by Henry James
“This is a point I can’t discuss with you minutely. I like him very much.”
“Would you marry him if he were to ask you?”
“He has asked me.”
“And if he asks again?”
“I shall marry no one just now.”
“Roderick,” said Rowland, “has great hopes.”
“Does he know of my rupture with the prince?”
“He is making a great holiday of it.”
Christina pulled her poodle towards her and began to smooth his silky fleece. “I like him very much,” she repeated; “much more than I used to. Since you told me all that about him at Saint Cecilia’s, I have felt a great friendship for him. There ‘s something very fine about him; he ‘s not afraid of anything. He is not afraid of failure; he is not afraid of ruin or death.”
“Poor fellow!” said Rowland, bitterly; “he is fatally picturesque.”
“Picturesque, yes; that ‘s what he is. I am very sorry for him.”
“Your mother told me just now that you had said that you did n’t care a straw for him.”
“Very likely! I meant as a lover. One does n’t want a lover one pities, and one does n’t want—of all things in the world—a picturesque husband! I should like Mr. Hudson as something else. I wish he were my brother, so that he could never talk to me of marriage. Then I could adore him. I would nurse him, I would wait on him and save him all disagreeable rubs and shocks. I am much stronger than he, and I would stand between him and the world. Indeed, with Mr. Hudson for my brother, I should be willing to live and die an old maid!”
“Have you ever told him all this?”
“I suppose so; I ‘ve told him five hundred things! If it would please you, I will tell him again.”
“Oh, Heaven forbid!” cried poor Rowland, with a groan.
He was lingering there, weighing his sympathy against his irritation, and feeling it sink in the scale, when the curtain of a distant doorway was lifted and Mrs. Light passed across the room. She stopped half-way, and gave the young persons a flushed and menacing look. It found apparently little to reassure her, and she moved away with a passionate toss of her drapery. Rowland thought with horror of the sinister compulsion to which the young girl was to be subjected. In this ethereal flight of hers there was a certain painful effort and tension of wing; but it was none the less piteous to imagine her being rudely jerked down to the base earth she was doing her adventurous utmost to spurn. She would need all her magnanimity for her own trial, and it seemed gross to make further demands upon it on Roderick’s behalf.
Rowland took up his hat. “You asked a while ago if I had come to help you,” he said. “If I knew how I might help you, I should be particularly glad.”
She stood silent a moment, reflecting. Then at last, looking up, “You remember,” she said, “your promising me six months ago to tell me what you finally thought of me? I should like you to tell me now.”
He could hardly help smiling. Madame Grandoni had insisted on the fact that Christina was an actress, though a sincere one; and this little speech seemed a glimpse of the cloven foot. She had played her great scene, she had made her point, and now she had her eye at the hole in the curtain and she was watching the house! But she blushed as she perceived his smile, and her blush, which was beautiful, made her fault venial.
“You are an excellent girl!” he said, in a particular tone, and gave her his hand in farewell.
There was a great chain of rooms in Mrs. Light’s apartment, the pride and joy of the hostess on festal evenings, through which the departing visitor passed before reaching the door. In one of the first of these Rowland found himself waylaid and arrested by the distracted lady herself.
“Well, well?” she cried, seizing his arm. “Has she listened to you—have you moved her?”
“In Heaven’s name, dear madame,” Rowland begged, “leave the poor girl alone! She is behaving very well!”
“Behaving very well? Is that all you have to tell me? I don’t believe you said a proper word to her. You are conspiring together to kill me!”
Rowland tried to soothe her, to remonstrate, to persuade her that it was equally cruel and unwise to try to force matters. But she answered him only with harsh lamentations and imprecations, and ended by telling him that her daughter was her property, not his, and that his interference was most insolent and most scandalous. Her disappointment seemed really to have crazed her, and his only possible rejoinder was to take a summary departure.
A moment later he came upon the Cavaliere, who was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, so buried in thought that Rowland had to call him before he roused himself. Giacosa looked at him a moment keenly, and then gave a shake of the head, interrogatively.
Rowland gave a shake negative, to which the Cavaliere responded by a long, melancholy sigh. “But her mother is determined to force matters,” said Rowland.
“It seems that it must be!”
“Do you consider that it must be?”
“I don’t differ with Mrs. Light!”
“It will be a great cruelty!”
The Cavaliere gave a tragic shrug. “Eh! it is n’t an easy world.”
“You should do nothing to make it harder, then.”
“What will you have? It ‘s a magnificent marriage.”
“You disappoint me, Cavaliere,” said Rowland, solemnly. “I imagined you appreciated the great elevation of Miss Light’s attitude. She does n’t love the prince; she has let the matter stand or fall by that.”
The old man grasped him by the hand and stood a moment with averted eyes. At last, looking at him, he held up two fingers.
“I have two hearts,” he said, “one for myself, one for the world. This one opposes Miss Light, the other adores her! One suffers horribly at what the other does.”
“I don’t understand double people, Cavaliere,” Rowland said, “and I don’t pretend to understand you. But I have guessed that you are going to play some secret card.”
“The card is Mrs. Light’s, not mine,” said the Cavaliere.
“It ‘s a menace, at any rate?”
“The sword of Damocles! It hangs by a hair. Christina is to be given ten minutes to recant, under penalty of having it fall. On the blade there is something written in strange characters. Don’t scratch your head; you will not make it out.”
“I think I have guessed it,” Rowland said, after a pregnant silence. The Cavaliere looked at him blankly but intently, and Rowland added, “Though there are some signs, indeed, I don’t understand.”
“Puzzle them out at your leisure,” said the Cavaliere, shaking his hand. “I hear Mrs. Light; I must go to my post. I wish you were a Catholic; I would beg you to step into the first church you come to, and pray for us the next half-hour.”
“For ‘us’? For whom?”
“For all of us. At any rate remember this: I worship the Christina!”
Rowland heard the rustle of Mrs. Light’s dress; he turned away, and the Cavaliere went, as he said, to his post. Rowland for the next couple of days pondered his riddle.
CHAPTER XI.
Mrs. Hudson
Of Roderick, meanwhile, Rowland saw nothing; but he immediately went to Mrs. Hudson and assured her that her son was in even exceptionally good health and spirits. After this he called again on the two ladies from Northampton, but, as Roderick’s absence continued, he was able neither to furnish nor to obtain much comfort. Miss Garland’s apprehensive face seemed to him an image of his own state of mind. He was profoundly depressed; he felt that there was a storm in the air, and he wished it would come, without more delay, and perform its ravages. On the afternoon of the third day he went into Saint Peter’s, his frequent resort whenever the outer world was disagreeable. From a heart-ache to a Roman rain there were few importunate pains the great church did not help him to forget. He had wandered there for half an hour, when he came upon a short figure, lurking in the shadow of one of the great piers. He saw it was
that of an artist, hastily transferring to his sketch-book a memento of some fleeting variation in the scenery of the basilica; and in a moment he perceived that the artist was little Sam Singleton.
Singleton pocketed his sketch-book with a guilty air, as if it cost his modesty a pang to be detected in this greedy culture of opportunity. Rowland always enjoyed meeting him; talking with him, in these days, was as good as a wayside gush of clear, cold water, on a long, hot walk. There was, perhaps, no drinking-vessel, and you had to apply your lips to some simple natural conduit; but the result was always a sense of extreme moral refreshment. On this occasion he mentally blessed the ingenuous little artist, and heard presently with keen regret that he was to leave Rome on the morrow. Singleton had come to bid farewell to Saint Peter’s, and he was gathering a few supreme memories. He had earned a purse-full of money, and he was meaning to take a summer’s holiday; going to Switzerland, to Germany, to Paris. In the autumn he was to return home; his family—composed, as Rowland knew, of a father who was cashier in a bank and five unmarried sisters, one of whom gave lyceum-lectures on woman’s rights, the whole resident at Buffalo, New York—had been writing him peremptory letters and appealing to him as a son, brother, and fellow-citizen. He would have been grateful for another year in Rome, but what must be must be, and he had laid up treasure which, in Buffalo, would seem infinite. They talked some time; Rowland hoped they might meet in Switzerland, and take a walk or two together. Singleton seemed to feel that Buffalo had marked him for her own; he was afraid he should not see Rome again for many a year.
“So you expect to live at Buffalo?” Rowland asked sympathetically.
“Well, it will depend upon the views—upon the attitude—of my family,” Singleton replied. “Oh, I think I shall get on; I think it can be done. If I find it can be done, I shall really be quite proud of it; as an artist of course I mean, you know. Do you know I have some nine hundred sketches? I shall live in my portfolio. And so long as one is not in Rome, pray what does it matter where one is? But how I shall envy all you Romans—you and Mr. Gloriani, and Mr. Hudson, especially!”
“Don’t envy Hudson; he has nothing to envy.”
Singleton grinned at what he considered a harmless jest. “Yes, he ‘s going to be the great man of our time! And I say, Mr. Mallet, is n’t it a mighty comfort that it ‘s we who have turned him out?”
“Between ourselves,” said Rowland, “he has disappointed me.”
Singleton stared, open-mouthed. “Dear me, what did you expect?”
“Truly,” said Rowland to himself, “what did I expect?”
“I confess,” cried Singleton, “I can’t judge him rationally. He fascinates me; he ‘s the sort of man one makes one’s hero of.”
“Strictly speaking, he is not a hero,” said Rowland.
Singleton looked intensely grave, and, with almost tearful eyes, “Is there anything amiss—anything out of the way, about him?” he timidly asked. Then, as Rowland hesitated to reply, he quickly added, “Please, if there is, don’t tell me! I want to know no evil of him, and I think I should hardly believe it. In my memories of this Roman artist-life, he will be the central figure. He will stand there in radiant relief, as beautiful and unspotted as one of his own statues!”
“Amen!” said Rowland, gravely. He remembered afresh that the sea is inhabited by big fishes and little, and that the latter often find their way down the throats of the former. Singleton was going to spend the afternoon in taking last looks at certain other places, and Rowland offered to join him on his sentimental circuit. But as they were preparing to leave the church, he heard himself suddenly addressed from behind. Turning, he beheld a young woman whom he immediately recognized as Madame Grandoni’s maid. Her mistress was present, she said, and begged to confer with him before he departed.
This summons obliged Rowland to separate from Singleton, to whom he bade farewell. He followed the messenger, and presently found Madame Grandoni occupying a liberal area on the steps of the tribune, behind the great altar, where, spreading a shawl on the polished red marble, she had comfortably seated herself. He expected that she had something especial to impart, and she lost no time in bringing forth her treasure.
“Don’t shout very loud,” she said, “remember that we are in church; there ‘s a limit to the noise one may make even in Saint Peter’s. Christina Light was married this morning to Prince Casamassima.”
Rowland did not shout at all; he gave a deep, short murmur: “Married—this morning?”
“Married this morning, at seven o’clock, le plus tranquillement du monde, before three or four persons. The young couple left Rome an hour afterwards.”
For some moments this seemed to him really terrible; the dark little drama of which he had caught a glimpse had played itself out. He had believed that Christina would resist; that she had succumbed was a proof that the pressure had been cruel. Rowland’s imagination followed her forth with an irresistible tremor into the world toward which she was rolling away, with her detested husband and her stifled ideal; but it must be confessed that if the first impulse of his compassion was for Christina, the second was for Prince Casamassima. Madame Grandoni acknowledged an extreme curiosity as to the secret springs of these strange doings: Casamassima’s sudden dismissal, his still more sudden recall, the hurried private marriage. “Listen,” said Rowland, hereupon, “and I will tell you something.” And he related, in detail, his last visit to Mrs. Light and his talk with this lady, with Christina, and with the Cavaliere.
“Good,” she said; “it ‘s all very curious. But it ‘s a riddle, and I only half guess it.”
“Well,” said Rowland, “I desire to harm no one; but certain suppositions have taken shape in my mind which serve as a solvent to several ambiguities.”
“It is very true,” Madame Grandoni answered, “that the Cavaliere, as he stands, has always needed to be explained.”
“He is explained by the hypothesis that, three-and-twenty years ago, at Ancona, Mrs. Light had a lover.”
“I see. Ancona was dull, Mrs. Light was lively, and—three-and-twenty years ago—perhaps, the Cavaliere was fascinating. Doubtless it would be fairer to say that he was fascinated. Poor Giacosa!”
“He has had his compensation,” Rowland said. “He has been passionately fond of Christina.”
“Naturally. But has Christina never wondered why?”
“If she had been near guessing, her mother’s shabby treatment of him would have put her off the scent. Mrs. Light’s conscience has apparently told her that she could expiate an hour’s too great kindness by twenty years’ contempt. So she kept her secret. But what is the profit of having a secret unless you can make some use of it? The day at last came when she could turn hers to account; she could let the skeleton out of the closet and create a panic.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I morally,” said Rowland. “I only conceive that there was a horrible, fabulous scene. The poor Cavaliere stood outside, at the door, white as a corpse and as dumb. The mother and daughter had it out together. Mrs. Light burnt her ships. When she came out she had three lines of writing in her daughter’s hand, which the Cavaliere was dispatched with to the prince. They overtook the young man in time, and, when he reappeared, he was delighted to dispense with further waiting. I don’t know what he thought of the look in his bride’s face; but that is how I roughly reconstruct history.”
“Christina was forced to decide, then, that she could not afford not to be a princess?”
“She was reduced by humiliation. She was assured that it was not for her to make conditions, but to thank her stars that there were none made for her. If she persisted, she might find it coming to pass that there would be conditions, and the formal rupture—the rupture that the world would hear of and pry into—would then proceed from the prince and not from her.”
“That ‘s all nonsense!” said Madame Grandoni, energetically.
“To us, yes; but not to the proudest girl
in the world, deeply wounded in her pride, and not stopping to calculate probabilities, but muffling her shame, with an almost sensuous relief, in a splendor that stood within her grasp and asked no questions. Is it not possible that the late Mr. Light had made an outbreak before witnesses who are still living?”
“Certainly her marriage now,” said Madame Grandoni, less analytically, “has the advantage that it takes her away from her—parents!”
This lady’s farther comments upon the event are not immediately pertinent to our history; there were some other comments of which Rowland had a deeply oppressive foreboding. He called, on the evening of the morrow upon Mrs. Hudson, and found Roderick with the two ladies. Their companion had apparently but lately entered, and Rowland afterwards learned that it was his first appearance since the writing of the note which had so distressed his mother. He had flung himself upon a sofa, where he sat with his chin upon his breast, staring before him with a sinister spark in his eye. He fixed his gaze on Rowland, but gave him no greeting. He had evidently been saying something to startle the women; Mrs. Hudson had gone and seated herself, timidly and imploringly, on the edge of the sofa, trying to take his hand. Miss Garland was applying herself to some needlework with conscious intentness.
