The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  “Ah my dear,” she said, “you, who are so literary, do tell me some amusing book to read! Everything here’s of a dreariness—! Do you think this would do me any good?”

  Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but without reading or understanding it. “I’m afraid I can’t advise you. I’ve had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying.”

  The Countess threw down her book. “Ah, he was so simpatico. I’m awfully sorry for you.”

  “You would be sorrier still if you knew.”

  “What is there to know? You look very badly,” the Countess added. “You must have been with Osmond.”

  Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady’s fluttering attention. “I’ve been with Osmond,” she said, while the Countess’s bright eyes glittered at her.

  “I’m sure then he has been odious!” the Countess cried. “Did he say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett’s dying?”

  “He said it’s impossible I should go to England.”

  The Countess’s mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile; she already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into mourning, and then there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for a moment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid, picturesque play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment. After all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had already overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough for Isabel’s trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel’s trouble was deep.

  It seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had no hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with the expression of her sister-in-law’s eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous expectation, for if she had wished to see Osmond overtopped the conditions looked favourable now. Of course if Isabel should go to England she herself would immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing would induce her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt an immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to England. “Nothing’s impossible for you, my dear,” she said caressingly. “Why else are you rich and clever and good?”

  “Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak.”

  “Why does Osmond say it’s impossible?” the Countess asked in a tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn’t imagine.

  From the moment she thus began to question her, however, Isabel drew back; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess had affectionately taken. But she answered this enquiry with frank bitterness. “Because we’re so happy together that we can’t separate even for a fortnight.”

  “Ah,” cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, “when I want to make a journey my husband simply tells me I can have no money!”

  Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for an hour. It may appear to some readers that she gave herself much trouble, and it is certain that for a woman of a high spirit she had allowed herself easily to be arrested. It seemed to her that only now she fully measured the great undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that in such a case as this, when one had to choose, one chose as a matter of course for one’s husband. “I’m afraid—yes, I’m afraid,” she said to herself more than once, stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraid of was not her husband—his displeasure, his hatred, his revenge; it was not even her own later judgement of her conduct a consideration which had often held her in check; it was simply the violence there would be in going when Osmond wished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between them, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was a horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with which he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what he was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married, for all that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man with whom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sank down on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of cushions.

  When she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before her. She had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her thin lips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining intimation. She lived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of her spirit, but now she was leaning far out. “I knocked,” she began, “but you didn’t answer me. So I ventured in. I’ve been looking at you for the past five minutes. You’re very unhappy.”

  “Yes; but I don’t think you can comfort me.”

  “Will you give me leave to try?” And the Countess sat down on the sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something communicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have a deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her sister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her glittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination. “After all,” she soon resumed, “I must tell you, to begin with, that I don’t understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that my husband’s dearest wish was to make me miserable—of late he has simply let me alone —ah, it was a wonderful simplification! My poor Isabel, you’re not simple enough.”

  “No, I’m not simple enough,” said Isabel.

  “There’s something I want you to know,” the Countess declared— “because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do; perhaps you’ve guessed it. But if you have, all I can say is that I understand still less why you shouldn’t do as you like.”

  “What do you wish me to know?” Isabel felt a foreboding that made her heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself, and this alone was portentous.

  But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject. “In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never really suspected?”

  “I’ve guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That’s because you’ve such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman with such a pure mind!” cried the Countess.

  Isabel slowly got up. “You’re going to tell me something horrible.”

  “You can call it by whatever name you will!” And the Countess rose also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even then, of ugliness; after which she said: “My first sister-in-law had no children.”

  Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. “Your first sister-in-law?”

  “I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has been married before! I’ve never spoken to you of his wife; I thought it mightn’t be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and died childless. It wasn’t till after her death that Pansy arrived.”

  Isabel’s brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much more to follow than she could see. “Pansy’s not my husband’s child then?”

  “Your husband’s—in perfection! But no one else’s husband’s. Some one else’s wife’s. Ah, my good Isabel,” cried the Countess, “with you one must dot one’s i’s!”

  “I don’t understand. Whose wife’s?” Isabel asked.

  “The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died—how long?—a dozen, more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognised Miss Pansy, nor, knowing what he was about, would have anything to say to her; and there was no reason why he should. Osmond did, and that was better; though he had to fit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own wife’s having died in childbirth, and of his having, in grief and horror, banished the little girl from his sight for as long as possible before taking her home from nurse. His wi
fe had really died, you know, of quite another matter and in quite another place: in the Piedmontese mountains, where they had gone, one August, because her health appeared to require the air, but where she was suddenly taken worse— fatally ill. The story passed, sufficiently; it was covered by the appearances so long as nobody heeded, as nobody cared to look into it. But of course I knew—without researches,” the Countess lucidly proceeded; “as also, you’ll understand, without a word said between us—I mean between Osmond and me. Don’t you see him looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle it?—that is to settle ME if I should say anything. I said nothing, right or left—never a word to a creature, if you can believe that of me: on my honour, my dear, I speak of the thing to you now, after all this time, as I’ve never, never spoken. It was to be enough for me, from the first, that the child was my niece—from the moment she was my brother’s daughter. As for her veritable mother—!” But with this Pansy’s wonderful aunt dropped—as, involuntarily, from the impression of her sister-in-law’s face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to look at her than she had ever had to meet.

  She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on her own lips, an echo of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again, hanging her head. “Why have you told me this?” she asked in a voice the Countess hardly recognised.

  “Because I’ve been so bored with your not knowing. I’ve been bored, frankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stupidly, all this time I couldn’t have managed! Ca me depasse, if you don’t mind my saying so, the things, all round you, that you’ve appeared to succeed in not knowing. It’s a sort of assistance—aid to innocent ignorance—that I’ve always been a bad hand at rendering; and in this connexion, that of keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has at any rate finally found itself exhausted. It’s not a black lie, moreover, you know,” the Countess inimitably added. “The facts are exactly what I tell you.”

  “I had no idea,” said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a manner that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this confession.

  “So I believed—though it was hard to believe. Had it never occurred to you that he was for six or seven years her lover?”

  “I don’t know. Things HAVE occurred to me, and perhaps that was what they all meant.”

  “She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about Pansy!” the Countess, before all this view of it, cried.

  “Oh, no idea, for me,” Isabel went on, “ever DEFINITELY took that form.” She appeared to be making out to herself what had been and what hadn’t. “And as it is—I don’t understand.”

  She spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Countess seemed to have seen her revelation fall below its possibilities of effect. She had expected to kindle some responsive blaze, but had barely extracted a spark. Isabel showed as scarce more impressed than she might have been, as a young woman of approved imagination, with some fine sinister passage of public history. “Don’t you recognise how the child could never pass for HER husband’s?—that is with M. Merle himself,” her companion resumed. “They had been separated too long for that, and he had gone to some far country—I think to South America. If she had ever had children—which I’m not sure of—she had lost them. The conditions happened to make it workable, under stress (I mean at so awkward a pinch), that Osmond should acknowledge the little girl. His wife was dead—very true; but she had not been dead too long to put a certain accommodation of dates out of the question—from the moment, I mean, that suspicion wasn’t started; which was what they had to take care of. What was more natural than that poor Mrs. Osmond, at a distance and for a world not troubling about trifles, should have left behind her, poverina, the pledge of her brief happiness that had cost her her life? With the aid of a change of residence—Osmond had been living with her at Naples at the time of their stay in the Alps, and he in due course left it for ever—the whole history was successfully set going. My poor sister-in-law, in her grave, couldn’t help herself, and the real mother, to save HER skin, renounced all visible property in the child.”

  “Ah, poor, poor woman!” cried Isabel, who herewith burst into tears. It was a long time since she had shed any; she had suffered a high reaction from weeping. But now they flowed with an abundance in which the Countess Gemini found only another discomfiture.

  “It’s very kind of you to pity her!” she discordantly laughed. “Yes indeed, you have a way of your own—!”

  “He must have been false to his wife—and so very soon!” said Isabel with a sudden check.

  “That’s all that’s wanting—that you should take up her cause!” the Countess went on. “I quite agree with you, however, that it was much too soon.”

  “But to me, to me—?” And Isabel hesitated as if she had not heard; as if her question—though it was sufficiently there in her eyes—were all for herself.

  “To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you call faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of another woman—SUCH a lover as he had been, cara mia, between their risks and their precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of affairs had passed away; the lady had repented, or at all events, for reasons of her own, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances so intense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You may therefore imagine what it was—when he couldn’t patch it on conveniently to ANY of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them.”

  “Yes,” Isabel mechanically echoed, “the whole past is between them.”

  “Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say, they had kept it up.”

  She was silent a little. “Why then did she want him to marry me?”

  “Ah my dear, that’s her superiority! Because you had money; and because she believed you would be good to Pansy.”

  “Poor woman—and Pansy who doesn’t like her!” cried Isabel.

  “That’s the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows it; she knows everything.”

  “Will she know that you’ve told me this?”

  “That will depend upon whether you tell her. She’s prepared for it, and do you know what she counts upon for her defence? On your believing that I lie. Perhaps you do; don’t make yourself uncomfortable to hide it. Only, as it happens this time, I don’t. I’ve told plenty of little idiotic fibs, but they’ve never hurt any one but myself.”

  Isabel sat staring at her companion’s story as at a bale of fantastic wares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked on the carpet at her feet. “Why did Osmond never marry her?” she finally asked.

  “Because she had no money.” The Countess had an answer for everything, and if she lied she lied well. “No one knows, no one has ever known, what she lives on, or how she has got all those beautiful things. I don’t believe Osmond himself knows. Besides, she wouldn’t have married him.”

  “How can she have loved him then?”

  “She doesn’t love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I suppose, she would have married him; but at that time her husband was living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined—I won’t say his ancestors, because he never had any—her relations with Osmond had changed, and she had grown more ambitious. Besides, she has never had, about him,” the Countess went on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so tragically afterwards—”she HAD never had, what you might call any illusions of INTELLIGENCE. She hoped she might marry a great man; that has always been her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted and prayed; but she has never succeeded. I don’t call Madame Merle a success, you know. I don’t know what she may accomplish yet, but at present she has very little to show. The only tangible result she has ever achieved—except, of course, getting to know every one and staying with them free of expense—has been her bringing you and Osmond together. Oh, she did that, my dear; you needn’t look as if you doubted it. I’ve watched them for years; I know everything—everything. I’m thought a great scatterbrain, but I’ve had enough
application of mind to follow up those two. She hates me, and her way of showing it is to pretend to be for ever defending me. When people say I’ve had fifteen lovers she looks horrified and declares that quite half of them were never proved. She has been afraid of me for years, and she has taken great comfort in the vile, false things people have said about me. She has been afraid I’d expose her, and she threatened me one day when Osmond began to pay his court to you. It was at his house in Florence; do you remember that afternoon when she brought you there and we had tea in the garden? She let me know then that if I should tell tales two could play at that game. She pretends there’s a good deal more to tell about me than about her. It would be an interesting comparison! I don’t care a fig what she may say, simply because I know YOU don’t care a fig. You can’t trouble your head about me less than you do already. So she may take her revenge as she chooses; I don’t think she’ll frighten you very much. Her great idea has been to be tremendously irreproachable—a kind of full-blown lily—the incarnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god. There should be no scandal about Caesar’s wife, you know; and, as I say, she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason she wouldn’t marry Osmond; the fear that on seeing her with Pansy people would put things together— would even see a resemblance. She has had a terror lest the mother should betray herself. She has been awfully careful; the mother has never done so.”