CHAPTER XL
Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this ladyhaving indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she hadspent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of awinter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends andgave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a lessinveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in thepast only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one ofthe sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stoodempty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; adanger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of MadameMerle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still muchwonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; itwas a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the socialbattle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polishedsteel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as moreand more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome withdisgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her ownideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, whoknew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control herhighly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will wasmistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she keptgoing. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art oflife were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grewolder, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were dayswhen the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpnesswhat it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit hadbeen to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceivedpossibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger personshe had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle hadsuppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; shelived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabelwould have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliantfriend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She hadbecome aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--ofhaving 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 renewedacquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made againa continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had donesince her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinationshad considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that shewould have applied for instruction she had lost the desire to know thislady'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 herselfbeaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and anornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to othersin periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by herfriend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to beas firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush asideher own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse whichhad virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, wasalmost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fearof being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinionthat she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in thevulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--hadnever indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to herperception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always "quiet."But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of theOsmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid alittle. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent.She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now otherinterests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond andhis little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was notafter all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke oftheir affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion waswanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candidas we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.
"I MUST be on my guard," she said; "I might so easily, withoutsuspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if myintention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knewyour husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If youwere a silly woman you might be jealous. You're not a silly woman; Iknow that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined notto get into trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's madebefore one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to yourhusband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn'tlikely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so much less attractive than Iwas. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn'tbelong to me, you wouldn't make that reflection you'd simply say Iwas forgetting certain differences. I'm determined not to forget them.Certainly a good friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn'tsuspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, inthe least; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myselfuncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I sufficientlyprove 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 shouldbe sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be yourhusband's."
Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's theory thatMadame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage. We know how she hadat first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond'smarriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer's. That was thework of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, ofthe eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint hadbeen not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her duplicity: she hadbrought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Suchguilt would not have been great, to Isabel's mind; she couldn't makea crime of Madame Merle's having been the producing cause of the mostimportant friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her justbefore her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at atime when she was still capable of that large inward reference, thetone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. IfMadame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it hadbeen a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectlystraightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of GilbertOsmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a lessconvenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk,this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. "Don't you likeMadame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him. "She thinks a great deal ofyou."
"I'll tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. "I liked her oncebetter 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 makesfor 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 werealso not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was asacute 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 asthick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had ahand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of her titles toconsideration it might have been written, after all, that there was notso much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, andIsabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things wouldnot have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew animmediate horror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me
let me notbe unjust," she said; "let me bear my burdens myself and not shift themupon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingeniousapology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to makeand of which I have given a sketch; for there was somethingirritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neatdiscriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day therewas nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication offears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who hadjust made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so littlewhat she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable toexplain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just thensuggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a mannerone of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, sowise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better thanIsabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile inresolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period hadthey 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 beensummed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it shouldnot be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always hada great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriouslydiscouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not topay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with itsdisappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure tobe derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feedher sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It wasimpossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if evera girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not afree agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered andchosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way torepair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a secondone would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was acertain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had beenright, for all that, in taking her precautions.
One day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in Rome Isabelcame back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her generaldetermination to be just that she was at present very thankful forPansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pureand weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in herlife that had the rightness of the young creature's attachment orthe sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a softpresence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more thanan affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own sideher sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; it operatedas a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had saidto herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that wemust look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was a directadmonition it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminentperhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel couldhardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the childwas able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, toremember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for shenow perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her own grossness ofvision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--soextraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen thisdelicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. Itwas the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride tointerfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquestsshe took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked hercompany; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay composed allof the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under anyprovocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion.The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel's societythan in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with anintensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisitepleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabelknew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means ofpleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her wasnegative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction whichcertainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. Shewas therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; shewas careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented toIsabel's propositions and which might have implied that she could havethought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning palewhen it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only lookedtoward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyesthe prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at PalazzoRoccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at areasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first topropose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances,for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in thisexercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy.Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresomeparts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush atthe door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in thisvehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciativeposture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been takento drive for the first time.
On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates ofthe city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to awaitthem by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of theCampagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicateflowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of awalk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on herfirst coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy lovedbest, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved witha shorter undulation beside her father's wife, who afterwards, on theirreturn to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuitof the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful offlowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reachingPalazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them intowater. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usuallyoccupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which wasentered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond's richdevices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Justbeyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, thereason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. Theimpression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it assomething new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to takein the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in herbonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they wereunaware 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 theircolloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiarsilence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance wouldstartle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way fromthe 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 struckIsabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there wasan anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they hadarrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing,face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchangeideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; theywere old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only amoment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, theirabsorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was allover by t
he time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her andhad welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, hadinstantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting awalk 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 Iwaited 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 somethingextraordinary to bring you to this house."
"And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stayaway, 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 lastthing 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 hasto let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however, that I've cometo-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to get rid of a trouble ofmy own--to make it over to you. I've been talking to your husband aboutit."
"I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles."
"Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do you, Isuppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It'sabout 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 aweek, 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 youdidn't."
"How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of thematter."
"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 alittle 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 medry, 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 mysteriousconnection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came tome from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keepscoming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out hisfeelings."
"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'sattractive?"
"The dearest little person possible--but very limited."
"She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's notunlimited."
"No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one'spocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders." Her humour hadlately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamedof exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor. "He's verykind, very honest," she presently added; "and he's not such a fool as heseems."
"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 ofthe 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 washyour 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 theintimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before.Only this time the latter saw nothing. "Ask him the next time, andyou'll see."
"I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has lethim know that he's not welcome."
"Ah yes," said Madame Merle, "I forgot that--though it's the burden ofhis lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same," shewent on, "Osmond doesn't dislike him so much as he thinks." She had gotup as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her,and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw thepoint she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for notopening 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'vepreached patience, have said that his case isn't desperate if he'll onlyhold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into hishead 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. MadameMerle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before themantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.
"Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in LordWarburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle went on. Isabelwas silent a little; she turned away from the glass. "It's true--there'snothing 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 Merleadded, "you've had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton'sbehaviour than I."
"I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my stepdaughtervery much."
Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. "Likes her, you mean--asMr. Rosier means?"
"I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me knowthat 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; LordWarburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself."
Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quicklythan usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gavethe treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had beenthinking 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 reallyvery 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 everknown!" Isabel exclaimed.
Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. "Ah, a momentago 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 Pansydeserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. RosierI 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 expectedto feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall beclosed to him." And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle preparedto depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by aninconsequent 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 tohim, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to LordWarburton."
"You had better wait till he asks her."
"If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially," said Madame Merlein 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 byway of being confidential with each other. But you really told me verylittle; 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 toexult 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 LordWarburton, 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 youwouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation ofhelping him to marry some one else."
Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflectingthe bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a moment she said,reasonably and gently enough: "I should be very glad indeed if, asregards Pansy, it could be arranged." Upon which her companion, whoseemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her moretenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.