagination had been closed to it, her sense altogether sealed, That therefore,” Fanny continued, “is what will now HAVE to happen. Her sense will have to open.”

  “I see.” He nodded. “To the wrong.” He nodded again, almost cheerfully—as if he had been keeping the peace with a baby or a lunatic. “To the very, very wrong.”

  But his wife’s spirit, after its effort of wing, was able to remain higher. “To what’s called Evil—with a very big E: for the first time in her life. To the discovery of it, to the knowledge of it, to the crude experience of it.” And she gave, for the possibility, the largest measure. “To the harsh, bewildering brush, the daily chilling breath of it. Unless indeed”—and here Mrs. Assingham noted a limit “unless indeed, as yet (so far as she has come, and if she comes no further), simply to the suspicion and the dread. What we shall see is whether that mere dose of alarm will prove enough.”

  He considered. “But enough for what then, dear—if not enough to break her heart?”

  “Enough to give her a shaking!” Mrs. Assingham rather oddly replied. “To give her, I mean, the right one. The right one won’t break her heart. It will make her,” she explained—”well, it will make her, by way of a change, understand one or two things in the world.”

  “But isn’t it a pity,” the Colonel asked, “that they should happen to be the one or two that will be the most disagreeable to her?”

  “Oh, ‘disagreeable’—? They’ll have had to be disagreeable—to show her a little where she is. They’ll have HAD to be disagreeable to make her sit up. They’ll have had to be disagreeable to make her decide to live.”

  Bob Assingham was now at the window, while his companion slowly revolved; he had lighted a cigarette, for final patience, and he seemed vaguely to “time” her as she moved to and fro. He had at the same time to do justice to the lucidity she had at last attained, and it was doubtless by way of expression of this teachability that he let his eyes, for a minute, roll, as from the force of feeling, over the upper dusk of the room. He had thought of the response his wife’s words ideally implied.

  “Decide to live—ah yes!—for her child.”

  “Oh, bother her child!”—and he had never felt so snubbed, for an exemplary view, as when Fanny now stopped short. “To live, you poor dear, for her father—which is another pair of sleeves!”

  And Mrs. Assingham’s whole ample, ornamented person irradiated, with this, the truth that had begun, under so much handling, to glow. “Any idiot can do things for her child. She’ll have a motive more original, and we shall see how it will work her. She’ll have to save HIM.”

  “To ‘save’ him—?”

  “To keep her father from her own knowledge. THAT”—and she seemed to see it, before her, in her husband’s very eyes—”will be work cut out!” With which, as at the highest conceivable climax, she wound up their colloquy. “Good night!”

  There was something in her manner, however—or in the effect, at least, of this supreme demonstration that had fairly, and by a single touch, lifted him to her side; so that, after she had turned her back to regain the landing and the staircase, he overtook her, before she had begun to mount, with the ring of excited perception. “Ah, but, you know, that’s rather jolly!”

  “Jolly’—?” she turned upon it, again, at the foot of the staircase.

  “I mean it’s rather charming.”

  “‘Charming’—?” It had still to be their law, a little, that she was tragic when he was comic.

  “I mean it’s rather beautiful. You just said, yourself, it would be. Only,” he pursued promptly, with the impetus of this idea, and as if it had suddenly touched with light for him connections hitherto dim—”only I don’t quite see why that very care for him which has carried her to such other lengths, precisely, as affect one as so ‘rum,’ hasn’t also, by the same stroke, made her notice a little more what has been going on.”

  “Ah, there you are! It’s the question that I’ve all along been asking myself.” She had rested her eyes on the carpet, but she raised them as she pursued—she let him have it straight. “And it’s the question of an idiot.”

  “An idiot—?”

  “Well, the idiot that I’VE been, in all sorts of ways—so often, of late, have I asked it. You’re excusable, since you ask it but now. The answer, I saw to-day, has all the while been staring me in the face.”

  “Then what in the world is it?”

  “Why, the very intensity of her conscience about him—the very passion of her brave little piety. That’s the way it has worked,” Mrs. Assingham explained “and I admit it to have been as ‘rum’ a way as possible. But it has been working from a rum start. From the moment the dear man married to ease his daughter off, and it then happened, by an extraordinary perversity, that the very opposite effect was produced—!” With the renewed vision of this fatality, however, she could give but a desperate shrug.

  “I see,” the Colonel sympathetically mused. “That WAS a rum start.”

  But his very response, as she again flung up her arms, seemed to make her sense, for a moment, intolerable. “Yes—there I am! I was really at the bottom of it,” she declared; “I don’t know what possessed me—but I planned for him, I goaded him on.” With which, however, the next moment, she took herself up. “Or, rather, I DO know what possessed me—for wasn’t he beset with ravening women, right and left, and didn’t he, quite pathetically, appeal for protection, didn’t he, quite charmingly, show one how he needed and desired it? Maggie,” she thus lucidly continued, �
��couldn’t, with a new life of her own, give herself up to doing for him in the future all she had done in the past—to fencing him in, to keeping him safe and keeping THEM off. One perceived this,” she went on—”out of the abundance of one’s affection and one’s sympathy.” It all blessedly came back to her—when it wasn’t all, for the fiftieth time, obscured, in face of the present facts, by anxiety and compunction. “One was no doubt a meddlesome fool; one always IS, to think one sees people’s lives for them better than they see them for themselves. But one’s excuse here,” she insisted, “was that these people clearly DIDN’T see them for themselves—didn’t see them at all. It struck one for very pity—that they were making a mess of such charming material; that they were but wasting it and letting it go. They didn’t know HOW to live—and “somehow one couldn’t, if one took an interest in them at all, simply stand and see it. That’s what I pay for”—and the poor woman, in straighter communion with her companion’s intelligence at this moment, she appeared to feel, than she had ever been before, let him have the whole of the burden of her consciousness. “I always pay for it, sooner or later, my sociable, my damnable, my unnecessary interest. Nothing of course would suit me but that it should fix itself also on Charlotte—Charlotte who was hovering there on the edge of our lives, when not beautifully, and a trifle mysteriously, flitting across them, and who was a piece of waste and a piece of threatened failure, just as, for any possible good to the WORLD, Mr. Verver and Maggie were. It began to come over me, in the watches of the night, that Charlotte was a person who COULD keep off ravening women—without being one herself, either, in the vulgar way of the others; and that this service to Mr. Verver would be a sweet employment for her future. There was something, of course, that might have stopped me: you know, you know what I mean—it looks at me,” she veritably moaned, “out of your face! But all I can say is that it didn’t; the reason largely being—once I had fallen in love with the beautiful symmetry of my plan—that I seemed to feel sure Maggie would accept Charlotte, whereas I didn’t quite make out either what other woman, or what other KIND of woman, one could think of her accepting.”