第 二十七 章 · Chapter XXVII

I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman’s response

to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the

pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the

threshold of Saint Peter’s. It is enough to say that her impression was

such as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her

eagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history

in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an

imagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she

turned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her,

but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked

less than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking

listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an

intensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she

would even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she

was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her,

but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it

wings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed

that she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her,

and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often

in the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet

not seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph

said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing

tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into

solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains

in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the

corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.

Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to

look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been

for some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the

modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered

with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.

Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been

paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the

deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled

iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had

begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken

column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta

wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to

her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a “cheeky old boy,” and Ralph

addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive

ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about

the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his

lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing

to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the

Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the _signori_

to go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The

proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much

wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity

while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much

to her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly

went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column

near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but

she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged

relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the

corrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her

thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a

concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to

regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman

past to Isabel Archer’s future was a long stride, but her imagination

had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over

the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she

bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering

the ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching

footsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She

looked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back

to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as

she was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale

surprise.

“Lord Warburton!” Isabel exclaimed as she rose.

“I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you.”

She looked about her to explain. “I’m alone, but my companions have just

left me. My cousin’s gone to look at the work over there.”

“Ah yes; I see.” And Lord Warburton’s eyes wandered vaguely in the

direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had

recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” he went on, looking at her dejected pillar.

“I’m afraid you’re tired.”

“Yes, I’m rather tired.” She hesitated a moment, but sat down again.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she added.

“Oh dear, I’m quite alone, I’ve nothing on earth to do. I had no

idea you were in Rome. I’ve just come from the East. I’m only passing

through.”

“You’ve been making a long journey,” said Isabel, who had learned from

Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.

“Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I’ve been

in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens.” He managed

not to be awkward, but he wasn’t easy, and after a longer look at the

girl he came down to nature. “Do you wish me to leave you, or will you

let me stay a little?”

She took it all humanely. “I don’t wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton;

I’m very glad to see you.”

“Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?”

The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a

resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for

a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class

seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he

had asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as

he put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching

the answer; had given her too some information about himself which was

not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once

that he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the

encounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation

advisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things

to their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being

impossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had

been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting,

heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands

is wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with

his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its

seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air

of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of

the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those

who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she

had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every

one of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great

decent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures

and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by

some whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order;

her uncle’s death, Ralph’s state of health, the way she had passed her

winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the

summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton’s own

adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At

last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said

that it scarce needed his final words. “I’ve written to you several

times.”

“Written to me? I’ve never had your letters.”

“I never sent them. I burned them up.”

“Ah,” laughed Isabel, “it was better that you should do that than I!”

“I thought you wouldn’t care for them,” he went on with a simplicity

that touched her. “It seemed to me that after all I had no right to

trouble you with letters.”

“I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped

that--that--” But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the

utterance of her thought.

“I know what you’re going to say. You hoped we should always remain good

friends.” This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat

enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so.

She found herself reduced simply to “Please don’t talk of all that”; a

speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.

“It’s a small consolation to allow me!” her companion exclaimed with

force.

“I can’t pretend to console you,” said the girl, who, all still as

she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on

the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was

pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than

he. But her answer remained.

“It’s very well you don’t try to console me; it wouldn’t be in your

power,” she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.

“I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt

to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain’s

greater than the pleasure.” And she got up with a small conscious

majesty, looking for her companions.

“I don’t want to make you feel that; of course I can’t say that. I only

just want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it

were. I won’t return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I

expressed to you last year; I couldn’t think of anything else. I tried

to forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in

somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty.

I didn’t succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far

away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn’t

distract mine. I’ve thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw

you. I’m exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I

said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you

shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably

charm me. There--I can’t say less. I don’t mean, however, to insist;

it’s only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few

minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon

my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were.” He had

recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He

might have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and

clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a

paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And

the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.

“I’ve often thought of you, Lord Warburton,” Isabel answered. “You may

be sure I shall always do that.” And she added in a tone of which she

tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: “There’s no

harm in that on either side.”

They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters

and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment

no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into

shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave

Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad

it was still so distant.

“Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?” she

enquired with some anxiety.

“Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn’t mean that one would

treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to

stop a week or two.”

“Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!”

His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. “You won’t like

that. You’re afraid you’ll see too much of me.”

“It doesn’t matter what I like. I certainly can’t expect you to leave

this delightful place on my account. But I confess I’m afraid of you.”

“Afraid I’ll begin again? I promise to be very careful.”

They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. “Poor

Lord Warburton!” she said with a compassion intended to be good for both

of them.

“Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I’ll be careful.”

“You may be unhappy, but you shall not make _me_ so. That I can’t allow.”

“If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it.” At

this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. “I’ll never say a word

to displease you.”

“Very good. If you do, our friendship’s at an end.”

“Perhaps some day--after a while--you’ll give me leave.”

“Give you leave to make me unhappy?”

He hesitated. “To tell you again--” But he checked himself. “I’ll keep

it down. I’ll keep it down always.”

Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss

Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the

mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into

sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy

qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice “Gracious,

there’s that lord!” Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the

austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet,

and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt

traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. “I don’t

suppose you remember me, sir.”

“Indeed I do remember you,” said Lord Warburton. “I asked you to come

and see me, and you never came.”

“I don’t go everywhere I’m asked,” Miss Stackpole answered coldly.

“Ah well, I won’t ask you again,” laughed the master of Lockleigh.

“If you do I’ll go; so be sure!”

Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling

had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion

to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly “Oh, you here,

Bantling?” and a hand-shake.

“Well,” said Henrietta, “I didn’t know you knew him!”

“I guess you don’t know every one I know,” Mr. Bantling rejoined

facetiously.

“I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you.”

“Ah, I’m afraid Bantling was ashamed of me,” Lord Warburton laughed

again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of

relief as they kept their course homeward.

The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long

letters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in

neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected

suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon

all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians)

follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter’s; and it had been

agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great

church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton

presented himself at the Hôtel de Paris and paid a visit to the two

ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The

visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to

keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and

frank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left

her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his

travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him

whether it would “pay” for her to visit those countries assured her they

offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but

she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by

proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt

her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the

trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and

nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover

his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong

sort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on

bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter’s

and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply

that he must follow his convenience.

In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the

first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior

tourists who are “disappointed” in Saint Peter’s and find it smaller

than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern

curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found

herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down

through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of

marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose

and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed

and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to

the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint

Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end

by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet

begun, but at Saint Peter’s there is much to observe, and as there is

something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant

as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures

and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their

various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid

immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel

and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta

was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo’s dome suffered

by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed

her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling’s ear and reserved it in its more

accentuated form for the columns of the _Interviewer_. Isabel made the

circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir

on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope’s singers were borne

to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside

the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed

in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while

they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta

and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond

the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by

clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope

through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing

stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her.

Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted

with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short

distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared

to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.

“So you decided to come?” she said as she put out her hand.

“Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They

told me you had come here, and I looked about for you.”

“The others are inside,” she decided to say.

“I didn’t come for the others,” he promptly returned.

She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard

this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the

morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond’s

words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not

the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to

each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr.

Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour

and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately,

but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on

perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take

the case as not committing him to joy. He didn’t hang back, however,

from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence,

that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had

met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say

to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr.

Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris.

“I don’t know what it’s in you,” she had been pleased to remark, “but

for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood’s

the only one I’ve any respect for, and he’s just the one you don’t

appreciate.”

“What’s your opinion of Saint Peter’s?” Mr. Osmond was meanwhile

enquiring of our young lady.

“It’s very large and very bright,” she contented herself with replying.

“It’s too large; it makes one feel like an atom.”

“Isn’t that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?” she

asked with rather a liking for her phrase.

“I suppose it’s the right way to feel everywhere, when one _is_ nobody.

But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else.”

“You ought indeed to be a Pope!” Isabel exclaimed, remembering something

he had referred to in Florence.

“Ah, I should have enjoyed that!” said Gilbert Osmond.

Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled

away together. “Who’s the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?” his lordship

demanded.

“His name’s Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence,” Ralph said.

“What is he besides?”

“Nothing at all. Oh yes, he’s an American; but one forgets that--he’s so

little of one.”

“Has he known Miss Archer long?”

“Three or four weeks.”

“Does she like him?”

“She’s trying to find out.”

“And will she?”

“Find out--?” Ralph asked.

“Will she like him?”

“Do you mean will she accept him?”

“Yes,” said Lord Warburton after an instant; “I suppose that’s what I

horribly mean.”

“Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it,” Ralph replied.

His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. “Then we must be

perfectly quiet?”

“As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!” Ralph added.

“The chance she may?”

“The chance she may not?”

Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. “Is he

awfully clever?”

“Awfully,” said Ralph.

His companion thought. “And what else?”

“What more do you want?” Ralph groaned.

“Do you mean what more does _she_?”

Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others.

“She wants nothing that _we_ can give her.”

“Ah well, if she won’t have You--!” said his lordship handsomely as they

went.

Produced by Eve Sobol

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

VOLUME II (of II)

By Henry James