الفصل الفصل 35 · Chapter XXXV

Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse

to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The

discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin

made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was

simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming

to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to

throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she

married to please herself. One did other things to please other people;

one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel’s satisfaction

was confirmed by her lover’s admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was

in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright

days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his

hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief

impression produced on Isabel’s spirit by this criticism was that the

passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the

loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever

known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope

that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her

not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of

anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,

on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly

console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from

her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she

was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk

about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for

a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry

at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the

spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made

him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel

flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the

more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little

free or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,

in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert

Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She

tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,

almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed

and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed

virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one’s

right was always made of the wrong of some one else.

The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted

meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on

his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of

men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,

made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten

and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he

never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which

presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.

He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him

a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live

with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness

be all for one’s self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired

the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than

a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one’s

thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought

reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred

it to be freshened in the reproduction even as “words” by music. His

egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this

lady’s intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a

plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give

a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served

dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he

could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew

perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little

favour with the girl’s relations; but he had always treated her so

completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary

to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one

morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. “It’s the difference in our

fortune they don’t like,” he said. “They think I’m in love with your

money.”

“Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?” Isabel asked. “How do you

know what they think?”

“You’ve not told me they’re pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett

the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I

should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you

rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course

when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.

I don’t mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having

the shadow of a doubt. I don’t care what people of whom I ask nothing

think--I’m not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I’ve never so

concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I

have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won’t pretend

I’m sorry you’re rich; I’m delighted. I delight in everything that’s

yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money’s a horrid thing to follow,

but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I’ve

sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life

tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than

most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it’s their

business to suspect--that of your family; it’s proper on the whole they

should. They’ll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.

Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to

be thankful for life and love.” “It has made me better, loving you,” he

said on another occasion; “it has made me wiser and easier and--I won’t

pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want

a great many things before and to be angry I didn’t have them.

Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself

I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to

have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I’m really

satisfied, because I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when

one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the

lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and

finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it

properly I see it’s a delightful story. My dear girl, I can’t tell you

how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon

awaits us. It’s the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,

and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,

the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you

love to-day. Upon my honour, I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on. We’ve

got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We’ve the faculty

of admiration and several capital convictions. We’re not stupid, we’re

not mean, we’re not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.

You’re remarkably fresh, and I’m remarkably well-seasoned. We’ve my poor

child to amuse us; we’ll try and make up some little life for her. It’s

all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring.”

They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal

of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live

for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had

been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy

should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old

acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her

a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire

for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense

that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one’s

energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had “seen life” in a year

or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of

that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,

her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient

conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed

in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away

numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the

situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the

stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the

fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be

of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she

could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was

giving.

He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who

was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she

would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who

held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to

go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore

a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.

She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the

end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an

appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance

had the personal touch that the child’s affectionate nature craved.

She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on

them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,

part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the

childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new

relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. “She doesn’t

know,” he said to Isabel; “she doesn’t guess; she thinks it perfectly

natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good

friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it’s

the way I like her to be. No, I’m not a failure, as I used to think;

I’ve succeeded in two things. I’m to marry the woman I adore, and I’ve

brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way.”

He was very fond, in all things, of the “old way”; that had struck

Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. “It occurs to me that

you’ll not know whether you’ve succeeded until you’ve told her,” she

said. “You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she

may be jealous.”

“I’m not afraid of that; she’s too fond of you on her own account. I

should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will

come into her head that if we’re not engaged we ought to be.”

Isabel was impressed by Osmond’s artistic, the plastic view, as it

somehow appeared, of Pansy’s innocence--her own appreciation of it being

more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told

her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,

who had made such a pretty little speech--“Oh, then I shall have a

beautiful sister!” She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not

cried, as he expected.

“Perhaps she had guessed it,” said Isabel.

“Don’t say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it

would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her

good manners are paramount. That’s also what I wished. You shall see for

yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person.”

The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini’s, whither

Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come

in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning

that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the

visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been

ushered into the Countess’s drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her

aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,

who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in

company. It was Isabel’s view that the little girl might have given

lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified

this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself

while they waited together for the Countess. Her father’s decision, the

year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive

the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her

theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.

“Papa has told me that you’ve kindly consented to marry him,” said this

excellent woman’s pupil. “It’s very delightful; I think you’ll suit very

well.”

“You think I shall suit _you_?”

“You’ll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will

suit each other. You’re both so quiet and so serious. You’re not so

quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you’re more quiet than many

others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She’s

always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you’ll see when she

comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,

but I suppose there’s no harm if we judge them favourably. You’ll be a

delightful companion for papa.”

“For you too, I hope,” Isabel said.

“I speak first of him on purpose. I’ve told you already what I myself

think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I

think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You’ll be

my model; I shall try to imitate you though I’m afraid it will be

very feeble. I’m very glad for papa--he needed something more than

me. Without you I don’t see how he could have got it. You’ll be my

stepmother, but we mustn’t use that word. They’re always said to be

cruel; but I don’t think you’ll ever so much as pinch or even push me.

I’m not afraid at all.”

“My good little Pansy,” said Isabel gently, “I shall be ever so kind to

you.” A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need

it had intervened with the effect of a chill.

“Very well then, I’ve nothing to fear,” the child returned with her

note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to

suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!

Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini

was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room

with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead

and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.

She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of

turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand

before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to

a composition of figures already sketched in. “If you expect me to

congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don’t suppose you care

if I do or not; I believe you’re supposed not to care--through being so

clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell

fibs; I never tell them unless there’s something rather good to be

gained. I don’t see what’s to be gained with you--especially as you

wouldn’t believe me. I don’t make professions any more than I make paper

flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don’t know how. My lampshades would be

sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I’m very

glad for my own sake that you’re to marry Osmond; but I won’t pretend

I’m glad for yours. You’re very brilliant--you know that’s the way

you’re always spoken of; you’re an heiress and very good-looking and

original, not banal; so it’s a good thing to have you in the family.

Our family’s very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and

my mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.

But we’re dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you’ll pick us up.

I’ve great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to

talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think

they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose

Pansy oughtn’t to hear all this; but that’s what she has come to me

for--to acquire the tone of society. There’s no harm in her knowing what

horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had

designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the

strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be

disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was

enchanted for myself; and after all I’m very selfish. By the way, you

won’t respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.

I should like it, but you won’t. Some day, all the same, we shall be

better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and

see you, though, as you probably know, he’s on no sort of terms with

Osmond. He’s very fond of going to see pretty women, but I’m not afraid

of you. In the first place I don’t care what he does. In the second, you

won’t care a straw for him; he won’t be a bit, at any time, your affair,

and, stupid as he is, he’ll see you’re not his. Some day, if you can

stand it, I’ll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go

out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir.”

“Let her stay, please,” said Isabel. “I would rather hear nothing that

Pansy may not!”