The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  “I’ve just been at your hotel,” she said. “I left a card for you.”

  “I’m very much honoured,” Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant it.

  “It was not to honour you I did it; I’ve called on you before and I know you don’t like it. It was to talk to you a little about something.”

  He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. “I shall be very glad to hear what you wish to say.”

  “You don’t like to talk with me,” said Henrietta. “But I don’t care for that; I don’t talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come and see me; but since I’ve met you here this will do as well.”

  “I was just going away,” Goodwood stated; “but of course I’ll stop.” He was civil, but not enthusiastic.

  Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the pictures.

  “All I want to. I’ve been here an hour.”

  “I wonder if you’ve seen my Correggio,” said Henrietta. “I came up on purpose to have a look at it.” She went into the Tribune and he slowly accompanied her.

  “I suppose I’ve seen it, but I didn’t know it was yours. I don’t remember pictures—especially that sort.” She had pointed out her favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to talk with him.

  “No,” said Henrietta, “it’s about something less harmonious!” They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus. “I want you to do me a favour,” Miss Stackpole went on.

  Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man than our earlier friend. “I’m sure it’s something I shan’t like,” he said rather loudly.

  “No, I don’t think you’ll like it. If you did it would be no favour.”

  “Well, let’s hear it,” he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of his patience.

  “You may say there’s no particular reason why you should do me a favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you’d let me I’d gladly do you one.” Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather a hard surface, couldn’t help being touched by it. When he was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. “I may say now, indeed—it seems a good time—that if I’ve ever annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it’s because I knew I was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I’ve troubled you— doubtless. But Is’d TAKE trouble for you.”

  Goodwood hesitated. “You’re taking trouble now.”

  “Yes, I am—some. I want you to consider whether it’s better on the whole that you should go to Rome.”

  “I thought you were going to say that!” he answered rather artlessly.

  “You HAVE considered it then?”

  “Of course I have, very carefully. I’ve looked all round it. Otherwise I shouldn’t have come so far as this. That’s what I stayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over.”

  “I’m afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because you were so much attracted.”

  “Best for whom, do you mean?” Goodwood demanded.

  “Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.”

  “Oh, it won’t do HER any good! I don’t flatter myself that.”

  “Won’t it do her some harm?—that’s the question.”

  “I don’t see what it will matter to her. I’m nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself.”

  “Yes, and that’s why you go.”

  “Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?”

  “How will it help you?—that’s what I want to know,” said Miss Stackpole.

  “That’s just what I can’t tell you. It’s just what I was thinking about in Paris.”

  “It will make you more discontented.”

  “Why do you say ‘more’ so?” Goodwood asked rather sternly. “How do you know I’m discontented?”

  “Well,” said Henrietta, hesitating a little, “you seem never to have cared for another.”

  “How do you know what I care for?” he cried with a big blush. “Just now I care to go to Rome.”

  Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression. “Well,” she observed at last, “I only wanted to tell you what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it’s none of my business. But nothing is any one’s business, on that principle.”

  “It’s very kind of you; I’m greatly obliged to you for your interest,” said Caspar Goodwood. “I shall go to Rome and I shan’t hurt Mrs. Osmond.”

  “You won’t hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?—that’s the real issue.”

  “Is she in need of help?” he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

  “Most women always are,” said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness and generalising less hopefully than usual. “If you go to Rome,” she added, “I hope you’ll be a true friend—snot a selfish one!” And she turned off and began to look at the pictures.

  Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. “You’ve heard something about her here,” he then resumed. “I should like to know what you’ve heard.”

  Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. “Yes, I’ve heard,” she answered; “but as I don’t want you to go to Rome I won’t tell you.”

  “Just as you please. I shall see for myself,” he said. Then inconsistently, for him, “You’ve heard she’s unhappy!” he added.

  “Oh, you won’t see that!” Henrietta exclaimed.

  “I hope not. When do you start?”

  “To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?”

  Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss Stackpole’s company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond’s, but it had at this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole’s virtues than a reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged. Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn’t take so much for granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking of her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn’t care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him, that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now made other reflections—which show how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond’s. He desired to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found one’s self objecting with all the added vehemence of one’s wish to have the window open; and if they were
worse at night even than by day, at least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But he couldn’t take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than he had patience for. It wouldn’t do to start the next day. She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme distinctness, “Of course if you’re going to-morrow I’ll go too, as I may be of assistance to you.”

  “Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!” Henrietta returned imperturbably.

  CHAPTER 45

  I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be displeased by the continuance of Ralph’s visit to Rome. That knowledge was very present to her as she went to her cousin’s hotel the day after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient perception of the sources of Osmond’s opposition. He wished her to have no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle of freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself, that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband’s aversion to it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was her appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort of incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination, however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband’s intentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph; but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet made it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband’s wish for the event; she didn’t, to be just, see how he COULD like her to be with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond’s sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively interpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to decide, and that wouldn’t be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and her cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her wish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would start even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself in this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward. It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed preferable to repudiating the most serious act—the single sacred act—of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous. To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open acknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that their whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be no condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was to have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure of propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn’t have been a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest appreciation. Isabel’s application of that measure had been particularly free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn’t leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This indeed was Gilbert’s business as well as her own.

  She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. “I want you to answer me a question. It’s about Lord Warburton.”

  “I think I guess your question,” Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.

  “Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.”

  “Oh, I don’t say I can do that.”

  “You’re intimate with him,” she said; “you’ve a great deal of observation of him.”

  “Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!”

  “Why should he dissimulate? That’s not his nature.”

  “Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar,” said Ralph with an air of private amusement.

  “To a certain extent—yes. But is he really in love?”

  “Very much, I think. I can make that out.”

  “Ah!” said Isabel with a certain dryness.

  Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with mystification. “You say that as if you were disappointed.”

  Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully. “It’s after all no business of mine.”

  “You’re very philosophic,” said her cousin. And then in a moment: “May I enquire what you’re talking about?”

  Isabel stared. “I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants, of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I’ve told you that before, without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?”

  “Ah, for Pansy, no!” cried Ralph very positively.

  “But you said just now he did.”

  Ralph waited a moment. “That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond.”

  Isabel shook her head gravely. “That’s nonsense, you know.”

  “Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton’s, not mine.”

  “That would be very tiresome.” She spoke, as she flattered herself, with much subtlety.

  “I ought to tell you indeed,” Ralph went on, “that to me he has denied it.”

  “It’s very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you that he’s in love with Pansy?”

  “He has spoken very well of her—very properly. He has let me know, of course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh.”

  “Does he really think it?”

  “Ah, what Warburton really thinks—!” said Ralph.