CHAPTER XXXV
Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulseto tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. Thediscreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousinmade on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it wassimply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarmingto Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly tothrow into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that shemarried to please herself. One did other things to please other people;one did this for a more personal satisfaction and Isabel's satisfactionwas confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond wasin love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, brightdays, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of hishopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chiefimpression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that thepassion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but theloved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had everknown before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hopethat she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at hernot having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation ofanecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainlyconsole himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; fromher aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which shewas not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talkabout having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover fora personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marryat all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with thespectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment madehim say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabelflattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was themore easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now littlefree or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer GilbertOsmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. Shetasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmedand possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputedvirtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one'sright was always made of the wrong of some one else.
The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emittedmeanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, onhis part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious ofmen, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smittenand dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so henever forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--whichpresented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made hima present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to livewith than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softnessbe all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admiredthe air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion thana quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one'sthought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thoughtreproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferredit to be freshened in the reproduction even as "words" by music. Hisegotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; thislady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--aplate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would givea decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of serveddessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; hecould tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knewperfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed littlefavour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her socompletely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessaryto express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, onemorning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in ourfortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with yourmoney."
"Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do youknow what they think?"
"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchettthe other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted Ishould have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and yourich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of coursewhen a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.I don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not havingthe shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothingthink--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never soconcerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when Ihave taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretendI'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that'syours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow,but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I'vesufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my lifetried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion thanmost of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's theirbusiness to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole theyshould. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply tobe thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," hesaid on another occasion "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won'tpretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to wanta great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them.Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myselfI had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation I used tohave morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm reallysatisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as whenone has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly thelamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life andfinding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read itproperly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell youhow life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoonawaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which youlove to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We'vegot what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the facultyof admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we'renot mean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.You're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poorchild to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It'sall soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring."
They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good dealof latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should livefor the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy hadbeen a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italyshould be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of oldacquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure hera future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desirefor unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sensethat life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one'senergies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in a yearor two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but ofthat of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipientconviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbedin a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed awaynumberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified thesituation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of t
hestars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in thefact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to beof use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, shecould marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she wasgiving.
He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy whowas very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That shewould always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, whoheld her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her togo and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy worea short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to theend of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed anappeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundancehad the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved.She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended onthem--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so thechildish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the newrelation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn'tknow," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectlynatural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as goodfriends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it'sthe way I like her to be. No, I'm not a failure, as I used to think;I've succeeded in two things. I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I'vebrought up my child, as I wished, in the old way."
He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that had struckIsabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occurs to me thatyou'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her," shesaid. "You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--shemay be jealous."
"I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. Ishould like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it willcome into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be."
Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as itsomehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it beingmore anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he toldher a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,who had made such a pretty little speech--"Oh, then I shall have abeautiful sister!" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had notcried, as he expected.
"Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel.
"Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought itwould be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that hergood manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see foryourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person."
The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whitherPansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to comein the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learningthat they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett thevisitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had beenushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that heraunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself incompany. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have givenlessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justifiedthis conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herselfwhile they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, theyear before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receivethe last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out hertheory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.
"Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him," said thisexcellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; I think you'll suit verywell."
"You think I shall suit YOU?"
"You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa willsuit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not soquiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than manyothers. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She'salways in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when shecomes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,but I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably. You'll be adelightful companion for papa."
"For you too, I hope," Isabel said.
"I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myselfthink of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that Ithink it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll bemy model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will bevery feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more thanme. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be mystepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to becruel; but I don't think you'll ever so much as pinch or even push me.I'm not afraid at all."
"My good little Pansy," said Isabel gently, "I shall be ever so kind toyou." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to needit had intervened with the effect of a chill.
"Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned with hernote of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed tosuggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!
Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Geminiwas further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the roomwith a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the foreheadand then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety ofturns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in handbefore an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches toa composition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect me tocongratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you careif I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being soclever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tellfibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to begained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as youwouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paperflowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would besure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm veryglad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretendI'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the wayyou're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking andoriginal, not banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family.Our family's very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; andmy mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.But we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up.I've great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want totalk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I thinkthey ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I supposePansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to mefor--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing whathorrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother haddesigns on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in thestrongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would bedisloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I wasenchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, youwon't respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.I should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the same, we shall bebetter friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come andsee you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms withOsmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraidof you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, youwon't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, your affair,and, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, if you canstand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to goout of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir."
"Let her st
ay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear nothing thatPansy may not!"