by Henry James
“It’s very well you don’t try to console me; it wouldn’t be in your power,” she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.
“I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that— the pain’s greater than the pleasure.” And she got up with a small conscious majesty, looking for her companions.
“I don’t want to make you feel that; of course I can’t say that. I only just want you to know one or two things—in fairness to myself, as it were. I won’t return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I expressed to you last year; I couldn’t think of anything else. I tried to forget—energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty. I didn’t succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad—as far away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn’t distract mine. I’ve thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw you. I’m exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably charm me. There—I can’t say less. I don’t mean, however, to insist; it’s only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were.” He had recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He might have been addressing a small committee—making all quietly and clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.
“I’ve often thought of you, Lord Warburton,” Isabel answered. “You may be sure I shall always do that.” And she added in a tone of which she tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: “There’s no harm in that on either side.”
They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad it was still so distant.
“Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?” she enquired with some anxiety.
“Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn’t mean that one would treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to stop a week or two.”
“Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!”
His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. “You won’t like that. You’re afraid you’ll see too much of me.”
“It doesn’t matter what I like. I certainly can’t expect you to leave this delightful place on my account. But I confess I’m afraid of you.”
“Afraid I’ll begin again? I promise to be very careful.”
They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. “Poor Lord Warburton!” she said with a compassion intended to be good for both of them.
“Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I’ll be careful.”
“You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can’t allow.”
“If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it.” At this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. “I’ll never say a word to displease you.”
“Very good. If you do, our friendship’s at an end.”
“Perhaps some day—after a while—you’ll give me leave.”
“Give you leave to make me unhappy?”
He hesitated. “To tell you again—” But he checked himself. “I’ll keep it down. I’ll keep it down always.”
Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice “Gracious, there’s that lord!” Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet, and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. “I don’t suppose you remember me, sir.”
“Indeed I do remember you,” said Lord Warburton. “I asked you to come and see me, and you never came.”
“I don’t go everywhere I’m asked,” Miss Stackpole answered coldly.
“Ah well, I won’t ask you again,” laughed the master of Lockleigh.
“If you do I’ll go; so be sure!”
Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly “Oh, you here, Bantling?” and a hand-shake.
“Well,” said Henrietta, “I didn’t know you knew him!”
“I guess you don’t know every one I know,” Mr. Bantling rejoined facetiously.
“I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you.”
“Ah, I’m afraid Bantling was ashamed of me,” Lord Warburton laughed again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of relief as they kept their course homeward.
The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long letters—one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians) follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter’s; and it had been agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and frank—not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him whether it would “pay” for her to visit those countries assured her they offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong sort—she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter’s and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply that he must follow his convenience.
In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior tourists who are “disappointed” in Saint Peter’s and find it smaller than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at Saint Peter’s there is much to observe, and as there is
something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo’s dome suffered by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling’s ear and reserved it in its more accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope’s singers were borne to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her. Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms —he appeared to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.
“So you decided to come?” she said as she put out her hand.
“Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They told me you had come here, and I looked about for you.”
“The others are inside,” she decided to say.
“I didn’t come for the others,” he promptly returned.
She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond’s words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr. Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take the case as not committing him to joy. He didn’t hang back, however, from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence, that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers—than Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris. “I don’t know what it’s in you,” she had been pleased to remark, “but for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood’s the only one I’ve any respect for, and he’s just the one you don’t appreciate.”
“What’s your opinion of Saint Peter’s?” Mr. Osmond was meanwhile enquiring of our young lady.
“It’s very large and very bright,” she contented herself with replying.
“It’s too large; it makes one feel like an atom.”
“Isn’t that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?” she asked with rather a liking for her phrase.
“I suppose it’s the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else.”
“You ought indeed to be a Pope!” Isabel exclaimed, remembering something he had referred to in Florence.
“Ah, I should have enjoyed that!” said Gilbert Osmond.
Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled away together. “Who’s the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?” his lordship demanded.
“His name’s Gilbert Osmond—he lives in Florence,” Ralph said.
“What is he besides?”
“Nothing at all. Oh yes, he’s an American; but one forgets that— he’s so little of one.”
“Has he known Miss Archer long?”
“Three or four weeks.”
“Does she like him?”
“She’s trying to find out.”
“And will she?”
“Find out—?” Ralph asked.
“Will she like him?”
“Do you mean will she accept him?”
“Yes,” said Lord Warburton after an instant; “I suppose that’s what I horribly mean.”
“Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it,” Ralph replied.
His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. “Then we must be perfectly quiet?”
“As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!” Ralph added.
“The chance she may?”
“The chance she may not?”
Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. “Is he awfully clever?”
“Awfully,” said Ralph.
His companion thought. “And what else?”
“What more do you want?” Ralph groaned.
“Do you mean what more does SHE?”
Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others. “She wants nothing that WE can give her.”
“Ah well, if she won’t have You—!” said his lordship handsomely as they went.
The Portrait of a Lady: Volume 2
Table of Contents
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
VOLUME II
CHAPTER 28
On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when he had obtained his admittance—it was one of the secondary theatres—looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box; and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.
“I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely and want company,” was Ralph’s greeting.
“You’ve some that’s very good which you’ve yet deserted.”
“Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn’t want me. Then Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice—Miss Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn’t think they wanted me either. The opera’s ve
ry bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like peacocks. I feel very low.”
“You had better go home,” Lord Warburton said without affectation.
“And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over her.”
“She seems to have plenty of friends.”
“Yes, that’s why I must watch,” said Ralph with the same large mock-melancholy.
“If she doesn’t want you it’s probable she doesn’t want me.”
