Bab Bab 40 · Chapter XL

Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady

having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had

spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a

winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and

gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less

inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the

past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of

the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood

empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a

danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.

Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame

Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much

wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it

was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social

battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished

steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more

and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with

disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own

ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who

knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her

highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was

mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept

going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of

life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew

older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days

when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness

what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had

been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived

possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person

she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:

there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had

suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she

lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel

would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant

friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had

become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of

having made one’s self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.

But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed

acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again

a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done

since her marriage; but by this time Isabel’s needs and inclinations

had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she

would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this

lady’s clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself,

and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself

beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an

ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others

in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her

friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be

as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,

considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside

her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which

had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was

almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear

of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion

that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the

vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had

never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle’s conduct, to her

perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always “quiet.”

But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the

Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a

little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent.

She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other

interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and

his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not

after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of

their affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was

wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid

as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.

“I _must_ be on my guard,” she said; “I might so easily, without

suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my

intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew

your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you

were a silly woman you might be jealous. You’re not a silly woman; I

know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I’m determined not

to get into trouble. A little harm’s very soon done; a mistake’s made

before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your

husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn’t

likely I shall begin to-day, when I’m so much less attractive than I

was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn’t

belong to me, you wouldn’t make that reflection; you’d simply say I

was forgetting certain differences. I’m determined not to forget them.

Certainly a good friend isn’t always thinking of that; one doesn’t

suspect one’s friends of injustice. I don’t suspect you, my dear, in

the least; but I suspect human nature. Don’t think I make myself

uncomfortable; I’m not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently

prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however,

that if you were to be jealous--that’s the form it would take--I should

be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn’t be your

husband’s.”

Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett’s theory that

Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond’s marriage. We know how she had

at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond’s

marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer’s. That was the

work of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of

the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt’s complaint had

been not so much of Madame Merle’s activity as of her duplicity: she had

brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such

guilt would not have been great, to Isabel’s mind; she couldn’t make

a crime of Madame Merle’s having been the producing cause of the most

important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just

before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a

time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the

tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If

Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had

been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly

straightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert

Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less

convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk,

this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. “Don’t you like

Madame Merle?” Isabel had once said to him. “She thinks a great deal of

you.”

“I’ll tell you once for all,” Osmond had answered. “I liked her once

better than I do to-day. I’m tired of her, and I’m rather ashamed of it.

She’s so almost unnaturally good! I’m glad she’s not in Italy; it makes

for relaxation--for a sort of moral detente. Don’t talk of her too much;

it seems to bring her back. She’ll come back in plenty of time.”

Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late--too late,

I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime,

if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel’s feelings were

also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as

acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind,

whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as

thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle’s having had a

hand in Gilbert Osmond’s marriage ceased to be one of her titles to

consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not

so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and

Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would

not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an

immediate horror at having made it. “Whatever happens to me let me not

be unjust,” she said; “let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them

upon others!” This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious

apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make

and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something

irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat

discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel’s mind to-day there

was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of

fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had

just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little

what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to

explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then

suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;

it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn’t it in a manner

one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so

wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than

Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in

resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had

they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day.

It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been

summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should

not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had

a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously

discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to

pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its

disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to

be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed

her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was

impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever

a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a

free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.

There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and

chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to

repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.

One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second

one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a

certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been

right, for all that, in taking her precautions.

One day about a month after Ralph Touchett’s arrival in Rome Isabel

came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general

determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for

Pansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure

and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her

life that had the rightness of the young creature’s attachment or

the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft

presence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy’s part it was more than

an affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side

her sense of the girl’s dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated

as a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said

to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we

must look for it as much as possible. Pansy’s sympathy was a direct

admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent

perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could

hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child

was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to

remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she

now perceived that Pansy’s ambiguities were simply her own grossness of

vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so

extraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this

delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It

was the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to

interfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests

she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.

Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her

company; it had the effect of one’s carrying a nosegay composed all

of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any

provocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion.

The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel’s society

than in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an

intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite

pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel

knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of

pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was

negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which

certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She

was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she

was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to

Isabel’s propositions and which might have implied that she could have

thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,

and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale

when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked

toward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes

the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo

Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a

reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to

propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances,

for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this

exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy.

Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome

parts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at

the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this

vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative

posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken

to drive for the first time.

On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of

the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await

them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the

Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate

flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a

walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her

first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved

best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with

a shorter undulation beside her father’s wife, who afterwards, on their

return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit

of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of

flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching

Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into

water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually

occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was

entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond’s rich

devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just

beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the

reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The

impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as

something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take

in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her

bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were

unaware she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly;

but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their

colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar

silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would

startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from

the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her.

Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck

Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was

an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had

arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing,

face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange

ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they

were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a

moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their

absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all

over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and

had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had

instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a

walk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room.

“I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn’t I

waited for you,” Madame Merle said.

“Didn’t he ask you to sit down?” Isabel asked with a smile.

Madame Merle looked about her. “Ah, it’s very true; I was going away.”

“You must stay now.”

“Certainly. I came for a reason; I’ve something on my mind.”

“I’ve told you that before,” Isabel said--“that it takes something

extraordinary to bring you to this house.”

“And you know what I’ve told _you_; that whether I come or whether I stay

away, I’ve always the same motive--the affection I bear you.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that.”

“You look just now as if you didn’t believe it,” said Madame Merle.

“Ah,” Isabel answered, “the profundity of your motives, that’s the last

thing I doubt!”

“You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words.”

Isabel shook her head gravely. “I know you’ve always been kind to me.”

“As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has

to let you alone. It’s not to do you a kindness, however, that I’ve come

to-day; it’s quite another affair. I’ve come to get rid of a trouble of

my own--to make it over to you. I’ve been talking to your husband about

it.”

“I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.”

“Especially other people’s; I know very well. But neither do you, I

suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It’s

about poor Mr. Rosier.”

“Ah,” said Isabel reflectively, “it’s his trouble then, not yours.”

“He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a

week, to talk about Pansy.”

“Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.”

Madame Merle hesitated. “I gathered from your husband that perhaps you

didn’t.”

“How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the

matter.”

“It’s probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.”

“It’s nevertheless the sort of question in which he’s rarely at fault.”

“Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think.

To-day he doesn’t.”

“Haven’t you been telling him?” Isabel asked.

Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. “Do you know you’re a

little dry?”

“Yes; I can’t help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me.”

“In that there’s some reason. You’re so near the child.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “for all the comfort I’ve given him! If you think me

dry, I wonder what _he_ thinks.”

“I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.”

“I can do nothing.”

“You can do more at least than I. I don’t know what mysterious

connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to

me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps

coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his

feelings.”

“He’s very much in love,” said Isabel.

“Very much--for him.”

“Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.”

Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. “Don’t you think she’s

attractive?”

“The dearest little person possible--but very limited.”

“She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier’s not

unlimited.”

“No,” said Isabel, “he has about the extent of one’s

pocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders.” Her humour had

lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed

of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy’s suitor. “He’s very

kind, very honest,” she presently added; “and he’s not such a fool as he

seems.”

“He assures me that she delights in him,” said Madame Merle.

“I don’t know; I’ve not asked her.”

“You’ve never sounded her a little?”

“It’s not my place; it’s her father’s.”

“Ah, you’re too literal!” said Madame Merle.

“I must judge for myself.”

Madame Merle gave her smile again. “It isn’t easy to help you.”

“To help me?” said Isabel very seriously. “What do you mean?”

“It’s easy to displease you. Don’t you see how wise I am to be careful?

I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of

the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. _Je n’y peux rien,

moi!_ I can’t talk to Pansy about him. Especially,” added Madame Merle,

“as I don’t think him a paragon of husbands.”

Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, “You don’t wash

your hands then!” she said. After which again she added in another tone:

“You can’t--you’re too much interested.”

Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the

intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before.

Only this time the latter saw nothing. “Ask him the next time, and

you’ll see.”

“I can’t ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let

him know that he’s not welcome.”

“Ah yes,” said Madame Merle, “I forgot that--though it’s the burden of

his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same,” she

went on, “Osmond doesn’t dislike him so much as he thinks.” She had got

up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her,

and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the

point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not

opening the way.

“That must have pleased him, if you’ve told him,” she answered, smiling.

“Certainly I’ve told him; as far as that goes I’ve encouraged him. I’ve

preached patience, have said that his case isn’t desperate if he’ll only

hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his

head to be jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.”

Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose.

“Ah!” she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame

Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the

mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.

“Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there’s nothing impossible in Lord

Warburton’s falling in love with Pansy,” Madame Merle went on. Isabel

was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. “It’s true--there’s

nothing impossible,” she returned at last, gravely and more gently.

“So I’ve had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.”

“That I don’t know.”

“Ask him and you’ll see.”

“I shall not ask him,” said Isabel.

“Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course,” Madame Merle

added, “you’ve had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton’s

behaviour than I.”

“I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you that he likes my stepdaughter

very much.”

Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. “Likes her, you mean--as

Mr. Rosier means?”

“I don’t know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know

that he’s charmed with Pansy.”

“And you’ve never told Osmond?” This observation was immediate,

precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle’s lips.

Isabel’s eyes rested on her. “I suppose he’ll know in time; Lord

Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself.”

Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly

than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave

the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been

thinking it over a little: “That would be better than marrying poor Mr.

Rosier.”

“Much better, I think.”

“It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It’s really

very kind of him.”

“Very kind of him?”

“To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.”

“I don’t see that.”

“It’s very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond--”

“After all, Pansy Osmond’s the most attractive person he has ever

known!” Isabel exclaimed.

Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. “Ah, a moment

ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her.”

“I said she was limited. And so she is. And so’s Lord Warburton.”

“So are we all, if you come to that. If it’s no more than Pansy

deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier

I won’t admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse.”

“Mr. Rosier’s a nuisance!” Isabel cried abruptly.

“I quite agree with you, and I’m delighted to know that I’m not expected

to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be

closed to him.” And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared

to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an

inconsequent request from Isabel.

“All the same, you know, be kind to him.”

She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend.

“I don’t understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan’t be kind to

him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord

Warburton.”

“You had better wait till he asks her.”

“If what you say’s true, he’ll ask her. Especially,” said Madame Merle

in a moment, “if you make him.”

“If I make him?”

“It’s quite in your power. You’ve great influence with him.”

Isabel frowned a little. “Where did you learn that?”

“Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you--never!” said Madame Merle, smiling.

“I certainly never told you anything of the sort.”

“You _might_ have done so--so far as opportunity went--when we were by

way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very

little; I’ve often thought so since.”

Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction.

But she didn’t admit it now--perhaps because she wished not to appear to

exult in it. “You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,”

she simply returned.

“She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord

Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full of the subject.

Of course I think you’ve done better in doing as you did. But if you

wouldn’t marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of

helping him to marry some one else.”

Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting

the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle’s. But in a moment she said,

reasonably and gently enough: “I should be very glad indeed if, as

regards Pansy, it could be arranged.” Upon which her companion, who

seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more

tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.