CHAPTER XX
Some fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansom cab tothe house in Winchester Square. As she descended from her vehicle sheobserved, suspended between the dining-room windows, a large, neat,wooden tablet, on whose fresh black ground were inscribed in white paintthe words--"This noble freehold mansion to be sold"; with the name ofthe agent to whom application should be made. "They certainly lose notime," said the visitor as, after sounding the big brass knocker, shewaited to be admitted; "it's a practical country!" And within the house,as she ascended to the drawing-room, she perceived numerous signs ofabdication pictures removed from the walls and placed upon sofas,windows undraped and floors laid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently receivedher and intimated in a few words that condolences might be taken forgranted.
"I know what you're going to say--he was a very good man. But I know itbetter than any one, because I gave him more chance to show it. In thatI think I was a good wife." Mrs. Touchett added that at the end herhusband apparently recognised this fact. "He has treated me mostliberally," she said; "I won't say more liberally than I expected,because I didn't expect. You know that as a general thing I don'texpect. But he chose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though Ilived much abroad and mingled--you may say freely--in foreign life, Inever exhibited the smallest preference for any one else."
"For any one but yourself," Madame Merle mentally observed; but thereflexion was perfectly inaudible.
"I never sacrificed my husband to another," Mrs. Touchett continued withher stout curtness.
"Oh no," thought Madame Merle; "you never did anything for another!"
There was a certain cynicism in these mute comments which demands anexplanation the more so as they are not in accord either with theview--somewhat superficial perhaps--that we have hitherto enjoyed ofMadame Merle's character or with the literal facts of Mrs. Touchett'shistory; the more so, too, as Madame Merle had a well-founded convictionthat her friend's last remark was not in the least to be construed as aside-thrust at herself. The truth is that the moment she had crossed thethreshold she received an impression that Mr. Touchett's death had hadsubtle consequences and that these consequences had been profitable toa little circle of persons among whom she was not numbered. Of courseit was an event which would naturally have consequences; her imaginationhad more than once rested upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt.But it had been one thing to foresee such a matter mentally and anotherto stand among its massive records. The idea of a distribution ofproperty--she would almost have said of spoils--just now pressed uponher senses and irritated her with a sense of exclusion. I am far fromwishing to picture her as one of the hungry mouths or envious hearts ofthe general herd, but we have already learned of her having desiresthat had never been satisfied. If she had been questioned, she wouldof course have admitted--with a fine proud smile--that she had not thefaintest claim to a share in Mr. Touchett's relics. "There was neveranything in the world between us," she would have said. "There was neverthat, poor man!"--with a fillip of her thumb and her third finger. Ihasten to add, moreover, that if she couldn't at the present moment keepfrom quite perversely yearning she was careful not to betray herself.She had after all as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett's gains as for herlosses.
"He has left me this house," the newly-made widow said; "but of courseI shall not live in it; I've a much better one in Florence. The willwas opened only three days since, but I've already offered the house forsale. I've also a share in the bank; but I don't yet understand if I'mobliged to leave it there. If not I shall certainly take it out. Ralph,of course, has Gardencourt; but I'm not sure that he'll have means tokeep up the place. He's naturally left very well off, but his father hasgiven away an immense deal of money; there are bequests to a string ofthird cousins in Vermont. Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourtand would be quite capable of living there--in summer--with amaid-of-all-work and a gardener's boy. There's one remarkable clausein my husband's will," Mrs. Touchett added. "He has left my niece afortune."
"A fortune!" Madame Merle softly repeated.
"Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds." MadameMerle's hands were clasped in her lap; at this she raised them, stillclasped, and held them a moment against her bosom while her eyes, alittle dilated, fixed themselves on those of her friend. "Ah," shecried, "the clever creature!"
Mrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. "What do you mean by that?"
For an instant Madame Merle's colour rose and she dropped her eyes. "Itcertainly is clever to achieve such results--without an effort!"
"There assuredly was no effort. Don't call it an achievement."
Madame Merle was seldom guilty of the awkwardness of retracting what shehad said; her wisdom was shown rather in maintaining it and placing itin a favourable light. "My dear friend, Isabel would certainly nothave had seventy thousand pounds left her if she had not been the mostcharming girl in the world. Her charm includes great cleverness."
"She never dreamed, I'm sure, of my husband's doing anything for her;and I never dreamed of it either, for he never spoke to me of hisintention," Mrs. Touchett said. "She had no claim upon him whatever; itwas no great recommendation to him that she was my niece. Whatever sheachieved she achieved unconsciously."
"Ah," rejoined Madame Merle, "those are the greatest strokes!" Mrs.Touchett reserved her opinion. "The girl's fortunate; I don't deny that.But for the present she's simply stupefied."
"Do you mean that she doesn't know what to do with the money?"
"That, I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn't know what tothink about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gun were suddenlyfired off behind her; she's feeling herself to see if she be hurt. It'sbut three days since she received a visit from the principal executor,who came in person, very gallantly, to notify her. He told me afterwardsthat when he had made his little speech she suddenly burst into tears.The money's to remain in the affairs of the bank, and she's to draw theinterest."
Madame Merle shook her head with a wise and now quite benignant smile."How very delicious! After she has done that two or three times she'llget used to it." Then after a silence, "What does your son think of it?"she abruptly asked.
"He left England before the will was read--used up by his fatigue andanxiety and hurrying off to the south. He's on his way to the Rivieraand I've not yet heard from him. But it's not likely he'll ever objectto anything done by his father."
"Didn't you say his own share had been cut down?"
"Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do something forthe people in America. He's not in the least addicted to looking afternumber one."
"It depends upon whom he regards as number one!" said Madame Merle. Andshe remained thoughtful a moment, her eyes bent on the floor.
"Am I not to see your happy niece?" she asked at last as she raisedthem.
"You may see her; but you'll not be struck with her being happy. Shehas looked as solemn, these three days, as a Cimabue Madonna!" And Mrs.Touchett rang for a servant.
Isabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to call her; andMadame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs. Touchett's comparisonhad its force. The girl was pale and grave--an effect not mitigated byher deeper mourning; but the smile of her brightest moments came intoher face as she saw Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on ourheroine's shoulder and, after looking at her a moment, kissed her as ifshe were returning the kiss she had received from her at Gardencourt.This was the only allusion the visitor, in her great good taste, madefor the present to her young friend's inheritance.
Mrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the sale of herhouse. After selecting from among its furniture the objects she wishedto transport to her other abode, she left the rest of its contents to bedisposed of by the auctioneer and took her departure for the Continent.She was of course accompanied on this journey by her niece, who now hadplenty of leisure to measure and weigh and otherwise handle the windfallon which Madame Merle had co
vertly congratulated her. Isabel thoughtvery often of the fact of her accession of means, looking at it in adozen different lights; but we shall not now attempt to follow her trainof thought or to explain exactly why her new consciousness was at firstoppressive. This failure to rise to immediate joy was indeed but brief;the girl presently made up her mind that to be rich was a virtue becauseit was to be able to do, and that to do could only be sweet. It wasthe graceful contrary of the stupid side of weakness--especially thefeminine variety. To be weak was, for a delicate young person, rathergraceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself, there was a largergrace than that. Just now, it is true, there was not much to do--onceshe had sent off a cheque to Lily and another to poor Edith; but she wasthankful for the quiet months which her mourning robes and her aunt'sfresh widowhood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition ofpower made her serious; she scrutinised her power with a kind of tenderferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She began to do so duringa stay of some weeks which she eventually made with her aunt in Paris,though in ways that will inevitably present themselves as trivial. Theywere the ways most naturally imposed in a city in which the shops arethe admiration of the world, and that were prescribed unreservedly bythe guidance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly practical view of thetransformation of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one. "Now thatyou're a young woman of fortune you must know how to play the part--Imean to play it well," she said to Isabel once for all; and she addedthat the girl's first duty was to have everything handsome. "You don'tknow how to take care of your things, but you must learn," she went onthis was Isabel's second duty. Isabel submitted, but for the presenther imagination was not kindled; she longed for opportunities, but thesewere not the opportunities she meant.
Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having intended before herhusband's death to spend a part of the winter in Paris, saw no reason todeprive herself--still less to deprive her companion--of this advantage.Though they would live in great retirement she might still presenther niece, informally, to the little circle of her fellow countrymendwelling upon the skirts of the Champs Elysees. With many of theseamiable colonists Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared theirexpatriation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui. Isabelsaw them arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt's hotel, andpronounced on them with a trenchancy doubtless to be accounted for bythe temporary exaltation of her sense of human duty. She made up hermind that their lives were, though luxurious, inane, and incurred somedisfavour by expressing this view on bright Sunday afternoons, when theAmerican absentees were engaged in calling on each other. Though herlisteners passed for people kept exemplarily genial by their cooks anddressmakers, two or three of them thought her cleverness, which wasgenerally admitted, inferior to that of the new theatrical pieces. "Youall live here this way, but what does it lead to?" she was pleased toask. "It doesn't seem to lead to anything, and I should think you'd getvery tired of it."
Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of Henrietta Stackpole. Thetwo ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and Isabel constantly saw her;so that Mrs. Touchett had some reason for saying to herself that if herniece were not clever enough to originate almost anything, she might besuspected of having borrowed that style of remark from her journalisticfriend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was that ofa visit paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend of Mrs.Touchett's and the only person in Paris she now went to see. Mrs. Lucehad been living in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe; she used tosay jocosely that she was one of the generation of 1830--a joke ofwhich the point was not always taken. When it failed Mrs. Luce used toexplain--"Oh yes, I'm one of the romantics;" her French had neverbecome quite perfect. She was always at home on Sunday afternoons andsurrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same. In fact shewas at home at all times, and reproduced with wondrous truth in herwell-cushioned little corner of the brilliant city, the domestic tone ofher native Baltimore. This reduced Mr. Luce, her worthy husband, a tall,lean, grizzled, well-brushed gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass andcarried his hat a little too much on the back of his head, to mereplatonic praise of the "distractions" of Paris--they were his greatword--since you would never have guessed from what cares he escaped tothem. One of them was that he went every day to the American banker's,where he found a post-office that was almost as sociable and colloquialan institution as in an American country town. He passed an hour (infine weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined uncommonlywell at his own table, seated above a waxed floor which it was Mrs.Luce's happiness to believe had a finer polish than any other in theFrench capital. Occasionally he dined with a friend or two at the CafeAnglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was a source of felicityto his companions and an object of admiration even to the headwaiterof the establishment. These were his only known pastimes, but they hadbeguiled his hours for upwards of half a century, and they doubtlessjustified his frequent declaration that there was no place like Paris.In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flatter himself thathe was enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris, but it must beconfessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of this scene of hisdissipations than in earlier days. In the list of his resources hispolitical reflections should not be omitted, for they were doubtless theanimating principle of many hours that superficially seemed vacant.Like many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce was a high--or rather adeep--conservative, and gave no countenance to the government latelyestablished in France. He had no faith in its duration and would assureyou from year to year that its end was close at hand. "They want to bekept down, sir, to be kept down; nothing but the strong hand--the ironheel--will do for them," he would frequently say of the French people;and his ideal of a fine showy clever rule was that of the supersededEmpire. "Paris is much less attractive than in the days of the Emperor;HE knew how to make a city pleasant," Mr. Luce had often remarked toMrs. Touchett, who was quite of his own way of thinking and wished toknow what one had crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away fromrepublics.
"Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite to the Palace ofIndustry, I've seen the court-carriages from the Tuileries pass up anddown as many as seven times a day. I remember one occasion when theywent as high as nine. What do you see now? It's no use talking, thestyle's all gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, andthere'll be a dark cloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the Empireback again."
Among Mrs. Luce's visitors on Sunday afternoons was a young man withwhom Isabel had had a good deal of conversation and whom she foundfull of valuable knowledge. Mr. Edward Rosier--Ned Rosier as he wascalled--was native to New York and had been brought up in Paris, livingthere under the eye of his father who, as it happened, had been an earlyand intimate friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier rememberedIsabel as a little girl; it had been his father who came to the rescueof the small Archers at the inn at Neufchatel (he was travelling thatway with the boy and had stopped at the hotel by chance), after theirbonne had gone off with the Russian prince and when Mr. Archer'swhereabouts remained for some days a mystery. Isabel rememberedperfectly the neat little male child whose hair smelt of a deliciouscosmetic and who had a bonne all his own, warranted to lose sight of himunder no provocation. Isabel took a walk with the pair beside the lakeand thought little Edward as pretty as an angel--a comparison by nomeans conventional in her mind, for she had a very definite conceptionof a type of features which she supposed to be angelic and which hernew friend perfectly illustrated. A small pink face surmounted by a bluevelvet bonnet and set off by a stiff embroidered collar had become thecountenance of her childish dreams; and she had firmly believed for sometime afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversed among themselves ina queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properestsentiments, as when Edward told her that he was "defended" by his bonneto go near the edge of the lake, and that one must always obey to one'sbonne. Ned Rosier's English had improved; at least it exhibited in aless degree the French variation.
His father was dead and his bonnedismissed, but the young man still conformed to the spirit of theirteaching--he never went to the edge of the lake. There was stillsomething agreeable to the nostrils about him and something notoffensive to nobler organs. He was a very gentle and gracious youth,with what are called cultivated tastes--an acquaintance with old china,with good wine, with the bindings of books, with the Almanach de Gotha,with the best shops, the best hotels, the hours of railway-trains. Hecould order a dinner almost as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probablethat as his experience accumulated he would be a worthy successor tothat gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocated in a softand innocent voice. He had some charming rooms in Paris, decorated withold Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his female friends, who declaredthat his chimney-piece was better draped than the high shoulders of manya duchess. He usually, however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, andhad once passed a couple of months in the United States.
He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk atNeufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He seemedto recognise this same tendency in the subversive enquiry that I quoteda moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine's question withgreater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. "What does it lead to, MissArcher? Why Paris leads everywhere. You can't go anywhere unless youcome here first. Every one that comes to Europe has got to pass through.You don't mean it in that sense so much? You mean what good it does you?Well, how can you penetrate futurity? How can you tell what lies ahead?If it's a pleasant road I don't care where it leads. I like the road,Miss Archer; I like the dear old asphalte. You can't get tired ofit--you can't if you try. You think you would, but you wouldn't;there's always something new and fresh. Take the Hotel Drouot, now;they sometimes have three and four sales a week. Where can you get suchthings as you can here? In spite of all they say I maintain they'recheaper too, if you know the right places. I know plenty of places,but I keep them to myself. I'll tell you, if you like, as a particularfavour; only you mustn't tell any one else. Don't you go anywherewithout asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As a generalthing avoid the Boulevards; there's very little to be done on theBoulevards. Speaking conscientiously--sans blague--I don't believeany one knows Paris better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come andbreakfast with me some day, and I'll show you my things; je ne vous disque ca! There has been a great deal of talk about London of late; it'sthe fashion to cry up London. But there's nothing in it--you can'tdo anything in London. No Louis Quinze--nothing of the First Empire;nothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It's good for one's bed-room,Queen Anne--for one's washing-room; but it isn't proper for a salon. DoI spend my life at the auctioneer's?" Mr. Rosier pursued in answer toanother question of Isabel's. "Oh no; I haven't the means. I wish Ihad. You think I'm a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of yourface--you've got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don't mindmy saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to dosomething, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when youcome to the point you see you have to stop. I can't go home and bea shopkeeper. You think I'm very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, youoverrate me. I can buy very well, but I can't sell; you should see whenI sometimes try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability tomake other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever theymust be, the people who make ME buy! Ah no; I couldn't be a shopkeeper.I can't be a doctor; it's a repulsive business. I can't be a clergyman;I haven't got convictions. And then I can't pronounce the names right inthe Bible. They're very difficult, in the Old Testament particularly. Ican't be a lawyer; I don't understand--how do you call it?--the Americanprocedure. Is there anything else? There's nothing for a gentlemanin America. I should like to be a diplomatist; but Americandiplomacy--that's not for gentlemen either. I'm sure if you had seen thelast min--"
Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr. Rosier,coming to pay his compliments late in the afternoon, expressed himselfafter the fashion I have sketched, usually interrupted the young man atthis point and read him a lecture on the duties of the American citizen.She thought him most unnatural; he was worse than poor Ralph Touchett.Henrietta, however, was at this time more than ever addicted to finecriticism, for her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regardsIsabel. She had not congratulated this young lady on her augmentationsand begged to be excused from doing so.
"If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the money," shefrankly asserted, "I'd have said to him 'Never!"
"I see," Isabel had answered. "You think it will prove a curse indisguise. Perhaps it will."
"Leave it to some one you care less for--that's what I should havesaid."
"To yourself for instance?" Isabel suggested jocosely. And then, "Do youreally believe it will ruin me?" she asked in quite another tone.
"I hope it won't ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your dangeroustendencies."
"Do you mean the love of luxury--of extravagance?"
"No, no," said Henrietta; "I mean your exposure on the moral side. Iapprove of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Lookat the luxury of our western cities; I've seen nothing over here tocompare with it. I hope you'll never become grossly sensual; but I'm notafraid of that. The peril for you is that you live too much in the worldof your own dreams. You're not enough in contact with reality--withthe toiling, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, worldthat surrounds you. You're too fastidious; you've too many gracefulillusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more andmore to the society of a few selfish and heartless people who will beinterested in keeping them up."
Isabel's eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene. "What are myillusions?" she asked. "I try so hard not to have any."
"Well," said Henrietta, "you think you can lead a romantic life, thatyou can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You'll findyou're mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it--tomake any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that itceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And youcan't always please yourself; you must sometimes please other people.That, I admit, you're very ready to do; but there's another thing that'sstill more important--you must often displease others. You must alwaysbe ready for that--you must never shrink from it. That doesn't suit youat all--you're too fond of admiration, you like to be thought wellof. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking romanticviews--that's your great illusion, my dear. But we can't. You must beprepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all--not evenyourself."
Isabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled and frightened. "This,for you, Henrietta," she said, "must be one of those occasions!"
It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to Paris,which had been professionally more remunerative than her Englishsojourn, had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr. Bantling, whohad now returned to England, was her companion for the first four weeksof her stay; and about Mr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabellearned from her friend that the two had led a life of great personalintimacy and that this had been a peculiar advantage to Henrietta,owing to the gentleman's remarkable knowledge of Paris. He hadexplained everything, shown her everything, been her constant guide andinterpreter. They had breakfasted together, dined together, gone tothe theatre together, supped together, really in a manner quite livedtogether. He was a true friend, Henrietta more than once assured ourheroine; and she had never supposed that she could like any Englishmanso well. Isabel could not have told you why, but she found somethingthat ministered to mirth in the alliance the correspondent of theInterviewer had struck with Lady Pensil's brother; her amusementmoreover subsisted in face of the fact that she thought it a credit toeach of them. Isabel couldn't rid herself of a suspicion that they wereplaying somehow at cross-purposes--that the simplicity of each hadbeen entrapped. But this simplicity was on either side none the lesshonourable. It was as graceful on Henrietta's part to believe that Mr.Bantl
ing took an interest in the diffusion of lively journalism and inconsolidating the position of lady-correspondents as it was on thepart of his companion to suppose that the cause of the Interviewer--aperiodical of which he never formed a very definite conception--was, ifsubtly analysed (a task to which Mr. Bantling felt himself quite equal),but the cause of Miss Stackpole's need of demonstrative affection. Eachof these groping celibates supplied at any rate a want of which theother was impatiently conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slowand a discursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, whocharmed him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye and a kind ofbandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a mindto which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta, on the otherhand, enjoyed the society of a gentleman who appeared somehow, in hisway, made, by expensive, roundabout, almost "quaint" processes, forher use, and whose leisured state, though generally indefensible, was adecided boon to a breathless mate, and who was furnished with an easy,traditional, though by no means exhaustive, answer to almost any socialor practical question that could come up. She often found Mr. Bantling'sanswers very convenient, and in the press of catching the American postwould largely and showily address them to publicity. It was to be fearedthat she was indeed drifting toward those abysses of sophistication asto which Isabel, wishing for a good-humoured retort, had warned her.There might be danger in store for Isabel; but it was scarcely to behoped that Miss Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent rest in anyadoption of the views of a class pledged to all the old abuses. Isabelcontinued to warn her good-humouredly; Lady Pensil's obliging brotherwas sometimes, on our heroine's lips, an object of irreverent andfacetious allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta'samiability on this point; she used to abound in the sense of Isabel'sirony and to enumerate with elation the hours she had spent with thisperfect man of the world--a term that had ceased to make with her, aspreviously, for opprobrium. Then, a few moments later, she would forgetthat they had been talking jocosely and would mention with impulsiveearnestness some expedition she had enjoyed in his company. She wouldsay: "Oh, I know all about Versailles; I went there with Mr. Bantling. Iwas bound to see it thoroughly--I warned him when we went out there thatI was thorough: so we spent three days at the hotel and wandered allover the place. It was lovely weather--a kind of Indian summer, only notso good. We just lived in that park. Oh yes; you can't tell me anythingabout Versailles." Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements to meether gallant friend during the spring in Italy.