The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

“Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked.

“Well, I like you better than I do her,” said Miss Stackpole. “I seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don’t know whether it was an accident or whether it’s your usual style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print.”

“Dear me!” cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; “I had no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.”

“It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.”

“The position of woman’s very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And you wrote it down and published it?” the Countess went on. “Ah, do let me see it!”

“I’ll write to them to send you the paper if you like,” Henrietta said. “I didn’t mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I quoted your views.”

The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped hands. “Do you know I’m rather sorry you didn’t mention my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not at all like my brother—I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he’d never forgive you.”

“He needn’t be afraid; I shall never refer to him,” said Miss Stackpole with bland dryness. “That’s another reason,” she added, “why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.”

“Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I knew about you.”

“I’m quite willing to be known by that,” Henrietta declared. “But that isn’t what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my relations with Isabel.”

“Don’t permit it,” said the Countess.

“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.”

“So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.”

“With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you by name as my companion.”

The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside her visitor. “Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won’t like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn’t know how to read.”

Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I put that into my letter?”

“Into your letter?”

“In the Interviewer. That’s my paper.”

“Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?”

Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess. “She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.”

The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she pregnantly remarked.

“Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has changed a great deal. I told her she would.”

“I’m sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn’t my brother like you?” the Countess ingenuously added.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s perfectly welcome not to like me; I don’t want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can’t hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated; that’s the way he knows how his work goes on. And it’s just the same for a lady. But I didn’t expect it of Isabel.”

“Do you mean that she hates you?” the Countess enquired.

“I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.”

“Dear me, what a tiresome errand!” the Countess exclaimed.

“She doesn’t write to me in the same way; it’s easy to see there’s a difference. If you know anything,” Miss Stackpole went on, “I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.”

The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. “I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn’t like me any better than he appears to like you.”

“Yet you’re not a lady correspondent,” said Henrietta pensively.

“Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they’ve invited me—I’m to stay in the house!” And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole’s disappointment.

This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. “I shouldn’t have gone if she had asked me. That is I think I shouldn’t; and I’m glad I hadn’t to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I shouldn’t have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn’t have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that’s not all.”

“Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?”

“Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?” Henrietta enquired.

“I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s making love to Isabel.”

“Making love to her?”

“So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But Isabel’s pretty safe.”

Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said nothing. “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly.

“Not for a week, I’m afraid.”

“I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.”

“Dear me, I’m sorry; I’m having some dresses made. I’m told Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you at your pension.” Henrietta sat still—she was lost in thought; and suddenly the Countess cried: “Ah, but if you don’t go with me you can’t describe our journey!”

Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking of something else and presently expressed it. “I’m not sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton.”

“Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.”

“Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta enquired with unprecedented distinctness.

The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: “It’s certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you’ll see!” she added.

“That idea would be enough to prevent me,” said Miss Stackpole. “I should want my own husband; I shouldn’t want any one else’s. Do you mean that Isabel’s guilty—guilty—?” And she paused a little, choosing her expression.

“Do I mean she’s guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that Osmond’s very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I’m afraid you’re scandalised.”

“No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said.

“Ah, you’re not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more confidence. I’ll tell you,” the Countess added quickly: “if it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw him off.”

Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her gaze. “You don’t understand me,” she said after a while. “I haven’t the idea you seem to suppose. I’m not afraid for Isabel—in that way. I’m only afraid she’s unhappy—that’s what I want to get at.”

The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and sarcastic. “That may very well be; for my part I should like to know whether Osmond is.” Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.

“If she’s really changed that must be at the bottom of it,” Henrietta went on.

“You’ll see; she’ll tell you,” said the Countess.

“Ah, she may not tell me—that’s what I’m afraid of!”

“Well, if Osmond isn’t amusing himself—in his own old way—I flatter myself I shall discover it,” the Countess rejoined.

“I don’t care for that,” said Henrietta.

“I do immensely! If Isabel’s unhappy I’m very sorry for her, but I can’t help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I can’t tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and marry him for? If she had listened to me she’d have got rid of him. I’ll forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don’t know that I shall even pity her. But I don’t think that’s very likely. I count upon finding that if she’s miserable she has at least made him so.”

Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a capacity for coarseness even there. “It will be better if they love each other,” she said for edification.

“They can’t. He can’t love any one.”

“I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow.”

“Isabel certainly has devotees,” said the Countess, smiling very vividly. “I declare I don’t pity her.”

“It may be I can’t assist her,” Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were well not to have illusions.

“You can have wanted to, at any rate; that’s something. I believe that’s what you came from America for,” the Countess suddenly added.

“Yes, I wanted to look after her,” Henrietta said serenely.

Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come. “Ah, that’s very pretty c’est bien gentil! Isn’t it what they call friendship?”

“I don’t know what they call it. I thought I had better come.”

“She’s very happy—she’s very fortunate,” the Countess went on. “She has others besides.” And then she broke out passionately. “She’s more fortunate than I! I’m as unhappy as she—I’ve a very bad husband; he’s a great deal worse than Osmond. And I’ve no friends. I thought I had, but they’re gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you’ve done for her.”

Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then: “Look here, Countess, I’ll do anything for you that you like. I’ll wait over and travel with you.”

“Never mind,” the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: “only describe me in the newspaper!”

Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung’ Arno, the sunny quay beside the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: “Could I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?” Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings. Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the little Correggio of the Tribune—the Virgin kneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this intimate scene—she thought it the most beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.

“I’ve just been at your hotel,” she said. “I left a card for you.”

“I’m very much honoured,” Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant it.

“It was not to honour you I did it; I’ve called on you before and I know you don’t like it. It was to talk to you a little about something.”

He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. “I shall be very glad to hear what you wish to say.”

“You don’t like to talk with me,” said Henrietta. “But I don’t care for that; I don’t talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come and see me; but since I’ve met you here this will do as well.”

“I was just going away,” Goodwood stated; “but of course I’ll stop.” He was civil, but not enthusiastic.

Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the pictures.

“All I want to. I’ve been here an hour.”

“I wonder if you’ve seen my Correggio,” said Henrietta. “I came up on purpose to have a look at it.” She went into the Tribune and he slowly accompanied her.

“I suppose I’ve seen it, but I didn’t know it was yours. I don’t remember pictures—especially that sort.” She had pointed out her favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to talk with him.

“No,” said Henrietta, “it’s about something less harmonious!” They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus. “I want you to do me a favour,” Miss Stackpole went on.

Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man than our earlier friend. “I’m sure it’s something I shan’t like,” he said rather loudly.

“No, I don’t think you’ll like it. If you did it would be no favour.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of his patience.

“You may say there’s no particular reason why you should do me a favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you’d let me I’d gladly do you one.” Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather a hard surface, couldn’t help being touched by it. When he was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. “I may say now, indeed—it seems a good time—that if I’ve ever annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it’s because I knew I was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I’ve troubled you—doubtless. But I’d take trouble for you.”

Goodwood hesitated. “You’re taking trouble now.”

“Yes, I am—some. I want you to consider whether it’s better on the whole that you should go to Rome.”

“I thought you were going to say that!” he answered rather artlessly.

“You have considered it then?”

“Of course I have, very carefully. I’ve looked all round it. Otherwise I shouldn’t have come so far as this. That’s what I stayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over.”

“I’m afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because you were so much attracted.”

“Best for whom, do you mean?” Goodwood demanded.

“Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.”

“Oh, it won’t do her any good! I don’t flatter myself that.”

“Won’t it do her some harm?—that’s the question.”

“I don’t see what it will matter to her. I’m nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself.”

“Yes, and that’s why you go.”

“Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?”

“How will it help you?—that’s what I want to know,” said Miss Stackpole.

“That’s just what I can’t tell you. It’s just what I was thinking about in Paris.”

“It will make you more discontented.”

“Why do you say ‘more’ so?” Goodwood asked rather sternly. “How do you know I’m discontented?”

“Well,” said Henrietta, hesitating a little, “you seem never to have cared for another.”

“How do you know what I care for?” he cried with a big blush. “Just now I care to go to Rome.”

Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression. “Well,” she observed at last, “I only wanted to tell you what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it’s none of my business. But nothing is any one’s business, on that principle.”

“It’s very kind of you; I’m greatly obliged to you for your interest,” said Caspar Goodwood. “I shall go to Rome and I shan’t hurt Mrs. Osmond.”

“You won’t hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?—that’s the real issue.”

“Is she in need of help?” he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

“Most women always are,” said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness and generalising less hopefully than usual. “If you go to Rome,” she added, “I hope you’ll be a true friend—not a selfish one!” And she turned off and began to look at the pictures.

Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. “You’ve heard something about her here,” he then resumed. “I should like to know what you’ve heard.”

Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. “Yes, I’ve heard,” she answered; “but as I don’t want you to go to Rome I won’t tell you.”

“Just as you please. I shall see for myself,” he said. Then inconsistently, for him, “You’ve heard she’s unhappy!” he added.

“Oh, you won’t see that!” Henrietta exclaimed.

“I hope not. When do you start?”

“To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?”

Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss Stackpole’s company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond’s, but it had at this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole’s virtues than a reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged. Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn’t take so much for granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was not always thinking of her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn’t care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him, that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now made other reflections—which show how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond’s. He desired to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found one’s self objecting with all the added vehemence of one’s wish to have the window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But he couldn’t take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than he had patience for. It wouldn’t do to start the next day. She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme distinctness, “Of course if you’re going to-morrow I’ll go too, as I may be of assistance to you.”

“Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!” Henrietta returned imperturbably.

CHAPTER XLV

I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be displeased by the continuance of Ralph’s visit to Rome. That knowledge was very present to her as she went to her cousin’s hotel the day after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient perception of the sources of Osmond’s opposition. He wished her to have no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle of freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself, that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband’s aversion to it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was her appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort of incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination, however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband’s intentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph; but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet made it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband’s wish for the event; she didn’t, to be just, see how he could like her to be with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond’s sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively interpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to decide, and that wouldn’t be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and her cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her wish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would start even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself in this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward. It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed preferable to repudiating the most serious act—the single sacred act—of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous. To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open acknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that their whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be no condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was to have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel went to the Hôtel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure of propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn’t have been a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest appreciation. Isabel’s application of that measure had been particularly free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn’t leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This indeed was Gilbert’s business as well as her own.